“Elombe,” he answered, touching his chest.
The boy had a shaved head, wore nothing but a loincloth, had a black rock for a pendant around his neck, and didn’t stop taking everything in with his huge, dark eyes.
“Tatá mzungu,” he said next, then he pointed and put his hand to his mouth to mime eating.
“Tatá mzungu?” Carmen asked.
“He’s referring to Klein,” Verhoeven said from a few yards back. “Tatá mzungu means white father.”
“Is Klein inviting us to eat at his house?” Riley asked the boy, imitating his gesture. “All of us?”
Elombe nodded with a frown as if he’d been called into doubt. And with that he turned and walked solemnly back to the house on the hill.
“What do you think?” Hudgens asked. “First he wants to kick us out and now he wants to eat with us.”
“Sounds good to me,” Jack said, patting his stomach. “In fact it’s the best idea I’ve heard all day. That Klein looks well fed.”
“Someone has to stay and keep watch on the ship,” Riley said, turning toward the rest. “Better two, actually.”
Jack raised his hands. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “You’d have to kill me before I give up a dinner after a week of canned sardines and stale bread.”
“I have to talk with Klein,” Hudgens argued. “You know . . . the mission.”
Riley looked at Carmen, but she was already smiling before he could ask, so he decided to save the biting response he would no doubt receive.
“I’ll stay,” Verhoeven said, resignedly. “I’ll guard the castle with Mutombo. But,” he raised a finger, “bring us something even if it’s scraps. I’d kill for a roast.”
Ten minutes later, still wearing his only clothes and a shirt Verhoeven had given him—but at least a little less musty and sweaty—Riley waited for the others by the ramp.
The first to arrive was Carmen, and Lord knows how, but she had managed to get into a white cotton dress that was incredibly clean and left her broad brown shoulders exposed, with her cascade of black hair falling messily over them.
“What?” she asked when he realized he was devouring her with his gaze.
“No-nothing,” Riley murmured stupidly. “I was thinking about that movie you made me go see in DC.”
“Honky Tonk?”
“Yeah. The Clark Gable one.”
“You saw it because you wanted to,” she pointed out. “I didn’t make you come with me.”
“Yeah, right . . . What I wanted to say was, next to you, Lana Turner would look like an old witch.”
She pouted halfway between acceptance and discomfort before finally nodding slightly. “Thanks,” she said, pursing her lips a little.
“No problem, it’s the truth. You’re—”
“Shall we?” Hudgens interrupted, appearing on the gangway, looking about as shabby as Riley.
Riley was about to say they were still missing Jack, when his friend limped toward them, smiling from ear to ear in anticipation of an opulent welcome banquet from Klein.
Under the last light of the afternoon, the four of them walked up the hill toward the house, whose open windows let out homey lamplight and music Riley thought was from a German opera.
44
The inside of Klein’s house was surprisingly comfortable and elegant, especially in contrast with its outward appearance. Though the furniture looked a little beat-up and desperately needed a new coat of varnish, it was certainly nothing like the simple colonial quarters they’d seen on their way up. It even had a little library with various German books on unknown subjects. A thick Bible wrapped in leather stuck out, its spine worn from use. Even the concerto on the gramophone helped with the illusion of civilization against the nocturnal sounds of the jungle surrounding them.
As if he were a different person, Klein—who sat at the head of the table in a solid chair shaped like a throne—behaved like an excellent host, and if he were eager for news from the outside, he hid it perfectly. He invited them to sit at his table, and three native women wearing large cotton smocks served the dinner, which, despite not meeting Jack’s high expectations, tasted like heaven. None of them had the slightest idea what they were eating, but they would have licked their plates clean if no one were watching.
No one asked a single question during the meal. Hudgens tried to, but Klein interrupted him, raising a hand to say they’d talk when they were done eating.
