Outbreak

by Chris Ryan

  'It's Mr Kruger to you, Ben,' his dad said sternly.

  'You wouldn't say that if you saw the way he just spoke to a cleaning lady I was talking to.' Ben knew he was answering back, but he calculated that he'd get away with it.

  'There are cultural differences here, Ben. It's not up to us to start judging the way people treat their staff. I'm sure the woman is glad just to have a job.'

  'But don't you think it's a bit weird, us being packed off to Udok so quickly?'

  'Of course not. A change of plan, that's all. I'm here on business, after all,' Russell said rather officiously. 'I need to be flexible for my clients.'

  Ben replied with an unconvinced stare.

  'Look, Ben,' his father continued, 'I know you were shaken up by what we saw earlier – the dead body and all. So was I. But we're in good hands. Mr Kruger is a very well-respected businessman and has a lot of influence in these parts. And Abele might be a bit gruff, but he seems… extremely competent.'

  'But-'

  'Ben! We are these people's guests. Come on, Abele is meeting us in reception and taking us to a local airfield.'

  Sure enough, Abele was already there, surrounded by their luggage. He had no smile for them as they walked back into the reception; indeed he looked distinctly surly. Ben's dad approached with his arms spread out in a gesture of friendliness. 'Abele!' he said breezily. 'I understand you are accompanying us.'

  Abele didn't reply, other than to flash them a dark look; he just picked up their luggage and started walking out of the building. They trotted behind.

  The airfield to which they were travelling was about an hour outside Kinshasa, and the journey was thankfully uneventful, allowing Ben to watch the alien scenery through the window. Outside the city the road was poor, and Abele was forced to drive slowly; occasionally they would pass through a village, and the sight of a strange car – especially one containing two white faces – would provoke curious stares from the adults and invariably a horde of excited children, thin and poorly clothed, running after them.

  The airfield itself was little more than a parched expanse of earth with an iron hut and a short, bumpy looking runway. Waiting on the runway was a black and white twin-engined aircraft. Since Adelaide, where circumstances had forced him to fly a microlight over the burning city, Ben had made a study of such things, and he thought he recognized it as a Cessna 414. As they approached it, he became more sure he was right: the twin propellers, the long pointed nose – he'd be willing to bet money on it. He'd been wondering what sort of plane would be taking them to the village of Udok – there weren't many light aircraft that had the necessary range, but the Cessna was one of them. He felt a thrill of excitement that for a moment made him forget the worries that had been buzzing in his head; he was really looking forward to going up in this thing.

  Abele parked the car by the metal shed and they all got out. A smiling man approached them and introduced himself as the pilot: Ben and his dad shook hands, but Abele seemed unwilling to speak, simply going about his usual business of carrying their bags across to the plane. Along with the pilot he lifted the bags up into the cabin; Ben and his dad walked up the steps, took their seats, and before they knew it the engines were humming, the propellers were spinning and they were trundling their way at increasing speed down the runway. Ben's eyes darted between the instruments on the control panel and the view out of the window: suddenly the jolting that shook them around in their seats was replaced by the familiar lurch in the stomach and that curious sense of weightlessness as the plane smoothly rose into the air. There was not a cloud in the sky here in the heart of Africa; there was unlikely to be any turbulence today. Ben found his eyes transfixed by the disappearing ground: the parched earth of the airfield soon gave way to a patchwork of browns and yellows, punctuated in the distance by the sparkling blue of the River Congo and the liver-shaped delta on which Kinshasa and Brazzaville lay. He was transfixed by the sight for some minutes, before the plane stopped climbing and settled into its steady flight.

  The passengers sat in silence – Dad reading a book next to him, Abele sitting opposite, looking fiercely out of the window. Ben decided to ask the Congolese man the question that had been on his mind ever since his conversation with Fatima. 'Abele,' he said, 'why did you say you didn't want to travel to Udok?'

