The Republic Of Zaiander

The Democratic Republic of Zaiander Doctor Pierre Danjou was once again surprised that for a man as well travelled as he prided himself to be, the novelty of flying had not yet worn thin. Instead he found himself baffled by his co-travellers ability to treat it with such complete contempt. It struck him as unimaginative, closed minded even, that they cared no more for traversing the dark blue sky high above foreign lands than they did for travelling by more terrestrial means. It was in his mind, he mused, both an enduring marvel of mankind’s technological ability, and a marvel of nature to be able look out at the living earth below -the yellow-green marbled lands of Africa far below thin wraiths of cloud. He recognised that his enduring awe of this miracle may at least be in part due to his complete distrust of it. His ears had become so finely tuned to the slight fluctuations in the engines noise that its presence and familiar patterns could offer assurance that there was tangible physical forces besides his own personal will power keeping the plane aloft. Each turbulent drop or over-extravagant roll in the planes pitch at the controls of an unsympathetic automated pilot made an adrenaline filled lump rise in his throat –the foreboding that something terrible was about to befall him, countered only by the rationalisation that it never does. Pierre’s colleagues travelling with him were ignorant of this ambivalence, and observed only his usual unmoved silence and dedication as he alternated his attention dutifully between the window and his papers neatly arranged on the table around which they sat. Africa was even more beautiful from the air than from the ground, he decided, as he buried himself in that distraction from his mortal danger. He watched the dark blue expanse of Lake Victoria in the distance, far away to the south surrounded by the brown mountains and lush green of Uganda. Below him, just visible ahead of the leading edge of the jets backswept triangular wing was the arid yellow of the south Sudanese desert. From here the knowledge that this continent was rife with poverty and starvation became abstract, it was inconceivable that the green belt of central Africa could be any thing but a land of plenty –but then again for some it was. At what point was it he fell so in love with this land? Undoubtedly it was over no one event, nor even a particular year. It was an affection that seemed to have creped up on him over the years he had worked there. There was no pre-emptive sympathy before his arrival over a decade ago, rather the opposite truth-be-told. He had arrived -he begrudgingly acknowledged to himself- with some of the same pompous and arrogant superiority he had now grown to despise in many of his colleges, especially in those of whom had been here even longer than him. Allowing himself to be distracted for a moment longer he looked across the table to the youngest member of his team of four, Ryan Tailor. He was looking, Pierre was glad to note, wide eyed out of the window. “What do you see when you look out there?” Pierre asked the lad. “What do I see?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The other two sat around the table broke off their political debate and the young man found himself the sudden centre of attention. Pierre notice how conscious of his age he seemed, as if somehow his youthfulness betrayed him naked before them. “How’d you mean, what do I see?” He smiled uncomfortably.