Riley took advantage of the time to secretly study the man they’d come to see. Dr. Hans Klein, professor of virology at the University of Marburg, was a man of unusual proportions—that much he’d noticed during their first encounter. But seeing him up close, Riley realized he must have been almost six-five and easily over four hundred pounds. Hudgens looked small next to him.
But despite his formidable size, what was most interesting about him was his eyes. Intense and intimidating, they seemed to see right through you. Riley felt that any effort to lie to him would be in vain. His gestures were open and easy, and he looked much calmer than he’d seemed at first. That, or seeing that their presence was unavoidable, he’d decided to accept it like someone who quietly tolerates a pain in the ass.
Riley estimated he should be in his sixties, though his suntanned skin was wrinkle-free and there were only a handful of gray hairs in his bushy eyebrows. His hairless skull appeared slightly more convex than normal, and there were small marks around it, perhaps because his salacot was too small.
Unlike the crew of the Roi des Boers, Klein did look clean and healthy, decked out in his freshly ironed white linen suit, with a black tie securely fastened to the collar of his white shirt.
Riley couldn’t stop asking himself, as he surreptitiously glanced at the servants, which of the women made, washed, and ironed his clothing, and if that was all they did for him.
Since the first time Riley had heard Klein’s name on Verhoeven’s lips, and during the whole boat ride up the river, he’d unconsciously speculated about Klein’s appearance, a man living outside of civilization for years in one of the worst imaginable places.
He’d never thought he’d end up dining with him, drinking white wine, and listening to Beethoven.
It was then, when they finished dinner, that Hudgens coughed, leaned forward onto the table, looked at Klein, and asked, “So what is it exactly . . . you’re doing here, Dr. Klein? What is this? A field lab?”
The German stared at Hudgens and frowned. Riley suspected the soiree would end right then.
Nevertheless, the host put his glass on the table and answered, “As I’ve said, I’m a virologist.”
“You work with viruses then?” Hudgens asked innocently.
Riley looked from one to the other, uncomfortable with that question—one more suited to a ten-year-old child than an intelligence agent—but to his surprise Klein answered again.
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “I’ve spent the last decade working with an extremely contagious and vicious virus,” he added calmly, like someone discussing the virtues of a pet. “A virus endemic to this Ebola River region.”
Riley and Jack exchanged confused looks. It didn’t seem possible the good doctor would be explaining that to strangers he didn’t even want to speak with a few hours ago.
“Sounds very dangerous,” Carmen said, keeping the conversation going.
“I believe that it is,” he said. “This virus destroys its victim’s blood vessels in a few days, and more than ninety percent of those infected die in horrible cries of agony. It’s an awful disease.”
Carmen winced, and the German seemed to relish her discomfort. So much so that he took out a silver case from inside his jacket pocket, opened it, and after putting a long cigarette in his lips, lit it and lolled back in his chair.
“The natives call it Kaliwán,” he added, taking a long drag. “They think it’s something like an evil spirit . . . you know”—he gestured toward the window to his right, a rectangle open to the powerful night alread
y reigning outside—“primitive superstitions.”
“And you,” Carmen continued, “are working on that virus here in the jungle? Alone?”
This time a shadow crossed Klein’s face. “It wasn’t always the case, Miss Debagh. When I got here I was with my wife, the most beautiful, tenderest, and bravest woman I’ve ever met.” He said this with a long look at Carmen, as if he were comparing the two. “But unfortunately she”—he paused for a long time—“I made a mistake, just one.” He raised a fat index finger. “A stupid, novice error, and she . . .” His eyes shone with pain and regret. “I’ll never forgive myself,” he said weakly.
“Your wife died?” Carmen asked.
Klein sighed and nodded. “She and the whole team that came here with me in 1935.”
“I’m very sorry,” she said, reaching out toward him without managing to touch him. “Really.”
A grateful smile appeared on Klein’s ruddy face.
Riley took note of that, thinking he might be able to use that inclination to his advantage. “We’ve heard about that expedition,” he intervened, preferring to get around the wife theme. “In Léopoldville they talk about it like it’s a big mystery.”
