“Like genetic pickpockets,” Monk said.
“Exactly. They carry code from all manner of different species. Ver tebrates, invertebrates, microbes, even plants. Some scientists believe NCLDVs are so strange that they should be classified as a fourth domain of life, alongside Archaea, Bacteria, and Eukarya. They may even be the source for all life on Earth.”
“How is that possible?” Monk asked.
“We used to believe that viruses were simply degenerate escapees from living cells, that they lost their cellular machinery and devolved into modern-day viruses. But from the recent studying of unique genes found in viruses, scientists are theorizing it might be the other way around. Take the giant Medusavirus. It has a gene coding for DNA polymerase, an enzyme necessary to synthesize DNA, but its gene is unlike any version found in modern animals or plants. Instead, it appears far more ancient, so old in fact that it might be the precursor for what’s in animals and plants today. There are so many other examples like this that the Virus World Theory—the theory that all life evolved from viruses—is growing in consensus.”
“But what does that have to do with the crisis we’re facing now?” Lisa asked, drawing the focus back to the danger in the Congo.
Frank sighed. “Because of what my adopted mother used to threaten me with whenever I did something that really pissed her off. I may not have brought you into this world, but I’ll take you out.”
Monk got what he was trying to convey. “You’re thinking that if viruses brought us into the world—”
“Then they may take us out,” Frank finished.
Lisa frowned and nodded at the screen. “Still, we can’t know if this giant virus is even pathogenic or just a normal part of the viral fauna of Dorylus ants.”
“True. But the tissues of the ants—both soldier and queen—are flush with this organism. I’ve not had a chance to sample the ant pupa, but that doesn’t much matter. I need samples from the camp, from those who had succumbed there. I need to see if this same virus is in those tissues, too.”
Lisa checked the wall clock. “Benjie should be back by late afternoon. Then we’ll know.”
Frank nodded, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that they were rapidly running out of time. As if someone heard his silent worry, a chime sounded from the team’s sat-phone on the table. Frank hoped it was a further update from those out at the camp.
Monk picked up the phone and answered it. His brows pinched as he listened to the caller. “Got it,” Monk said. “We’ll check into it.”
He hung up, his face tight with worry.
“What is it?” Lisa asked.
“That was Painter. Kat just got a report of a handful of new cases of a debilitating catatonia.”
“Where?” Lisa asked.
Monk faced them. “Here in Kisangani. At the university hospital. A group of schoolchildren. All showing the same signs.”
12:07 P.M.
Lisa crossed the circular drive of the ambulance bay under the blazing eye of the midday sun. A sign overhead read CLINIQUES UNIVERSITAIRES DE KISANGANI. Like the university’s Faculty of Science building, the hospital had been recently refurbished. It rose two stories high but stretched wide, encompassing a campus of multiple structures spread across a parklike setting bordering the Congo River.
Monk nodded to the pair of ambulances and a handful of gray-green FARDC military trucks parked at the entrance. “Looks like we’re not the only ones to hear about the new patients.”
Lisa hurried past the cluster of vehicles. According to Painter, eight schoolchildren from a village twenty miles into the jungle had all come down with the same deadening malaise and had been rushed here this morning. Lisa was desperate to examine them and collect samples for Frank, who remained at the lab finishing his viral assay. Monk would transport the blood and sputum samples the half mile back to the science building, while she would offer her assistance to the medical staff here.
Painter and Kat had coordinated with the hospital director to facilitate their involvement. As they neared the threshold, a tall shaven-headed African man in a white smock over blue scrubs lifted an arm at them.
“Drs. Cummings and Kokkalis,” he greeted them, his English accented with French. “I’m Amir Lumbaa, hospital administrator. Thank you for your offer of assistance. If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the ward that the military has cordoned off. Both as quarantine and as security.”
Lisa glanced over to the pair of uniformed soldiers sharing a cigarette near one of the parked FARDC trucks. “Why’re all military here?”
He escorted them through the doors and across the empty lobby. “The militia attack on the U.N. camp has been all over the local news. Plus, word reached us two hours ago of the firebombing at a hospital in neighboring Burundi. Rebels claimed responsibility.”
Lisa shared a look with Monk. Painter had reported that a clinic in Burundi had been one of the places where cases of the debilitating disease had been reported. Could the bombing there be related to last night’s attack?
“No one has an explanation for this sudden spate of attacks on medical centers,” Amir said. “Militias and rebels normally respect our facilities, even during the decades of fighting in the past.”
Amir led them through the breadth of the hospital, out the back, and across a central courtyard to a neighboring building separate from the other. “We’re housing the children in their own ward back here, to limit any exposure to the main hospital.”
They reached the doors to the private wing and crossed through the bustle of personnel, all gowned and masked. Their group quickly donned the same in an anteroom to a ward that had been sealed behind hanging sheets of plastic and guarded by a pair of armed soldiers.
Lisa headed in with Amir, while Monk trailed. His eyes were narrowed as he surveyed every face for any signs of threat. Despite the cordon of the Congolese army at the hospital entrance, he was taking no chances. He kept one hand resting on his holstered SIG Sauer half-hidden under a fold of his gown.
While she had her own weapon—a small Beretta Nano in an ankle holster—she trusted Monk to have her back and concentrated on the row of beds along one wall, all occupied by young boys and girls ranging from eight to thirteen. Nurses and doctors whispered and worked along the beds. After hearing so much about this debilitating malaise, Lisa wanted to assess such a patient herself.
She turned to Amir. “Could I conduct my own examination of one of the children? I’d also like to collect samples for a virologist working with us.”
“Of course,” the administrator said. “Any assistance would be most welcome.”
She nodded her thanks. She carried a plastic case of sterilized swabs, along with tiny vials to collect sputum and blood samples, all supplied to her by Frank.
Monk followed at her side. “Where exactly was the school where these children were afflicted?”
Amir stared toward the windows at the back of the ward. “Less than fifty kilometers due east of Kisangani.”
Monk shared a look with Lisa. So the disease was definitely closing in on the city, the major hub for this entire region. “Maybe we should consider a quarant—”
A shatter of glass cut him off. A small black object blasted through a window near the back of the ward. Another burst through a neighboring pane. Then another to the right. The black objects rattled and bounced across the linoleum floor, then burst with sharp blasts into great gouts of acrid black smoke that swept the room in a breath.
Monk grabbed Lisa by the arm and hauled her away—only to have a spatter of gunfire erupt behind them. The two guards posted at the door shoved through the plastic sheeting and into the ward. A doctor ran toward them, only to be blown back as one of the soldiers shot him nearly point-blank in the chest.