Bite (16 page)

Friederikson looked up at her. ‘Actually, I don't know. I would start with Gillies and Coetzee, to see whether it is African.' He tapped the thickest volume on the desk. ‘That will help us narrow it down. Some things are easy, for example you can see its wings have coloured scales which make it appear spotted. That means it is from the
Anopheles genera
, not
Aedes
or
Culex
.'

‘So it can carry malaria?'

‘Only sixty of the two hundred and eighty species of Anopheles can carry malaria. Most of those sixty I am familiar with. This is not one of them. Nor is it a native mosquito of the Netherlands.'

‘So you don't think it could be the carrier of
Plasmodium five
?'

Friederikson shrugged. ‘That depends.
Five
is new to science, so quite possibly the mosquito which carries it is unknown too. There are two possibilities. First,
five
has parasitised humans for some time but has been overlooked. Perhaps the habitat limitations of the host mosquito kept it to a very small area. Second, we may have just stumbled on zoonosis.'

‘What is that?'

‘A crossing of species boundaries. Perhaps
five
originally infected other animals, and has recently crossed into man, just as HIV did. Birds, rodents, monkeys and lizards all suffered from malaria before man even appeared on the earth, and still do. It is hardly an intensively studied area, but it ought to be if we are ever to anticipate future human ailments. After all, the four types of malaria that afflict humans crossed species boundaries at some point in the last two million years, and this could be the fifth.'

‘Is there any way of finding out if this mosquito is infected with
five
?'

‘Not without grinding up the body for chemical tests. As it is the only example we have of this species, I would be very reluctant to do that.' Professor Friederikson picked up the cellophane packet and postcard and slipped them into an envelope. ‘I hope you don't mind if I take these back to my lab to study?'

‘Not at all.'

‘I'll let you know if I find out what it is. Of course, the elegant solution would be to obtain some more of these mosquitoes, alive. With a little practical science then we could really find out if they are carriers of
Plasmodium five
. For example…' Friederikson opened his briefcase and handed Saskia a plastic canister with a gauze top. Inside were several dozen mosquitoes, their hunched bodies blood-bloated, resting on the underside of the gauze.

‘Disgusting creatures,' Sivali said, handing the canister back.

‘Disgusting perhaps, formidable certainly. You should show some respect for anything that can kill more than a million people a year,' Friederikson said. ‘
Anopheles gambiae
is the Genghis Khan of the malaria world. Adaptable, tough, fecund and increasingly insecticide resistant.'

‘I still think they are revolting.'

‘But they would
love
you. They would bite again, even though I have just taken them out to dinner as a special treat.'

Saskia stifled her laugh when she saw Friederikson's intense stare. ‘What have you done?' she asked.

‘I took them on a trip to intensive care, to see Mr Erskine. They are very efficient feeders. It only took two minutes with the gauze end of this canister against the body of our favourite pharmaceutical boss.'

Saskia was speechless.

‘Don't look so worried. The mosquitoes are free of disease, I raised them myself. They can't possibly give him anything,' Friederikson said.

‘Professor Friederikson. You know very well you cannot just wander in and interfere with Professor van Diemen's patients. If he knew about this he would go absolutely ballistic!'

‘Of course he would, but I'm relying on you, someone with an open mind, not to tell him. The problem with Van Diemen is that he is so bogged down with paperwork that there is no room left in his head for imagination. He thinks what we are dealing with is just a nasty little import, some African malarial freak which will kill a half dozen people and disappear as quickly as it arrived.'

‘That's bad enough, surely.'

‘Individually tragic of course, but in malarial terms irrelevant. Even if everybody who flew on KLM 648 was killed by
Plasmodium five
that would only be three hours worth of Africa's annual malarial death toll.' Friederikson held up the canister. ‘No, it is what happens to the mosquitoes that matters. The reason I fed these mosquitoes on Erskine is to see if
he
can infect
them
with
Plasmodium five
. If a wide range of mosquitoes can transmit this bug, then you can forget tuberculosis and HIV. What we would be facing would be the most serious threat to global health since the Black Death.'

Dakka pulled my legs apart and clambered towards me. I ceased struggling only when one of the others held a blood-spattered machete to my throat. Like a merciful guillotine, it severed my mind from what was going to happen to my body.

A revving engine roared up into my consciousness. Dakka leapt up just as the Land Rover burst through the bushes. The other two boys dropped my arms and jumped away, leaving me to cover myself up. Leaning out of the driver's seat, shouting furiously was the soldier we knew as Gaptooth. He stopped the vehicle and leapt out, together with three or four others. I guessed they were more senior by their age, and the fact they had military boots not plastic sandals.

