The Virus (31 page)

“Can I see them?”

Kaplan examined the postcards one by one.

“When did you receive them?”

“The first one came about two years after Frau Matthofer disappeared. The second one came in the early ’seventies.”

“And the third?”

“The third came just a few months back. We were very surprised. We thought we had completely lost touch with the old woman and then out of the blue we hear from her again.”

“Is it her writing? You’re sure of it?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I would know Frau Matthofer’s writing anywhere.”

Kaplan tried to read the thin spidery script. It was hard to decipher at the best of times. And the fact that the message was written in German didn’t help either.

“What does she say? Take the last postcard, Heidi, and read out what it says.”

Heidi Schmidtt took the postcard back from him. “It’s nothing very dramatic. It just says ‘Greetings from Frau Dr Irma Matthofer. I hope all the family is well and that Franz’ research is progressing.’ ”

“What do the other two postcards say?”

“The same kind of thing.”

Kaplan turned the postcards over in his hand.

“All three posted in the same place. Bujumbura, Burundi. Have you been there, Heidi?”

“No. But I know where it is. We looked it up in the atlas when the first of the postcards arrived. We were curious to know where Frau Matthofer could have disappeared to.”

“Show me.”

Heidi Schmidtt fetched a large atlas from the shelf.

“I’m afraid it’s a little bit out of date now,” she apologized. “The names and the boundaries of the countries seem to change so fast in Africa.”

“It’ll do.” Kaplan poured over the atlas. He found Burundi. And he found Bujumbura. He realized with some surprise that he had come very close to Frau Matthofer’s retreat in the course of his own journey to Eastern Zaire. Only Lake Tanganyika and a few hundred miles of jungle had separated the “false” monkeys from the “true” ones.

He closed the book with a snap.

“So you know no more than that?”

Heidi Schmidtt shook her head. “Isn’t it enough?”

“I’m not sure yet. It may be.” He stood up to go.

“You won’t forget your promise.” Heidi pleaded with him. “I can’t stay here now. Not after what they did to Franz. Not after what I told you.”

“Won’t you mind leaving Paula?”

Heidi Schmidtt shrugged her shoulders. “Paula has already gone. There is nothing to keep me here.”

Kaplan realized then that time was running out. If Paula had already gone over, it meant that the end-game had begun.

He looked at her with a sudden surge of pity. The poor woman’s world had come crashing down. Her husband was dead and her daughter had defected.

“Don’t worry, Heidi,” Kaplan told her. “We’ll get you out of here by this evening.”

This time, Kaplan flew from Cologne to Brussels. He couldn’t afford any further delay. He knew he was taking a risk in going back to see the Count — alone. But he could see no other way. He still needed more information. Burundi was not a large country. Even so you had to know where to start looking. The postcards had a Bujumbura stamp but that meant nothing. Probably all international mail coming from Burundi had a Bujumbura stamp.

If Count Philippe Vincennes was surprised to receive a second visit from Lowell Kaplan, he gave no sign of it. He was, ostensibly at least, as courteous and as gracious as always.

He received Kaplan in the library.

“You will stay to dinner, won’t you? A drink at least?”

Kaplan declined both offers.

“Monsieur le Comte,” he began formally, using the other man’s title even though once, in what now seemed the distant past, they had been on Christian name terms. “I’m sure you know why I am here?”

The Count raised one eyebrow.

“Should I?”

“I think we should try not to waste each other’s time.” Kaplan spoke calmly and without any trace of exaggeration. “The last time I was here you tried to kill me. Why?”

For a moment the Count seemed flustered. He moved towards the tray of drinks which stood beside the bookshelf as though to indicate that even though his guest had refused, he himself was not averse. Then, having regained his poise, he turned back.

“Tried to kill you? My dear fellow, what ever makes you say that?”

Kaplan was not to be put off his stride by any sort of aristocratic
hauteur.

“You knew I was on the track of the green monkeys. You thought your whole profitable trade in wildlife might be threatened and exposed if I probed too far.”

