The hospital was a red brick, square horseshoe sort of building. Its 1930s’ metal windows reminded Nathalie of her old secondary school. A woman brushed past carrying a baby as she opened the door for an old man whose leg was cased in a plaster cast. The reception held the typical hospital antiseptic smell. She held her large Imunaid lapel badge towards the man at the desk and informed him of her appointment. Without replying he thumbed through the scruffy book in front of him in slow motion. Nathalie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She hated this sort of suspense. Was there an appointment or wasn’t there? She opened her eyes to see the man listlessly turning a page first one way and then another. She leaned over the desk to look at the scrawled ink handwriting on the faintly lined paper.
‘There,’ she said, jabbing a finger at the page. ‘There, Nathalie Thompson, Imunaid, to see Sue Jones, from the immunisation programme.’
He looked up at her with his bloodshot eyes, scrawled something into the book and handed it to her. ‘Sign here please ma’am.’
Nathalie did so and asked for directions. The man merely nodded to a row of torn canvas and metal chairs against the far wall.
She sat there, uncomfortably in her smart suit, feeling out of place amongst the ragged clientele. Half an hour later she was about to explode with frustration when a spick and span nurse came into the lobby and surveyed the scene. She spotted Nathalie almost immediately.
‘Nathalie Thompson? I’m so sorry, a bit of an emergency I’m afraid.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Understaffed, like most hospitals. Please, follow me.’
Nathalie was doing so at a brisk walk down the corridor when they were interrupted by a commotion. A young African man was being manhandled by two burly security guards. He was struggling and shouting loudly, his heavily accented voice echoing around the passageway. Nathalie and Nurse Jones had to flatten themselves against a wall to let them pass.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Nathalie. ‘What was he shouting about his sister?’
Sue Jones straightened her uniform. ‘Not the first time. He’s a young lecturer from the university. The poor man’s sister has an infection and has been in the isolation ward for months. Sadly but not surprisingly they won’t let him in to see her. He won’t accept it. Thinks the hospital’s hiding something from him. Anyway…’
‘Is that the lady with Ebola?’
Sue Jones reddened. ‘Where did you hear that? No of course not, Zimbabwe doesn’t have Ebola. It’s a hospital infection that’s all, very contagious but just an infection.’
Nathalie was experienced enough to know when and when not to press things further. She made a mental note of the young man’s face and profession and changed the subject.
‘Of course, now you have your immunisation outreach programme, you must be very proud of it.’
Sue Jones visibly relaxed. ‘Absolutely we are. Do you know that through this programme we have immunised more children for the triple vaccine than the UK? A lot of people may look at Zimbabwe as a backward country. Not so. Even with vast distances through difficult terrain we get vaccines to these kids.’
Nathalie smiled at her. ‘I know. That’s the reason I’m here. Can’t wait to see how you do it.’
The morning meeting went better than expected. Nathalie took copious notes as Sue Jones explained their outreach programme. Each local district had a depot which held the frozen vaccines. Every week a team drove a Land Rover that towed a refrigerated truck to prearranged outposts and kraals. Here the parents would line up their kids to be vaccinated. These vaccinations were recorded on yellow record cards. Thousands had been printed and distributed throughout the whole country. This was interesting stuff but it was more than that for Nathalie, it was a means of access to the places she wished to film in.
‘Sounds amazing. Would it be possible for me to go out on one of the rounds? It would be really good to see it in practice.’
Nurse Jones looked down at her fingernails. ‘I’m not sure about that, there is only limited space in the Land Rover. There’s the driver and the two immunisation nurses, and of course I’d have to get authorisation from my superiors.’
‘As you can see I’m quite small, I’m sure they could squeeze me in. As for your superiors, you could tell them that Imunaid have some contacts in the charity business who may be able to get a film crew to video the project. There’s a huge programme on British television called ‘Child Aid’. It raises millions of pounds for good causes. One short video could fund your programme for a year.’
‘Of course, if you put it like that, I’ll certainly ask them.’ Nurse Jones looked at her watch. ‘You said you wanted to see how and where we centrally stored the vaccines. If you come with me I’ll show you, we just have enough time before my next meeting.’
