SKELETON GOLD: Scorpion (James Pace novels Book 3)

by Andy Lucas

  Munambe pressed the receiver tightly to his ear and sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. ‘I understand, thank you.’ But Kaoni was not finished yet.

  ‘There is something else.’

  ‘What? Explain.’

  ‘The analysis of the sample has revealed that the strain of plague is not typical. I have no idea what separates one disease from another but the laboratory is telling me that the disease has mutated.’

  ‘What does that mean? Will it affect how we treat it?’

  ‘I have been assured that the disease is still treatable with antibiotics. No,’ he added, ‘it seems the mutation just makes the progression of the disease far swifter. From the point of exposure, this new strain will kill a healthy adult animal in a matter of hours, far less if the animal is a juvenile, or already weakened by illness or age.’

  ‘Hours!’ thundered Munambe angrily. ‘That is not possible! Plague takes days before it becomes lethal, and only then if the bacteria infect the lungs and it alters from bubonic to pneumonic. That’s when it kills quickly but even pneumonic plague takes a day or two to be fatal. That is enough time to contain an out real with antibiotics.’

  ‘Further tests are needed, especially of the lung tissue, but it seems that all the animals contracted a new, terrible strain of pneumonic plague and died together, within hours, before they had time to disperse too far.’

  ‘How can we mobilise a response to contain a disease strain that is so aggressive?’ Kaoni did not reply. Munambe’s next thought was a very dark one. ‘What about human beings? What about possible human cases? Is the time frame the same for people?’

  This was the question that Kaoni had been dreading but he had to be honest. This had the makings of a huge disaster.

  ‘Human beings, the scientists feel, will be subject to the same life cycle of the disease. Without antibiotics, a healthy adult will probably be dead within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Then we must contain the outbreak immediately,’ Munambe decided. ‘Close down the parks and rush supplies of antibiotics to the region.’ In the past three years, vast quantities of penicillin had been stockpiled in medical facilities in his country’s capital, to counter the threat of any kind of mass infection. Now they needed to use it, and fast.

  ‘That will not help,’ explained Kaoni, his voice stricken to a whisper. ‘Initial tests show that this new strain of the disease shows a natural resistance to penicillin. Tests with stronger antibiotics have been very successful but we don’t have a large supply of these.’

  ‘Then we must get some quickly. I cannot abandon my role here, so you must brief the President, personally. Take any of the scientists that you need to and do not speak of this to anybody at the moment. Total secrecy must be maintained until the President decides what to do. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Kaoni hastily. ‘It will be done. I will make sure that anyone connected with this discovery is sworn to silence.’

  ‘I realise that we cannot keep it a secret for long but we mustn’t cause panic. If tourists start to cancel their holidays, our economy will be in real trouble.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ warned Munambe. ‘I want the parks closed immediately and travel restricted to senior government officials. Effectively quarantine the area. Then I want an update by noon tomorrow. Send out planes and foot patrols to assess just how serious an outbreak we are dealing with. Understand?’ Again, Kaoni agreed that he did. ‘Do not forget. A report by noon, and see how we can get hold of large batches of these stronger antibiotics without raising any immediate suspicions.’

  Kaoni promised that it would be done and rang off, leaving Munambe to stare at the walls of his hotel room and wish, for the first time ever, that he back in his office. The truth would get out, it always did, no matter how careful officials were. But they needed to buy some time and get a handle on the true scope of the problem before that happened.

  If they could contain it, and get hold of the right antibiotics quickly, tourism might not suffer a great deal, he reasoned with himself. Like malaria, it would just become another potential risk for visitors to his country, easily curable if anyone was unlucky enough to contract it. But if people found out while the outbreak was still spreading, the tourist season would effectively be over.

  Munambe eventually forced himself to return to bed and dropped into a restless doze, waking a little after six, to a bright, warm day. The clear blue skies were in complete contrast to the storm that lay ahead, he was sure.

  5

  The executive helicopter beat a steady path through the hot, dry air, with the sunlight reflecting brightly off of its light metallic grey fuselage and tinted glass windows. It headed out across a vast expanse of sky that was almost as empty as the deep azure ocean that lay beneath it, moving languidly and producing swells little higher than a foot. Calm and peaceful, the ocean slumbered beneath the commanding heat of a cresting sun.

  Inside, cocooned in tan, leather-upholstered luxury, two men watched the monotonous seascape flash by, two thousand feet below.

  ‘We are approaching the facility now,’ the pilot informed them, speaking quietly over a crackle-free intercom. Separated by a glass modesty screen similar to those common in land-based limousines, the pilot was safely removed from the corporate dealings that were taking place in the comfortable cabin behind them. The screen was totally sound-proofed and the intercom had to be manually activated by one of the passengers, should they wish to communicate with the cockpit.

  Secure from prying eyes and inquisitive ears, the dark-suited men, sipped at glasses of iced champagne and regarded each other.

  ‘So,’ said a rather large, muscular man seated by the port door; facing towards the cockpit. ‘To continue. One hundred million US dollars, payable in two equal instalments?’

