Kingdom of bones, p.12
Kingdom of Bones, page 12
Eventually, Nolan had sought help from the United States, who were certainly invested in stopping the Chinese takeover of Africa. But America had its hands tied, requiring democratic reforms and fiscal transparency before they would offer aid to the DRC. And in a country that was ranked 168 out of 198 on the Corruption Perceptions Index, such reforms were an impossibility.
Fortunately, De Coster Mining & Industry had no such qualms. It could not be so discerning and survive. It didn’t just turn a blind eye to deforestation, wastewater pollution, and child labor—it encouraged them. The company had no choice. There was no other way to hold one’s ground here. Meanwhile, Western corporations were happy to turn that blind eye, as long as the flow of cobalt, coltan, and copper continued for the production of cell phones, rechargeable batteries, and other high-tech gadgets.
But now a new opportunity beckoned.
A knock on the office door drew his attention. “Come in,” he called out.
The door opened, and the tall figure of Captain Andre Draper entered, dressed in his usual green camo, black boots, and holstered Heckler & Koch pistol. The man led Nolan’s personal army, a force necessary to protect his corporate interests in lands ruled more by militias and warlords than the Congolese government. Draper was a former French soldier with MONUSCO, the U.N.’s peacekeeping force established here during the Second Congo War.
“How are our guests faring?” Nolan asked, waving the man to a chair in front of his desk.
“I’ve situated them in the med ward.” He shrugged. “We’ll see how they do.”
“And you still think it’s wise to keep them alive?”
“For now. Beyond their medical expertise, they could prove useful as hostages. If it becomes necessary, we could always offer some proof of life to further reinforce that last night’s attack was perpetrated by a militia in a kidnap-for-ransom plot. Either way, I’d like to keep our options fluid and open regarding them.”
“I see.”
“And who knows? Maybe their skills will prove useful. Especially with time running short. We can’t keep a lid on what’s happening for much longer. I think we’ve kept this secret for as long as we can.”
Nolan nodded. The first few cases of the debilitating disease—one that left the afflicted in a dull, cattle-like state—had occurred at a corporate copper mine in the Sankuru province to the south. As isolated as it was, it had been easy to keep word from spreading. Then neighboring villages had begun showing similar symptoms. Instead of panicking, Nolan had recognized an opportunity.
The devastation of the First Congo War had opened the door for Nolan’s corporate ambitions, then the strife of the Second Congo War had allowed the Chinese to elbow their way in. For De Coster Mining & Industry to prevail again, another regional disaster was needed. The spread of an unknown pathogen throughout the DRC offered a unique chance. Such a threat would undoubtedly discourage the Chinese’s efforts in Africa, especially for a people who had grown so germophobic after going through so many pandemics of late.
Still, for that to work, the contagion needed to gain a firm foothold throughout Central Africa. Nolan couldn’t risk a global effort being mobilized against the outbreak, not until it was too late. So, he had assigned Draper to stifle knowledge of the disease. Nolan had wanted the illness to spread silently, a smoldering fire working through the jungle. To maintain that silence, Draper’s forces had firebombed clinics in the forest, razed villages, always leaving behind a false trail to militias, terrorist organizations, or tribal conflicts.
Then came the alarm from the U.N. relief camp.
At that moment, Nolan and Draper had known that their containment efforts were nearing an end. The attack last night, along with a few more today, would mark the conclusion of that agenda. It had served its purpose. From Nolan’s network across the region, he knew the disease had reached its flashpoint. The smoldering forest fire was about to become a blazing inferno.
When it did, Nolan intended to take advantage of the resulting chaos and disruption to reestablish the dominance of De Coster Mining & Industry throughout Africa. To help ensure that, he had set up this research camp. He wanted as much intel as possible, about the pathogen, about the disease, about possible treatments. With a jump-start on those details, he planned on wielding such knowledge to his benefit, to prove his corporation’s benevolence. Where the Chinese made inroads by literally building roads, De Coster Mining & Industry would win hearts by protecting lives.
The logistics going forward would be daunting. Still, for a former mathematician, it was all about numbers and variables.
He glanced at his laptop, which was running with algorithms and models. He had a team of statisticians crunching the necessary numbers. The mortality projections were intimidating, staggering even for him. Nolan did not consider himself to be callous. He didn’t employ child labor in his mines out of cruelty. He paid families well when a son or daughter was killed or crippled.