Once more Nathalie followed Nurse Jones down the winding hospital corridors. The noises and aromas were familiar. Squeaky trolleys, humming machinery and that all-pervading antiseptic smell. What was less familiar were the images through the small windows in the ward doorways. Rows of sick patients under mosquito nets. HIV was prevalent in Zimbabwe, yet few admitted to it. These patients were simply labelled with diseases such as influenza, pneumonia or organ failure. At one crossroad in the corridor Nathalie noticed the sign for the isolation unit. She deliberately dropped her notepad and a few minutes later took the opportunity of the nurse bumping into a colleague to say she would go back for it. There was a security guard at the entrance to the unit. Parked outside was a drugs trolley. Nathalie bent down to tie her shoelace and took note of the packaging labels. XEBO vaccine Biomedivac was printed on a number of the boxes. No Ebola in Zimbabwe then.
She heard her name being called and hurriedly made her way to the corridor junction. It would really blow her cover if she was caught nosing around the isolation unit. All her good work on visiting the outreach programme would be undone. The voice was getting nearer and she could see the nurse’s hat among a crowd of straggling patients. It was too late; she frantically struggled to think of a good excuse. Suddenly a porter swung into view, pushing a gurney around the corner. Nathalie took the opportunity to slip into the opposite corridor before retracing her steps to look as if she had come from a different direction. She was just in time. A flustered Nurse Jones was standing at the junction looking for her.
‘Oh there you are, I thought you had got lost. Sorry, I got caught up in a conversation. I must get to my meeting now. Would it be possible for you to come back and view our vaccine store at another time?’
‘Of course,’ said Nathalie. ‘I’m here for the week, and I’d like to meet again soon to see what your people say about my going on your next outreach programme. Just tell me the way out.’
‘I’ll have to escort you I’m afraid. If you give me your telephone number I’ll let you know their decision by tomorrow.’
Nathalie didn’t push her luck and meekly followed the nurse to the exit. She’d got more than she expected. Confirmation of an Ebola patient, the drugs that were given, the patient’s relative as a possible future contact, and a possible means of getting a film unit into the country. If the afternoon’s meeting went as well then Geoff Sykes would be an extremely happy man.
It was only a twenty-minute taxi ride back to her hotel. Nathalie stared out of the window at the grey domino-like skyscrapers of the city. She had only been in the country a few days but it seemed that Harare was one of the most unattractive capital cities that she’d ever visited. Her mood was lifted by Emmanuel, or Manny as he liked to be called, the Holiday Inn doorman and all-round fixer.
‘Welcome back Miss Thompson, I hope you had a good morning. Can I persuade you to take a little lunch in our restaurant?’
She’d only met this guy once and he was already treating her as a regular.
‘Thank you Manny, I’ve a few things that I have to do. Would it be possible for me to have a club sandwich and some fizzy water in my room?’
‘Of course Miss Thompson. I’ll send it up right away.
’
Nathalie went to her room and started to prepare for the afternoon’s rendezvous. She exchanged her business suit for a pair of torn jeans and a sloganed T-shirt. She put her passport, phone and Imunaid documentation into the hotel safe and keyed in a passcode. If she was searched there would be no way of these guys tracing her identity. Lloyd had arranged with Bagatelle to send some background on Nathalie’s ‘pro-African rights’ campaign. The ideology was militant and indirectly incited terrorism and so they had changed her name to Nathalie King. They had also not given her any hard copies in case these were intercepted by government officials. Lloyd said he would prepare something for their meeting. Recalling all this deception made Nathalie nervous and she jumped as there was a sharp knock on her door.
‘Best club sandwich in Harare Miss,’ came the cheerful voice from the corridor.
Nathalie unlocked the door and Manny wheeled in a trolley bearing a pretentious silver dome and an ice bucket containing a bottle of sparkling water.