In the event, the Count Philippe Vincennes decided he did need a drink. But he still sought to maintain a calm exterior.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I believe you do. Just look at this.”

Kaplan passed over a copy of the report he had found months earlier when he visited the New York apartment of Diane Verusio. “This report,” he said, “tells the whole story behind the illegal trade in wildlife. It points the finger fairly and squarely at Belgium, at Brussels and, by implication, at you and your associates like Willy van Broyck whom I had the pleasure of meeting last time I was here.” Kaplan smiled sarcastically.

The Count made as if to toss the report onto the fire that blazed behind him.

“Go ahead,” Kaplan said, “the full dossier is already lodged with the appropriate authorities in half-a-dozen countries. They are simply waiting for the signal to begin prosecution.”

“And why don’t you give the signal?”

Kaplan knew that the initiative had passed into his hands.

“Because, my dear Count, your illegal trade in endangered species concerns me only indirectly.”

“What does concern you?” The Count had retreated to an armchair in the corner of his library. He sat, lowering angrily at the intruder.

“I want to know precisely where the green monkeys have been coming from. How long have you been shipping them? From where? To whom?”

“And if I tell you what I know?” Philippe Vincennes spoke quietly, hopefully. Astute businessman that he was, he seemed to sense the possibility of compromise.

“If you tell me what I need to know, I may be able to persuade people not to act on this dossier. You are a revered man in Belgium and indeed internationally, Monsieur le Comte. The scandal would be great if the story came out. You would not, of course,” he added quickly, “resume any of your previous activities where this trade is concerned. Nor will you inform your ‘contacts’ about my visit. We shall know about it if you do.”

The Count was silent for a few moments. “Very well. I agree to your terms. I will tell you what I know.”

At last Kaplan himself sat down. They faced each other, warily, across the library. Kaplan looked at his watch. He hoped the old man would not take too long. Every minute counted.

But Count Philippe Vincennes was not to be hurried. He had had things his own way the whole of his very long life and he did not propose to change the pattern now.

He began almost casually. “You know, I was severely reprimanded for my actions that day. They threatened to cancel the contract altogether. They said that I had acted on my own initiative, without orders, and that I could have caused the gravest confusion. Apparently, they had people all lined up to feed you the wrong information, and then suddenly I try to have you rubbed out on the road between here and Brussels.”

The old man laughed — it was an almost obscene sound. “Of course I apologized profusely. You see I was concerned with the whole of my trading operation and the threat which you and your people might pose to it.” He paused. “You were not the first. I knew about the girl. About the dossier. I had no idea that she had been so persistent and so successful in obtaining information about our activities.”

“Did you have anything to do with her death?”

“No. Absolutely not.” The Count was quite emphatic. “I heard about it, of course. I believe it was an accident.”

“So there
was
a sick monkey in the cargo shed at Brussels.”

“Yes. And it was destroyed. That was all true. As far as I understood it from what they told me later, the man you met at the airport lied only about the origin of the consignment. He told you it was Zaire, when of course it was Burundi.”

“Ah!” Kaplan uttered a sharp exclamation. Here was the confirmation he had been seeking.

“Where in Burundi?”

The old man took a long pull at his drink.

“I don’t know, I’m afraid. My son Louis does most of the travelling nowadays. He could tell you. He has actually visited the site several times.”

“And where is Louis now? Can I speak to him?” Kaplan could barely conceal his impatience.

Count Philippe Vincennes shook his head: “Louis is still in Africa somewhere, but I’m not sure exactly where. He may even be in Burundi at this moment. He has not been in touch for a week.”

Kaplan walked over to the other man. He spoke in icy tones. “If you are not telling me all you know, and I mean all, Monsieur le Comte, I shall personally see to it by one means or another that you are a broken man.”

“My dear Kaplan,” the Count gave a short laugh. “There is no need to resort to such crude threats. I have told you that I don’t know precisely where the monkeys come from in Burundi. But I do know the original colony numbered some five hundred. For the last six months, we have been shipping them out at the rate of twenty a month. So the total population of green monkeys which remains on site is probably something under four hundred at the present time.”