It was simply a means to an end.
Like with this disease.
“Now that the two doctors are settled,” Draper said, “I’m going to check in with the two teams who are heading out to clean up those last few hot spots.”
“Of course. Keep me updated.”
Draper stood, turned crisply, and headed to the door.
As Draper left, Nolan cracked a kink out of his neck. He caught a glimpse of the gold crown in its case behind him. It was a reminder that his own ambitions stretched beyond the financial stability of his company.
But that would have to wait.
He returned his attention to his laptop. He watched the graphed projections flipping through various forecast models, incorporating the information gleaned from the medical team: on prognosis, disease progression, possible treatment regimens. Everything was a variable. Still, too much remained unknown. He could collapse many of those forecasts if he could get a handle on a cure, but it wasn’t vital to his plans.
He squinted at the various graphs. The wild fluctuations between them nagged him. The differences remained too large, more than could be blamed solely on a lack of a treatment.
Something was wrong.
I’m missing a variable.
There was something intrinsic to all of this that had escaped them. He came to one firm conclusion, one vital to a man holding a doctorate in mathematics.
I need more data.
7:22 A.M.
Charlotte sat on the edge of Disanka’s bed. The Lubu woman wore a loose hospital gown, which was presently pulled aside, exposing a breast. Disanka struggled to get her child to latch on to her nipple, made all the more difficult with her wrist cuffed to her bed.
But being bound wasn’t the real problem.
The child’s head lolled backward. Tiny eyes stared at the roof. Drool ran down one cheek. Disanka murmured to the boy, shifting to try again. Plainly the child had returned to a near catatonic state.
“What do you think?” Jameson asked as he stood at Charlotte’s shoulder.
She and the pediatrician had just finished examining the child. Charlotte remembered the boy’s bawling last night, his tiny hands clenched into fists as he had cried.
No longer.
“I don’t know . . .” she mumbled.
She scratched at the ant bites on her wrists. She had several other welts on her legs, arms, and neck. She tried to assess her own status. It felt as if a migraine threatened. She recognized the early symptoms: irritability, yawning, difficulty concentrating. She had them all, but she also knew the signs could simply be from exhaustion.
She rubbed her arms, noting both a numbness and a tingling.
I hope it’s just a migraine coming on.
She stared across the medical ward, at the other patients. IVs dripped. Vitals were being checked. Monitors blipped and blinked, measuring EKGs, breath rates, oxygen saturation. Nothing appeared abnormal, but all the patients, a mix of Congolese men and women, lay slack, barely blinking, their chests rising and falling leadenly. A neurological exam was being performed a few beds down. The patient—an older man— had been propped up and remained seated there unaided, as if he were a stiff puppet that could be bent into any position.
She also noted one other detail about all the patients: the youngest among them was a girl in her late teens. Is that why they wanted the boy, someone even younger? Yesterday, when Jameson had radioed for aid, he had mentioned the details of the child’s mysterious condition. Clearly her captors had also heard and had taken advantage of the attack to secure the boy.
Disanka tried again to get her baby to suckle but with no better success. The mother looked despondent, her face sunken with worry. She gazed imploringly at Charlotte, silently begging for help.
Jameson sighed. “Clearly the child has fallen back into a somnolent state. His rousing last night was only temporary. Plainly the shaman’s powder was no cure.”
A voice spoke sharply behind them. “What do you mean?”
She glanced to the foot of the bed.
The ward’s head clinician, Dr. Ngoy, stood there. He had stopped after overhearing them. She had been introduced to the Congolese physician by Draper—and she already detested the doctor. His hair was a crown of gray curls with a matching beard, half-hidden by his mask. During their introductions, he had eyed her with disdain, both for her youth and likely her gender. But worse, he treated his patients roughly, callously, with little regard for their well-being.
“Did I hear you correctly?” Ngoy pressed. “Were you somehow able to stir the child before?”
Jameson waved the inquiry away. “It was nothing. A short-term reaction to some witch doctor’s elixir. Nothing but snake oil.”
Ngoy stepped around to the other side of the bed. He reached out and pinched the boy’s ear, pulling his slack face closer, peering down at the child. “That’s still intriguing. We’ve not been able to get any response from our patients. We’ve tried all manner of pain stimulus with no reaction. Including electroshock. Even breaking a finger.”