“There is no mystery, Mr. Riley,” he said plainly. “The whole expedition fell ill, and only a few managed to survive.”
“But now you’re alone,” Carmen said.
Klein nodded, pained. “Illness isn’t the only danger in this jungle, Miss Debagh. Here every living thing that flies, walks, or swims is capable of ending a human life. Here,” he said, “surviving isn’t the rule but the exception.”
“But you don’t seem to be doing so bad,” Jack interjected. “You look very . . . healthy,” he said, changing the adjective at the last minute.
Klein seemed to consider his response for a moment and ended up smiling uncomfortably. “I’ve adapted,” he answered with deliberate ambiguity.
“There was a man,” Hudgens jumped in. “Zeiss, Weiss, or something like that, who arrived in Léopoldville a few years ago and died in the hospital. Did you know him?”
“Of course. Dr. Franz Weiss was one of the few survivors of the Kaliwán. It’s a shame it ended for him the way it did,” he added. “Unfortunately, he lacked the strength of character do to what was necessary and wound up the only way he could,” he stated vaguely, hinting that he had something to do with it.
“So you’ve been in this hole for seven years?” Jack asked again with his usual tact.
“Six years sand ten months,” he said. “It’s been a very difficult job for which I’ve had to make countless sacrifices. But the result was worth the effort.”
“And what result is that?” Hudgens asked, unable to resist. “Did you create a vaccine for the Kaliwán?”
Klein shook his head, apparently amused by the suggestion. “Quite the opposite, Mr. Hudgens. My work was to isolate it, study it, and learn how to make something beneficial from it.”
“Something beneficial?” The commander seemed sincerely confused. “What do you mean by that? How could you make something beneficial?”
Instead of answering the question, Klein put out the cigarette on the empty plate in front of him, leaning his elbows on the table and looking around until stopping on Riley. “I think we’ve talked enough about me,” he said. “Now I’d like you to explain what exactly you’re doing here.”
Riley was about to speak, but just before he could, Hudgens chimed in again. “We’re representatives of a prestigious Swiss pharmaceutical company,” he explained, “interested in the research you’re doing here. Our employer in Geneva has authorized us to offer you a large sum of money in exchange for your collaboration. And I guarantee,” he added with emphasis, “the numbers we’re talking about are more than generous.”
Klein blinked with genuine surprise. “A Swiss pharmaceutical company?” he repeated. “But you’re not Swiss and certainly don’t look like researchers. Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong,” Hudgens admitted with a vacuum-cleaner-salesman smile. “The researchers will come later, once we reach an agreement. I’m just a negotiator,” he said, “and this is my team. We sure aren’t Swiss,” he added. “But I hope that’s not a problem.”
“And you’re interested in all my research.”
“That’s right. Although especially with regard to that virus . . . Kaliwán, it was called, right?”
“I see.” He smiled to himself. “And tell me, please, where did you hear about my work? It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve published anything, and my contact with the academic world is basically nonexistent.”
Klein’s tone was full of skepticism, but Hudgens went on as if it were nothing. “I don’t have access to that information,” the commander clarified. “They just ordered me to meet with you and that’s what I’ve done. Those questions can certainly be addressed at the headquarters in Geneva.”
“In Geneva,” Klein repeated thoughtfully as if trying to place it on the map.
Riley had to admit that the story about the Swiss pharmaceutical company was well crafted and believable. And the commander’s bold frankness made him an excellent liar.
After taking a brief sip from his cup, the German leaned his heavy weight back in the chair, making it creak dangerously. Then he said casually, “So it couldn’t be that . . . you got that information when you stole the Duchessa d’Aosta?”
45
Hudgens nearly choked when he heard that, and Jack squirted liquor out of his nose.
“How?” Riley blurted out, too perplexed to deny it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hudgens replied, late and poorly.
