She gazed at the centerpiece of the plaza as they passed it. An old brick church hunched at the edge. Through the open doors, she could spot pews made of cinder blocks and planks. A small bell hung in its tiny steeple.
Past the church, half-buried in the jungle were four Quonset huts, draped in camouflage netting. She and Jameson were being marched in that direction. As they crossed alongside the church, another new building appeared. It was a windowless cinder block structure with a green metal roof. From the rough mortar between the bricks, it looked hastily constructed.
When they reached the structure’s door—which had been left ajar by a red hose running into it—a cacophony of hoots, screeches, squawks, and caterwauls echoed out, accompanied by the stench of feces and urine and musk. Someone shouted angrily inside.
Both Charlotte and Jameson shied away from there, but as they circled around to the back, they came upon a stack of wooden transport crates. Creatures stirred and shuffled behind the holes drilled into the boxes’ sides. The noises here were softer, fearful. She spotted a pair of leathery fingers sticking out of one hole, tugging forlornly. A fingernail bled, ripped away by the creature’s efforts to escape.
Her heart ached at the cruelty here. She didn’t know why the animals had been captured and brought here. The bushmeat trade was always a profitable one in the jungle, as was poaching and the trade in exotics.
Jameson expressed a grimmer assessment as he gazed back to the building’s door. “It’s a vivarium . . .”
She looked at him. Could he be right? Are they conducting animal experiments here?
“Keep moving,” a gruff voice ordered them.
She glanced back to their armed escort. It was the tall Congolese soldier from last night. He forced them forward with his rifle. He had roused them at the crack of dawn, hauling them to a shower facility, ordering them to strip, tossing them a fresh pair of scrubs to change into. He had also offered a cold meal of granola bars washed down with lukewarm coffee. She had consumed everything leadenly.
During the flight here, she had eavesdropped on the conversations around her, hoping for some explanation for the attack. She had gleaned this soldier’s name: Ekon. His European partner, the man with the bullhorn, was Draper.
Ekon continued with them to one of the Quonset huts. They were forced through the spring-loaded door and into a small anteroom sealed off from the space inside. Through the window, she spotted a row of modern hospital beds along one wall, while stainless-steel cabinets and workstations lined the other. Across the back appeared to be a lab facility for bloodwork and cytology.
What is going on?
“Get dressed,” Ekon ordered them, pointing to a PPE supply of gowns, gloves, and booties.
They obeyed. She noted the masks were PAPR, battery-powered, air-purifying respirators that covered the entire face when strapped on. She donned hers, feeling like she was about to go scuba diving.
Once outfitted, Ekon pushed them into the medical ward. The soldier did not follow. Instead, they were passed off to his partner. Draper was similarly garbed inside, only he had a huge pistol holstered at his hip.
“Bienvenue, Docteur Girard,” he greeted her, his voice muffled by his mask, then nodded to Jameson. He waved a hand to encompass the length of the hut. “First, let me apologize for the rough evacuation from your camp, but discretion is a matter of great importance here. And I believe you’ll find our facility far better equipped to investigate the mysterious illness spreading through the Congo.”
Charlotte swallowed. She counted a dozen gowned and masked figures, other doctors and clinicians, all men, a mix of Europeans and Congolese. They carried themselves with a military stiffness. She was certain this hard group had not been coerced into service.
Draper led them deeper. “The Quonset across from us has a full biosafety lab, where we have a separate team working. In here, we concentrate on clinical studies. Lab work, treatment regimens, supportive care. We currently have eleven patients, all in various stages of illness, offering a time line of progression. But we’re still early in our investigation. Much remains unknown.”
“How . . . how long have you been here?” Jameson stuttered out.
“Three weeks.”
Anger momentarily drove back Charlotte’s fear. “You’ve known about this disease for that long?”
“Non, you misunderstand. We set up this site four weeks ago. The first case was reported to us back in March, nearly six weeks ago.”
“Over a month?” Charlotte could not hold back her outrage. “And you’ve kept quiet about it?”
“As I said, discretion remains tantamount here. You are the first outsiders allowed to participate in our study. The consensus had been to simply shoot you two.”
Jameson paled and backed up a step.
Draper lifted a palm. “But I advocated for taking advantage of your knowledge and skill. It’s not like you can escape this island. And beyond discretion, time is also tantamount. We can’t clamp a lid on this matter forever.”
“What do you expect us to do?” Charlotte asked.
Draper shrugged. “Be useful.”
She understood the unspoken caveat.
Or die.
Still, she crossed her arms. She had no doubt that any cooperation would eventually end in the same place. In an unmarked grave in the jungle. She saw little reason to help here.
Then a thin arm raised from the row of beds, and a scared voice called her. She turned to see Disanka struggling to sit up. One of her wrists was cuffed to the metal railing. She cradled her boy in her other arm, her eyes shining with terror.
Charlotte took a deep breath.
I may not want to help these bastards, but I made a promise to Disanka.
She headed toward the bed, intending to keep her word. She glanced around the bustling ward. Someone had spent a lot of capital and resources to hide and secure this location.
But who? And why?
7:18 A.M.
Nolan De Coster settled behind his desk on the second floor of the refurbished colonial inn, once the former guesthouse of the Belka rubber plantation here on the island. A decade ago, he had converted the site into a rustic private fishing and hunting camp. He had hosted ambassadors, business moguls, royal family members, even African warlords.
Whatever it took to expand his influence and maintain his chokehold.
He had paneled his office in exotic African woods, a rich mix of ebony, bubinga, and zebrawood. Shelves and walls were adorned with masks, headdresses, carved bowls, and soapstone fetishes from across the continent, many of which were centuries old. Behind his desk, he had mounted a priceless Benin Bronze plaque from the royal altars of the Oba tribe in Nigeria, and under glass, a gold crown stolen from Abyssinia back in the nineteenth century.
He found it amusing to have that crown in the case behind him. When guests were seated across from him, it looked as if the gold coronet rested atop his head, crowning him some king of Africa.
Nolan’s father would have disapproved of such a display—while also being secretly envious. His father had been a viscount of Belgian royalty, with a bloodline going back to kings, maybe even to Leopold II, who once owned these lands. But his family had been penniless by the time Nolan was born, most of it gambled away, leaving them rich only in title.
Besides the De Coster name, his father—a math teacher in Ghent—had also gifted Nolan with a love of numbers. Nolan had studied at ULB, the Université libre de Bruxelles, where he had completed a doctorate in applied mathematics, with an emphasis on industrial design. Thirty years later, at the age of fifty-six, he was a billionaire ten times over.