The Chimera Sequence (12 page)

Shackleton caught his breath.

“Another message just came through, this time from a Danish physician with MSF.”

“And?”

“He thinks he’s got a human patient. Our index case.”

Bill Shackleton felt his heart rate speed up. He watched the rain batter relentlessly against the windshield, his mind racing. Funny how the excitement of an outbreak never got old.

“Bill?”

“Yeah, still here. You know me, already thinking through a plan of attack.”

“Just get in here safely and we’ll go from there. You got anyone who might be interested in a free vacation to the Congo?”

“Ha.” And yet, he knew she was deadly serious. “See you soon.”

Vincent Lukwiya sat in the driver’s seat watching the scene unfold in front of him. His scouts were right—this was definitely the doctor from the big aid hospital in Goma. The white Land Cruiser had a fancy logo plastered across each side, and the old man was waving a stethoscope in one hand. Maybe the obvious display of affiliation usually provided some protection to the vehicle’s occupants? No such luck this time.

“Out!” One of his soldiers shouted aggressively at the two
wazungu
still sitting frozen in their seats. “Get out with your hands above your heads!”

Lukwiya smiled. He relished the sight of such terror in the white woman’s eyes. Everything changed with Odhiambo’s death in Port Sudan. The tension that had been building up in him for years—the desire to escape his life of violence—all came crashing down when their exit plan was so decisively defeated. In the months leading up to that fateful night, he might have felt some pangs of regret, even pity for these innocent foreigners.

But no more.

Those misguided dreams were long gone. He had decided to embrace the life he’d been given.

It had paid off, too. Over the last five months, he moved into the inner circle of top LRA lieutenants and was now one of Kony’s most trusted assistants. The little mining enterprise that was launched with the exchange in Sudan had significantly improved the group’s financial standing, and the paltry sums promised to defectors by the aid organizations were no longer quite so appealing. Lukwiya ran one hand down the smooth leather sleeve of his tailored Italian jacket. The future looked bright.

Or it had, until two days ago.

“Please do not hurt us.” Lukwiya opened his window a crack so he could hear the white man speaking. “I am a doctor, and my friend here is a journalist. We have nothing of value for you.”

The doctor began to lower his hands.

“Stop, don’t move!” the soldier shouted, stepping forward until the muzzle of his AK-47 was almost touching the doctor’s forehead.

“I only want to show you our identification papers,” the doctor said. “You can verify that we represent no threat and then release us.”

The soldier raised his chin and startled laughing hysterically. “We have no use for your papers.”

With a twist of his wrist he flipped the rifle and brought the solid stock up with a crack against the doctor’s chin. The man stumbled and fell, a trickle of blood spilling from one corner of his mouth.

His soldiers were still high on the meth he’d given them in preparation for the afternoon’s raid. It did wonders, this crystal candy generously donated by his new trading partners. The Prophet didn’t approve of drug use in his ranks—he preferred a more pure psychological form of exploitation. But Lukwiya was impressed with the uninhibited fearlessness it seemed to instill in his men. Their new capacity for violence was unmatched by anything he had ever seen in the past.

They needed this man alive though. It was time for him to step in as the good guy.

“Enough.” He spoke sharply as he jumped out of the truck. His soldiers fell back, almost cowering at the sound of his voice.

“Let me apologize for this boy’s action, doctor.”

Lukwiya knelt down in the muddy road, pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped the blood away from the man’s mouth. It was true—the soldier was no more than a boy, maybe fifteen at most. He was captured during a routine raid in the Central African Republic and forced to kill his own parents with the family machete as a first step in his indoctrination. After two years of emotional oppression and ever-escalating violence, the boy was turning into one of their most promising fighters.

“You have come to Africa to help the people, yes?” Lukwiya asked, making no effort to hide the sneer on his face. “We have an opportunity for you to carry out this wish.”

“Yes, my friend,” the doctor answered through clenched jaws. “But you must know that I focus my efforts on those who are not contributing so directly to their own people’s destruction.”

