A man who had found us worthy—even when the tree did not.

  Kowalski’s face scrunched. “Offering us what?”

  “The answer.” Benjie stared down with a measure of horror at the ndop still in his hands. He shoved it at Gray. “Ngedi mu ntey in ngedi mu ntey.”

  Gray translated as he accepted the carving, “Kuba Box in Kuba Box.” He stared across at the group, hoping he was right. “The Kuba keep their most precious tokens in such treasured boxes, but to preserve their most precious of all . . .”

  “They might put a box inside another box,” Benjie said. “Like a pair of Russian nesting dolls.”

  All eyes fixed on Gray.

  He examined the figurine more closely. His fingers ran over the black wood, harvested from the roots of the mother tree. Then he finally spotted it: a silvery vein that circled under Sheppard’s chin.

  With a grimace of fear, Gray gripped the figurine’s head and twisted hard. After three attempts, the top of the carving unscrewed, revealing it was as hollow as the trunk of the same tree.

  Gray tilted the figure—and poured a fine powder into his palm.

  Each grain glowed a bright silver.

  Shining with the hope of salvation.

  29

  April 25, 10:22 A.M. CAT

  Katwa Mining District, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  From the helm of his yacht, Nolan De Coster stared at the destruction he had wrought. It was one matter to consider it from a distance. It was another to see it up close.

  He guided the sixty-foot vessel down the river past the ruins of the former mine. He gazed at the massive crater, which still smoldered. A new tributary split off from the river and drained into the smoky basin, slowly filling it, forming a toxic lake.

  On the other side of the river, the jungle had been knocked flat, bulldozed by huge barges that had been blown into the dense forest. Their hulks would likely rust in place for centuries, serving as giant monuments to his power.

  Most other men might be appalled at the level of destruction. He only felt a thrill, part pride, part awe.

  This is my handiwork.

  It was a crowning achievement, one that far outshone any centuries-old artifact. He stared across at the Abyssinian ceremonial headdress, adorned in gold and jewels. It rested next to him on the helm. He had absconded with the treasure as he abandoned his office and fled down the private stairs to the ATV. He’d had no trouble making it unmolested to the armored ship. With Ngoy’s help, he had been able to quickly cast off and head downriver.

  He stared behind him as he cleared the blast site.

  He pictured the same level of destruction out in the mountains to the east.

  While motoring away from the island, he had received confirmation of the successful bombing. He had also arranged for a helicopter to rendezvous another mile downriver, to airlift him to Cairo, then to his offices in Belgium.

  There would be legal storms to weather after all of this, but he was a survivor. His billions would be a castle that no country or army could breach. He would use his wealth to rewrite history, to paint himself as a savior as his corporation funded hospitals throughout the Congo during the plague. Likewise, he would silence any detractors, bribe and blackmail and coerce his way to keep his stranglehold on this region.

  He reached over and placed a palm atop the gold crown, knowing it was his birthright, as was all of Central Africa.

  And soon the entire continent.

  A shuffle of boots drew his attention from the wheel. He turned to the door of the wheelhouse as Ngoy appeared, freshly showered, looking far less terrified.

  Ngoy pointed downriver. “How much longer until the helicopter—”

  Nolan backed from the researcher, his heart choking his throat.

  Ngoy read the terror in his face and ducked around with a flinch. As he did, he revealed what had quietly leaped up from the stern deck and landed behind the wheelhouse, trapping its prey.

  The massive jungle cat bristled, a mountain of shimmering black fur. Even in the light of day, it looked more shadow than flesh. Out of that darkness, golden amber eyes glared coldly. White whiskers spiked from snarled lips. It didn’t make a sound. The bared scimitars of its fangs were threat enough.

  Ngoy screamed.

  The cat struck out with a single paw. Claws slashed the man’s head, ripping his face clean off, spinning him full around. Still, Ngoy screamed through torn flesh and bloody bone. The man crashed to the floor, writhing in agony.

  The cat stalked over him, ignoring his wails.

  The researcher was not the beast’s primary target.

  Nolan knew this.

  For weeks, he had brutally tortured the cat during its captivity, earning its wrath. The altered beast must have lain in wait in one of the lower holds, possibly drawn by Nolan’s scent that permeated the ship.

  Nolan backed to the starboard side, toward an open window in the wheelhouse.

  The cat paced him, toying, only now growling a note of fury.

  Nolan turned and dove for the opening. Claws caught the back of his leg, ripped through linen and skin and meat. Still, he made it through the window. He tumbled and crashed two stories into the river. The dark waters swirled and frothed around his flailing limbs.

  Panicked, he sputtered up and kicked toward shore. His torn leg burned underwater, but he did not relent.

  Have to get hidden.

  The yacht motored past him, the engine still engaged, but unmanned now—or nearly so. A glance back showed the cat leaning out the window. As claws dug into the sill, it raised its head, stretched its neck, and roared at the world.

  In that moment, Nolan knew he was far from the king of this land, of these jungles. He kicked harder, praying for some measure of providence, even mercy. It was granted as he saw the yacht angle away from him, aiming for the far shore, carrying the beast with it.

