The Pandora Deception--A Novel

by David Bruns

  The late-afternoon sun broiled the pedestrians on the westward-facing side of the apartment building. Rachel lost herself in the crowd, heading toward the shopping district, but tacking down side streets whenever she saw an opportunity to assess if she was being followed.

  When she was confident she was alone, she stepped into a café and ordered a coffee. She dialed Noam’s number from memory.

  He answered on the first ring. “Where have you been?” His voice held the tiniest tinge of concern that made her smile.

  “Doing my job. Where have you been?”

  “Don’t get smart with me. Your phone was off for over twenty-four hours.”

  Rachel briefly relayed the events of the last two days. The visit to Cyprus, the mysterious yacht, the meeting that had so upset JP, the flight to the secret location.

  “The security forces are former Janjaweed and I’m convinced they are behind the Mahdi attacks,” she concluded, “but what is going on underneath the warehouse is unknown.”

  “What’s your next move?” Noam asked.

  “If I can get close enough, I’m going to clone his phone and insert a tracker program. Maybe we can figure out where the site is located.”

  “Bold move.” Noam didn’t bother with pretenses about her safety. He trusted her.

  “It’s only a bold move if it works. I’ll be in touch.” Rachel hung up and resumed walking.

  She turned down the first side street, a lane full of luxury stores, and pretended to window-shop. A few pedestrians wandered through the shade of the cobbled lane. The street felt a million miles from the heat and dust of the crowded thoroughfares only a hundred meters away.

  Dinner with JP called for a new dress, she decided, something spectacular to distract the man from his phone for a good half hour. A bloodred Christian Dior dress appeared in the very next window.

  Rachel let the grin spread across her face.

  Noam was about to buy her a new outfit.

  * * *

  Rachel surveyed her image in the full-length mirror and liked what she saw. The straps of the red silk dress fastened behind her neck, the fiery color a perfect complement to her dark skin. The plunging neckline and open back showed the perfect amount of skin.

  It was a daring choice. Sexy, classy, and she looked gorgeous in it. She unboxed the black Manolo Blahnik sling-backs, giggling to herself at the sight of the slender stilettos. After the Mozambique job, she would never look at high heels the same way again.

  She wore her hair up off her neck, which made the occasion feel exotic to her. She replaced her typical silver stud earrings with dangling gold pendants.

  Rachel took one last turn in the mirror. Noam never realized he had such good taste in fashion.

  Perfume? Her instinct said no.

  Her stomach fluttered, as it did before every operation like this. She would be on JP’s home turf. If her true purpose for being there was discovered, he would have the advantage on her. Weapons or no, he was a dangerous man.

  Finally, she checked her phone again. The cloning program was hidden in the clock function of the device. If she touched three apps on the home screen in quick succession, it would synchronize with any discoverable device within six inches. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, she would have a complete clone of his phone and a tracker program installed. The only catch was that his phone would be unusable during that period.

  She used the elevator ride to JP’s apartment to calm her breathing. Zula’s performance needed to be flawless tonight. In this setting, she would not have the security job to give her emotional cover. She would need to be herself—or rather Zula—and it would require ultimate concentration.

  When she stepped out of the elevator, the lights in the apartment were turned low.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” JP called from the kitchen.

  The tall, colonial-style windows in the apartment stood open. Gauzy white curtains stirred in the breeze. Rachel pressed her hips against the windowsill and stared into the night.

  The lights of Khartoum lay before her like jewels spread across a velvet carpet. A few blocks away she could see the Nile gleaming between gaps in the buildings as the river made its slow way north. The darkness sanded the rough edges from the squalor of the city, softened decay into quaintness. The freshened breeze took the edge off the heat and carried the sounds of the city to her as a murmured cacophony. On the horizon, a quarter-moon hung in the clear sky.

  JP appeared by her side and handed her a glass of chilled white wine. The taste of apples and citrus exploded on her tongue, followed by a subtle melon aftertaste.

  “This is exquisite,” she said.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” he replied. His eyes drank her in, and she felt a heat rise up her neck. “You look beautiful.”

  “I was talking about the wine.”

  “Pinot blanc, from the Alsace region of France.” He took another sip, studying her from over the rim of the glass. “My mother grew up there. And I still think you look beautiful.”

  “That was the effect I was going for.”

  JP laughed. “There’s no pretense with you, is there?”

  Rachel turned her back on the city. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Omelets. I only make one thing, but I do it well. Something else I learned from my mother.”

  Rachel followed him to the kitchen. “Tell me about her.” His phone was in his hip pocket.

  JP set his wineglass on the stone counter and turned on the stove. He put a well-used omelet pan over the bright blue flame and tossed in a chunk of butter. He watched it melt.

  “My French mother fell in love with a mysterious man from Sudan and that’s how I came to be. What about you, Zula Bekele? I’ve seen your résumé and watched you work. Tell me the rest of the story.”

  Rachel pretended the wine had gone to her head. The story she spun for JP hewed as closely to the truth as she dared. Born in Ethiopia, pursued a degree in African languages and literature, then found the martial arts. Security work paid better than college professor and she enjoyed the finer things in life. She laughed when she said the last bit and plucked at her dress.

