The Virus (26 page)

“Number Four — we learn that a woman from Marburg whom I believe to be Frau Matthofer, the Professor in charge of the clinic in Marburg at the time of the first outbreak, came to Burundi shortly after that outbreak and has been living as a recluse up there in the mountains surrounded by a tribe of monkeys.

“Number Five — we believe that the taboo which surrounds the mountain crest where Frau Matthofer and the monkeys live is associated not with the presence of a royal burial ground but with the fact that those who visit the summit are supposed to contract some strange sickness.

“Number Six — in so far as the taboo is associated with the supposed presence on the summit of an
ibigaribo
, the indications are that this story might have been put around at a later date and might have been designed deliberately to reinforce the idea in the local people’s minds that Lwungi was a dangerous place. Do you follow me so far? Peter? Helga?”

“Are you suggesting,” Peter Lustig asked, “that the monkeys on the top of Mount Lwungi might be the ones which carry this so-called Marburg virus?”

“Yes. That is precisely what I am suggesting,” Stephanie replied. “I’m suggesting that somehow the references we have to a tribe of green monkeys living in Zaire were wrong. I’m suggesting that the real green monkeys may be right here in Burundi, living with Frau Matthofer on the top of Mount Lwungi.”

Peter Lustig rose to his feet and walked to the window. The outline of the mountains opposite were still dimly visible as night fell.

He turned back to Stephanie.

“Wake Kodjo up,” he said.

“What for?”

“He’s seen the monkeys on Lwungi, hasn’t he? He must know what colour they are.”

Roused from his torpor, Kodjo was only too happy to reply to their questions.

“You say what colour are the monkeys on Lwungi, miss?” He put his head on one side and thought about the problem.

Finally he said: “The monkeys on Lwungi, Miss Stephanie, are the colour of the grass which springs up around the dry waterhole after the first rain of the season.”

“Are they
green
monkeys, Kodjo?”

“Oh yes, miss,” Kodjo burst out laughing. “That’s the word. Green.”

“Goodness!” Stephanie was exhilarated. “Why didn’t you say so before.”

“You never asked me.” Kodjo rolled about with laughter.

Stephanie made up her mind.

“I’m going up the mountain. Will you come with me, Kodjo? You’re not afraid of the taboo? Or of the sickness?”

“No, miss, I’m not afraid. The sickness will not touch Kodjo. I know the monkeys. When do we leave, miss?”

“Tomorrow morning, Kodjo. Can we do that?”

“Any time you say. I’m ready. I show you the way up the mountain.”

When Stephanie Verusio went to bed that night, she tossed and turned, thinking about the monkeys and about the old woman. Once she found herself wondering what had happened to Lowell Kaplan. Did the man know that the massacre in Zaire had been pointless? What would he say if he
did
know? What glib excuse would he come up with? She went to sleep at last, her mind still on Kaplan and her thoughts a strange mixture of anger and longing.

They left at dawn. The mists still swirled across the opposing peaks and only as they climbed did the enveloping wreaths of cloud thin out. The forest itself was breathtaking in its splendour. This was no secondary growth. It was the pristine jungle, its glorious canopy spread out against the roots of the sky.

Kodjo was Stephanie’s sole companion. The Lustigs had wished to come with her, but she had dissuaded them.

“Let me go only with him,” she had said. “I think it’s better. Four of us will inevitably make more noise than two. In any case, if these are the monkeys which harbour the virus, you will need protection to go near them. I am protected by serum and Kodjo has probably developed some natural immunity from living close to the monkeys. But you two should stay behind.”

Reluctantly the Lustigs had agreed.

Even two made enough noise, thought Stephanie, as they pressed on upwards. Branches snapped underfoot however warily they trod. Birds started overhead and small animals darted across the path, veering crazily into the bush as soon as they caught sight of the intruders.

It took them the best part of two hours to cover the first thousand feet. The going was rough and in places the path had almost disappeared. More than once Kodjo had to slash away with his panga at a tangle of creeper and tendril. They pushed on regardless. If the old woman could come down from the mountain to the village, they could go up from the village to the mountain.

“Her camp is the other side of the summit, on the Ruanda side,” Kodjo told her. “I saw it once before when I came up here.”