  Abele's forehead creased into a frown. 'It doesn't matter,' he replied. His eyes flickered over at Ben, then looked sharply away again when he realized he was staring straight at him. Almost involuntarily, the black man's fingers brushed against a necklace he was wearing. Ben hadn't noticed it before: a piece of black leather, with a shiny triangle of metal and what looked like an etching he recognized upon it. It was an eye – one not a million miles away from the token Fatima had given him only a couple of hours ago. Ben felt a sudden coolness in his blood as Abele hid the necklace under his clothes, having realized that Ben had been gazing at it.

  'What was that?' Ben asked quietly.

  Abele shook his head. 'Nothing.'

  'You weren't wearing it this morning.'

  'Ben,' his dad chided.

  Ben fell silent, but did not stop looking at Abele, who seemed to be deliberating whether or not to say something. Finally, it appeared, he could not help himself. 'It is a charm,' he said in a low voice. 'To protect against evil. If you were wise, you would wear one yourself.'

  'That's enough, Abele.' Ben's father was uncharacteristically firm, but his face had a look of gentle amusement about it – his scientist's mind would not tolerate such superstitious talk, Ben realized. 'You'll frighten the lad.'

  But I'm not frightened, Ben thought to himself, as Abele looked resolutely out of the window once more. Just intrigued. He thought back to what Fatima had said. There was something she had been trying to tell him, something she did not have good enough English to say. What was the word she used? Maudit. The village was maudit.

  In his bag, Ben had a pocket French dictionary, ready to help him when his own schoolboy knowledge of French let him down. Wordlessly he opened the zip, rummaged around and pulled it out. The type was small, difficult to read in the vibrating plane, but as he diligently thumbed through the lists of unfamiliar words, he eventually found it.

  Maudit.

  It meant 'cursed'.

  As the plane sped across the skies of central Africa, four men met in a plush room in the middle of Kinshasa. There was air conditioning and a carpet, and a bottle of Scotch whisky on the large mahogany meeting table. Two of the men were black, two of them white. They all wore suits and sipped their drinks from heavy tumblers. They didn't speak, but rather seemed to be waiting for someone.

  Eventually that someone came – another white man with thick black hair and a lined face. He nodded at each of the others in turn before taking his seat at the table. 'You are all aware of what is happening?' he asked in a marked South African accent.

  One of the black men spoke. He was short, with chubby features and a sing-song voice in which he spoke immaculately polite English. 'I think it would be best, my friend, if you filled us all in from the beginning.'

  The South African nodded. 'Certainly, Mr Ngomo. As major shareholders, you will all be aware that the Eastern Congo Mining Corporation has been mining for tin in the east of the country for just over a year. Profits have been' – he shrugged – 'adequate.'

  The men round the table nodded their heads.

  'A little over six weeks ago, our mine manager there extended the excavations and believes he has come across a source of Coltan. Very plentiful, and on first examination of very high quality. I know a number of you have interests in other Coltan plants, so I needn't explain how lucrative it can be.'

  'That rather depends,' one of the other white men interrupted, 'on the quality of the ore.'

  'Indeed. As we speak, we have a British scientist flying out there to examine what we have found. He's one of the best.'

  The men around the table nodded their approval.

  'There is, however,'
the South African continued, 'as you know, one small hitch.'

  None of the men around the table looked at each other, and there was an oppressive silence before Mr Ngomo spoke. 'I assume you are referring to the unfortunate deaths of the mine-workers in recent weeks.'

  The South African nodded almost serenely.

  'Correct me if I'm wrong,' Ngomo continued, 'but the symptoms sound very much like those of extreme malaria.'

  The South African inclined his head. 'Similar enough, I would say, for our purposes at least. Of course, there are rumours among the villagers…'

  'Rumours are fine. They will keep people away. I understand that the village is extremely isolated, and that it seldom attracts visitors from the surrounding area. But if word gets out that we have discovered Coltan here, we can expect unwanted interest – you know how unstable that region is. I assume you have taken steps to stop word leaking out.'

  'Of course,' the South African stated. 'Our mine manager controls all the transport in the village, and we have stopped any mail or deliveries from coming in or out. But I'm afraid there is an unforeseen problem.'

