Gray frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Frank focused back on the commander. “Can a bit of replicating DNA or RNA—one that has no energy source and is unable to multiply outside a host—even be classified as living? For many, viruses remain in the gray area between living and nonliving, between chemistry and life. I personally adhere to the opinion of another colleague, who described viruses as a kind of borrowed life, due to their dependency on a host cell. But their numbers are only the least of their threat.”

  “Why’s that?” Lisa asked, drawing the man’s attention back. “What’s worse than a threat being everywhere?”

  “One that’s constantly changing,” Frank answered. “Besides being so abundant, viruses are the very engines of evolution. They’re Mother Nature’s tiny powerhouses, tools that she uses to drive genetic changes. Viruses mutate at a blistering pace, millions of times faster than we do. They are constantly inventing new genes and spreading them far and wide. Genes that invade their hosts’ DNA and become part of them. Including us. We’re mere products of viral invasions.”

  “You, maybe,” Kowalski growled under his breath.

  “We all are. We’ve known for the longest time that a fair amount of our junk DNA is just bits and fragments of viral genes that entangled themselves into our own code and were carried forward.”

  “Inheritable mutations,” Benjie added as he and Monk rejoined them.

  “That’s right. We once thought only a fraction of our code was so polluted. Somewhere around eight percent. Which is still a lot. But even that number keeps creeping up as we compare our code to viral sequences. In 2016, a review published in the journal Cell estimated the truer number could be as high as eighty percent. Still, whether eight or eighty, we now know that many of those genes acquired from archaic invasions are not junk, but vital to who we are. Without those past viral infections, humans would not exist today.”

  Gray frowned. “Really?”

  “He’s right,” Lisa answered, cutting the veterinarian off. “Newest genetic research offers an explanation for why embryonic stem cells are pluripotent, meaning that they can transform into any other cell. It’s due to the activity of the gene HERV-H, which came from an ancient retrovirus. So, embryo development would never have come about without this past viral invasion.”

  Frank stood straighter. “And if we skip ahead in our development, it was another virus that granted us the greatest gift of all. Our human consciousness.”

  Kowalski scoffed. “Are you saying the flu made us smart?”

  Frank ignored him. “The ARC gene—which codes for the activity-related cystoskeltal-associated protein—is well documented to have arrived in four-limbed animals millennia ago, through the incorporation of a snippet of viral code. This gene is essential to the function of our synapses in storing memory, in learning. Abnormalities with this gene tend to show up in people with neurological deficits, even in people with autism.”

  Frank looked at Benjie, as if uncomfortable bringing the subject up. But the young man looked unfazed.

  Lisa used the moment to interject. “Viral genes also play a role in our immune system. Even in fighting cancer. Following a bout of flu, leukemia patients show a dramatic drop in cancer cells.”

  She had been studying these findings due to Kowalski’s recent diagnosis. She was hoping to discover alternate treatments for his myeloma. There had been some intriguing research in harnessing viruses to combat tumors, using them to boost our immune response to attack cancer cells.

  “I didn’t know that,” Frank admitted, nodding at her with a measure of respect.

  She accepted his bit of deference; appreciating it, even. Many men often resented being upstaged, but at least Dr. Whitaker was not one of them.

  Frank pressed his case. “So again, without viruses, none of us would be around. In fact, some geneticists believe viruses might be the very source for life itself on this planet.”

  Lisa pushed him harder. “But again, why do you think this particular disease is viral in nature. You’ve not even examined a single patient.”

  Frank ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “From the short incubation time reported in the field. From its possible wind-borne spread. From how it can potentially harbor inside an insect or animal vector.” He waved at the specimens under the hood. “It’s checking all the boxes. And like I mentioned, viruses are everywhere, encompassing hundreds of millions of species. Yet, we’ve only named seven thousand of them. So, we’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s truly out there. It’s estimated—in animals alone—that eight hundred thousand species of viruses run the risk of infecting humans.”

  “So, like you said before,” Lisa said, “it’s all a numbers game.”

  “Then pair those numbers with a virus’s ability to mutate in this hotbox called the Congo, and anything could be out there.”

  Benjie interjected his support, “And don’t underestimate the latter. The Congo is full of evolutionary mysteries. You can see nature changing before your eyes due to environmental stressors. The tusks of African elephants are growing smaller, even vanishing, due to the threat of poaching. Generations of forest lizards have developed stickier feet to climb walls after being forced to live in cities. And if viruses mutate at a pace that’s a million times faster—that’s a problem, innit?”

  “Which begs the question,” Frank finished, “what if Mother Nature decides we’re too much of a stressor?”

  Lisa remembered the veterinarian’s earlier warning.

  Mother Nature will inevitably turn that arsenal on us. And when she does, the weapon she will choose will be a virus.

  She glanced over to the sprawl of Frank’s equipment on the center table. “Then maybe we’d all better get to work.”

  9

  April 24, 6:51 A.M. CAT

  Belka Island, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  I’ve fallen back in time.

  Charlotte studied her prison as she was marched across the central plaza of an old colonial settlement. The jungle had nearly consumed the encampment long ago. Birdsong and the hum of insects created a constant chorus all around, as if still claiming this place.