  ‘That is correct,’ confirmed the thin, wiry man seated directly opposite him. ‘Fifty million now and another fifty when the deal is concluded. Those are our terms.’ He spoke softly but with an air of supreme confidence, as if he knew that the offer on the table was simply too good to be turned down.

  ‘It’s a very large sum of money. My backers will have to be convinced that you can deliver all that you say you can.’

  The bigger man also knew the offer was a good once and he had been given strict instructions, by his employers, not to jeopardise the deal by trying to undercut the offer. Personally, however, he hated the smug assuredness of the man seated opposite and couldn’t help but add an element of doubt to the proceedings.

  ‘That is why you are here,’ soothed the thin man generously. ‘In a few hours you will confirm that you have seen the facility and looked at the equipment with your own eyes, and report back that the money can be transferred. You will be impressed, I promise you.’

  ‘I hope so. I have flown a very long way to see your facility. I am tired and definitely in the mood to be impressed.’

  The expensive machine began a slow descent towards a thin, dark line that appeared on the horizon; a barren and dry coastline comprised of sandy beaches quickly giving way to endless, rolling yellow dunes. Banking east, the pilot guided the helicopter towards a large smudge at the very edge of the water, about six miles away, and continued to steadily bleed altitude.

  Malcolm Lefevre had worked for so long as a corporate money man that his native French accent had all but disappeared. He had spent the last twenty years of his life roaming the globe, negotiating deals for dozens of large companies, based in many countries. When he spoke, there was no sense of where he came from. He was fluent in five languages but he tended to use English, as it remained the language of international business.

  Apart from losing his national vocal identity, he had also quickly learned that one other trait did not complement international financial negotiations. Morality.

  He had worked with many unscrupulous people in his time and any sense of taking personal responsibility for the consequences of the d
eals that he brokered had long since ceased to bother him. Success was all that mattered. He was so wealthy now that even the huge sums of money he commanded for his services were no longer important.

  He could have retired and spent the rest of his life in pampered luxury but the thrill of closing a deal was as powerful a drug to him as crack cocaine was to a daily user. He craved the adrenaline, and near sexual thrill of crushing the competition to achieve his goals.

  At forty-five, when he wasn’t working, he spent his time in the gym. Fitness and health were essential parts of his life and he had been carefully looking after his body since his mid-twenties, when he realised that excessive alcohol and the partying lifestyle of a successful young businessman were not conducive to a long career.

  Two hundred pounds of muscle hung on his six foot frame but his bulk belied a superb level of fitness and stamina. With five marathons to his credit; all with times that professional athletes would have been proud of, he planned to enjoy a healthy life, well into old age.

  Unmarried, he used women as a sexual outlet regularly. There was never a shortage of willing partners, such was his wealth, natural good looks and powerful physique. He tended to go for women in their twenties, as they rarely wanted anything long-term, which suited him perfectly. All in all, he had a life that most men could only dream of.

  Alongside the demise of morality, he had grown into one of the most ruthless, callous operators in the business; someone who had pushed shady deals even when he knew that people would die because of it.

  Although there had never been any witnesses, on one occasion a few years previously, a particularly awkward and challenging opponent had forced his hand; that’s how Lefevre saw it anyway, and made him physically pull a trigger. He was now a fully-fledged killer and he had no qualms about doing it again, should the need arise.

  Steven Varner, the thin man who seemed to be holding all of the cards, was a very different type of man. He had never killed anybody and he could only dream of the wealth that Lefevre had accrued. He was strictly small-time and he had never worked outside of Africa. Employed in his current role for nearly two years, it was a dream job that offered the prospect of finally making something of himself. After thirty-six, fairly miserable years on the planet, he had landed on his feet.

  It had been a total stroke of luck. His own family had left Namibia two generations earlier. Though he had been living and working in South Africa for many years, officials hunting beneficiaries of a distant, great aunt, had tracked him down and handed over deeds to a seemingly worthless piece of land along the coast, three hundred miles southwest of the capital.

  His great aunt was someone that he had never, ever met and her land was somewhere that she had never even lived. The sizeable acreage was barren and empty. Her father laid claim to the area of coastal desert after rumours of mining opportunities had circulated in the early 1930’s. The rumours had proved to be false but her father had made one, arduous visit there and appropriate papers had been subsequently filed. He never visited the area again and its passing to Varner was just a formality.

  Initial excitement about a long forgotten piece of land had quickly faded. Varner’s immediate internet search quickly told him that his land was a tiny fragment within a gigantic expanse of emptiness. He was, in fact, the proud owner of several square miles of worthless desert, albeit with its own beach, surrounded by many hundreds more miles of protected game reserve. Legal protection prevented any development of transport or infrastructure, leaving the diverse African wildlife, and a few hundred indigenous people, in peace.

  Excitement over, he’d tossed the deeds in the bottom of a drawer and promptly forgotten all about them.