“Where have you been shipping them to?” Kaplan thought he knew the answer without having to ask the question but it was as well to have the reply in the Count’s own words.

“To Moscow, of course. Where else?” The old man looked alarmed. “Don’t misunderstand me, Kaplan. I’m not a spy. I’m just a businessman. As long as people pay the bill, I’ll provide the goods.”

“That’s one of the problems.” Kaplan could not keep the scorn from his voice. “There are too many people who think like you do, Count. And other people, innocent people, suffer for it.”

“Of course. I hope I have been of service.”

After he had left the Count, Kaplan stopped at a payphone on the motorway and put a collect call through to his office in Atlanta. Susan Wainwright sounded intensely relieved to hear him.

“Thank God you called, Lowell. I’ve been trying to reach you for the last two hours.”

“What’s the problem?”

“A call came through for you from Burundi.”

“From Burundi?” Kaplan was amazed. “Who was it?”

“Stephanie Verusio. She said she had to speak to you urgently. It was a matter of life or death.”

“How can I get hold of her?”

“She gave me a number where she can be reached for the next few hours. She said she’ll stand by the phone.”

Three minutes later — for once the international connection worked perfectly — Lowell Kaplan was on the line to Bujumbura.

Stephanie had thought long and hard before finally deciding to call Lowell Kaplan. Any happy impressions she might have had of their time in Paris together had been obliterated by his participation in the Zaire massacre. She found it hard to reconcile the image of Kaplan — the epidemiologist — macabrely kitted out in pressure suit and helmet, with that of Kaplan — the man she had known — and made love to — a few weeks earlier.

But when she returned to Bujumbura from her visit to Mount Lwungi; when she reflected on what she had seen and heard at Frau Matthofer’s camp, Stephanie realized that she could no longer continue to act on her own. She did not understand all that was going on; but she understood enough. It was not a question of saving a tribe of monkeys — important though that might be. The whole future of humanity — or at least of the Western world — could be at stake. If she turned to Kaplan now, it was because she knew that this was the quickest and surest way of getting the authorities to act. Whatever his faults — and Stephanie was convinced that they were many — Kaplan would know how to set the wheels in motion.

So she sat by the telephone in her room at the Source du Nil hotel, biting her nails. When the call came through, she picked up the instrument on the first ring.

In spite of the thousands of miles that separated them, the transmission was perfect.

“Is that Stephanie Verusio?”

“It is.”

“This is Lowell Kaplan speaking.”

“Lowell. Thank God you called. I’ve got something important to tell you. Very important.”

“Go ahead, Stephanie.”

Now that her moment had come, Stephanie could barely get the words out. Somehow, the accumulated tension of the last few days seemed to overwhelm her.

At last she managed to say what she had to say.

“I’ve found the green monkeys. The real green monkeys.” The bitterness in her voice was only too apparent. “You and your team killed the wrong monkeys, Lowell. You know that, don’t you?”

The other end of the line Kaplan found himself blushing with shame.

“I know, Stephanie. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I’ll have to talk to you about that later. We’ll find the time.”

“Believe me, Lowell. You’ll need time to explain. I hated you then. I really hated you.” Stephanie sounded only slightly mollified.

For the next seven minutes, Kaplan listened while Stephanie told him what she had seen and heard over the last few days in Burundi. From time to time, he nodded. It all made sense now. Every aspect of the plot was clear to him, with all its horrendous implications.

At last, when she had finished, he said to her: “Stephanie, you’ve done a magnificent job. I don’t know that we can ever thank you enough.”

“It’s not over yet, is it?”

“No,” replied Lowell Kaplan. “But it soon will be.”

He put down the phone. A few seconds later, he dialled again. A Washington number. When the number answered, Kaplan explained who he was.

“I want to talk to John Shearer, please, on a secure line.”

“Mr Shearer is in with the President right now.”

Kaplan mustered all his patience. “Do me a favour, will you, and stop making difficulties. I want you to pass Shearer a message that we’ve found the green monkeys. He’ll understand.”