  'What is that?'

  'The workforce. They are dying more quickly than we anticipated. We don't have enough men or boys to work the mine.'

  'Then you will need to bring in more personnel. Where is the nearest village?'

  'Half a day's drive away.'

  'We must import more workers from there. But we must keep it a secret, what we're doing.'

  Suddenly one of the other white men spoke. 'If it's secrecy you want,' he observed, 'then I'm afraid it is already compromised.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean the scientist. He will return to the outside world soon enough; and what if he suspects what we suspect about the deaths among the mine-workers and their families?'

  The South African smiled blandly. 'His work will be done in a matter of days,' he observed before standing up and looking out of the window into a neat courtyard below. 'Unfortunately he has his son with him.' The men around him looked troubled. 'He's an unprepossessing kid – I don't think he will cause us any trouble. But I caught him speaking to one of the villagers who works in our offices.'

  'She told him the rumours?' Nkomo asked.

  'I don't know. But it's OK – I have arranged for them to travel to Udok earlier than expected. That way, we don't risk anybody else filling their heads with ideas. And of course, people succumb to all sorts of things in that part of the Congo.'

  He turned round and gave everyone in the room a knowing look, which they returned in unified silence.

  'Then I suggest' – Nkomo spoke in a monotone voice – 'that once the scientist has done his job, he and his son are considered entirely dispensable.'

  Everyone in the room nodded their heads slowly.

  'Good,' Nkomo continued smoothly. 'Then I think that just about concludes our business. Thank you for keeping us informed, Mr Kruger. You have been most helpful.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Cessna started losing height.

  Since Abele's mysterious warning, there had been almost no conversation in the cabin, and Ben had resorted to gazing aimlessly out of the window and watching the vastness of Africa pass beneath him. From that height it was difficult to make out the landscape over which they were flying, but as they prepared for landing, he found himself able to make out more distinct features: the thick canopy of jungle, the occasional weather-beaten road, the river. They called Africa the dark continent, but all Ben could see was a riot of colour.

  The landing was a lot less smooth than the one they had experienced in Kinshasa Airport earlier that day – Ben was pleased he had heeded the instruction of the smiling pilot to strap himself in. Finally, though, the vigorously jolting plane came to a stop, the doors were opened and the passengers stepped out into the oppressively humid outside. Ben felt his clothes cling immediately to his skin as Abele pulled down their luggage and carried it to the side of the runway. There was little to distinguish this airfield from any other patch of cracked earth – Ben squinted as he looked around at the unfamiliar, slightly hostile surroundings. Nothing. No buildings, no shelter: just an expanse of earth covered with low brush and brown dust. Abele spoke to the pilot in an African dialect: he shook his head and then walked over to Ben and his father, hand outstretched and grin still intact, revealing several misshapen, yellow teeth interspersed with four or five gaps.

  'You are not coming to the village with us?' Ben's dad asked in that loud, slow voice people use when addressing someone who doesn't speak their language.

  If anything, the pilot's grin became wider as he shook his head and waved a finger in front of him, before turning and clambering back into the cockpit. The Cessna was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving the three of them alone with their bags and an uncomfortable silence, staring as the plane disappeared into the skies.

  By the side of the road was a small copse of palm trees which cast a long shadow in the afternoon sun. The trio took shelter in the shade as Ben and his dad waited for Abele to tell them how they were to be transported from here. 'They send someone to collect us,' he murmured, before turning his back on his two English companions and gazing out into the distance. Ben peered around him. The mid-afternoon sun was causing a wavy haze of heat in the near distance, making it difficult for him to focus on any one thing, even with the expensive Polaroid shades his mum had insisted on buying for him. In one direction, though – a mile away, perhaps less, perhaps more – he saw something moving across the horizon. It was a crowd of animals, travelling at some speed, though he could not make out what they were.

  Suddenly he jumped as he heard Abele's voice right next to him. 'Olive baboon,' he noted, a look of distaste in his face.

  'Are they dangerous?' Ben asked, unable to take his eyes off the troop.

