“A simple one. Economic self-rule. The DRC is a country of vast natural resources, of nearly boundless untapped wealth. To protect its interests, the country needs a CEO to lead it, to guide the country to a new future, where all boats will rise, where reforms can be made, where the DRC could be a model for the entire continent.”
Charlotte leaned back in her seat. She had no doubt who De Coster believed should lead the country into this new era. She stared at the gold crown hovering over his head as he sat back down.
He placed his palm atop the carved box again. “Which brings us back to the lost ngedi mu ntey, and the cure it potentially contained; a cure that could stop countless deaths.”
She did not want to help him, but she could not ignore the agony in Disanka’s face as she had gazed at her stricken child, at the pleading in her eyes when she had turned to Charlotte. The entire continent needed that cure, especially one little boy.
“What can you tell us about this lost Kuba Box?” De Coster asked them. “What did it look like? What markings adorned it?”
Jameson shrugged. “The case looked like the bust of someone from colonial times. There was even a carved figure of him inside the box.”
De Coster sat straighter. “A ndop carving.”
Charlotte found herself nodding, picturing the ebony figurine veined in silver.
“Who was it?”
Charlotte remembered Faraji’s description. She offered it, as the answer made no sense. “It was a shepherd.”
“A shepherd . . . ?” De Coster looked confused—then his eyes widened with understanding. He sat back and smiled. “Ah, of course.”
10
April 24, 7:30 A.M. CAT
Kisangani, Democratic Republic of the Congo
“Who is this Reverend William Sheppard?” Gray asked.
“Many consider him the Black Livingstone,” Ndaye answered from the other side of the lab table. “He was a missionary to the people of the Congo, but also an explorer. He even discovered a lake that would eventually be named after him.”
Gray squinted at the old black-and-white photo of a tall man in a white suit and matching pith helmet. The Black Presbyterian minister stood amongst a group of tribesmen, who carried spears and tall woven shields. The huts of a village could be seen in the background.
Gray compared the image to both the face on the mask and the carved figurine standing next to it.
It has to be the same guy.
A few moments ago, Tucker had returned with Kane. The ranger had escorted in two locals, Ndaye, an ICCN eco-guard, and a boy of twelve or thirteen. Painter had forwarded brief dossiers on them, after Tucker’s rescue of the pair from the floodwaters of the Tshopo River.
The shaman’s apprentice, Faraji, had carried in a century-old wooden case, something the boy had secured back in the camp. It was a ngedi mu ntey, or Kuba Box. The wooden figure had been stored inside it, along with a collection of old photos and a folded map. Monk had already left the lab to consult with Painter about the latter, recognizing that they needed additional expertise to understand it. He took Kowalski with him, though the big man was more concerned about finding something to eat.
“But what does William Sheppard have to do with the situation in the Congo now?” Gray asked.
Ndaye turned to Faraji, who shifted on his feet, glancing all around, keeping half-hidden behind the ICCN guard.
Tucker placed a palm on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Faraji. Tell him what you told me. You nearly got us both killed getting that damned box here.”
Faraji stood straighter, maybe drawing strength from the Army Ranger. “Woko Bosh, our shaman.” Faraji’s voice cracked at the mention of his former mentor. He pointed to the box. “He kept for many years, pass from grandfather to father.”
The boy’s gaze drifted down in despair.
“And now into your hands,” Tucker encouraged him.
Faraji swallowed, clearly questioning if he was worthy of such a heritage. He glanced up again. “Only shamans know of this ngedi mu ntey. None other.” He shook his head. “Even I know little. Only it protect against a great evil. Woko Bosh tell me some but not all.”
Ndaye explained. “Back at the camp, the shaman removed a powder from the box. He claimed it could ward against the illness. He demonstrated as much with a baby at the camp—the one taken by the attackers. The powder even effected the ants that were overrunning the camp. Maybe the baboons, too.”
Upon hearing this, Lisa crossed over from the lab’s safety hood, where she had been observing Frank and Benjie’s efforts to collect samples from the ants.
“Strange,” Lisa said as she joined them. “Did the shaman believe it was a cure?”
Faraji shook his head. “No, no tiba. No cure. Utetezi . . .”
The boy winced, clearly struggling to describe what he meant. He looked to Ndaye for help.
“Ulinzi wa virusi?” Ndaye offered.
The boy’s scowl answered him. “Hapana. No.” Faraji scrunched his face, then finally shrugged, giving up. “Only Woko know more.”
Ndaye looked apologetically at Gray and Lisa. “Whatever the substance was, it’s somehow connected to William Sheppard. The man was fiercely protective of the Kuba, a tribe that was very secretive at the time. In fact, he was the first non-African to make contact with them.”
Gray fanned through the seven photos, yellowed at the edges, many faded and water-spotted. Upon the backs were scribbled a few words and cryptic symbols. He spread them on the table, sensing that the reverend had been laying out a road map to some place in the jungle, but he had encrypted its location. Each photo was dated, so Gray set about putting them in order, establishing a time line.
The earliest—from October 17, 1894—showed a patch of sunlit water amidst a thick forest. Gray flipped over the photo and studied a drawing that had been hastily sketched on the backside. It depicted what appeared to be a small stream-fed pond with a stylized striped animal next to it. It looked somewhat like a zebra, with the word Atti scrawled below it.
It meant nothing to Gray, but Faraji pointed at the striped image. “Atti . . . old word. Mean okapi.”
Gray frowned.
Ndaye explained, “The okapi is an endangered giraffid that makes its home in the Congo forests. It was once thought to be an African unicorn, more myth than real. The species was once prevalent throughout these jungles, but after centuries of hunting due to their unique hides, their numbers have dwindled. Now they can only be found in the northeast corner of the Congo.”
Faraji tugged on Ndaye’s sleeve and spoke rapidly in his native tongue.
After a bit of an exchange, Ndaye patted the boy’s shoulder and explained. “The Kuba have tribal names for many places in the jungle. Especially old hunting grounds. Faraji says there was a watering hole once used by the okapi. They no longer gather there, but the name still stuck, used by his people, passed from generation to generation.”
Gray stared at the image. Could this be the first trail marker on Sheppard’s journey through the jungle—but where was he going, and why?
He turned to Faraji and tapped at the drawing. “Do you know where this place is? This watering hole?”
The boy nodded.
“What about these other symbols?” Gray turned over the next few photos.
Faraji studied them, then slowly shook his head.
Tucker offered a possibility. “Maybe you have to be at the first spot to find the next. To understand the clue.”
Gray looked at Faraji. “And maybe you have to be Kuba to understand any of them. I have a feeling Sheppard encrypted this road map so only someone with knowledge and lore of this forest would understand it.”
“But why would he keep it so secret?” Lisa asked.
“In context of the time, it makes sense,” Ndaye answered. “Sheppard distrusted the Belgian colonists and their local allies, the Zappo Zaps, a brutal cannibalistic sect of the Songye people. If there was something dangerous—what the Kuba considered evil—hidden out in the jungle, he would want to keep such information from the Belgians. Yet, if there was some utetezi—some protection—against it, he would want to preserve this knowledge, leaving behind a road map with the Kuba to keep them safe should it ever arise again.”
Gray nodded. “You may be right.”