The noon sun over the northern Sahara burned at one hundred and twelve degrees Fahrenheit.
Heat shimmers distorted the endless sea of golden sand dunes, making the horizon waver like liquid gold.
Normally, the only living creatures moving across this barren wasteland would be scorpions, desert vipers, and hardy Tuareg camel caravans wrapped in indigo turbans.
Today, fifty square miles of open dunes were swarming with fifty thousand people wearing identical gray canvas overalls.
Every single person held a heavy steel shovel.
Every single person pushed a squeaking wooden wheelbarrow loaded with soil and compost.
And every single person was sweating through their clothes with blistered hands and gritted teeth.
Among them was Sir Arthur Sterling, a London real estate mogul worth four billion pounds. His fingers had never held anything heavier than an antique fountain pen or a glass of dry sherry.
