by Darren Hale
‘Nothing much… Just something Carmen asked me…’
‘Carmen was asking you about…’ Juliet leaned in to study the page. ‘Ebola Viruses! That’s the nasty one in all the films, isn’t it?’
Catherine chuckled. Juliet had a manner that could somehow bring levity to the most horrific statements. It had perhaps come from spending too much time in the professor’s company, learning to diminish his often-acerbic comments with quips of her own. ‘Yes, it would be fair to say that it’s had more than its share of screen time,’ she said, recalling the host of films featuring this lethal virus.
‘So why was Carmen asking you about Ebola viruses?’ Juliet asked, helping herself to a seat next to the a small, fold-out table that comprised their tent’s only furniture.
Catherine shook her head. ‘She wasn’t,’ she said, closing the book. ‘She was asking me whether or not I was familiar with any diseases that were inclined to present with bleeds on the brain.’
Juliet’s face contorted as if to ask the question “why?”, and Catherine answered with an account of the conversation that had taken place earlier that afternoon.
‘Oh…’ There was a pause. The academic portion of Juliet’s brain had taken some time to absorb the details, mulling them over before furnishing her with questions of her own. ‘And you think the people here might have been wiped out by something like this Ebola virus?’
‘To be honest, I’m still none the wiser. Like I told Carmen, I’m no forensic pathologist, and the only symptom I have to go on, is the fact that the victims all seemed to have suffered with brain haemorrhages, at, or around, the times of their deaths. It really isn’t much.’
Juliet shuddered. ‘And we’ve been handling those remains… You don’t think?’
Catherine shook her head sympathetically. ‘No – I don’t’
‘How can you be so sure, when you just said you don’t know what it is that we’re dealing with?’
‘Because all of these infections have one thing in common,’ said Catherine, tapping the book. ‘They don’t survive for thousands of years underground. Hell – most of them don’t survive more than a few hours in the environment. Viruses like Ebola survive in living reservoirs: animal or insect hosts that pass them from one individual to another. There’s no way any of them would still be viable.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Yes – I’m sure…’ Catherine smiled. ‘But, if you’re bored, you could perhaps help me with something?’
Juliet raised an eyebrow.
‘I have a little Home-Economics project I need to conduct,’ said Catherine.
******
Arno’s face had been the mirror of Juliet’s when Catherine explained her plan.
Having requisitioned a couple of pints of beef stock, a bag of sugar, some gelatine, water, a saucepan, and a stove, from his supplies, she had then instructed Juliet on how to combine them, while she herself read the recipe from a book.
Arno looked on in disgust, his professional sensibilities challenged by something that he’d not been afraid to describe as ‘hideously unfit for human consumption’.
Having been quick to assure him that they had no plans to serve it to anyone, Catherine had then explained that they were in fact making agar, with a view to culturing samples of the pus from Eduardo’s and Simon’s wounds in the hope that they might shed some light on their affliction. In truth, she had no idea whether or not her attempts would be successful. She’d never made the stuff in the past, and had only the most rudimentary equipment to work with – though she hoped that her recent acquisitions of a microscope and staining reagents, purloined from Martin’s stash of unused equipment, would assist her. She was, as she’d been quick to point out, no forensic pathologist, nevertheless, she did have one advantage… She was bored…
28
Monday 16th October:
Nathan Eades turned the statue over in his hands. It was a simple and somewhat inelegant figure of a short and podgy-looking man carved out of blue-green jade, its arms embracing its own rather exaggerated penis.
‘Like it? It’s one of my more exotic pieces.’
Manuel Rodriguez stood in the doorway, watching apprehensively as Nathan inspected the little artefact. The handling of items in his personal collection was tantamount to an assault on his own person and worthy of the gravest punishment, though it was not the first time he’d shown restraint toward this arrogant American’s transgressions. He was, after all, one of the best bodyguards in the business, and more than a match for anyone else on his staff.
‘No – not really... I’m more of a classical man myself – Michelangelo’s David, and that sort of thing,’ said Nathan, replacing the statue in the cabinet from which he’d taken it.
‘Interesting… I must say, I prefer more ancient and local works of art; clay and stone shaped by the hands of people who lived many centuries before our time. I find it kind of humbling. Don’t you?’
‘To each his own I guess… Personally, I can’t see why anyone would want to clutter their house with junk that would be better off in a museum?’ Nathan gestured towards the other display cases; small glass prisons capturing their own fragments of history. There were pots and urns; and figurines carved in jade, marble, sandstone, and clay. Some pieces were clearly of great value, having been wrought from gold and studded with precious stones, while others, like the statue he’d been examining, had not appeared so remarkable.
‘Because they are so valuable,’ Manuel explained. ‘Even that piece you’ve so dismissively admired, is worth more than most men could afford in a lifetime. It’s an ancient Olmec fertility symbol, more than two thousand years old. Its remarkable workmanship and the quality of the stone make it one of a kind, and deserving of more respect in the future…’
Nathan ignored the veiled threat. ‘I’m not sure I understand why you’d waste your money on such expensive ornaments…’
‘Because, Mr Eades, I prefer to keep my wealth in sight at all times, safe from the clasping hands of the government, or the sticky fingers of America’s DEA.’ He paused. ‘Anyway – I didn’t bring you here to admire my collection. I have a job for you.’
