“We came to you because there are reports that it may victimize humans, causing rabies-like symptoms and possibly bleeding from the hair follicles. Also, it seems to affect only the North, which is where you grew up, isn’t it?”
Lwanga’s expression seemed strangely frozen as Sarie continued.
“We couldn’t find any information on what animals might host the parasite or really any corroboration that it even exists. Does it ring a bell by any chance?”
The African suddenly came back to life. “I’m afraid not. I’ve never heard of anything like what you’re describing.”
“Would you know someone we could talk to — maybe a doctor working in the rural areas to the north? Someone who could help us ask the right people the right questions?”
“It’s been a long time since I left my village and I’ve been very remiss about staying in touch.” He stuck out a hand in what was clearly a dismissal. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have rounds.”
“That was a very strange meeting,” Sarie said as they came back out into the heat of the afternoon sun. “I don’t want to seem negative, but I’m not sure that he was being completely honest with us.”
It was obvious that she was having a hard time coming right out and calling the aging physician a liar, but Smith had no such qualms. In the world of professional liars he lived in, Lwanga was a rank amateur.
“He knew exactly what you were talking about, Sarie. Did you see the tea service next to his desk?”
“
“How many cups were on it?”
“How many cups? I don’t know.”
“Ah,” Smith said. “You see, but you do not observe.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” she said with a grin. “Does that mean I get to be Watson?”
“Not yet. But I see potential. There were
She nodded slowly. “He intended for us to stay on a bit.”
“Until you brought up crazy people bleeding from the hair.”
“The stuff about him losing touch with his village is nonsense, too, Jon. African politeness is nothing compared to African devotion to family.”
They crossed onto the sidewalk and Smith reached for their taxi’s door. “And so the plot thickens.”
Dr. Oume Lwanga stood at the edge of the window, peering down into the street below. The phone in his hand was slick with sweat, and he had to grip it tightly to keep the smooth plastic from sliding through his fingers.
“They said that
“Yes, sir. They didn’t give details of which rabies symptoms, though madness seemed implied. They did distinctly say bleeding from the hair.”
“That’s all?”
“They were interested in a possible animal host but said their main objective was a worm affecting ants — that this other parasite was just something that came up in their research. They didn’t seem certain it even existed.”
“Where are they now?”
“Getting into a brown taxi with a box on the roof.”
“Is there anyone else in it besides the driver?”
“I think there’s someone in the backseat. From my position it’s hard to tell. Do you want me to—”
The connection went dead and Lwanga watched the cab pull away from the curb, feeling a pang of guilt. Their fate was in God’s hands now.
28
Mehrak Omidi slowed when the young man in front of him broke into an elaborate karate pantomime, kicking at bushes and the humid air, spinning unsteadily, and making noises like a strangled bird. He nearly fell over a rotting log and shouted angrily at it before grabbing one of a number of beers stuffed into the pockets of his fatigues.
Omidi had landed in Uganda nine hours ago and immediately driven to the remote rendezvous point dictated by Caleb Bahame. He’d expected to be picked up by the man himself and taken to camp, but instead spent three hours riding blindfolded in the back of a rickety military vehicle. And now this.
They’d been walking through the wet, insect-infested jungle for long enough that he began to question whether the men around him had any idea where they were going. Most were drunk, and no fewer than three fights had broken out — one of which he’d been forced to break up when knives materialized.
“How much longer?”
The man in front squinted back at him and said something in his native language before forging on.
Omidi followed, keeping up easily despite the unfamiliar humidity and terrain. He hated sub-Saharan Africa and everything in it — the air, the disease, the worthless inhabitants. It would have given him great satisfaction to have sent one of his men in his place, but it was impossible. No one else could be trusted with a task so vast and historically important.
When he actually allowed himself to consider what, with God’s blessing, he would accomplish, it made the breath catch in his chest. Centuries of dominance by America and the West would come to an end. Their arrogant citizens would finally understand that everything they thought they had was an illusion. They would watch in horror as the power and money they had so greedily amassed failed to protect them. And when it was finally over, they would shrink away like beaten dogs.
The sun touched the horizon, stoking his anger and frustration. Soon, they would have to stop. While his guides were well equipped with alcohol and pornography, none seemed to have thought to bring a flashlight or night-vision equipment.
He quickened his pace and reached for the man in front of him again but then heard a distant voice reverberating through the jungle. The men around him heard it, too, whooping in excitement and pumping their rusting assault rifles in the air.
Bahame.
As they closed on the amplified voice, the scent of human habitation assaulted him — open latrines, garbage, and the distinctive rot of death. They passed crated weapons and food, as well as a few light military vehicles that may or may not have been in operating condition. All were piled with tree limbs and vines so as to be invisible from the air.
They broke out into a clearing and Omidi spotted a man pacing across a makeshift stage speaking into a megaphone. He was dressed in worn fatigues accented by a large amulet made of what appeared to be human teeth and bones.
No fewer than a hundred people were packed into the clearing, transfixed by the graying figure looking down on them. Most were teens or younger, clad in tattered civilian clothing and holding weapons as sophisticated as AK-47s and as primitive as feather-adorned spears. At least a quarter were girls, some unashamedly shirtless, displaying budding breasts wet with perspiration. A disgusting display by a disgusting race.
The man on the log-and-stone podium spotted him and pointed, speaking unintelligibly as his audience parted.
Close up, Caleb Bahame was almost regal, with strong features and skin unblemished by his years of living in camps like these. His movements were strangely exaggerated, choreographed to give his every word its own sense of gravity. Seeing Bahame standing there, feeling the oppressiveness of his presence, explained a great deal about
