Charlotte glanced to him.
“A sacred Kuba Box,” he explained. “Their people are known for crafting such objects, many of which adorn museums around the world. They use the boxes to preserve tukula, ritual pastes and powders, along with other ceremonial tools used in healing, burials, anything of high importance.”
Woko reached inside and removed a carved idol, which he passed to his apprentice. Faraji held the object as if it were a deadly viper, barely letting his fingers touch it. It was a wooden figure of a man standing stiff and tall. The face had been ebonized to a dark sheen, while the stylized outfit was painted white, flecked by age. Again, the clothing did not look tribal, more like a suit and a pith helmet.
This must be the man depicted on the mask.
Ndaye nodded to it. “A ndop figure. Such depictions are reserved for the kings of the tribe.”
“Who is it, then?” Charlotte asked.
Faraji overheard her and answered in English, proving his fluency. “He shepherd.”
Charlotte frowned. Why did the Kuba carve a figure of a shepherd? She tipped higher on her toes to peer into the box. From its apparent age, it looked to be a relic from another century, possibly dating back to colonial times. The wood also looked unusual, maybe ebony, but veined in silver, tiny knots of which formed the figure’s eyes.
Inside the box, the figurine had been holding down a stack of small squarish papers, stiff and yellowed with age. She spotted a few scribbled lines of writing on the topmost one.
As Woko rooted at one end of the box, the neat stack shifted, revealing a corner of an old black-and-white photo. The entire pile below ap peared to be more of the same. Except, under the stack, a folded print of a colored map had been tucked at the bottom.
Before she could discern more, Woko stood up and blocked her view. He turned, holding aloft a stoppered glass vial filled with a grainy yellow powder.
Charlotte remembered Ndaye’s description of these ngedi nu ntey, how such boxes preserved sacred pastes and powders.
What was it?
With strong, deft fingers, Woko twisted out the rubber stopper. He shoved through the gathered group and crossed toward Disanka and her baby. As he approached the cot, he shook a drab of powder into his palm. He spoke softly but firmly to the mother, who at first looked scared, then began to nod.
If nothing else, this witch doctor had a better bedside manner than Jameson.
“What does he think he’s doing?” the pediatrician asked, looking ready to intervene.
Charlotte stopped him with a touch. “Leave them be.”
She sensed Western medicine had no place here.
Disanka cupped the back of her son’s head and lifted his little face higher. The child showed no sign of awareness, not even an eyelid blinked.
Woko leaned closer and blew the powder across the boy’s lips and into his nose. Charlotte hoped for a sneeze, for any sign of a reaction from the child. But nothing happened. Disanka stared down at her son, clearly praying for the same, but even she grew forlorn at the lack of response.
Jameson scoffed. “We’re wasting time. Let the shaman come with us if he wants, but we’re leaving now.”
Woko ignored him and stepped past the pediatrician. Charlotte expected the shaman to return to the box, but instead, he whispered to his apprentice and continued to the front of the tent. Faraji returned the figurine to its case and carefully replaced the lid. As the boy set about rewrapping the mask and returning it to his backpack, Woko bent down by the tent flap, which had been left open.
Trails of ants had already invaded the space, seeking refuge from the rain, exploring in all directions. Woko gathered a pinch of the powder in his fingertips, then sprinkled the grains over one of the black trails. The effect was instantaneous. The ants fled in all directions, scurrying madly to get away. A few simply curled up dead.
Woko studied his work for a breath, then nodded, as if satisfied. Still, when he straightened and turned, lines of worry etched his face.
Jameson sighed loudly, plainly done with all this. “Big deal. So it’s some sort of insecticide or ant repellant. So what?”
The answer came from behind them all.
A loud bawling rose from the cot. They all turned. Disanka clutched her boy harder. The child still lay dazed and weak in her arms, but his eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth wailed, revealing a tiny curl of pink tongue.
Charlotte gasped. “The powder . . . it’s waking him. Maybe it’s a cure of some sort.”
Jameson scowled his disdain. “We can’t know that. It might just be a nasal irritant that triggered a pained response. Either way, we must—”
A loud slap of boots on mud drew them all around. A shape skidded past the flap opening—then scrambled back into the tent’s pool of lamplight. A gunshot cracked in the distance as Benjie shoved inside. His coveralls were torn; a mini GoPro camera hung crookedly by his ear. Panic blanched his face. He shouted one word of warning.
“Run!”
4
April 23, 9:15 P.M. GMT
Airborne over the North Atlantic Ocean
From the height of thirty thousand feet, Commander Gray Pierce watched the shadowy coastline of Africa grow steadily ahead of him, lit by the glow of a small coastal town. The private jet—a Cessna Citation X+—raced across the black waters of the Atlantic toward those lights, but they wouldn’t be stopping at that town.
An hour ago, they had touched down and refueled at the Cape Verde islands, the midpoint of their journey to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. They still had another five hours of flying to reach the town of Kisangani, almost smack-dab in the middle of the continent.
The literal heart of Africa . . .
A chime sounded from the digital pad propped up on the small teak table in front of his leather chair. He sighed as the encrypted satellite connection was made to Sigma command in D.C. He straightened and picked up the pad. A window opened on the screen, and an image pixelated, then settled into the familiar face of Director Painter Crowe.
Gray’s boss sat behind his desk. The director had shed his usual blue suit jacket and sat with his tie pulled loose and his shirt’s top button undone. He looked exasperated and combed fingers through his black hair and shifted a single white lock behind an ear, as if tucking in an eagle feather. Painter’s Native American heritage shone from the burnished planes of his face, though his silver-blue eyes marked his multiracial heritage.
“Director, we’re almost to the coast,” Gray said. “You said to check in for any change in status with the situation on the ground.”
“Good. I have a few updates. Disturbing ones, in fact. I’m waiting for Kat to loop in. In the meantime, how’s our medical team faring?”
“They’re boning up as quickly they can, trying to cover all their bases before we land.”
Gray glanced to the pair of chairs at the cabin’s front. His friend and fellow Sigma teammate, Monk Kokkalis, had his head bent across a table from Dr. Lisa Cummings, the director’s wife. The woman had a background in medicine and epidemiology. If whatever was happening in that dark heart of Africa was truly a contagion, then her knowledge of diseases and patterns of transmission could prove vital.