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“I’ll tell you what I see, Dr. Danjou,” The man sat beside Tailor now leaned over to his rescue, pointing almost accusingly out of the window. “I see the last remnant of the third world, a corrupt, war fixated shambles of a continent that sits on all the potential wealth, and is in receipt of all the international aid it requires to pull itself up out of the gutter, but is hampered solely by its’ remarkable disinclination to do so.” Tailor turned his gaze expectantly towards the doctor as the man who had just spoken straitened up smartly back into his chair pretending not to notice the awkward silence that followed Pierre’s lack of response. The outspoken Ian Brooker had held at the prime of his career a respectable position within the USA’s pentagon, but had since taken on a less stressful job and had been for many years now working for the United Nations. Formerly based in their comfortable Peking offices where he had been comparing notes on matters of national security with the Chinese government, he now found himself begrudgingly transferred to this team under the command of the most peculiar Dr. Pierre Danjou and in collaboration between the UN and the African Union. As a result of which his distaste for the land had become heightened. Sat opposite him and beside Pierre was Robert Allenby, who had worked alongside the doctor back in London. Pierre had made a name for himself heading London Transport Police’s anti-terror branch, and in doing so had helped raise Allenby by association. They had both moved on also to work for the UN, Pierre as advisor within the UN-African Union Partnership, and Allenby sharing his time and expertise between African and Middle Eastern states. Allenby decided to lighten the air. “I really don’t understand what you see in this place Pierre. I mean sure it’s a beautiful land, rich in culture at least, but there is a world out side Africa.” He said though a diplomat’s smile. “A world that could also benefit from your experience.” Although they had worked together for several years Pierre was far from overjoyed at the prospect of this re-union. He particularly disliked the presumptuous use of his first name; something he had never done in London, and that only seemed to amplify the Englishman’s irritating ‘Oxbridge Tongue’ as he once proudly dubbed it. “Not today there isn’t, Allenby, least not for us. We are here to help the Zaiandian government, and until our work is done let us focus on them.” He said. Allenby nodded gently and resumed his reading until ten minuets later when the restless Brooker re-engaged him in political debate. Their flight aboard the small jet was soon to be over, completing the transition from Addis Ababa in Kenya to Kisangani, the Zaiandian Capital. Addis Ababa was the Home to the African Unions’ central assembly and it was there the four were mustered, rapidly briefed, and hurriedly flown out. The briefing, the notes of which he now read through, was amazingly uninformative in the light of what he had already learned from the extensive media coverage. This confirmed his suspicion that the AU didn’t really know what had happened and had given way to the same easy speculations as the world’s media. The case set out before them was conceptually simple, if politically very complex. Eleven men staying on the same floor of the same hotel in the Zaiandian capital, all of whom were put up by Shinyota. Shinyota being a multinational Chinese electronics company with a string of local factories, and thus a big employer in the local area who like to boast of the millions they bring to the local economy. Of these eleven men, nine where Chinese businessmen, one African AU delegate, and the only

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non-Chinese Shinyota board member: an Iranian. They all attended the same conference also held within the hotel, and dined at the same restaurant but did so along side many other delegates from other floors and other hotels all attending the same conference. Within forty-eight hours of their arrival, and within twenty-four hours of each other all the nine Chinese were dead. They were admitted to hospital with severe flulike symptoms including vomiting and a soaring fever, only to pass into a coma and rapidly die. The African and the Arab remained perfectly well. The local hospitals could do nothing for them, and initial post mortems failed to identify the disease. A Chinese forensic team having persuaded the Government not to incinerate the bodies performed its own analysis, which returned the prognosis that has shifted global attention to this small corner of the world: the disease was a racially selective virus. A man made genetically modified flu virus that targets the oriental genotype, an act of bio-terrorism. The point of contamination was found to be after much speculation and forensic testing in the most unlikely of places, the elevator button to the floor of the eleven men. They managed to ascertain the virus was adhered to the metal surface in a protective thin film. The virus seems unable to survive once it has been removed from the adhesive that rapidly rubs free from frequent use; so it soon decontaminates potentially covering the planter’s trail. Many guests and workers alike will have used that lift, pressed that button, but only and every Chinese to press that button died. Neither the Zaiandian government nor the hard pushed AU could provide any more answers in the months that followed. The Chinese government along with many other oriental states soon began demanding answers. Who made it? Who used it? What are you doing to stop it happening again? And have been doing so with progressively aggressive dialog. Pierre’s team is part of a larger international effort to resolve the crises before it escalates. The engine drone stopped abruptly, noticed only by the eager ears of Pierre. The compression jets that had kicked in shortly after take off to accelerate the jet to ride its own sonic barrier, were now switched off. Pierre imagined the invisible barrier out run the jet to disperse before it as it glided to the destination on its own momentum, rapidly decelerating as it did so. The back ridge of the wing visibly warped to curl upwards lifting the jets nose so that it descended slightly belly first increasing its drag. Before long they where close enough to the ground to see individual people milling about their daily lives though busy streets about a city that seemed to rise up about the descending plane beneath a bright blue sky. Turbine engines came on for a few seconds as the jet queued for the runway, and then coasted in to a perfectly smooth landing. Government officials greeted them over-warmly as they disembarked the jet to be guided quickly or as Pierre felt, bundled rather unceremoniously into a stretched car, and then driven to the Zaiandian Police Commission building quarter of an hour away. The city as the four saw it was very clean and tidy, almost the very model of a modern capital, bar the fact that nearly all the cars –not inclusive of their own- were driven manually. None of the cars occupants were naïve enough to believe what they saw was in any way indicative of the city, nor anywhere else in the country for that matter. The city centre of this capital had undergone an extensive campaign of ‘Modernisation’ as the Zaiandan government had proclaimed it. All that was unsightly was removed. Whether it was people’s homes, rundown industry or dirty market streets, all was demolished to make way for a city within a city. A city that would attract foreign investments by making a climate that would not discomfort them. The