  He swam faster.

  The forest rose higher ahead of him.

  Nearly there.

  A shatter of wood and a crunch of steel drew his attention across the river. The ship nosed hard into the far bank, driving deep into the jungle’s edge. Once it came to a stop, a dark shadow leaped and vanished into its depths.

  Nolan kicked the last distance to shore. He studied the river, searching for any attempt by the cat to swim to this side. So far, the jungle over there remained dark and impenetrable. He let out a sigh of relief as he reached the riverbank and kicked and crawled out of the water and sprawled flat in the mud. The recent floods had begun to recede, leaving tall slippery slopes stripped of vegetation.

  Can’t stop.

  He dug his toes into the earth and fought his way up the steep bank. The slick mud resisted him. It was made all the more difficult as his legs began to tremor, rapidly weakening. His fingers dug hard, trying to claw for purchase. But his hands refused to cooperate. He thought it was panicked exhaustion—then remembered.

  He twisted to stare at the tears in his leg, streaming blood, showing muscle.

  Even the wound wasn’t the issue.

  His body continued to succumb to the poison in the cat’s claws. Nolan’s research team had identified it. A derivative of the succinylcholine, a drug used by anesthesiologists as a neuromuscular blocker. The compound paralyzed muscles, but it left one fully conscious and capable of feeling everything, including pain.

  As his limbs grew progressively more leaden, he sagged into the mud. Fearing suffocation, he found the energy to roll onto his back. Unable to stop, he slid down to the water’s edge.

  The pain in his leg persisted. He felt hot blood running along his thigh and across his chilled calf. The paralysis made it harder to breathe, but he forced his ribs up and down.

  Just have to wait it out.

  The poison wasn’t deadly on its own. Over time, an hour at best, it would fade.

  He held out hope.

  He shouldn’t have.

  He knew the Congo better than that.

  His blood trailed through the water, pooled in the mud around him. It drew the jungle to him—ready to feast on the king of Africa.

  First came the crabs.

  30

  May 29, 10:42 A.M. CAT

  Kisangani, Democratic Republic of the Congo

  On the third floor of the University of Kisangani’s science building, Charlotte leaned over Frank, resting a hand on his shoulder.

  Dr. Lisa Cummings flanked on one side, Benjie on the other.

  They had gathered for the virologist’s daily briefing in his makeshift biolab. The original facility on the fourth floor was still under reconstruction following the firebombing last month. Frank’s new space was only one of countless research labs around the world currently working on recovery efforts.

  “I think I’m beginning to understand how this virus works,” Frank said. “At least in regard to a patient’s neurological recovery.”

  Lisa leaned closer. “Show us.”

  The American doctor had been assisting Charlotte, along with a team of clinicians from around the world. It had been a little over a month since they had secured the counteractant to the stubborn Omniviridae—as the pathogen had come to be called, courtesy of Frank’s original nickname for it. The virus still maintained a stubborn beachhead in the Congo. Cases continued to trickle in from outlying villages and towns, but at least the deluge had slowed.

  Progress was being made.

  Still, not much was understood regarding the cure.

  “Look at this,” Frank said.

  On the screen, he brought up a giant virus that looked nearly identical to Omniviridae, at least in outward appearances. According to Frank, this new one was slightly larger and had twenty-two percent more genes. Otherwise, it was just as spiky as its malicious cousin. The new girus had been discovered encysted in the crystals that Benjie’s group had brought out of the jungle.

  Frank had been the first to revive it, which apparently wasn’t all that unusual. Several years ago, a girus had been discovered in the Siberian permafrost. It had been frozen for thirty thousand years, yet once thawed, it came back to life.

  Due to the historical context attesting to the powder’s curative powers, Frank and Lisa had run a clinical trial among the worst afflicted at the hospital, those near to death. Miraculously, in less than a day, all the patients treated with the encysted virus had begun to revive. Since then, thousands had been treated, including Charlotte.

  Afterward, the virus had been dubbed Tyende kubicum, named after the tribesman who had helped Benjie’s group acquire the crystalline powder. If it wasn’t for Tyende’s century-long vigil, preserving such knowledge against a future threat, none of this would’ve been possible.

  “Up until now,” Frank said, “I had been focused on Tyende’s DNA. Which continues to be a mystery. Not a single gene in that bugger is recognizable. I suspect it will take us decades before we can fully understand it—if we ever do.”

  “Then what did you learn?” Lisa asked. “What was your breakthrough?”

  Frank pointed to the spikes crowning the virus. “At first, I thought these were identical to Omniviridae’s spikes—those peptide strings that act like prions and knock out a person’s higher cerebral functions.”

  “They’re not?” Charlotte asked.

  “Ah, but they are.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “They’re identical in composition—but not in shape! Tyende’s spikes are actually mirror images of those sprouting from Omniviridae. They’re cis and trans isomers of each other.” He turned to the group. “That’s why Tyende is so good at waking patients, treating their diminished neurological capacity. Its spikes bind to the Omniviridae’s pathologic ones, like a key fitting a lock, neutralizing them until the body can flush them out.”