Dakka's fright was soon justified. Gaptooth lashed out and flattened him with a single punch, then yelled at the hunched and sobbing form on the ground. The other boys stood to attention. Gaptooth came to me, and lifted me gently by the elbow. He brushed me down and looked at me with concern.

‘I get someone fix button,' he pointed to my ripped shirt.

I nodded, trembling.

‘Dis soldier,' he pointed at Dakka who was stirring from the ground. ‘He don' respect ladies. So we teach.'

Behind him one of the older soldiers kicked Dakka to the ground again, and stamped on his moaning, recumbent form.

‘Brigadier Crocodile wan' see you. He respect ladies.'

They escorted me back to the village clearing. Standing there were Margaret, Georg and Amy. Jarman was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hands over his eyes. Everyone else was staring at me, afraid to ask.

‘It's okay,' I said, trying to smile. ‘Nothing happened. I was rescued in the nick of time.' I tipped my head towards Gaptooth, who was organising the loading of the Land Rover. ‘Where's Tomas?'

‘He's still in the hut.'

Gaptooth walked up. ‘We leave. Most of you goin' through bush see Brigadier Crocodile. One person in car to Kisangani, then we let free. Take message for KPLA.'

We all eyed each other.

‘It should be Tomas,' I said. Georg and Margaret nodded. I looked at Gaptooth. ‘Take Tomas. The man in the hut.'

He looked at me as if I was crazy.

‘Please,' I said. ‘He can't walk.'

‘He no good for message. He need walk. I send beard man.' Gaptooth pointed to Georg.

‘Send Amy, I'll stay,' Georg said.

Amy began to protest, leading a chorus of volunteers to stay until Gaptooth shouted us down. ‘Finish! Beard man goes.'

At Gaptooth's orders two guerillas escorted Georg to the Land Rover. About a dozen of them piled in or hung on to the sides. They drove off on the dirt track south. The last we saw was the swaying of the soldiers on the side as the vehicle weaved its way among the potholes. It was only then, a minute too late, that I realised I should have slipped him Tomas's film.

There were four of us: Amy, Sister Margaret, Jarman and myself. In the hut were Tomas and Salvation, neither able to walk. There were four guards to escort us on our march to meet Brigadier Crocodile: two wiry-looking soldiers, who we thought were twins; a laughing young man with mirror sunglasses, a bandana and a crucifix earring; and Dakka, now very bruised and sullen.The boss was the soldier with sunglasses who introduced himself as Rambo-Rambo. He was very proud of his AK47 automatic weapon, which he liked to wave around. He called Dakka and said something rapidly. He pointed to the hut where Tomas and Salvation were. Dakka took his rifle off his shoulder and jogged over towards it. My heart skipped a beat.

Rambo-Rambo and the Twins pushed us in the other direction at gunpoint. I began to cry. Amy was whimpering. Sister Margaret put her arm around me and held me close. A shot crackled and echoed across the clearing. The birds and monkeys fell silent waiting, like us, for the second. When it came, I knew that my Tomas was dead.

(Erica's Diary 1992)

The Jaguar boomed into the private garage beneath the gallery. Henk turned off the engine and exhaled. ‘Thank God that's all over. My knees have turned to jelly.'

‘So has my hand,' Max replied. ‘But at least there isn't a scratch on your precious car.'

Somewhere they could hear a burglar alarm. Henk fished out his keys and opened the metal door to the staircase which led up to his apartment and the gallery above. The alarm became deafening. A man in a security company uniform was waiting by the street door, filling out details on a clipboard.

‘What's happened?' Henk yelled.

‘Don't know. I just arrived myself.' He showed his identity badge and checked Henk's name on his clipboard. Then he inserted a key into a flashing orange device on the wall, and the racket ceased.

‘What's that horrible smell?' Henk wrinkled his nose, looking at the security man as though he never washed. At the top of the first flight of stone stairs was a gory smear, reeking of decomposition. Drops of blood led up the next flight, past his apartment, to the top floor and the gallery's thick oak door. Henk's hands were shaking as he fitted the large medieval-style key into the rough iron lock and opened the door.

The stink of rotting fish almost knocked them over. A foul piscine puree, scattered with prawn shells and the odd fish head, had been spread over the gallery. It was trampled into the rugs, smeared into the rough-silk settee and spattered across the high ceiling. Worse was to come. Every piece of Max's sculpture, a dozen years' work, had been smashed to pieces, and every painting, a collection of all the artists Henk had promoted through the years, had been slashed and smeared with gore.

‘Are you insured?' asked the security man.

