“No. It can’t live outside the body for more than a few minutes and is extremely temperature sensitive—every sample I’ve tried to refrigerate dies almost immediately.”
Footsteps became audible in the corridor, and they both fell silent. A moment later Bahame appeared at the entrance to the chamber.
Omidi tensed, uncertain how to act. Should he try to explain or just remain silent? There was no telling from one minute to the next what would cause the African to explode.
Fortunately, Bahame made the decision for him. “Get out.”
Omidi nodded respectfully and ducked back into the narrow passage, keeping an even gait as the cries of the doctor and the crash of toppling equipment echoed around him. Hopefully, Bahame would kill the old man. It was more likely that he would create unwanted complications than additional useful information.
Let him rot.
39
Langley, Virginia, USA
November 24—1205 Hours GMT–5
BRANDON WOULDN’T HAVE WANTED all this fuss, but as his friend I’m really happy to see it,” the man said, shifting uncomfortably behind the lectern.
Dave Collen tuned him out, unable to remember his name and completely uninterested in what he had to say.
The small auditorium was jammed with people, and he scanned the faces, wondering how many had actually known Brandon Gazenga and how many had come out of curiosity and the promise of free pastries. There were a few expressions of real emotion, but most of the people just looked on with grave detachment.
“I’m sure everyone here knows what a talented analyst Brandon was, but with the way the agency works, a lot of people never had the time to find out what a great guy he was,” the man continued, his throat constricting with sadness. “I had the privilege of working closely with him for the past few years…”
Collen continued surveying the crowd, still not finding what he was looking for.
The ramifications of having to kill Gazenga so soon were still evolving, but how he had died made matters even worse. Who would have thought he’d wait until he was suffocating on his filthy carpet to grow a backbone? After admitting to contacting Russell, he’d finally fessed up to the time and place of their meeting, and Collen had lived up to his end of the bargain, holding out the phony antidote.
He’d expected Gazenga to snatch the bottle and shake the useless pills desperately into his mouth. Instead, he accepted them calmly, slowly swallowing them and then letting his head settle to the floor. Collen hadn’t left until the analyst’s gaze became fixed and unseeing.
They’d sent their team to the rendezvous point, but it quickly became clear that Gazenga had known he was a dead man and lied. The tracker they’d put on Russell’s car showed her heading into Pennsylvania—something they discovered too late to set up another ambush.
Collen perked up when the door at the rear of the room opened and Randi Russell slipped through. He nudged Larry Drake and gave a nearly imperceptible nod. It wasn’t proof that she’d known Gazenga was the one who slipped her a note, but it was a strong indication. She was hardly the type to show up to a memorial—particularly one for a person she didn’t know.
“When am I going to see a final?” the DCI whispered, referring to the revised plan for Russell’s elimination.
“Soon. We have a few more details to work out. She’s living alone in a friend’s cabin while she’s stateside. It couldn’t be more perfect for us—no security system, no neighbors for miles, and only one lightly traveled rural road in.”
“Then why isn’t it done?”
“The contractor I want to use is difficult to contact in a way that doesn’t leave a trail.”
“No mistakes, Dave. Do you understand me? We can’t afford any more.”
Collen nodded, wondering if it was an overly optimistic assessment of the situation. He’d completed an exhaustive survey of Gazenga’s computer use, uncovering his carefully hidden search for someone to help him, but otherwise coming up empty. Russell appeared to be similarly clean.
Just because he hadn’t found anything, though, didn’t mean there was nothing to find. Most likely, Gazenga had been telling the truth when he said that he’d given Russell only a time and place. But it was far from certain.
Finally, the loss of their eyes in Uganda had been a disaster. They were left tracking Smith with marginal satellite images and a single unreliable man on the ground. As of an hour ago, they could pinpoint the team’s location with only a thirty-mile margin of error.
The fact that they couldn’t afford another mistake was certain. The question was whether they’d already made too many.
Randi Russell slid along the wall, joining in on the subdued laughter as the speaker told a story about a rafting trip he’d taken with Gazenga. She finally stopped at a table and lifted the tinfoil on one of the plates lined up on it.
Doughnuts.
She pulled one out and began gnawing at its edge as she made her way to an unoccupied corner of the room. The size of the crowd made her wonder how many people would show up on the day her own luck inevitably ran out. Living a life doing things that couldn’t be talked about in countries most people couldn’t find on a map hadn’t left her with a particularly large circle of friends. And the few she did have tended to be a little skittish about showing their faces or admitting they knew her.
No, there would be no brightly lit, pastry-fueled eulogies celebrating her life and service. She’d have to settle for a few toasts by anonymous men and women sitting in dusty third world bars scattered across the globe. And truthfully, she’d have it no other way.
The speaker wrapped up his story and indicated to his right. “Director Drake had the privilege of knowing Brandon personally and wanted to say a few words, so I’ll shut up now. Are you ready, sir?”