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centre was a shiny clean and superficial showcase for foreigners, and a matter of much grievance to the surrounding areas. Movement in and out of the walled-off ‘Modernised Zone’ was regulated by checkpoints that could be passed only on receipt of either a pass or bribe. After a brief introduction they where given a second briefing for the day, this time by the countries senior members of the police and security services. They found themselves sat around a large oval wooden table in a room void of windows with off white walls. Sat opposite the four were the foreign sectary, the head of police, the head of internal security and several other officials of undisclosed office. They had no real news, but instead insisted on going over old facts and taking ‘this wonderful opportunity’ amidst ‘such regrettable circumstances’ to thank the four gentlemen and the UN, and to pledge their support in every-which-way and so on. The boring familiar niceties that Pierre had heard before, and returned so many times they had became like robotic actions to him, impersonal, inhuman, automated. “Do you have any further leads as to the perpetrators?” Brooker cut to the chase. “No new leads.” “What exactly are your leads?” “Forensic teams are still analysing samples of the virus; we are expecting more developments from them.” “There is little doubt as to the culprits.” The Chief of police claimed. “There is a lack of evidence, but it will be the work of the ZRA” “The Zaiandian Revolutionary Army.” Pierre said. “Have they issued a statement yet?” “No.” said the foreign sectary. The ZRA called themselves an army, when in truth they were dis-organised anti-establishment militants, labelled a terrorist organisation by the AU. They represented a growing popularist movement that was still a minority. They drew on popular support from the surrounding countryside, but enjoyed little influence over the cities where they could not range undetected. “This is just another attempt to impinge upon the well-being and stability of this government. They are murderous extremists who have finally realised they are defeated and have become desperate.” He continued. This they knew was not true. The war with the ZRA was almost as old as Zaiander itself, and a virtual stalemate had been reached. They lived in the mountains and in the jungles; they initially attacked only government property, but in recent years had shifted their focus to the foreign industry they blamed for Africa’s woes. The ZRA recruited support by rewarding peasant villages for their loyalties by sharing their loot, often medical supplies and food raided from the government. They were reminiscent, if only to Pierre’s imagination of a latter-day Robin Hood’s merry men. However much the farmland peasants loved them, they feared to show open loyalty or offer refuge for fear of government reprisal, which was always violent and indiscriminate; to the horror of the international community. By the end it had become hard to see which side was the lesser evil. “Even if it was the ZRA, how did they get hold of biological weapons?” Pierre asked. “It is the meddling of the Congo.” The foreign sectary spoke, referring to Zaianders neighbour the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