‘A job?’
‘Yes – and you will enjoy this one I think,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘I have received a communication from my contact in Iquitos and he seems to think he may have some items of interest for me. There is an English expedition working a site uncomfortably close to certain other interests of ours, and I am told that they may have discovered treasures of great value to me. You will be flying that way to secure my latest shipment, so I’d like you to make a little detour…’
‘Come again… Like what the fuck do I know about all this kind of crap?’ said Nathan, his tone bordering on insolent.
‘It’s okay Mr Eades, you’ll be taking an expert with you. She’ll appraise the items and let me know if they are truly what he imagines.’
‘So you’re sending me on a shopping trip – with some fucking chick?’
Manuel gave him a tight-lipped smile that did not endorse Nathan’s behaviour. Men had been shot for less, though they had been lesser men. Nathan Eades had proven himself to be a valuable resource, and Manuel had learnt to tolerate his behaviour, accepting it as a character flaw, as long as he showed the proper respect in public and never overstepped the mark. ‘That’s right Mr Eades, and since the expedition will doubtless have drawn a lot of unwanted attention to the area, I want you to get in there, get my merchandise, and get out again as quickly as possible. Do you understand?’
29
Monday 16th October:
The Napo River licked its banks: a moist tongue lapping at wounded shores. A caiman turned a lazy eye to the sound of footsteps splashing through the water, then slipped beneath the surface with barely a ripple.
Martin waded through the reeds, hauling his canoe the last few metres to the bank, before beaching it a safe distance from the skiff he’d been following. He would travel the rest of the way on
foot.
Days spent living it rough had left him with the beginnings of a beard, the odour of a horse, and commensurate measures of mud and grime all over his body – courtesy of the many hours he’d spent in abject boredom, scrutinising the river through the lens of a camera. And had he in fact been the naturalist he purported to be the hours would have been well spent. A wide variety of birds and animals of every colour and description had visited the river’s turgid waters in search of a drink. But he was not that man. And beyond the most basic of taxonomic groupings – bird, flower, or fish – he’d had absolutely no idea what they might have been…
He was looking for another kind of prey…
And in the end, his vigil had been rewarded, when a skiff, loaded with the carcases of monstrous fish and flashes of weapons, had beached upriver. Its crew of three had then spent the next hour unloading their cargo before disappearing into the jungle.
Having given them a short head start, he’d then moved in to investigate. The carnage of dead fish and cigarette butts they’d left behind had not done much to challenge his skills: the men had been prodigious smokers and the bodies of the three monstrous pirarucu they had left behind (the smallest of which was a good two metres long), had clearly been carrying cargoes of coca pulp as was evidenced by the smears of green sludge and pieces of cellophane pasted around their guts.
He was getting close…
30
Tuesday 17th October:
‘So, how’s our little science project coming along?’ Juliet asked, for the third time that day (having added to the half-dozen times she’d asked yesterday), though on this occasion the reply had surprised her.
‘It should be about ready…’ Catherine assured her.
Juliet’s eyes went wide. ‘Really – can I see?’
‘Sure…’
Catherine approached one of the crates that doubled as furniture and removed some rubber gloves, a disposable apron, and a mask.
‘Is that really necessary?’ Juliet asked, as she watched her don each item in turn.
‘Yes,’ Catherine affirmed.
In fairness, her caution might have seemed excessive when approaching what had until recently been nothing more than a bowl of gelatinised soup, nevertheless, the precautions were entirely warranted. ‘We’re trying to grow colonies comprising of millions of potentially infectious bugs don’t forget.’
‘Oh,’ said Juliet, taking a few steps back.
Their science project had taken the form of a half-dozen circular glass dishes covered with plastic film, standing proudly on a table on one side of the medical tent. It was hardly a sight worthy of a hospital microbiology lab, but it was the best they could have managed. Ordinarily, the dishes would have been placed in an incubator, though given the jungle’s relentless heat, such accommodations had not been necessary. And besides –
they didn’t have one – any more than they had access to the proper agar plates, reagents, and a fully trained microbiologist.
Catherine removed the covering from the first of the dishes, revealing nothing more than a very few scattered blobs of different colours, ranging from blue through to gold.
‘That’s it?’ Juliet asked, her disappointment plainly written on her face. The blobs, though colourful, were nothing more than a millimetre or two in size and looked quite unspectacular.
‘No… That was the control – and I don’t really want to see very much growing on it at all. It’s only there to give me some confidence that the plates have not otherwise been contaminated.’
Catherine covered the dish, then moved on through the samples, uncovering and then covering them in turn, though in Juliet’s eyes, the cultures they’d produced were rather less spectacular than the abundant growths she’d once discovered on a sandwich Angus had forgotten. Nevertheless, Catherine seemed pleased.