  As she spoke, JP cooked. He cracked two eggs and whipped them in a bowl while vegetables sautéed in the pan. The beaten eggs covered the vegetables, and he prodded the mixture until almost firm, then flipped the contents, added a handful of cheese, and expertly rolled it onto her plate.

  He presented it to her with a bow. “For you, mademoiselle. We’ll be eating by the pool.” He pointed through a doorway at the back of the kitchen.

  Rachel carried her glass of wine and her omelet down the narrow hallway to find a hidden garden area at the back of the apartment.

  The pool was lined with sky-blue tiles and lighted from underwater. A small fire burned in a ceramic fire pit on the far side of the pool, and a waist-high stone wall shielded the garden area from the outside world.

  Nestled between two palm trees was a table for two and a second bottle of wine chilling in ice. Rachel lit the candles on the table and took a seat, sipping her wine. The deep pool was square, maybe five meters on a side. Soft underwater light rippled in waves across the secluded scene.

  JP appeared in the doorway carrying his own plate and wine. He sat down across from her. “Bon appétit.” He laid his phone facedown on the table next to his plate.

  The omelet practically melted in her mouth, with the cheese and vegetables grilled to perfection.

  “Delicious,” she said.

  “Try it with the wine.”

  Rachel sipped her wine. The melon overtones in the wine amplified the egg dish. “Amazing. Your mother taught you well.”

  After the last bite, Rachel opened her purse and slipped out her phone. She touched the sequence to start the cloning process.

  “Thought I felt a text,” she said. She dropped the phone back into the clutch and snapped it closed. She placed her handbag on the table.

  JP stood and collected her plate.


  “You should see what I have for dessert.” When he left, his phone remained facedown on the table.

  Pulse hammering, Rachel pushed her clutch across the table until it rested next to JP’s phone. Now all she needed was to keep JP away from his phone for twenty minutes.

  As if on cue, he appeared in the doorway. “Let’s go back inside and…”

  His voice trailed away as his eyes locked with Rachel.

  She stood, tugging at the clasp of the dress behind her neck. The silk slid down her skin like a whisper. She heard JP suck in a breath.

  Rachel stepped out of her shoes, the stone of the patio rough under her feet. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, blocking out the distant sounds of the street far below them. A strange, quaking emptiness formed in her belly and when she spoke her mouth was dry.

  “I think we should have dessert later.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Akwar, west of Marial Bai, South Sudan

  Father Alfred peddled his bike through the desert.

  On these early-morning rides, he felt very close to God indeed. He left Marial Bai before the sun was up and made his way into the vast desert, following the barely discernible thread of a road using equal parts instinct and eyesight.

  His flock was scattered across the land. On the first Sunday of the month he traveled south, the next Sunday north, then east. But on the fourth Sunday of every month, he traveled west. It was twenty miles to the village of Akwar, but he could make it in a little under two hours if he stayed steady on the pedals.

  As the packed-earth path rolled beneath his tires, Father Alfred liked to sing. There was no one around and he bellowed all his favorite tunes in as many languages as he could remember. Most were hymns, like the ones he had learned from the missionaries when he was a boy. The songs of the Mother Church made the miles fly by.

  He just finished the last verse of “Rock of Ages” when Akwar came into view.

  It was a tiny speck of human existence in the midst of a vast desert, barely earning even the title of “village.” It rarely appeared on maps, and no roads other than the one he was on passed through it.

  The whole of Akwar was ten mud-brick dwellings and one open pavilion with a thatched roof where he conducted Sunday services. The cross atop the pavilion was etched against the morning sky, a sight that always filled him with pride.

  Father Alfred stopped pedaling and let the bicycle coast to a stop. The breath of life sang in his ears like music. He was doing God’s work, spreading His Word among the war-weary people of South Sudan. Moments of stillness like this one made it all worthwhile.

  Normally, four or five boys from the village would have spied him by now and trotted out to meet him, but this morning the road was empty. Even Simon wasn’t there.

  Simon was a bright eight-year-old with a gap-toothed smile and the voice of an angel. At services, he sat in the front row with his beautiful mother by his side, her hand staying the inexhaustible energy of his active young frame.

  Alfred pedaled into town trailing a thin rooster tail of dust behind him. The doors of the village homes were all closed tightly, and he did not see any movement behind the open windows.

  He struck up another verse of “Rock of Ages” as he rode to his open-air church. The sun was up, but it was still cool as he unpacked his kit from the back of the bicycle. He spread a clean white linen across the rough altar and unpacked a single candle, holy water, a chalice, and a small package of communion wafers. He kissed the embroidered stole, said a blessing, and placed the narrow strip of cloth around his neck.

  He was ready for his parishioners, whenever they deigned to join him.

  Father Alfred walked through the church straightening the rough pews, picking up a bit of trash, and shooing out the chickens that liked to wander through his service. He sat on the last bench and waited as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

  Still, no one showed up. He walked to the top of the street and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Simon,” he called. “Simon, Father Alfred is here.”

  Still no answer.

  With a sigh of frustration, he walked to the nearest house and rapped his knuckles on the door. The silence was starting to unnerve him and he hummed a hymn under his breath.

