“I’m Nolan De Coster, CEO of De Coster Mining & Industry.”
She stiffened, nearly coughed. She had thought his name had sounded familiar when Ngoy had mentioned it. She glanced over to Jameson, who seemed unaware. She faced the CEO, a billionaire known throughout the region for his wealth and philanthropy. He funded hospitals, wildlife conservation efforts, and solar installations across countless villages. He even financed the organization that had brought Charlotte here, the Congo chapter of Doctors Without Borders. He was also considered brilliant and innovative in his industry. Some called him the Elon Musk of mining.
She studied him as he sat back down. Once settled, she noted how an old African crown, filigreed in gold, was also mounted on the wall, and seemingly hovering over his head.
He waved to their guard. “Lieutenant Ekon, you can go. I can oversee matters from here.”
Charlotte didn’t doubt that. The man looked fit and athletic. She also noted the edges of a shoulder holster slung under his suit jacket.
Ekon snapped a respectful nod, turned on a heel, and exited, drawing the door shut behind him. Ngoy remained standing between the two club chairs, his lips set in a firm line, clearly determined to take credit for what he had pried from Jameson.
De Coster leaned forward, glancing from the clinician to them. “As I understand it, you had some success in rousing a patient after they’d passed through the refractory period of this disease and entered its somnolent state.”
Charlotte remained silent, while Jameson stammered his way through his usual denials. He again insisted that Woko’s powder was simply a nasal irritant. She had to fight not to roll her eyes. She refused to give herself away.
She failed.
De Coster’s gaze swung to her. “But you, Dr. Girard, you do not believe that?”
It was her turn to struggle to steady her voice. “I . . . I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Ah, but I think you do.”
He stood up again and crossed to one of his shelves. He removed an artifact and returned with it. It was an intricately carved case, adorned with a colorful geometric pattern of painted seeds, ivory, gold, and bone.
He placed it on his desk and rested a palm atop it. “This dates back to the seventeenth century. One of the earliest examples of a ngedi mu ntey. A sacred Kuba Box. From your description, it sounds like something similar was carried by the shaman to your camp.”
She read the sharp intellect in the man’s gaze. She had to remain mindful of that, recognizing that De Coster had deep roots in this region and knowledge about it.
He continued proving it. “The Kuba Kingdom flourished during the colonial era. They were a people ahead of their time. Known for their embroidered raffia and elaborate carvings. Even Picasso owed his cubist period to these people, studying an exhibit of Kuba art in Paris in 1907. And besides their art, they were already working in iron and copper long before colonists and slave traders arrived. More important, the Kuba were also renowned for their medicinal lore. Surrounding tribes often sought them out for this knowledge.”
Charlotte suddenly wished she had known this history before. Maybe I would’ve given Woko’s expertise more attention.
“So, I’m not ready to dismiss what the shaman brought to your camp as mere snake oil.” De Coster flicked a scolding glance at Jameson. “But how do we take advantage of this knowledge? You say the elixir is gone, but what of the ngedi mu ntey, the Kuba Box? What became of it? Perhaps it holds some clue to all of this.”
Jameson shook his head. “It’s gone. Taken by the boy.”
“The boy?”
“The shaman’s apprentice,” Charlotte mumbled before she could stop herself.
“And what became of him and the box?”
Charlotte pictured the fiery rocket attack upon the village last night as the helicopter had departed. Not a structure had been left standing. Fury grew inside her. She cast a hard look across the desk, her voice growing scathing. “Your men blew them up.”
De Coster ignored her anger and returned his attention to the box. One finger tapped a corner. She could almost hear the ticking calculations in his head.
“Unfortunate . . .” he finally mumbled, then cleared his throat and looked at them. “As I said, I’m not ready to ignore history’s lessons, not if we’re to get a handle on this outbreak. Until we do, there will be many needless deaths.”
Charlotte struggled to understand this man. He sounded concerned, but she could not ignore how she ended up seated in front of him. “What is your intent?” she challenged him. “If you’re so adamant about finding a cure, why have you kept your work secret, not even divulging your knowledge of this disease for a month and a half?”
“Because you have not lived through what I have, what these people have. Years of corrupt rule, two wars that killed seven million. I’ve learned only to trust those close at hand. By keeping silent, I’ve made more progress than if a hundred nations had piled into here. The DRC is one of the poorest countries, overrun with warring militias and bloody warlords. Long ago, I learned any progress here does not come without bloodshed and an iron hand.”
Charlotte faced his passion with a measure of disdain. She knew he was not telling her his entire truth.
“There is a saying about the Democratic Republic of the Congo,” he continued. “Maybe you’ve heard it. ‘The DRC is neither democratic nor a republic, but it certainly is the Congo.’ And I’m doing what I think is best for this region. And yes, it would be disingenuous if I denied that it wouldn’t also help my company. The fate of both are entangled by this harsh jungle, by its brutal history, by its current disarray. I intend to better all.”
Charlotte scoffed, “No matter how much blood is shed.”
Jameson glared at her for goading their captor.
De Coster remained unfazed. “The entire history of the Congo is written in blood, Dr. Girard. War after war, tribal genocide, ongoing slavery.” He finally sighed. “You spent part of your childhood in Brazzaville, up in the Republic of the Congo, did you not?”
Charlotte glowered. She was reminded yet again not to underestimate this man’s intelligence or resources. “What of it?”
“Then maybe you remember a time when such places were less brutal.” He glanced between his two captives. “You’ve both spent time in Kisangani, not far from here, a city of dismaying poverty, of decaying infrastructure, overrun by beggars and thieves. Yet, it wasn’t always like that. During the first half of the twentieth century, it was a place of glamour and sultry exoticism. The whitewashed city drew European royalty and Hollywood stars. The African Queen was filmed here, with Hepburn and Bogart wandering the city’s streets after a day’s shoot, partaking in the town’s charms through long, languorous nights.”
Charlotte tried to balance that image with her disheartening experience in Kisangani.
De Coster continued, “The DRC’s slow decline into anarchy and strife came about after Belgian rule ended in 1960.”
“That’s a simplistic view of what happened,” Charlotte said. “Colonial rule of the Congo was not without its atrocities and cruelties. Millions were killed when King Leopold owned these lands.”
“Of course, I’m not saying colonial rule is the answer. But for any hope of a brighter future, the region needs a new path. Clearly, after decades of ongoing strife, the Congolese people are not ready for self-rule. Even now, they’re abdicating control to the Chinese, who will exploit them worse than Leopold.”
“Then what’s the answer?”