  She wiped her brow with the back of her hand. The morning already sweltered. Each humid breath weighted down her lungs and tasted of rot and moldy dampness. She struggled to catch her breath, as if drowning. But it wasn’t just the weather. Her heart pounded in her chest. She gazed unblinking at her surroundings.

  Two dozen structures spread out from the weedy mud of the plaza. She and Jameson were marched at gunpoint along a spread of planks that crisscrossed the space to keep boots out of the muck. More men patrolled the jungle or were stationed around the collection of moldering buildings.

  She ignored the latter, until another guard crossed alongside a row of planks near the forest’s edge. She did a double take at the armed man’s companion. A waist-high figure clomped on four jointed metal legs beside the guard. It was clearly some sort of robotic quadruped. It marched along like a tailless black dog, one stripped down to its skeletal essence. Where its head should be, a compact crystalline ring of lenses were topped by a stubby gun mount.

  Jameson noted it, too. “What the hell is going on?” he muttered under his breath before they both were goaded forward at a faster pace.

  Charlotte took stock of the rest of their surroundings, struggling with the same question.

  All around, a century of rain and forest encroachment had exposed brick and stucco foundations of the small outpost, leaving them crumbling and encrusted with verdant moss. The roofs’ old thatch had been patched with sheets of tin. Windows had been boarded up or left open, fringed by broken glass. A few buildings had been refurbished, freshly whitewashed, like the two-story guesthouse, fronted by balconies and a wide porch, where she and Jameson had been held last night. They had been locked up in a small room with bars on the windows and a row of cots along one wall.

  She stared around, trying to get her bearings. She still didn’t know where she was. Last night, the harried flight from the campsite amidst a raging storm had left her disoriented. The transit had been under an hour, which meant she was likely still in the Tshopo province of the Congo.

  When they had finally descended toward a helipad at the end of a waterside dock, she had realized the place was a large island in a river. She had also spotted a scattering of lights to the northwest, deeper in the jungle.

  She stared there now, past the impenetrable wall of green. Smoke rose from that direction, along with the distant growl of heavy machinery and faint clanking echoes.

  Maybe a mining town.

  Not that its presence helped pinpoint her location. The breadth of the DRC was peppered with diggings, pitheads, oil fields, and lumber mills. Even this colonial settlement was unnoteworthy. Hundreds of such abandoned places—trading posts, tiny missionaries, hunting camps—dotted the forest, long forgotten and reclaimed by the jungle.

  She gazed at the centerpiece of the plaza as they passed it. An old brick church hunched at the edge. Through the open doors, she could spot pews made of cinder blocks and planks. A small bell hung in its tiny steeple.

  Past the church, half-buried in the jungle were four Quonset huts, draped in camouflage netting. She and Jameson were being marched in that direction. As they crossed alongside the church, another new building appeared. It was a windowless cinder block structure with a green metal roof. From the rough mortar between the bricks, it looked hastily constructed.

  When they reached the structure’s door—which had been left ajar by a red hose running into it—a cacophony of hoots, screeches, squawks, and caterwauls echoed out, accompanied by the stench of feces and urine and musk. Someone shouted angrily inside.

  Both Charlotte and Jameson shied away from there, but as they circled around to the back, they came upon a stack of wooden transport crates. Creatures stirred and shuffled behind the holes drilled into the boxes’ sides. The noises here were softer, fearful. She spotted a pair of leathery fingers sticking out of one hole, tugging forlornly. A fingernail bled, ripped away by the creature’s efforts to escape.

  Her heart ached at the cruelty here. She didn’t know why the animals had been captured and brought here. The bushmeat trade was always a profitable one in the jungle, as was poaching and the trade in exotics.

  Jameson expressed a grimmer assessment as he gazed back to the building’s door. “It’s a vivarium . . .”

  She looked at him. Could he be right? Are they conducting animal experiments here?

  “Keep moving,” a gruff voice ordered them.

  She glanced back to their armed escort. It was the tall Congolese soldier from last night. He forced them forward with his rifle. He had roused them at the crack of dawn, hauling them to a shower facility, ordering them to strip, tossing them a fresh pair of scrubs to change into. He had also offered a cold meal of granola bars washed down with lukewarm coffee. She had consumed everything leadenly.

  During the flight here, she had eavesdropped on the conversations around her, hoping for some explanation for the attack. She had gleaned this soldier’s name: Ekon. His European partner, the man with the bullhorn, was Draper.

  Ekon continued with them to one of the Quonset huts. They were forced through the spring-loaded door and into a small anteroom sealed off from the space inside. Through the window, she spotted a row of modern hospital beds along one wall, while stainless-steel cabinets and workstations lined the other. Across the back appeared to be a lab facility for bloodwork and cytology.

  What is going on?

  “Get dressed,” Ekon ordered them, pointing to a PPE supply of gowns, gloves, and booties.

  They obeyed. She noted the masks were PAPR, battery-powered, air-purifying respirators that covered the entire face when strapped on. She donned hers, feeling like she was about to go scuba diving.