  There was no answer, so he went to the next house, Simon’s home.

  He knocked loudly. “Hello?”

  Nothing, but just as he was about to walk away, he heard something move inside the building. He pushed the door open a few inches. “It’s Father Alfred. Is someone in there?”

  He definitely heard a groan this time. Alfred pushed the door all the way open. The stench from within stopped him like a slap in the face.

  Gagging, he retreated a few paces and searched in his pocket for a handkerchief. He approached the open door again with the cloth pressed against his face.

  “Hello?” he called into the dark interior. “Is someone in there?”

  A groan, fingers scrabbling on hard ground—these sounds made him move closer. Someone was alive in there. Someone who needed his help.

  Breathing a silent prayer, he stepped inside the door. His eyes took precious seconds to adjust, and when they did, he wished they hadn’t.

  It was Simon’s family—or it had been, at least. The adults were dead, their bodies bloated and deformed. Alfred stepped closer, the handkerchief clamped over his nose and mouth.

  The corpses had melted, their skin like black candle wax. Streams of thick black blood flowed from their noses, mouths, and eyes. The white of the eyes were dark with blood. The smell of rotten death clung to Alfred’s skin like a soggy blanket.

  To his right, on the dirt floor, Alfred saw movement. A scrawny arm rose, fingers splayed.

  Father Alfred knelt over Simon’s body and took his pulse. The boy was barely alive. His eyes were nearly swollen shut and a thick line of bloodied mucus ran from his nose.

  “Simon, can you hear me?”

  The arm rose again. He took the tiny hand in his. “I’m here, Simon.”

  He carried the child close to the door, where he could get some fresh air but stay out of the sun. A fresh flow of blood ran from the boy’s nose. When he placed the tiny body on the ground, something rolled out of Simon’s blanket.

  Alfred picked up a small cylinder. It was machined metal, heavy like steel, with a small black plastic square that read “00” in red numbers and a raised metal nipple covered with white residue. He twisted the top off and inside was a single empty test tube with the same white powder inside.

  “Where did you get this, Simon?” he asked. But the boy was unconscious.

  He left the open canister on the ground and raced through the village, kicking open the doors of each house, knowing already what he would find.

  By the time he had made a complete circuit of the village, Simon was dead.

  Father Alfred was the only living human being in Akwar. He staggered back to the church and collapsed onto a pew. This was an epidemic of some kind, some horrible disease. He needed to tell someone. He needed to get to a hospital.

  Alfred dug into his pocket for his mobile. His fingers shook as he tried to scroll through his contacts. Then, in the distance, he heard the hum of a car engine and the bite of tires on a dirt road. He squinted into the sun and saw a plume of golden dust.

  Someone was coming. Someone who could help. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and raced into the center of the road, waving his arms wildly.

  “Stop! Stop, please!” he shouted. The black SUV halted ten meters away, the dust slowly rolling past the vehicle toward Alfred. A woman got out of the car from the passenger side and stood behind the door. She was dressed in traditional Muslim garb, but he could see that under her hijab she had bright blue eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” the woman called to him.

  “I’m the priest,” he said. “It’s Sunday. I say Mass here on Sundays—well, not every Sunday, but the fourth Sunday of every month and…” His voice trailed off when the w
oman ducked her head back into the car and spoke to the driver.

  The driver was a hulk of a man with brawny shoulders and a muscled belly that pressed against his shirt. He was dressed in green like a soldier. Alfred had seen enough death in South Sudan to recognize Janjaweed. He eyed his bicycle.

  The man walked toward him. He pulled a handgun from a holster and pointed it at the priest. “You should not be here, priest,” he said in Arabic.

  Alfred clenched his eyes shut. If it is your will, Father—

  The gun went off and Father Alfred was knocked to the ground. His chest went numb as if his whole torso were being squeezed, and he couldn’t breathe. Then his breath returned and with it a searing bolt of pain. He tried to scream but all he managed was a wheezy gurgle.

  Alfred knew that sound. The bullet had entered his lungs. He would drown in his own blood.

  The man and woman passed him, both dressed in white bodysuits with masks and goggles.

  “Find it,” the woman said. “We’re not leaving here without the dispersal unit.” The man moved from house to house with plodding steps like a ghostly giant. When the man got to Simon’s house, he bent down. He came back to the woman holding the disassembled steel container in his hands.

  “Found it,” he said.

  The woman held out an open plastic bag. The man dropped the disassembled pieces into the opening. She sealed it and set it aside.

  “Get the incendiaries,” she ordered the man. She approached Father Albert and squatted down next to him. She held up the sealed plastic bag, and said, “Did you take this apart, Father?” Her voice was muffled through the face mask.

  Alfred nodded his head feebly. The sun was so bright. All he wanted was a drink of water. He tried to say “Water,” but the word wouldn’t come out.

  She patted him on the shoulder. “I’m really sorry about this, Father. You were not supposed to be here.”

  The man returned carrying a box. He dropped it into the dirt next to the woman. Father Albert squinted through a wave of dust at the label: AN-M14 TH3 INCENDIARY HAND GRENADE.