Randi watched Drake stride to the lectern amid respectful applause. This seemed to confirm the rumor that Gazenga was working on something high-level. What it was, though, she still had no idea. His focus was on central Africa, and there was nothing she could find going on there that couldn’t be explained by the continent’s normal state of barely controlled chaos.
Of course, the digging she’d done had been fairly superficial thus far. The fact that he’d died of a perfectly credible accident so soon after passing her that note suggested two possibilities. One, he should clean out his fridge more often. Or, two, someone very slick and very powerful had wanted him dead. Assuming the latter was true, it had made sense to be as discrete as possible.
Unfortunately, there was only so much you could learn from the shadows. There was still no response to the message she’d left Jon, and all she’d been able to determine was that he was on leave from his job at Fort Detrick. Why he’d requested the leave or what he was doing with it was still a mystery.
She had a friend at TSA checking into whether or not he’d taken a commercial flight anywhere, but the answer was taking longer than she felt comfortable with. If Jon was in trouble, she needed to find him and bail his stupid ass out.
So there she was, making an appearance at Brandon Gazenga’s wake. It’d be interesting to see who noticed.
40
Northern Uganda
November 24—2242 Hours GMT+3
FLYING INSECTS LOOKED LIKE smoke in the headlights as Peter Howell eased the vehicle into a muddy ditch and then gunned it out again. Beyond the tiny circle of illumination, the darkness was as complete and unbroken as the bottom of the ocean.
Smith glanced into the backseat, where Sarie was stretched out with a limp hand resting on her rifle. She reminded him of Sophia in so many ways—the unrelenting enthusiasm for her work, the easy smile and sense of adventure.
What would his life have been like if she hadn’t died? Where would he be at that moment? Mowing the lawn? Carting their kids around in a minivan? Neither image was particularly easy to conjure.
When he faced forward again the bugs had relented enough to allow him to roll down the window and let in the wa
rm, wet air.
“Ever wonder what you’ll do after all this, Peter?”
“After all what?”
“You know…When we’re too old to chase things through the jungle.”
Howell, visible in the light from the gauges, shook his head. “People like us don’t get to retire, Jon. One day we’re not as quick as we once were or we make a mistake, and that’s the end.”
Smith let out a long breath and sank deeper into the leather seat. “That’s a cheerful thought.”
Howell reached over and slapped his leg, a rare smile playing at his lips. “We’re not there yet, mate. I reckon we’ve got a few good fights left in us.”
Just ahead, an old fence constructed from local trees appeared and Smith pointed. “Could that be it?”
“Are we there?” Sarie said groggily, sitting upright and leaning forward between the seats.
“I’m not sure yet.”
Howell paralleled the fence, finally pulling up in front of a gate. Sarie jumped out before the car was completely stopped, stretching her cramped back before letting them through. There was no protest from either the latch or the hinges, and the road leading onto the property wasn’t overgrown. Maybe their luck was taking a turn for the better.
It was another ten minutes before a house appeared—an old, sprawling building with blooming flowers climbing faded walls. Sarie pulled the handle on her door, but Smith threw a hand back and stopped her. “Movement right.”
“I see it,” Howell responded, eyes darting to the rearview mirror. “Behind us, too. At least three. One machete, two rifles. Neither are automatic.”
“What? What’s going on?” Sarie said.
“Wait in the car,” Smith said as he eased his door open and got out. A security light on the porch came on, and he slowly raised an arm to shade his eyes. A moment later, a barefoot Caucasian man wearing jeans and a T-shirt came cautiously through the front door holding a shotgun.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m Dr. Jon Smith, from the United States.”
“And your friends?”
Smith glanced behind him, spotting the Africans Howell had seen in the glow of their taillights. Added to the ones hiding at the edges of the house, there were at least five guns on them. Howell and Sarie might survive if things went their way, but Smith knew he wouldn’t.
“My friend Peter Howell and Dr. Sarie van Keuren from the University of Cape Town.”
The man considered what he’d heard for a moment and then leaned his gun against one of the pillars supporting the porch.
“I’m sorry for the reception,” he said, extending a hand as he came down the stairs. “We don’t get many surprise visitors, and this part of Africa isn’t as peaceful as it used to be. I’m Noah Duernberg.”
“Good to meet you,” Smith said as the vehicle’s doors opened behind him. When he looked back, the Africans who had been covering them were already wandering off.
Duernberg invited them into the house and they gathered around a heavy kitchen table by the light of a kerosene lamp. “We have to make all our own electricity out here,” he explained. “So we shut everything down at night. The generators make an awful racket.”
He pulled a few bottles of beer from a cupboard and passed them out. They were warm but Smith popped the cap gratefully.
“Where are you headed?” Duernberg asked, settling onto a hand-hewn bench near the window.
“Here,” Smith said.
“Here? You mean this area? What—”
“I mean this farm.”
The man was obviously confused, so Smith continued. “Is it safe to assume that Dr. Lukas Duernberg is your father?”