An hour later and Nathalie was speeding along the Mutare Road towards Ruwa. The skyscrapers gave way to low-rises and then to scrub. She noticed the sign to Epworth on her right-hand side. Perhaps if she had a day to spare she would visit its famous rocking boulders. She secretly thought that she’d rather be doing that this afternoon. The closer she was getting to this rendezvous the more nervous she felt. It had all sounded rather exciting in the London production office but now, sitting in the back of this taxi under dark cloudy skies, any glamour seemed far away.
The service station was a modern concrete slab mounted on four pillars alongside a car accessories shop and a pay booth. She recognised Lloyd from the photo he had e-mailed to London. ‘Easy to notice me, I’m half and half,’ he had written. He was standing by an old Ford Mondeo dressed in jeans and a tan leather jacket holding a small canvas holdall. She paid the taxi with US dollar bills. They didn’t seem to use coins here so she added a generous tip. Lloyd strolled up to her.
‘I wouldn’t flash that money around,’ he said. ‘Best not to get noticed.’
Nathalie thought that a strange introduction. She followed him to his car and once inside made a deliberate move to shake his hand.
‘Good to meet you at last Lloyd. Thanks for setting all of this up.’
Lloyd took her hand. ‘Yeah, sorry. Good to meet you too. I’m just trying to get focused, you know.’
Nathalie looked at her watch. ‘We’ve not got much time so why don’t you give me an outline of the plan.’
Lloyd unzipped the holdall and showed her a bunch of papers. ‘As I said, the meeting is at three. These guys are convinced that you are some sort of activist and they need a contact in Europe. They are not a big group but they have big ambitions. They’re pissed off with the West exploiting Africa, and not too keen on what they see as their corrupt government, so they’ll do anything to expand their cause. I’ve used some of the technology at my newspaper to mock up some stuff to show you’re a sympathiser. They’ve seen blogs on the internet, I thought this might give them a bit more confidence. We don’t want to be late so I’ll tell you more on the way.’
Lloyd stuffed the papers back into the bag and put the car into gear. Soon they were making their way south, at speed, along the dual carriage highway. Nathalie was about to ask how they could find out more about the possible connections between the group and the Ebola case when she noticed a massive cavalcade approaching them in the other lane. Motorcycle outriders, flashing lights and huge black sedans with darkened windows. Lloyd hesitated, and then put his foot down. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The blur of the cavalcade rushing past. Two motorcyclists peeling off from the rear. Bright flashes from the objects they were carrying. The ripping of tyres and the squeal against the tarmac. Lloyd wrestling with the wheel and the world outside turning. The ground, then the sky, and now the earth, this time spilling and churning through the windows. Nathalie felt a sharp pain in her ribs and moisture on her forehead before everything faded to black.
Four
The concrete was hard, wet and cold. The pale green brick walls rose from the floor to a small square of light standing about three metres above. To one side was a single metal bed covered in a sheet and a grey blanket, to the other a row of white bars. Nathalie felt sick. She put her hand to her head and pulled it away to see a patch of sticky dark red blood on her hand.
‘Shit, what a mess, where in the hell am I?’
She didn’t know if she had spoken or just thought the words. She turned sideways and tried to rise onto her hands and knees. The room seemed to spin, she closed her eyes. She was sure she was going to be sick, but no vomit came. Using the bed as a support she stood and opened her eyes once more to look at – look at what? A room, a cell? Yes it was a cell. Just like she’d seen in American movies. Bare walls, a single sink, a bed and a row of metal bars. Painfully she lowered herself onto the bed and lay back. Her body ached all over. What was all this about? Then slowly, like pieces of floating jigsaw, her memory formed a picture. She was with Lloyd, that’s right Lloyd, in his car. Going somewhere. Two guys on motorcycles. Wheeling around and pointing something at them. No not something, guns. They had been fired at! Must have hit the car’s tyres. Oh Christ that was it. The car had rolled over and over. What in the hell was she doing in here? The room went dark again.
She was woken by the noise of the metal door being unlocked. A tall African guy in a khaki uniform with a large stick at his waist entered the room.
‘Ah, awake, good. Come with me.’
‘Excuse me, who are you and where in the hell am I?’ slurred Nathalie, trying to come to her senses.