  Until the day that an official from the African Regeneration Corporation called upon him, several weeks after dismissing his inheritance as a joke. Varner had already resigned himself to scratching a living, buying and selling stolen goods in markets up and down the South African west coast. Then, roused from a drunken slumber one Sunday morning, at a little after nine o’clock, a life-changing offer had dropped right into his lap.

  ARC were looking for a suitable site on which to build an experimental type of desalination plant. A spot right on the sea, but well away from any habitation, was a necessity to ensure security. ARC had chosen to look in the wasteland area that was romantically referred to as the Skeleton Coast, where they had identified a site that sat slap bang inside the piece of land that he now owned. Worthless desert suddenly became valuable real estate and he gladly offered to sell the entire plot to the ARC.

  No, they didn’t want to buy it, he was told, just lease it for a few years. At fifty thousand US dollars per year, he had agreed, in a daze.

  As if this wasn’t strange enough, he’d then been asked to join the corporation as an employee, to be based at the new facility and help oversee its birth. The fact that he had no engineering or technological background did not matter to them, they informed him. It was his rights as a Namibian citizen and land-owner that they needed. And for an extra twenty-five thousand dollars a year, he had jumped at the chance.

  Life had turned in a heartbeat and now here he was, with a couple of years’ experience working at the facility, and suddenly trusted enough to greet an important financial visitor.

  Once settled onto a large helipad that sat on the rooftop of the main, five-storey facility building, the two men quickly left the sumptuous confines of the aircraft and made their way towards a set of stone steps, heads down and buffeted strongly by the downwash of the helicopter’s slowing rotor blades.

  Descending five feet, the final step ended in front of a set of glass lift doors. Varner pressed a button to call the car and very soon the doors slid open silently and they stepped inside a large, airy car, richly carpeted in a deep red pile. Some unfamiliar jazz music played softly through concealed speakers as they rode rapidly down to the second floor.

  The doors opened as silently as before and Varner led Lefevre down a series of empty, grey-walled corridors, each carpeted in the same manner as the lift, until he stopped outside a pair of impressive, highly polished, oak double doors. Brass handles in the centre were cast to resemble lions’ heads. Varner knocked twice, loudly, and waited. Almost immediately, a muffled voice from behind the door told them to enter. This was as far as Varner went.

  ‘You may go in,’ he said to Lefevre. ‘I have to go and make sure the pilot is given a meal and check that my men refuel the helicopter, ready for your return flight. I will see you later.’

  Turning smartly on his heels, Varner disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lefevre to clear his throat softly and turn one of the handles. The door clicked open smoothly and he stepped inside an impressive office. At least thirty feet wide and nearly sixty feet in length, the room contained very little furniture.

  The wooden floor was strewn with expensive Persian rugs and the plain cream walls formed the backdrop for dozens of original oil paintings, each presented in gilded frames that suggested they were very old. In the centre of the room sat a large desk.

  Behind it, sunk deeply into a luxurious leather chair, sat a young woman. She knew her guest had entered but remained engrossed reading something from a large, flat-screen monitor that sat on top of the desk. Without looking up, she waved him to take a seat in one of several large, similarly sumptuous leather chairs that had been strategically placed in front of the desk.

  Immediately angered by the dismissive welcome, Lefevre grudgingly did as he was told and sat down, waiting to be properly acknowledged. He waited, and waited. Totally ignored for the best part of three minutes, he was about to stand up and walk right out again when his host finally looked away from her screen and directed her gaze at him.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Lefevre,’ she said politely. ‘You must be exhausted after so much travelling. Would you care for a drink before dinner?’

  That was more like it, he thought, and he felt his seething anger immediately begin to settle. She hadn’t bothe
red to introduce herself but he knew exactly who she was.

  Josephine Roche was the CEO of the African Regeneration Corporation, ascending to the top job three years previously after the death of the company’s founder; her uncle, Sigerson Roche. Under her management, the company had expanded with explosive speed, quickly overtaking its rivals to become the biggest player on the African continent specialising in the areas of desalination and solar technology.

  The ARC was a well-respected business that brought stable jobs and investment into the areas that it chose as bases of operation. It was already developing an enviable reputation that brought with it a growing political power.

  ‘I’ve already had several on the flight down here. I won’t have anything right now, but thank you.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she shrugged, smiling warmly. ‘I know you will be anxious to take a look around. I have arranged for a full tour of our facility, later on this evening. I have arranged guest quarters for you, where you can freshen up before we eat.’

  ‘I have no intention of staying overnight,’ Lefevre stated firmly. He always set his own agenda and he had no intention of meekly accepting somebody else’s timetable. ‘I will be returning in the helicopter as soon as my inspection is complete.’

  ‘I understand,’ nodded the woman. ‘At least make use of the accommodation to relax until dinner. I do not want your people thinking that I made you inspect the facility when you were tired, or hungry. You need to be very clear on what you see here today so that you are able to report back to them in great detail.’

  Lefevre had to admit that this was a sensible idea. Human beings rarely performed well when tired or hungry. She just wanted to make sure the deal went through without a hitch and he instinctively respected her business sense.