‘What possible use is insurance, for this?' Henk said, tears welling up in his eyes.

‘There's only one way to tackle this,' said Max, turning to Henk. ‘We take a deep breath and clean up best we can, right now. You gotta focus your anger. Okay?'

The cops didn't show up until the clean-up was well underway, and did little more than stare through the doorway. Henk and Max, working side-by-side with the contract cleaners, stopped when they saw the two fresh-faced officers and stepped out onto the landing to give statements. The cops, both about eighteen, creased up their faces against the stink, took the minimum detail and were gone within five minutes.

Max took Henk by the shoulder and steered him out into the sunshine then along into a local bar. ‘You need a drink, my friend.'

Henk sat and stared into his beer while Max drained his own.

‘Who could do such a thing?' Henk said.

‘Someone who wants to warn me off doing what I'm doing. Maybe Janus, maybe Anvil. Maybe even a cop by the name of Stokenbrand who seems to hate me. Even if it ain't a cop, they're not going to help us find out.'

‘That certainly is a curse you brought down on me,' said Henk, raising half a smile. ‘I used to be respectable.'

The waitress gave them an evil stare as she walked past.

Max said: ‘Henk, no one who stinks of fish guts ever gets respect.' He looked up and added. ‘I think I should move out of your apartment. I feel terrible having brought all this down on you.'

‘Where would you go? And what about money? What you have won't keep you for more than a few days.'

‘I survived in the Coast Guards. I can survive here, no problems. Maybe Inspector Voos will stick me in a cell. Besides, I couldn't bear it if anything else happened to you because of me.'

‘Listen Max, unless you send a forwarding address to your enemies it might just happen to me anyway. And if you have left, you won't be around to protect me. It'll just be Miguel and me, two shrieking queens against the brutal philistines. No, I'd prefer if you would stay. We'll just take more precautions.'

They were walking the few hundred yards back to Henk's front door when Max stopped. ‘I need to ask you a philistine question.'

‘Of course. What other kind would I expect from you?'

‘Okay. Was the art in fact insured?'

Henk let a half smile slip. ‘Fulsomely, as it happens. You can assume your exhibition was a sellout. The insurers are usually happy to accept published sale prices as valuation so long as some work was sold at those prices. Fortunately for him, your African minister already took delivery of his pieces.'

‘Maybe I will be able to repay the bail bond.'

‘I hope so, Max.'

‘Hey, look.' Max crouched in the street just outside the gallery building. Among the cobbles near the gutter was an oil stain the size of a teaspoon. It was still quite wet.

Saskia Sivali was lying on her back on a padded mat, staring at the gym ceiling and listening to relaxing music. Around her she could hear the controlled exhalations of nine other mothers-to-be, lifting and flexing their pelvises, and the echoing instructions of the ante-natal class teacher.

From the edge of the mat came a shrill beeping. Sighing heavily, Saskia picked up her pager and towel, and wandered out to the changing room. She picked up her mobile phone and called the number on the pager display, bracing herself for Professor van Diemen's inevitable bluster and the shattering of her mellow mood.

‘Saskia, I have some bad news.' The professor sounded unusually reflective, his voice barely carrying over the hubbub of what sounded like a bar. ‘We've got someone confirmed with
Plasmodium five
who wasn't on the plane. He hasn't even
been
abroad for ten years, so he could only have got it here.'

‘Perhaps a mosquito escaped from the plane after it landed?'

‘Hmm. He lives about twenty kilometres from Schiphol Airport, which is pushing it for even an energetic mosquito.'

‘Do you think Dutch mosquitoes could be infected?'

Van Diemen sighed. ‘I don't know, I don't dare think about it. Friederikson's the epidemiologist. This
Plasmodium five
resembles
Plasmodium falciparum
, and there is nothing in the literature to suggest that temperate anopheles mosquitoes can pass
falciparum
on. If they cannot pass on
falciparum
I am hoping they cannot pass on
five
. It's an assumption of course, but one I want to make. There are enough deaths as it is.'

‘Have you told Friederikson about this case?'

‘Not yet. To be honest I keep putting it off. You know what he's like. He'll be on television in no time, dispensing apocalyptic soundbites. The man has a brilliant mind, but no respect for scientific caution.'

Sivali was shocked Van Diemen would confide in a mere medical student about such a distinguished colleague. Then she realised the reason. The professor was drunk.

‘Of course, Saskia, he may be right. Across the country there were three suspected cases reported today. I haven't seen the travel histories yet, but it stretches credulity to think they all came from the same KLM flight. One more thing…' Van Diemen took a gulp of his drink, and his voice softened further. ‘Another piece of news I think you should know. We had another death this evening.'

