“Sounds like fun.”
“Keep my phone number handy,” he said. “I return calls at night. Brigid. Please take care.”
After we hung up, I went to the beautiful, white-tiled bathroom, turned on the shower, and got inside. I sat in the corner of the tub, soaking my wounds while doing my rounds of Magwi Clinic in my mind. I said good-bye to all the patients and volunteers and especially to Obit. I hugged Sabeena, and then I sobbed for a long time under the hot water.
When I got out of the shower, I felt, at the very least, clean. The apartment had a stocked fridge, a television, a bookcase, an excellent shower, and a soft bed. I wanted for nothing.
I went to my knees at the side of my bed. I folded my hands and closed my eyes.
Dear God, if You can hear me, I humbly thank You for saving my life. Please protect Sabeena, Albert, Dr. Susan, and everyone at Magwi Clinic. And put Your arms around Kwame, who was so brave. I hope he found Carrot and took him home. Amen.
Chapter 47
I WAS still dazed by all that had happened when, the next morning, I was taken to Ramstein for a series of debriefings. I told various officials from several American agencies all that I knew about Zuberi. And I was briefed in return.
Fantastic news.
Sabeena, Albert, and Dr. Susan had all been evacuated from Magwi. I was given a box of my things from my room at the clinic. My hands shook as I opened the box and found my well-traveled leather hobo bag with my actual credentials inside, along with my nubby sweater. Under the sweater, wrapped in my jeans, was my journal, with a note just inside the cover.
Mission accomplished. Best regards, J. Gurney, Captain, U.S. Army
I was overjoyed for the news of my friends’ safety. And I was ecstatic to have my journal back in my hands. This euphoria lasted until I was back inside my temporary apartment.
Then my new reality set in.
After the few meetings at the base, I had nothing but time to myself. I was invited out, but going from the takedown in Magwi to restaurants with strangers was just a bridge too far.
I copied my old journal onto my new tablet, added new entries, and wrote for long hours at a time, and I drank. Quite a bit.
I was safe and I was comfortable and it was a luxury to drink as much as it took to dull the pain in my heart. But after drinking and moping for far longer than was good for me, something finally snapped. I was sick of myself. Really. What a joke to indulge myself in self-pity. Me. This thought led to the next.
I had had purpose in Africa.
Whether I’d returned to Africa because of the voice of God or my own need to do something worthwhile, I had gone. I had helped people. My life had had meaning. I’d stood up to Zuberi and helped to bring him down.
Who was I now?
That night, I was drinking my dinner and watching TV.
Most of it was stupid, but while watching the news, I learned about MERS, an infectious disease that, after killing thousands in Saudi Arabia, had spread to Europe.
MERS was a freaking stealthy virus. No one knew how it spread—was it airborne? food borne? It was entirely inconsistent. One person could be struck with severe pneumonia, and another would be asymptomatic until just before death.
The World Health Organization had issued a report on MERS saying that this disease had a mortality rate of almost 40 percent, that there was no known effective cure, and that there were reasonable concerns that MERS would become a pandemic.
A pandemic?
I ran downstairs and banged on Karen Triebel’s door.
She had cream on her face. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. She tied the sash of her robe.
“Brigid?”
“You know about MERS, Karen? I’m actually an expert on infectious diseases,” I told her. “Please hook me up with a hospital or, better yet, a clinic.”
“Let me see what I can do,” she said.
Chapter 48
BECAUSE OF my new military connection, an apartment was waiting for me when I arrived in Berlin. It was a wonderfully crazy little place, with bright colors and patterns, big windows, and a spun-glass chandelier over the dining table. The bedroom was huge, with a bed so large, it could have slept four, and, best of all, it had a balcony off the living room with a fifth-floor view of the park.
First thing the next morning, I put on an actual skirt, a smart blouse, and low heels and went for a job interview at the Berlin Center for Torture Victims.
BZFO, as the clinic was called, specialized in treating refugee patients from forty countries, mainly Middle Eastern, but there were African patients as well.
The clinic was new and looked immaculate. My interviewer, Dr. Mary Maillet, wore a severe black suit, red combs in her wavy, gray hair, and lime-green-framed glasses, making her look simultaneously warm and tough.