Lukwiya jumped up and swung a booted foot directly into the doctor’s unprotected stomach. He watched the man fall to his side, an agonized groan escaping from his stoic features. Beside him, the woman screamed in shock.

“Stop!”

“Your friend here will be better off if he learns to control his tongue,” Lukwiya said quietly, letting his eyes wander across the woman’s body. She was beautiful, even with the dark stain spreading from her crotch. It was not the first time he had caused a woman to piss herself in fear, and it would not be the last. He reached a hand to her face and let his fingers move slowly down her tear-stained ivory cheek and across one corner of the small mouth, resting them too long against lips painted a deep red. Her look of stunned horror grew as the seconds passed. This pitiful creature had lived her life too far from the violence that was his everyday reality. He lowered his hand slowly and dropped down to a knee again. He would have to work on this good guy routine.

“You must be more careful, doctor.” He placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and held it firmly, trying to cultivate an expression of genuine concern on his face. “We have been looking for you, yes, but my leader does not tolerate insolence and will readily seek another’s skill if you prove unsuitable to the task.”

Olsson opened his eyes at the rebel leader’s words. They needed a doctor? He clutched at his abdomen and groaned again. Yes, the kick had hurt, but nothing worthy of this exaggerated show of agony. It was always better to be underestimated.

He brought a hand to his face and opened his mouth, moving the hand across his lower jaw. Give them a moment to feel some remorse.

Finally, he spoke.

“So the LRA needs a doctor?”

Olsson stood up, steadying himself against the muscled shoulder of this ridiculously dressed warlord. Italian calfskin and a fancy Swiss watch in the Congo? He shook his head. Claire stepped closer and clung with both hands onto his right arm. Her manicured nails dug into his bare skin, but he welcomed the contact. “You probably know I can’t do much by myself, without any equipment or supplies.”

“We can get whatever you need,” the man said. “Money is not an issue.”

Olsson did his best to stifle a smile.
You’ve made quite an effort to make that obvious
. Last he heard, the LRA was short on both funding and soldiers as the group struggled to push into its third decade of meaningless terror campaigns. What was with this newfound display of wealth? And why had they chosen this moment to insert themselves into the fighting around Goma?

“This girl, she will only get in the way.” The leader turned to the young fighters behind him and continued in English. “You think we should kill her now?”

The pressure of Claire’s fingers on his arm released and he felt her whole body tense. A quick glance revealed a look of complete desperation painted across her distorted facial features. Didn’t she realize the man was bluffing?

“Stay calm,” he whispered.

It was too late. She broke into a run.

“Stop, Claire!” Lars stood deathly still, watching as she cleared the truck and continued at a full sprint back in the direction they had come from.

The rebel leader looked over his shoulder.

“Get her.” He spoke softly—through gritted teeth—before turning back to watch the chase.

Olsson looked on helplessly as three of the teenaged soldiers leapt into action, but the fourth simply readjusted the old AK-47 against his shoulder.

He must have misunderstood the command.

He was going to shoot.

Olsson crouched and dove.

A deafening burst of gunfire exploded in his ears just as one shoulder slammed into the boy’s chest, sending the rifle flying as they both collapsed in a tangle on the muddy track beneath them. Olsson struggled to get up, straining to see around the rest of the rebels, now frozen in place.

He heard a weak cough. She was alive.

Now he was up, yelling, trying to run to the crumpled mass lying in the mud thirty yards away. But strong hands held his arms, and he felt the hard steel point of a gun pressed into his spine. He fell silent, watching the dark crimson stain spread across Claire’s sky blue blouse. It had been a rare sensation in his life to feel so totally powerless, especially when confronted with a situation that matched his own professional training. He bit down hard on the corner of a cheek until the taste of warm blood washed over his tongue. If she was going to bleed, so would he.

“You’ve killed her, you stupid, stupid, boy.”

Olsson spit a mouthful of bloody saliva at the boy’s shiny patent leather shoes. The gesture was reciprocated with a sharp kick to the back of his locked knees, and he collapsed to the ground for the second time.