‘Who?'

‘Visser, the young speed skater.'

‘Oh God.' Saskia slumped backwards against the locker. ‘But he was awake and talking this morning, all about his Olympic trial. If anyone could fight it…' She let the useless rationalisation slip away into silence.

‘I'm sorry, Saskia. I tried everything, the entire damn anti-malarial armoury. Intravenous chloroquine, primaquine, tetracycline cocktail, an array of sulfonamides, proguanil, pyrimethamine, and finally good old quinine. Even artemisinin has no effect.'

‘Unbelievable,' Saskia said.

‘What perplexes me most is this. How can a species of malarial parasite that we have never even
seen
before, yet alone treated, be
already
immune to every single anti-malarial drug in the medical armoury?'

‘Perhaps it has a completely different biochemistry to existing malarial parasites,' Saskia said.

‘Walks like a duck, looks like a duck, quacks like a duck. And yet not a duck…Very hard to believe. I tell you, Saskia, it is horrible to be so helpless. And you know, I think it is going to get a lot worse. It is one thing in Africa, but here in the developed world, we're not used to standing by helpless while young, strong men and women die. Not used to it at all.'

Max and Henk were cleaning up the gallery until midnight. There was plenty more to do and the place still stank, but they were dog tired. Tomorrow was another day.

The downstairs buzzer blasted Max out of sleep before seven. It sounded like someone was leaning on the button. Max hauled himself grumpily out of the sleeping bag on the settee and grabbed the receiver. He never had the chance to speak.

‘Police. Let us up. We're here for Carver.' The voice brought back memories, all the more bitter for being recent.

‘Sergeant Stokenbrand. What an unexpected pleasure.' Max buzzed him in, and pulled on T-shirt and jeans, mentally preparing himself for a day that promised to be even worse than yesterday. He went out to the landing and watched Stokenbrand and Detective van der Moolen walk up. Van der Moolen was in suit and tie, and could have stepped straight out of a tailor's window. Stokenbrand looked like he fell off a building site. He was in ripped jeans, paintstained shirt and cheap training shoes. His bomber jacket was so old the dye had flaked off around the collar and cuffs, revealing pale worn leather.

‘What do you want?' Max asked.

Stokenbrand smiled but said nothing until he had reached the landing and the height differential with Max had narrowed to four inches.

‘Fish for dinner?' Stokenbrand wrinkled his nose. ‘Or is that your aftershave?'

Max forced a smile. ‘So what is it you want from me?'

‘Nothing,' Stokenbrand grinned. ‘We're giving today, not receiving.'

‘We've got some information for you,' Van der Moolen said. ‘Can we come in?'

Henk was waiting inside in green silk kimono and matching slippers. Max did the introductions.

‘Coffee, gentlemen?' Henk asked.

‘Black, four sugars for me, glass of milk for my friend,' Stokenbrand replied, spreading himself over a white linen couch like an indelible stain. ‘Got some bread and cheese? Been too busy for breakfast until now.'

Henk arched an eyebrow as he disappeared into the kitchen.

‘Got news about Erica?' Max asked.

‘There was a fire last night in an apartment in the south east of Amsterdam. Inside we found a woman's body.' Stokenbrand pulled out a pouch of Drum tobacco and a packet of Rizla papers, and put one on each knee.

‘Just tell me,' Max said, a cold numbness creeping over him.

Stokenbrand turned his pale blue eyes on Max as he pulled shreds of tobacco along the paper. ‘It was hot in that fire. Lucky really, the whole block didn't go up. The woman's body was charred almost completely. All we got is bones and some blobs of gold from melted jewellery.'

‘Get to the point.'

‘We just wondered if you knew the address of Erica's dentist. We might need to check his records.'

‘What makes you think it is her?' Max felt hatred for this cop, who enjoyed twisting his knife in any wound he could find.

Stokenbrand rolled the cigarette with one practised hand and brought it to his mouth. His yellowed tongue, flicked left and right along the paper but his eyes never left Max's face. ‘I'll tell you why, in a minute.' The cop pulled out a big ugly lighter, lit the cigarette and sucked in deep. ‘First, I want to know where you were last night.'

‘Here.'

Henk walked in with a tray laden with coffee and pastries, sliced brown bread and slivers of cheese and meat. ‘He was here. I can vouch for it.'

Stokenbrand chuckled and a gust of blue smoke curled upwards to the high ceiling. ‘Two pretty boys curled up together.'

‘No. I slept right here in the lounge, in case it's any business of yours.'