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It was the answer Pierre expected, it was what the government have publicly claimed, the DR Congo officially denied and complained to the AU of such unfounded allegations. Zaiander was formed as a result of a separatist rebellion in the DR Congo of old. Aided by DR Congo’s old rivals Rwanda, Burundi, and Uganda this rebellion broke away, claiming autonomy for the lands north of the Congo River and below the Central African Republic. But the new government hails these rebels as Heroes and Martyrs, never murderous terrorists. Soon after the formation of this state the rebellion grew, initially claiming to be Congo loyalists, but later evolving into a common theme in modern Africa: anti-globalisationists. Yet another militant group against the growth of the AU, claiming it to be a puppet organisation to the developed world, and fighting to rid their lands of the developed worlds industry which they claim to make the black man the slaves of foreign economies under an auto-apartheid. The ZRA were funded covertly by the D.R. Congo. A fact they deny but leave little doubt. “The Congo made the weapons and gave, or sold them to them.” “This is still just supposition, is it not?” Requested Allenby. The question did not go down well. “Who else could it be?” One replied. “Can I respectably ask this congregation to keep its mind open at this stage. It would be very dangerous for us to jump to unfounded conclusions so soon, irrespective of how likely they appear to be.” The head of police bowed his head slightly in compliance, but no one spoke. The meeting continued for some time but managed to cover no more new ground, it became painfully clear to Pierre that they saw there presence here as no more than a token of their desire to co-operate at the international level, but in truth felt they could handle things a whole lot better without their interference. As the evening drew to an end, and the tour of their headquarters was concluded, all hands needing shaken being shook, often on several occasions, the four delegates were introduced to their personal guide and translators. Pierre found himself shaking one more hand belonging to an amiable young man of the name Menelek, who was about twenty five, short, quite stocky, with short hair. “I am first to escort you to you hotel Doctor Danjou, if you are now ready.” “Yes thank you Menelek, but please call me Pierre.” “As you like Pierre.” “I assume you live in the city then.” Pierre said as Menelek attempted to flag a taxi from the steps of the building. “I do now yes, but not always.” A taxi soon appeared and Menelek opened the door for Pierre who uncomfortably climbed in ahead of him. Menelek then made to sit in the front seat by the driver as was the custom. “Menelek,” Pierre called “come sit back here with me.” “As you wish.” He said smiling, probably for the first time in earnest. “Tell me more of yourself. I bore of talking to politicians they are not real people! Where did you live before here then?” “Well,” he started after giving the address to the driver, “I now live with my new wife outside the Modernised Zone. But once I lived in the country with my parents, who were cattle herders in a small village.” “You didn’t want to keep to the family business then?”

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“No!” He laughed. “It is a hard life but it would be a good life if there was more money in it. No I left to attend the open schools and learned English. I applied for the translators job, passed an exam and now here I am.” He smiled continually as he spoke, making Pierre feel more at ease than he had done since leaving his comfortable apartment in Addis Abba. “You speak English Pierre, but that’s not an English name is it?” “No. I am French. Born in the south, educated at university in Paris, working first in France I then moved to London, and I now work in Addis Abba.” “So you speak French and English? That is useful in this part of the world.” “That is part of the reason I was sent to work with the AU.” Menelek's face winced briefly at the mention of the AU, as if remembering a sourer flavour, but as soon as Pierre had noticed it, it had gone. “So what of your parents Menelek? Are they proud of you?” “Of course they are proud of me, they are my parents, it would be quite an achievement for me to find a line of work in which they would not be!” He grinned widely. “I earn enough money so support them. One day I will finally convince them to move in with us, but they love the open country. What of yours?” “They sound the same as yours to be honest. Unconditionally proud.” Pierre said. “How old are they?” “They are both a little over a hundred.” “I wish I could believe mine would be able live so long.” He said after a pause, trying not to look saddened. Pierre nodded sympathetically. The reason his parents were that old was the same reason Pierre was as fit as he was at fifty-four, they were genetically altered at cost to themselves: a luxury not so easily affordable to the peoples of Africa not even to those in Meneleks position. The taxi soon arrived at the hotel, which was situated at the edge of the Modernised Zone. Pierre managed at great lengths to convince Menelek to come upstairs with him and stay for a little while. Once Pierre found to his great delight the room was furnished with a bottle of fine Irish whisky Meneleks stay was extended to a long while, and at the expense of the Zaiandian government. After Menelek finally managed to part company back to his cherished wife Pierre found himself alone in the warm luxury of one of Zaianders finest hotels. Sitting by the consol watching the news in French he allowed the warm rising feeling afforded by the whiskey to carry him off to a deep sleep where he sat. As he dozed the consol screen automatically switched off and left him in gentile darkness until the rising sun dispelled it. Waking with a start, initially forgetting where he was, Pierre rose to discover his head still be-fogged and the bottle of whisky emptier than he remembered it. By wishing to know what the time was the digital figures displaying thirty six past six appeared apparition like before his eyes then vanished upon his recognition of them. Retinal projection was another of life’s expensive luxuries afforded to Pierre. He like wise checked his e-mails and received the days news headlines all by a thoughtcontrolled microcomputer and receiver implanted into his brain and integrated with his eyes. As he did every morning in a new hotel in Africa he opened the window, stuck his head out, and did what most firstworlders did not: opened his eyes and looked. To one side was the Developed Zone, but he did not care to look there, he looked the other way. Over the dividing wall was the real Kisangani. Dirty, cramped, unsightly, vibrant with colours, and crowded with people as the morning market began to