  Abele shrugged. 'Not wise to get too close. But more nuisance than dangerous. They steal food.'

  Just then their attention was distracted from the baboons by the quivering, hazy sight of a car appearing in the distance. Abele raised his arm in the air and stood by the side of the road while Ben and his father waited wordlessly behind him. It took the car longer to reach them than Ben would have expected – it was a beaten-up old thing, trundling slowly along. Finally, though, it pulled up at a short distance – perhaps ten metres – from the trio, who were eagerly awaiting its arrival. The driver switched off the noisy engine, opened his door and started walking towards them. The smile on his face was perhaps broader even than that of the pilot who had just left them, though he walked with a curious posture, his hands held firmly behind his back. Noting the presence of two white men, he spoke in broken English. 'You want lift?'

  From the corner of his eye, Ben saw Abele's brow furrow, and in that split second he himself realized that what this stranger had just said to them was odd. If he'd been sent to pick them up, why would he be asking them if they wanted a lift? He took an involuntary step backwards, but it was too late. He froze as the man let the smile fall from his face and pulled his hands from behind his back to reveal a dull, grey handgun.

  Nobody moved. Ben felt a drop of sweat drip down the right-hand side of his face, though whether that was a result of the heat or the sudden fear that was like a shock through his body, he couldn't tell. He stared at the man who had them at gunpoint. His lip was curled now, and there was a look of flat menace in his eyes that suggested to Ben he would not hesitate to use his weapon if they didn't do exactly what he said – or even if they did.

  Their attacker twitched the gun down towards the bags. 'Empty them,' he commanded.

  Ben and his father glanced at Abele, who nodded at them. Ben was the first to bend down to his bag. 'Slow!' the attacker barked, the word spoken with such sharp urgency that for a millisecond he thought it was the sound of the gun firing. Struggling to keep control of himself, Ben slowed his movements down, unzipped his luggage and then started to upturn it.

  But before he could spill its conte
nts onto the dusty ground, there was movement.

  The attacker had stepped closer to Abele who, with a quickness that Ben would never have expected of him, shot out his hand and grabbed the arm with which their attacker was holding the gun. There was a brief struggle, and suddenly the gun went off. The bang rang in Ben's ears and caused a host of unfamiliar birds to rise as one from their hiding places in the low brush. Ben and his father watched in frozen horror as the two men struggled to get control of the weapon. They were an evenly matched pair – both strong, both desperate – but eventually the attacker managed to strike Abele a vicious blow across the side of the face. Abele's head twisted round and he fell with a heavy thud to his knees as the attacker took a couple of steps backwards and aimed the gun directly at Abele's face.

  There was a wildness in the man's eyes that put Ben in no doubt that he was about to shoot. He had to do something.

  As quick as his trembling limbs would allow him to, he plunged his hand into his bag and grabbed the first hard object he came across – the bottle of water he had promised his mum he would pack. With a yank he pulled it out, ignoring his other belongings, which tumbled out onto the ground, and hurled it at the attacker. The bottle hit him squarely on the side of the face, suddenly distracting him, and for a short moment Ben thought he had done enough.

  But he hadn't. For the second time in as many minutes, the gun cracked loudly, reverberating with a horrible quake through Ben's body.

  'Abele!' he and his father shouted desperately in unison as their guide started to fall.

  It all happened as though in slow motion. Abele lurched forward and in an instant Ben's desperation turned to sudden relief as he realized that their attacker had missed him and that Abele was seizing his moment – and his assailant. He grabbed the man's legs below the knees and the car driver fell to the ground, coughing loudly and hoarsely as he was struck with great fierceness in the pit of his stomach. Momentarily winded, he could do nothing but lie in the dust. Russell ran towards him to retrieve the weapon before he had time to recuperate, but Abele was already there. He banged the man's wrist vigorously against a sharp stone that was on the ground, causing it to bleed immediately and profusely, then grabbed the gun from his outstretched palm. 'Get in the car,' he shouted to them as he stood up, the gun aimed directly at the abdomen of the suddenly terrified attacker.