  “Fascinating,” Benjie said.

  “I still need to do more studies.” Frank turned to Charlotte. He reached to her hand, still on his shoulder, and squeezed her fingers. “But recovering my laptop, with all the data from De Coster’s research still on it, has proven to be a goldmine. The world wouldn’t be as far along this recovery curve without it.”

  She smiled, feeling a blush of warmth. They had been spending countless hours together. He had remained at her bedside throughout her recovery.

  Charlotte freed her hand and sought to change the subject. She turned to Benjie. “Um, what about your own studies? Into the mutations, the aberrations? I understand that incidences and encounters are still being reported.”

  He nodded, his expression serious. “They seem to be slowly abating. Ndaye and his eco-guards have collected a slew of specimens. So far, most appear to be mules, unable to reproduce, presenting as a single generational abnormality. But I doubt all of them are so compromised. Like those jackals we encountered who were guarding their pups. They had clearly bred successfully. But only time will tell for sure.”

  Lisa turned to the biologist. “What about the pilot program to crop dust the Tyende virus across the Congo? Could that help stem the tide, smother those last bastions of Omniviridae still smoldering in the jungle?”

  Benjie shrugged. “We can’t even begin to fathom what the Tyende virus is capable of. Like Dr. Whitaker said, it’s a genetic puzzle box. Though I suspect the mother tree employed some form of epigenetic manipulation, to alter the virus’s genetic expression as needed, turning it into a cure all.”

  “Like a viral version of a Swiss Army knife,” Lisa said.

  Benjie smiled, looking far more boyish again. “That sounds about right.”

  Frank checked his watch, clearly ready to wind things up. “Okay, I’ll have to leave such mysteries to you all for a time. I have a flight to catch. But I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

  Charlotte winced. “He knows you did everything you could. You know that, too, right?”

  “We’ll see.”

  The group dispersed, going their separate ways. Lisa accompanied Charlotte across the lawns and bright morning sunshine to reach the hospital. The entire second floor was dedicated to patients with the disease. They climbed up to the ward and prepared for another long day.

  As Charlotte dressed in her PPE, she spotted Faraji past the glass partition. He was seated at a bedside, speaking animatedly, using his hands as much as his mouth. With so many patients from remote villages, many only spoke their native tongue. Add in doctors from around the world, and the hospital found itself in desperate need of a universal translator—and the young shaman-in-training certainly seemed to fit that bill. From talking with Faraji, it was clear he intended to carry on and preserve Woko Bosh’s tribal lore, while absorbing and incorporating all he could about Western medicine.

  Lisa pointed at the ward. “Looks like there are even more empty beds than yesterday.”

  Charlotte nodded. “Still, I’ll be relieved when we can close this place down for good.”

  “We’ll get there. Until then, don’t forget to savor your victories.” Lisa motioned down the hall. “No matter how small they are.”

  Charlotte turned to see Disanka coming toward her. The woman had returned for her recheck—and not just her.

  Charlotte hurried over, her arms out. “Let me see him.”

  With a huge smile, Disanka passed the baby to her.

  Charlotte cradled his little form, his tiny legs battering her.

  Disanka drew closer, placing a palm atop his tiny head. “Name him Woko.”

  Warmth swept through Charlotte at this revelation. “That’s perfect . . . just perfect.”

  She pictured the shaman who had given his life to save them, who came such a long way with the Kuba Box. But more so, while Woko’s treatment with the yellow powder might not have healed the child, it had bought the boy enough additional time to survive until a cure could be found.

  If not for Woko, the child would not be alive.

  Charlotte lifted the boy higher. As he stared down at her, he wiggled and burbled and blew snot bubbles. She smiled back.

  Yes, this small victory is enough for anyone.

  1:22 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Gray sat in the waiting room. Nurses bustled behind the tall white desk. Behind them, black lettering graced the sleek wood paneling. It read MEDSTAR GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL. The specialized unit was dedicated to bone marrow and stem cell transplantation.

  Kowalski was roomed down the hall, finishing his treatment, with his fiancée, Maria, in attendance. He had completed his two rounds of chemotherapy, which had knocked out his bone marrow. Today, they were restocking those depleted shafts with new stem cells. The apheresis team—the nurses and doctors who had collected those cells—had been going in and out of his private room.

  “When is Seichan due back?” Painter asked from the seat next to him, drawing Gray’s attention.

  Gray straightened and cleared his throat. “Two days.”

  She had extended her visit in Hong Kong with little Jack by two weeks. The boy’s grandmother had demanded more time with him, and she was not a woman to be refused. Still, Gray had never been separated from Seichan and his son for this long. His knee bobbed up and down, as if his very body were marking the time until their return.

  “Is she still angry?” Painter asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  Gray suspected that was part of the reason for her delayed return, as punishment. While she was happy he’d returned in one piece, she was still peeved to have missed out on all of the excitement.

  He shifted his body, turning to Painter, ready to change the subject. “Has there been any sign of Nolan De Coster?”

  Painter sighed. “Kat’s been beating the bushes, rallying intelligence services around the globe. But it’s like he’s vanished off the face of the Earth.”