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assemble. Abject poverty shoulder-to-shoulder with a five star hotel. That said more about Africa than any thing else he had seen since arriving, and yet it would have been so much easier if he had just looked the other way… First he explored the hotel grounds. Inumerous tall expanses of glass windows, several large conference rooms, a not yet open dining room where the distant aroma of food betrayed that the kitchens were coming to life readying for the breakfast rush. Then outside to a peaceful garden enclosed on three sides by rooms even more luxurious than his own. In the middle a magnificent fountain, the focal point of a well trimmed garden. The hotel was owned ironically by a French company, part of a chain across the world. Pierre imagined how, like Shinyoto, they would boast of how their local employment boosted the local community. But most the takings here will end up in a fellow French nationals pocket. He ate a modest breakfast. Having come to Africa he found he could no longer eat as much as once he could. There was always some fat bastard in a place like this, he observed watching one white man, who eats far more than he should. It’s one thing to stuff your face when you are in the firstworld, but to do so here a stones throw from starvation? He watched the affront finish his meal, shovelling slice after slice of greasy bacon into his mouth, before wiping it away on a napkin and ordering coffee. There was perhaps excuse for it in fellow firstworlders, but what was worse than that was to see senior politicians and businessmen do the same, locals rich by association with the right people, gorging off the fat of a corrupt government while their countrymen starve. As long as Africa was like this Pierre saw no way he could leave it. After eating he left for the Police Commissary, paying the taxi driver with coinage afforded to him by the UN-AU joint fund. It was at first strange to use coins in this day and age, but he had become used to it over the years. Menelek was waiting for him at the steps, and welcomed him warmly to his first day at work. *

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“Can you please confirm your name for me?” Pierre said flatly. “I’m Xiao Zhi-Heng.” “You are manager of the Jade House?” “Yes, that is correct.” He said glancing uncomfortably to the voice recorder then back to Pierre. “I see from your statement that you personally organised the Shinyota arrangements.” Pierre said looking down to the data consol. Zhi-heng nodded. “Can we go over the details once more Mr. Zhi-Heng, for the record.” “Certainly. There was nothing out of the ordinary from our point of view, Shinyota regularly use our facilities, and as they are such good customers I prefer to oversee things personally. Shinyota booked our conference room, and asked us to house thirty-six guests.” “This conference is an annual event, is it not?” “Yes, every year at about the same time.” “Did Shinyota have any special requests?” “Of course, yes, as always we were to try and keep a low profile. There is always the terror threat to consider with these matters.” “How did you meet that request?”

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“Well, all we can really do is to only tell the people who need to know who it is who will be using our facilities. The catering staff for example will cook the menu we set, so they need to know very little beyond the numbers. However, like you say, this is an annual event, it is publicised within Shinyoto’s community, and other guest come from other companies and organisation and stay both within our hotel and many others. It is not possible to keep it secrete. And Shinyota knows it.” Pierre nodded in reassuring agreement. “Who did know within your Hotel?” “Just the management.” He replied. The list of all the names that made up the management of Jade House had been given to Pierre, they would all have to be interviewed at some point, though thankfully he could delegate that particular task. “Is there any way anybody else could have accessed the information?” “The booking data is on our central system, and can be accessed by iris-scan alone. The operator can add new bookings, but cannot view personal information on existing bookings.” “From your statement I see you have a surprising lack of surveillance, given the number of high profile guests you have over the course of the year.” “We meet the local regulations.” He said defensively. “There is no in-lift coverage?” “No. A new system is being installed now. Not that it helps us now, I know, but we never foresaw the need.” The only video footage at their disposal was from the busy main entrance. The long process of identifying and interviewing every body on it had just begun, but was already proving very difficult. “Do you realise it is probably the lack of adequate security precautions that has meant your hotel in particular has been targeted? It should not be this difficult for us to identify the perpetrator.” “There maybe another reason.” He said uncomfortably shifting in his seat. “It’s something that I did not recall when I made my first statement, it has however come back to me on thinking things over.” “Go on.” Pierre frowned impatiently. “A mister Cheng Yao was booked to stay for the conference by Shinyota themselves. Earlier I found out that it is the same name as the company’s CEO, according to their web page. The company called the day before the conference to cancel his reservation.” “What floor was he staying on?” Pierre knew the answer already. “It was the one that was attacked.” After the interview Pierre met the other three delegates to exchange notes. Ian Brooker had been meeting with security chiefs who had finally produced a new lead. “Apparently,” Brooker explained. “there was a bio-weapons research facility operating in the DR Congo. That was until about decade ago when rebels attacked it during an uprising almost eleven years ago, they took the building and held it against government forces. The place seems to have been gutted, the records –written on paper- have been mostly destroyed.” Brooker when on to explain how the DR Congo had been unable, or unwilling to say what was the exact nature of the research carried out at the facility. Either way