  Once outfitted, Ekon pushed them into the medical ward. The soldier did not follow. Instead, they were passed off to his partner. Draper was similarly garbed inside, only he had a huge pistol holstered at his hip.

  “Bienvenue, Docteur Girard,” he greeted her, his voice muffled by his mask, then nodded to Jameson. He waved a hand to encompass the length of the hut. “First, let me apologize for the rough evacuation from your camp, but discretion is a matter of great importance here. And I believe you’ll find our facility far better equipped to investigate the mysterious illness spreading through the Congo.”

  Charlotte swallowed. She counted a dozen gowned and masked figures, other doctors and clinicians, all men, a mix of Europeans and Congolese. They carried themselves with a military stiffness. She was certain this hard group had not been coerced into service.

  Draper led them deeper. “The Quonset across from us has a full biosafety lab, where we have a separate team working. In here, we concentrate on clinical studies. Lab work, treatment regimens, supportive care. We currently have eleven patients, all in various stages of illness, offering a time line of progression. But we’re still early in our investigation. Much remains unknown.”

  “How . . . how long have you been here?” Jameson stuttered out.

  “Three weeks.”

  Anger momentarily drove back Charlotte’s fear. “You’ve known about this disease for that long?”

  “Non, you misunderstand. We set up this site four weeks ago. The first case was reported to us back in March, nearly six weeks ago.”

  “Over a month?” Charlotte could not hold back her outrage. “And you’ve kept quiet about it?”

  “As I said, discretion remains tantamount here. You are the first outsiders allowed to participate in our study. The consensus had been to simply shoot you two.”

  Jameson paled and backed up a step.

  Draper lifted a palm. “But I advocated for taking advantage of your knowledge and skill. It’s not like you can escape this island. And beyond discretion, time is also tantamount. We can’t clamp a lid on this matter forever.”

  “What do you expect us to do?” Charlotte asked.

  Draper shrugged. “Be useful.”

  She understood the unspoken caveat.

  Or die.

  Still, she crossed her arms. She had no doubt that any cooperation would eventually end in the same place. In an unmarked grave in the jungle. She saw little reason to help here.

  Then a thin arm raised from the row of beds, and a scared voice called her. She turned to see Disanka struggling to sit up. One of her wrists was cuffed to the metal railing. She cradled her boy in her other arm, her eyes shining with terror.

  Charlotte took a deep breath.

  I may not want to help these bastards, but I made a promise to Disanka.

  She headed toward the bed, intending to keep her word. She glanced around the bustling ward. Someone had spent a lot of capital and resources to hide and secure this location.

  But who? And why?

  7:18 A.M.

  Nolan De Coster settled behind his desk on the second floor of the refurbished colonial inn, once the former guesthouse of the Belka rubber plantation here on the island. A decade ago, he had converted the site into a rustic private fishing and hunting camp. He had hosted ambassadors, business moguls, royal family members, even African warlords.

  Whatever it took to expand his influence and maintain his chokehold.

  He had paneled his office in exotic African woods, a rich mix of ebony, bubinga, and zebrawood. Shelves and walls were adorned with masks, headdresses, carved bowls, and soapstone fetishes from across the continent, many of which were centuries old. Behind his desk, he had mounted a priceless Benin Bronze plaque from the royal altars of the Oba tribe in Nigeria, and under glass, a gold crown stolen from Abyssinia back in the nineteenth century.

  He found it amusing to have that crown in the case behind him. When guests were seated across from him, it looked as if the gold coronet rested atop his head, crowning him some king of Africa.

  Nolan’s father would have disapproved of such a display—while also being secretly envious. His father had been a viscount of Belgian royalty, with a bloodline going back to kings, maybe even to Leopold II, who once owned these lands. But his family had been penniless by the time Nolan was born, most of it gambled away, leaving them rich only in title.

  Besides the De Coster name, his father—a math teacher in Ghent—had also gifted Nolan with a love of numbers. Nolan had studied at ULB, the Université libre de Bruxelles, where he had completed a doctorate in applied mathematics, with an emphasis on industrial design. Thirty years later, at the age of fifty-six, he was a billionaire ten times over.

  It was while working on his thesis, on the discrete mathematics of open-pit mining, he recognized an opportunity. In the late nineties, the mining industry in the DRC had fallen into disarray following the First Congo War. Identifying this, Nolan had secured scores of mining contracts throughout the Congo’s copper belt at nearly no cost. Over the next decades, he leveraged those rights into interests in cobalt, tantalum, coltan, diamonds, and oil. Others had tried to rush in, but he was already well established, ensuring his dominance.

  Until recently . . .

  The Chinese had arrived a few years after the Second Congo War. The new fighting had left the country’s infrastructure in ruins. The communist politburo came in with wheelbarrows of capital. They cleverly tied their construction of new roads, railways, and hydroelectric dams to the acquisition of mineral rights. They offered with one hand and took with the other. Backed by the might of the communist state, western companies could not compete.

  Not even De Coster Mining & Industry.

  Nolan had tried to negotiate with the Chinese, to work out mutually beneficial contracts, but he quickly recognized the futility. Chinese economic development was fueled by copper and cobalt—and they were ruthless in their pursuit to control those resources.