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NUMA were missing and presumed dead. Something both Dirk Pitt and Kurt Austin took personally.
    “What do you need me to do?”
    “A salvage team from the Maldives is getting set up,” Pitt said. “I want you and Joe on-site as soon as possible. That means you’re on a plane in four hours.”
    “Not a problem,” Kurt said. “Is anyone still looking for them?”
    “Search-and-rescue aircraft out of the Maldives, a pair of Navy P-3s and a long-range squadron from southern India have been crisscrossing the zone since the boat was spotted. Nothing yet.”
    “So this isn’t a rescue mission.”
    “I only wish it was,” Pitt said. “But unless we get some good news that I’m not expecting to receive, your job is to figure out what happened and why.”
    In the dark bay, unseen by Pitt, Kurt nodded. “Understood.”
    “I’ll let you wake Mr. Zavala,” Pitt said. “Keep me posted.”
    Kurt acknowledged the directive, and Dirk Pitt hung up.
    Placing the phone down, Kurt thought about the mission ahead. He hoped against all reason that the three NUMA members would be found bobbing in their life jackets by the time he crossed the Atlantic, but considering the description of the catamaran and the length of time they’d been missing, he doubted it.
    He slid the phone into his pocket and took a long look at the gleaming craft he’d built.
    Without another second of hesitation, he reached for the light switch, flicked it off and walked out.
    His date would have to wait for another morning.

CHAPTER 4
     
CENTRAL YEMEN
     
    A FIGURE CLOAKED IN WHITE STOOD ON A ROCKY OUT cropping that jutted above the sand of Yemen’s sprawling desert. The wind tugged at his caftan, producing a muted flapping sound as it waved in the breeze.
    A gleaming white helicopter sat on the bluff behind him. A green insignia, depicting two date palms shading an oasis, decorated its side. Three stories below lay the entrance to a wide cave.
    In times past, the cave would have been guarded by a few Bedouin men hidden in the crags of the bluff, but on this day there were a dozen men with automatic rifles in plain view, another twenty or so remaining hidden.
    Jinn al-Khalif raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and watched as a trio of Humvees rolled across the desert toward him. They rose and fell on the dunes like small boats crossing the swells of the sea. They traveled in an arrow formation, headed his way.
    “They follow the ancient track,” he said, speaking to a figure beside and slightly behind him. “In my father’s time they would have been spice caravans and traders, Sabah. Now only bankers come to see us.”
    He lowered the binoculars and looked to the bearded older man who stood beside him. Sabah had been his father’s most loyal hand. Sabah was dressed in darker robes and he carried a radio.
    “You are wise to understand their motives,” Sabah said. “They care nothing for us or our struggle. They come because you promise them wealth. You must deliver before we can do as we choose.”
    “Is Xhou with them?”
    Sabah nodded. “He is. Upon his arrival, all the members of the consortium will be present. We should not keep them waiting.”
    “And what of General Aziz, the Egyptian?” Jinn asked. “Does he continue to withhold the funds he’s promised?”
    “He will speak with us three days from now,” Sabah said. “When it is a better time for him.”
    Jinn al-Khalif took a deep breath, inhaling the pure desert air. Aziz had pledged many millions to the consortium on behalf of a cadre of Egyptian businessmen and the military, but he had yet to pay a cent.
    “Aziz mocks us,” Jinn said.
    “We will talk with him and bring him back in line,” Sabah insisted.
    “No,” Jinn said. “He will continue to defy us because he can. Because he feels he is beyond our reach.”
    Sabah looked at Jinn quizzically.
    “It’s the answer to the riddle of life,” Jinn said. “What matters isn’t money or wealth or lust or even love.