Charlotte inwardly cringed.
Ngoy straightened and faced Jameson. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”
The American stammered, “L-like I said, it was nothing. It’s already worn off.”
“Do you have any of that elixir left?”
Jameson answered, “No. The shaman kept it.”
Charlotte tightened her jaw. She pictured the small vial tossed by Woko Bosh. She had hidden it back with her soiled clothes, trusting that the tiny bottle would not be noted, especially as it was empty, its contents washed away by rain and river water. She had only kept it because of the faint yellowish stain on the inside, the barest residue of powder.
“This shaman,” Ngoy said. “Where was he from?”
Charlotte quickly lied. “I don’t remember. It was hectic. And he was killed.”
Jameson squinted and rubbed a temple with a finger.
Charlotte tried to communicate silently to the pediatrician, glaring her message.
Keep your mouth shut.
Jameson remained oblivious. “He was from Kula . . . no, Kuba. That’s it.”
Charlotte bit back a groan.
“Did he say what the substance was? Where it came from?”
Jameson shook his head. “He kept it in some old box, carved with a man’s face.”
Ngoy stared at the child. Disanka cringed back, protecting her boy, lest the doctor grab his ear again. The clinician then turned and stalked off. Charlotte watched him go, hoping that would be the end of it, but Ngoy reached the ward’s guard and spoke nose to nose with the man, while pointing back at Charlotte and Jameson.
Then the guard left.
Charlotte returned her attention to Disanka. She placed her gloved palm on the woman’s shoulder. “I won’t let anything happen to you or your kitwana.”
Disanka’s eyes remained wide with worry, but she gave a firm nod back.
Charlotte slipped out a penlight and examined the boy’s pupils. They were dilated again and showed no response to the light, not even a slight narrowing against the brightness. She had reviewed his blood work. Lymphocytes and eosinophils were low, while his c-reactive protein levels were elevated through the roof, which further supported a viral etiology.
She glanced at the clinicians working in the lab area. She had asked them earlier if they had identified any inclusion bodies in the patient’s cells, which would be indicative of a virus’s presence. They had ignored her, all but shoving her out of their area.
A commotion at the ward’s entrance drew her attention around. The guard had returned, drawing their earlier escort with him. Ekon spoke with Ngoy, who then barked for her and Jameson to come over.
Charlotte pocketed her penlight. She reached and squeezed Disanka’s forearm, firming her promise to protect the boy at all cost. Disanka gripped her hand in turn, solidifying the pact between them.
Only then did Charlotte cross over to the pair of men.
Ngoy was already yanking off his gown and mask. He stared hard at Jameson. “You must tell Monsieur De Coster. What you told me. He will want to know.”
With no choice but to obey, she and Jameson stripped back down to their scrubs and disposed of their protective gear. Ekon led them out of the Quonset hut and back across the muddy plaza. They returned to the same two-story guesthouse where she had been held. But once inside, Ekon drew them up to the second floor. At the top of the stairs stood a large set of double doors of lacquered zebrawood. An armed soldier in body armor stood guard.
Ekon nodded to the man, who then rapped on the door.
A voice called for them to enter.
Charlotte and Jameson were ushered in, followed by Ngoy and Ekon. Charlotte nearly tripped on the woven rug, taking in the handsome beauty of the office. Artifacts and dusty tomes lined shelves. A set of wood shutters led out to the guesthouse’s second-story balcony, which afforded a view over the forest canopy to the river.
To the right and left, stuffed lion’s heads mounted the walls, captured in midsnarl, baring long yellowed fangs. The beasts both faced the large desk between them. A figure rose from a seat. He wore a khaki linen suit, expertly tailored, with a black tie. His dark-blond hair was salted with gray at the temples. With those blue eyes, he could be mistaken for a middle-aged Chris Hemsworth, playing the role of a colonial magistrate.
“Welcome, Drs. Girard and Jameson. Please be seated. I understand you may have further information regarding the growing crisis in the Congo.”
Jameson quickly took one of the leather club chairs. Charlotte did so, too, but more warily. Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to rail against their abduction, the callous murders, but she also wanted more information about the situation, about her captors, about everything, so she remained silent.
Her reticence earned her an immediate prize.
“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.”