‘We shall be asking the questions. Get up and follow me.’ This was said more roughly and he began to grab at Nathalie’s arm.
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming. Let go I’m bruised all over, that really hurts.’
The man ignored this, pulled her to her feet and pushed her through the open door.
She was half dragged, half pushed, along the echoing corridor. It really was like an American movie. A row of white barred cells, some empty, others containing sleeping inmates. It was hot and the place stank of stale urine. A thick metal door stood in their way. The guy with the big stick took it out of its holster and rapped on the door loudly. Moments later, a rattle of keys and it swung open. The noise boomed through Nathalie’s head. She swayed a little and was pressed through into the light. Another uniformed man met them at the bottom of a narrow staircase. She couldn’t manage the stairs so her two guards took her by the elbows and literally dragged her to the top and deposited her on the floor of the landing.
‘Wait here.’
She had little option. Her legs were so weak that she could hardly stand let alone wait somewhere else. With difficulty she manoeuvred herself into the foetal position and tried to get the bearings of her surroundings. She was in a wooden floored anteroom. Behind was the metal door to the staircase, now closed. To the sides, other doors, more domestic looking. Like the floor also wooden, painted dark green with small wire-glassed windows. Two incongruous orange plastic-backed chairs rested against one wall. She crawled up to them and managed to use one to assist her onto the other. She had been told to wait, so she sat here waiting.
It was Tom Finch’s first day. It was early summer in London, the T-shirts and floral cotton dresses were out and people were making the best of it. Tom had never felt better. A year ago he had been sweating over biochemistry exams and now he was about to join the film industry. He couldn’t believe his luck; there must have been dozens of candidates, all with media degrees and work experience. He’d gone in with a science degree and a few months as a hospital porter. No chance. But the letter in his hand said otherwise. Two o’clock, Bagatelle Films, Soho Square. Why two o’clock, and not first thing, he had no idea, yet here he was. The intercom crackled and a voice asked him to come up.
He hadn’t seen Geoff Sykes’ office, he had been interviewed in the boardroom, but it was exactly as h
e had anticipated. Television screens, international wall clocks and framed film awards.
‘Tom, sit down, has Stefanie offered you a coffee?’
Tom nodded.
‘Right, I’ll get down to it. Sorry couldn’t meet earlier, I was out of the office. Wanted to brief you personally. I first want to reiterate that this job could be dangerous. This isn’t a schools’ programme on bacteria. Bioterrorism isn’t to be taken lightly and you could be meeting some very unpleasant people.’
‘I was told that at the interview, I said I’m okay with it.’
‘Yeah, but saying you’re okay with it and actually doing it is another matter. We really won’t take offence if you change your mind.’
‘No, I’ve thought carefully, I really am good about it.’
‘Okay I’ll take your word for it.’ Geoff took a thin file from his desk and handed it to Tom.
‘The reason we’ve hired you is your knowledge of biochemistry and you’ve had some experience of hospitals. In your hands is the proposal we sent to the BBC and A&E Networks in the States. As you’ll see it promises quite a lot. They’ve accepted the proposal but shooting it is going to be a lot more difficult than writing it. That’s where you come in. We’ve got a few leads in Afghanistan, Indonesia and Zimbabwe, leads but no real hard facts. We’d like you to use your science background to firm some of them up.’
Tom’s pulse started racing. ‘You would like me to travel to some of these places?’
‘Possibly, the brief is pretty open, it’s up to you. We need you to research real stories and get credible contacts. We haven’t got an unlimited budget but it’s good enough and, if you’ve got enough evidence to go somewhere, we’ll pay your expenses.’
‘That’s great. I mean, if it’s really worth going then I’ll…’
Geoff leaned back and gently waved his outstretched hands. ‘You’re a bright guy, I’m sure you won’t be using our budget for a travel holiday. Now your film director is a lady called Nathalie Thompson. She’s experienced, used to travelling and shooting abroad and, although she may not look it, quite tough. I think you’ll like working with her.’
Drugs to Forget Page 3