“Come on, gentlemen.” Klein waved off their words. “Let’s save the fuss and looks of surprise, please. I know perfectly well that you’re not who you say you are.”
“You’re wrong,” Hudgens insisted. “We don’t—”
“Enough,” the German interrupted impatiently. “Just because I live in isolation doesn’t mean I’m uninformed. I have a shortwave radio I use to contact the outside. I’ve been aware of your presence and intentions since you landed in Matadi. Though unfortunately,” he said with regret, “and despite my efforts, I haven’t been able to keep you from getting this far.”
“You knew we were coming?” Carmen asked.
“Of course,” he said with satisfaction. “I’m also up to speed on what happened in Santa Isabel in the middle of January, and as a result when you appeared in Matadi and interrogated Mr. Van Dyck with regard to the Duchessa d’Aosta’s cargo, I just had to put two and two together to figure out you were connected to the robbery. Am I wrong?”
“Fuck,” Jack muttered.
“So it was you,” Riley said. “You ordered Van Dyck’s death.”
“Van Dyck’s dead?” Klein asked, turning to the captain with surprise. “How?”
“No need to act, Klein. It was obviously your doing.”
Klein frowned. “Van Dyck was useful to me in a lot of ways. But not dead.”
“You’re lying,” Jack accused him.
“I have no reason to lie to you,” Klein responded, annoyed. “I’m not going to say I’m grieved by his death, but I had nothing to do with it.”
Maybe it was Klein’s irritated tone, or the suspicion that things were no longer as they seemed, but Riley believed him.
“Well, if it wasn’t him,” Carmen said, looking around the table, “who could it have been?”
“And why?” Jack added.
For a moment they all looked at each other as if expecting someone to give the answer. Finally Riley decided to leave that unknown aside and address Klein directly.
“So,” he said, turning toward him, “you already know why we’re here?”
Klein rocked his head slightly. “From what Mr. Van Dyck told me,” he explained impassively, “you seem to have found something in the Duchessa d’Aosta’s holds that led you to Matadi and then to me.”
“We know about the Aussterben
virus,” Carmen said suddenly.
Hudgens looked at her, red as a tomato.
“What?” she said defiantly. “Let’s cut the crap and put our cards on the table.”
“I agree,” Riley said. “We’re losing time trying to figure out what he knows or doesn’t, and it seems to me the doctor feels the same way.” He turned toward him. “Isn’t that right?”
For the first time, and though he tried to hide it, Klein seemed slightly unnerved. He’d lost control of the conversation, and Riley wasn’t going to let him get it back.
“Three months ago,” he explained, “we sunk a German corsair ship heading for the United States. In its holds were dozens of vials of a virus named Aussterben, intended to cause a worldwide pandemic. That virus, though modified to be even more lethal, came from here, the Belgian Congo.” Riley leaned forward and asked. “What do you have to say to that?”
Klein blinked a couple times. “What do you want me to say?” he asked.
Hudgens spoke again. “The Nazi Aussterben and the Kaliwán are the same thing, right?”
Klein didn’t start to deny it. “Basically, yes, they’re the same,” he admitted. “Kaliwán is the unmodified parent strain, and Aussterben a laboratory mutation designed to optimize its propagation.”
“A mutation that you gave to the Nazis.”
“Of course,” he nodded with no hint of guilt. “Who else?”
“Knowing what they could do with it?” Jack asked, incredulous.
Klein calmly leaned back in his chair. “Of course,” he said, pleased. “In fact, the modifications they made were my suggestions. In a way, Aussterben is my child.”
Klein’s indifference while talking about a virus that could decimate the human race left them all speechless.
A shadow of silence fell over the table, and no one seemed capable of saying words that would shake them from their trance. The four guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and Riley’s face showed signs of him being on the brink of jumping over the table and strangling Klein with his own hands. If they still had their pistols, Jack and Riley would already be pointing them at the German’s head.
Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 34