They were moving along the contour of the hill now, about five hundred feet below the summit. Stephanie took out the field-glasses, but the foliage was impenetrable. The danger was that, without forewarning, they would simply stumble on the old woman unawares with unpredictable consequences.

Kodjo realized the problem. “If we climb to the very top,” he said, “we can look down into the jungle. We may be able to see the camp from above where we cannot see it through the trees.”

By noon, with the sun vertically above them (for they were almost on the Equator), they had reached their objective. The view from the summit of Mount Lwungi was breathtaking. North, south, east and west — the hills and forests rolled away. From the vantage-point which they enjoyed, they could — virtually — see the whole of Burundi. For a moment Stephanie wondered whether, after all, Lwungi was not the site of some ancient burial ground. If I were the King of Burundi, she thought, I wouldn’t mind being buried here with my whole kingdom in view.

After she had let the field-glasses range for a while over the horizon, she turned to the scene nearer at hand. It was extraordinary how the forest canopy, which from a distance seemed to be a solid wall of green beneath them, was transformed by the magnification of the glasses into a shimmering variegated expanse where individual trees could be distinguished, and branches on those trees and even the animals moving on the branches.

Suddenly she clasped Kodjo’s arm. “Look, down there!” she cried. “Monkeys! I think they’re green monkeys too. In that clump of trees by the outcrop of rock. Here,” she handed him the glasses.

It took Kodjo a few seconds to find the target. “Yes,” he said at last. “You are right. Those are the monkeys. The old woman will not be far away.”

They spotted the clearing almost immediately.

“Good God!” Stephanie exclaimed, having retrieved the glasses from her companion. “There’s a whole complex hidden in the trees down there.”

This time Kodjo needed no mechanical assistance. Once Stephanie had pointed it out, he could distinguish with his naked eye a series of huts which had been built around the perimeter of a clearing in the forest. Nor did he need any help in distinguishing the old woman as she came out of one of the huts. The crablike shuffle which Stephanie had noted in the course of their one brief encounter at the village market had disappeared. The old woman strode purposefully across the open circle.

“There she is, Kodjo! There’s the old woman. Do you see her?”

“I see her, miss. And I see the other men too.”

“What do you mean?”

But before Kodjo had time to answer, Stephanie saw for herself what he meant.

For two people had followed Frau Matthofer out into the clearing. One was a white man, about forty years old. Stephanie had a clear view of his face through the glasses and she knew she had never seen him before. The other was black, tall and handsome. She gave a start of surprise as she recognized Victor Mtaza.

“Look, Kodjo! That’s Victor Mtaza. What’s he doing here?”

Kodjo just had time to observe them through the field-glasses before the old woman and her two visitors disappeared into a hut at the other side of the clearing.

“Yes.” He lowered the glasses. “You are right. That’s Victor Mtaza. I don’t know what he is doing here, miss, but I’m sure he’s up to no good. Victor Mtaza is bad music, miss. Very bad music.”

“We can find out, Kodjo.”

“You want me to go down?”

“No. I’ll go myself. You wait for me here.”

“Are you sure? It will be dangerous.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” As she spoke, Stephanie realized that she had never felt surer of anything in her whole life.

Seen from near at hand, the huts formed a distinct pattern around the circle of the clearing. As Stephanie crept closer, she realized that the one on the far side was clearly the place where Frau Matthofer lived. A line of washing was hung out alongside and the assorted garments, most of them very much the worse for wear, flapped limply in the breeze. There was a porch of sorts, and a faded deck-chair had been placed so as to catch the late afternoon sun. The hut had a chimney and Stephanie could visualize the old woman lighting a fire against the chill of the evening.

She crawled past the hut and round the edge of the clearing, taking care to stay under the cover of the trees.

The second hut was placed opposite the first. Its windows were barred with tough bamboo and there was a block of wood on the door which could be dropped down into position from the outside. Panting from the exertion, Stephanie raised herself on tiptoe to peer through the window of the second hut.