‘So what does this tell us?’ Juliet asked, while trying to sound more interested than she really was. The science experiment had not been as captivating as she’d imagined. The second dish had grown a number of blobs of different colours, and had to her mind been the prettiest of the plates. Catherine had, however, dismissed it as largely unhelpful, having explained that the different blobs had simply been representative of the host of different organisms that had unsurprisingly been cultured from one of the soil-stained pieces of bone they’d recovered from the filled-in well. The next samples had been similarly unremarkable, including that cultured from a swab they’d taken off the queen’s remains.
‘Not as much as I’d like – yet…’ Catherine admitted. ‘Only that the infection in both Eduardo’s and Simon’s cases is likely to relate to the same bug,’ she explained. The final plates, belonging to Simon and Eduardo, had been revealing in so far as they had both grown abundances of creamy white blobs and fronds that looked both appalling and beautiful at the same time – traits that would surely have ensured themselves a place in London’s Tate Modern (had they been appended with the name of one of its more notorious artists).
‘And that bug is?’
‘I have no idea…’ Catherine admitted. ‘So I now have to take samples from the cultures, stain them, and examine them under the microscope, then hope that one of the books I’ve brought with me contains enough pretty pictures for me to hazard some guess as to what they might be.’
‘Sounds like you’re not very hopeful?’ Juliet observed.
Catherine shrugged. ‘I’m not a microbiologist, and I’ve never done this sort of thing before. But the way things are going, I’ll happily take any clues I can get.’
Juliet frowned. ‘What do you mean “the way things are going”? I saw Simon this morning and he seemed fine to me, though a little precious when it came to keeping his dressings clean… I think he’s perhaps a little more frightened of his doctor than anything else.’
‘Yes – he’s okay – though it appears he has the same thing Eduardo does. And Eduardo’s not doing so great… He’s running a fever and has taken to his bed. I’m feeding him antibiotics, but it’s a battle I seem to be losing.’
‘He’s okay?’ Juliet asked, evidently concerned. Eduardo had not been present at breakfast that morning, though his absence had not registered as anything out of the ordinary.
‘Yes – he’s okay,’ Catherine assured her. ‘And I’m hoping these samples might at least give me some clues as to the correct treatment…’
31
Wednesday 18th October:
Martin’s pulse was hammering. The last patrol had come perilously close to his hiding place and though he’d been well hidden at the time, it had been enough to get his heart racing.
‘Crow’s Nest – this is Snake Pit,’ he said, whispering through his throat mike, just as soon as he could be sure they were out of earshot.
‘Copy you Snake Pit – this is Crow’s Nest – go ahead, over.’
‘Crow’s Nest – this is Snake Pit. It’s beginning to look a little hairy around here. I don’t suppose there’s any news on that ariel reconnaissance?’ he asked hopefully.
As Martin was excruciatingly well aware, the Amazon was one big arse jungle, and on its own, a drone had about as much chance of finding a processing lab as it did of finding a needle in a haystack (though arguably, given the electronic wizardry at its disposal, the latter might have been simpler). Except that it wasn’t on its own, and he, Martin, had confidently reduced the “haystack” to a parcel of real estate that measured no more than a few kilometres on either side.
There was an embarrassed pause.
‘Copy Snake Pit. What is your current confidence?’
‘Confidence is high. Crow’s Nest, I say again – confidence is high. I’ve not yet been able to get a visual on the processing plant itself, though I’ve seen enough of the players to know it’s around here someplace.’
‘Copy that Snake Pit…’
There was a pause.
‘Snake Pit – this is Crow’s Nest. We have a fix on your position and are tasking overwatch as we speak. Y
our orders are to ex-fil. Return to camp. We’ll have eyes on the scene soon. Intelligence from Granite suggests that the target might be a lot hotter than anticipated, and it sounds like the cartel’s preparing to make a major shipment within the next few days. Be advised that your immediate vicinity is likely crawling with interested parties… So watch yourself…’
Martin frowned. Swell! Add that to the list of things he could have done with knowing yesterday! His immediate vicinity had been crawling with more than just a few heavily armed members of the FARC militia and he’d already had one encounter that had come almost too close for comfort.
‘And Snake Pit – just one more thing... Watch yourself... There’s still no word from the camp…’
******
‘You still bugged about the Brits?’ Raymond asked. He’d been sitting in the Op’s room throughout the conversation, compiling and collating the latest intel from Granite and other sources.
‘It’s been what… Three days… And still no word?’ Brad observed.
‘Perhaps they’re keeping this “big find” of theirs secret?’ Raymond speculated. ‘After all, they have to know their communications are not secure, and that there interested parties are likely to be listening in.’
‘Perhaps,’ Brad agreed. ‘Except that their silence clearly has their colleagues back at home rattled. From what I’m hearing, the personnel department at Cenes pharmaceuticals has received so many calls they’re thinking of taking out a restraining order.’
Raymond chuckled.
‘So how are we doing on the UAV?’ Brad asked. He’d not been amused to discover that the Icarus had been damaged in the storm, though fortunately for them, Mick, whose negligence had almost lost them that vital piece of equipment, was something of a wizard when it came to electronics and was endowed with hands that could have crafted the space shuttle from a pile of tin cans. And so, having received the appropriate motivation (and threatened with charges of gross negligence), he’d been working on it, night and day, and had performed nothing less than a miracle.