“Yes, he is a stupid boy, this one.”

The tall rebel leader turned and strode across to the killer, a small black handgun stretched in front of him.

The gloating amusement that was painted across the boy’s face changed instantly to abject terror.

“No, sir, I’m sorry, sir, you said—”

The leader stopped, his face just inches from the boy’s own. Slowly shaking his head back and forth, he shoved the pistol between them, fired a single shot, and stepped away. The terror now changed to shock as Claire’s killer brought his hands to his crotch before dropping heavily onto both knees.

Olsson almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“I did not say to kill her.” The leader was still shaking his head, pacing back and forth. “I said get her. Get her. You should have known this white bitch was worth far more to us alive than dead. And now, you will pay.”

He turned to the other three young fighters. The easy confidence that had characterized them just minutes earlier was gone.

“Kill him. Make it hurt. No guns.”

Olsson turned his head away, but that didn’t keep him from hearing the brutal assault being carried out just a few yards away. Heavy thuds of feet connecting with soft flesh. Ripping and popping of joints irreparably torn and twisted out of place. And laughter, only laughter. At least the dying boy had the dignity to keep his own mouth shut. Or maybe he was already too far gone.

Another minute, and it was finished. The laughter died down, replaced by an uneasy silence.

“Come, we must get rid of these bodies.” The older man’s voice had no shame or sorrow in it, only business.

Olsson sat alone in the mud, staring vacantly up into a cloudless sky, barely aware of the two limp bodies being carried separately into the sea of tents. He might have spent the last thirty years working at the most dangerous margins of life, but he would never get used to such senseless violence.

A heavy thud brought him back to the present, and he let his eyes focus on the two young fighters now standing in front of him. The large sample cooler from the back seat of the Land Cruiser lay open at their feet.

“Ah, I see you discovered our hidden cargo,” he said.

The leather-jacketed leader frowned.

“What if I told you these are dangerous medical samples?”

The two teenagers shifted nervously, eyebrows raised.

“And that this lady and I were already exposed to the same disease?”

The rebel leader cocked his head to the side. “What are you trying to say? We have no time for games here.”

Olsson looked him directly in the eyes, channeling all the grimness he could muster.

“You’ve heard of Ebola, yes?” He watched the leader’s face, trying gauge the reaction to this slight spin on the truth. “We suspect that this new disease is even worse.”

“Yes, we know Ebola well. But we have heard of no such sickness in Goma.”

“Many have died already.” Olsson didn’t like the clear skepticism in the man’s squinting eyes. “Simply being near me will put you in severe danger of catching this disease and dying yourselves.”

The rebel leader laughed. It was a chilling laugh, and Olsson realized his ploy had failed. The young soldiers looked at each other, confused.

“Dying ourselves, doctor?” The man’s face turned stony cold. “Do you think we in the Lord’s Resistance Army have any fear of death? Have you not seen what just happened here? We lose that fear in the very first hours of our service. Those who cannot face it as men are sent on their way to the evil one.”

Olsson noticed that the younger men did not look quite so convinced.

“And what will Mr. Kony think if you bring home this plague to decimate his army?”

“Doctor.” The tall man stepped up to him and placed a rough ashen hand against Olsson’s cheek. “You have missed the point. The plague is already upon us.”

Anna McBride heard her stomach growl angrily as she dug into the generous serving of hummus with a triangular section of steaming pita bread. The appetizer was a house specialty at The Lonely Cedar, and it was delicious. She just hoped her boss wasn’t listening too carefully.

He looked up from his phone and continued where he had left off a minute earlier.

“I don’t see how we can get it right,” he said. Dark circles framed his drooping eyes. “I’d take a terrorist attack any day over another one of these natural disasters.”

Anna didn’t respond. She furrowed her brow and let her head tilt slightly to the side. Couldn’t he see that they weren’t alone? A young olive-skinned man stood at the end of their table with a pitcher of iced tea in his hand.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. Anna couldn’t detect any hint of an accent. “Would either of you like a refill?”