He nodded. “Was. He’s been dead for years.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We didn’t really think we’d find anyone still living here,” Sarie said. “We couldn’t find any information on you and were just hoping to get something from the local people about where your family ended up.”
“My father saved one of Idi Amin’s children and he gave us this land. I think we’ve pretty much been forgotten—a few white people running a farm in the hinterland is the least of the government’s worries these days.”
“It must be hard with Bahame gaining power in the region,” Howell said.
The farmer nodded sadly. “My father built this house. We have a life here, friends, people who count on us for the bread on their table. But right now my wife and son are living in Kampala trying to find a country that will take us. It’s just too dangerous here now.”
“I understand what you’re going through,” Sarie said. “I grew up on a farm in Namibia and had to leave. I still think about it every day.”
Duernberg took a long pull from his beer. “Enough about things that are in God’s hands. What’s your interest in my family?”
Smith pulled out the document Star found mentioning his father’s suspicion about a parasitic infection. Duernberg’s eyes ran across it for a moment before he stood and went to the cupboard for another beer.
“You must have been pretty young when he was working on this,” Smith said.
“I was twelve.”
Smith’s brow furrowed. There was no date on the document. “You remember him talking about the parasite?”
“No,” Duernberg said, sitting again. “But I remember him contracting the disease and attacking my sister Leyna. And I remember using the rifle he’d given me for my birthday to kill him.”
Silence descended and Duernberg focused on a window turned into a mirror by the darkness outside.
“I’m sorry to come here and dredge this up,” Smith said finally.
“Our field hands burned his body and wanted to kill Leyna—they said the demons were growing inside her. We had to run for one of the outbuildings and barricade ourselves inside. They surrounded us and just sat there. After a while, Leyna started getting confused, irrational. Then she got angry. Eventually, I shot her too.”
Smith crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the wall behind him. There was still no hard physical evidence, but this was enough. It wasn’t mass hypnosis or drugs. It was biological and it was as dangerous as hell.
“I know this must be horrible for you, but is there anything else you can tell us about this illness?” Sarie said. “Did your father do any kind of experiments? Do you have any idea how he contracted the infection?”
Duernberg shook his head. “I was too young. But I have some things that might help you.”
41
Northern Uganda
November 25—0209 Hours GMT+3
JON SMITH REACHED INTO the trunk and dug out an antique doll, complete with prairie dress and yellowing lace bonnet. He laid it carefully next to a pile of black-and-white photos, disintegrating clothing, and leather-bound books.
The temperature in Duernberg’s attic was well over a hundred and the heat was combining with lack of sleep to make his head feel like it was full of gauze. Howell had staged a strategic retreat an hour ago and was now snoring comfortably on a hammock stretched across the front porch.
“Anything?” he said, wiping the sweat from his face before it dripped on Lukas Duernberg’s medical school diploma.
Sarie, stripped down to a tank top and pair of shorts, was planted in the middle of the cramped space surrounded by the loose papers and notebooks they’d found.
“It’s hard not to get bogged down,” she said, tapping the bound volume in her hand. “This is a diary from the midthirties talking about his experience with persecution under the Nazis and his plan for getting his family out. I wonder if Noah’s planning on taking it with him when he leaves. Our library would go crazy for this stuff.”
“Yeah,” he said, digging another stack of papers from the bottom of the trunk and dropping them next to her. “But if I’m up here much longer, I’m gonna melt.”
“Americans…,” she said, setting aside the diary and opening a notebook filled with Lukas’s di
stinctive script. “All that air-conditioning has made you soft.”
Smith smirked and leaned over her, looking at the detailed drawings of local flora and struggling to read the caption. Having grown up in a former German colony, Sarie was faster and flipped the page.
He felt for Noah Duernberg. This part of Uganda was stunning, and to be forced to leave everything you knew, to have to try to build a new life in an unfamiliar place, was hard to imagine.
What made it so much more tragic, though, was how unnecessary it was. The farmland was fertile, the country was wall-to-wall with natural resources, and people seemed anxious to work. There was no reason that everyone in Uganda shouldn’t be living a safe, rewarding life.
No reason but the inherent darkness of human nature—something that was particularly easy to remember when sitting in Bahame country surrounded by Nazi memorabilia.
“Wait a minute…”
Smith slid in next to Sarie. “Do you have something?”
“I don’t know,” she said, spreading the papers out across the wood floor and pawing through them. “Yes! Right here—a parasite that causes a violent rage and bleeding from the hair. It says that the locals are familiar with it and think it’s a form of demonic possession. It flared up in a village forty kilometers away and appears to have had a one hundred percent mortality rate. None of the locals would go anywhere near the place because they believed they could be tainted by the evil. But Duernberg managed to find it on his own. He describes it as looking like a war zone. Burned-out huts, decaying bodies lying where they fell…”
She went silent for a moment, searching for the next relevant entry. “Okay, this is dated a week later. He corrects himself and says that mortality from the infection wasn’t a hundred percent—not even close.”
“So some of the villagers survived?”
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