As she poked her head above the sill she was greeted by a sudden quick chattering. She had time to glimpse a line of monkeys in cages set around the wall before ducking out of sight once again. She crouched where she was, as she heard voices. Frau Matthofer and her visitors had obviously heard the disturbance and had come out to see what it was.

She heard the door of the hut open and the old woman talking to the animals.

“Was passiert, meine Liebchen? What is the matter, my pets?” she crooned in German. “What’s got into you? Did something frighten you?”

Stephanie sensed rather than saw the old woman come over to the window and look out into the forest. She kept low to the ground, held her breath and hoped for the best.

Inside the hut, the old woman was joined by first one, then both her visitors.

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? What is it, Irma?”

The old woman replied this time in French: “I don’t know, Louis. Something seems to have frightened them.”

“Perhaps it was a chimpanzee. Monkeys are always frightened of chimpanzees.”

“Perhaps.”

Stephanie could hear only fragments of the conversation which took place within the hut. What she could understand of it alarmed her deeply.

She recognized at one point the deep booming voice of Victor Mtaza.

“Two weeks from now, Irma, and it’s all finished anyway. Your job will be over. Louis here will organize the last shipments — the normal route.”

“Brussels?”

“Yes, through Brussels.”

When she heard Brussels mentioned, bells rang in Stephanie’s mind. She remembered that Kaplan had spoken of a man called Louis — Louis Vincennes — the son of Count Philippe Vincennes. He had said that Louis had been away in Africa at the time of his visit to Belgium. Could it be the same man?

Before she had time to pursue this line of thought, she heard the old woman intervene.

“And after Brussels? Will there be any further transshipments? My monkeys hate long journeys, you know.”

Stephanie heard the reassuring tones of the man called Louis.

“Don’t worry. After Brussels, they’ll fly straight to Moscow. Plenty of food and water for all of them, I promise you.”

“Ah!” Frau Matthofer sounded deeply relieved.

Before Stephanie had time to digest what she had just heard, the old woman spoke again.

“What will happen to the monkeys who are left behind? I don’t want them to be harmed. They are my children, you know. I love them.” There was a beseeching, almost terrified, note in her voice.

“Don’t worry, Irma,” Stephanie heard Victor reply. “No harm will come to the animals that are left. They will live in the forest just as they have always done.”

Stephanie could tell from the intonation in Victor Mtaza’s voice that the man was lying but somehow Frau Matthofer missed it.

“Good,” the old woman’s gratitude was unmistakable. “I could not bear it if they were harmed. Gentlemen,” suddenly she became brisk and businesslike, “can I offer you some lunch? It is modest fare I am afraid, but I was able to visit the village the other day — at my age I find the climb tough going — and I have acquired some fresh fruit. Here I am surrounded by so much greenery,” Stephanie could imagine the old woman spreading her hands, “and yet fresh fruit is a luxury. Oh yes, and I got some new batteries for my radio so I will be able to hear the signal about the next shipment. Stay here, gentlemen. I’ll call you when lunch is ready.”

The old woman left the hut and the two men followed her out. But instead of crossing the clearing after her, they stayed where they were — talking.

“Poor Irma,” Victor Mtaza said. “She doesn’t know yet. She mustn’t know.”

“Know what?”

There was a hint of impatience in Mtaza’s reply.

“About the monkeys of course, Louis. They’re doomed. All of them are doomed. Once you have got your last plane-load out of Bujumbura, those that are left have to be destroyed. Utterly and completely. Down to the last one.”

For five minutes Stephanie lay there in the undergrowth digesting what she had heard. What did the reference to Moscow mean? Why were the green monkeys being shipped out from Burundi to Russia? Why did Victor Mtaza say that in two weeks the operation would be finished? What operation? The only thing Stephanie realized with absolute clarity was that she could no longer handle this one on her own. There were forces at play far beyond her poor power to comprehend. But the problem was: whom to ask to help? Who were friends? Who were enemies? Or were the enemies, like Lowell Kaplan, really friends? Deep down, she wished she could be friends with Kaplan. Whatever their differences, she found herself missing him.

From the hut across the clearing came the murmur of mealtime conversation. Stephanie judged it safe to proceed. But before she left, she wanted to visit the third hut, the hut to which Frau Matthofer had first taken her visitors.