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the event seems the most likely way for bio-weapons to have entered the African underworld. “So then, it seems less likely that the Congo gave the virus to the ZRA after all.” Tailor said. “Could well be a cover story. The Congo hasn’t been exactly forthcoming with information.” Brooker said. “I imagine that’s what the Zaiandian police believe?” Allenby asked as Brooker nodded their suspicions. “Some of the people who worked there now live in Zaianda, I’ve requested they be brought in for questioning.” Brooker said. On the news that day they herd that the Chinese government had offered Zaiander military support in fighting the terrorists. No government official had approached the four with this development, but they soon learned that an initial task force had been sent that morning to Zaiandaer to aid the army as they patrolled the outskirts of the cities and sites of Chinese interests. The news was very worrying. It was unlikely that Zaiander would turn down the chance to destroy the rebellion by allowing the Chinese with their far more advanced military hardware to lead an attack. Then to make matters worse a statement was issued by the ZRA finally claiming responsibility for the attack. Later that evening Pierre requested that Menelek act as a tour guide as he visited the outer city. He had been advised not to leave the safety offered by the high dividing wall by the council in Addis Abba. But he was a veteran of Africa’s dirty streets and certainly had no intention of spending his whole time here in the forced sanctuary of the Modernised Zone. “You want me to take you outside of the Modernised Zone?” He smiled. “Ah, so you want to see the real Kisangani!” Both he and Menelek had the necessary passes to leave the checkpoint, which presumably was something he did every day, however as Pierre noted, only his guide’s pass was scrutinised. The first difference to strike Pierre was the traffic, now busy and chaotic. The odd rattling sound betrayed the occasional petrol engine now banned in most firstworlds. The buildings were similar by design, but more of them and less well maintained. But the more Menelek lead Pierre away from the dividing wall the greater the difference. By Pierre’s request he was lead to a market square where the pair were squashed shoulder to shoulder with the locals. Seeing the colour of his skin as a token of his wealth he was targeted by more than most by the marketers banter. Menelek watched the doctor with interest, fortunately for him most of Zaiander speaks French. A hangover from colonial times when the city was still known as Stanlyville and paid its taxes to Paris. The doctor was always smiling, taking great care and even delight in talking to the locals. Leaning down to the small children who ran up to him with small home made trinkets from string and bottle caps and reacting as if they were great treasures before giving way to their persistent banter and paying over the odds for them. Pierre’s heart sank when he saw yet another stall selling illicit Virtual Reality simulations. Not just the usual pirate copies of firstworlder games and movies, but also banned simulations. Games that were paedophilic, violent, or rape based, if not all three. They where not marketed for locals, few of whom could afford the technology, almost without exception the labels where in Chinese or English.

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It was not the first time that he had been asked to show someone outside of the walls, but it was not common. Certainly he had seen no one so trusting and at ease with the people they had met here. He found himself warming to the doctor. “Come now Pierre, if you still want to see the real Zaiander I have an idea.” “What’s that then Menelek?” “Come and have diner with my family tonight.” He smiled widely in preemption of Pierre’s response. “Yes, well thank you! It would be a pleasure! With your wife?” Pierre fumbled his words in humility. “It is a fair walk from here, we should make our way now. I mustn’t be late home two days in a row!” He grinned. So they walked away from the market, the dividing wall soon invisible amongst the crowed rooftops. The outer city was a world apart from what they left behind them. The tarmac road under their feet stopped abruptly after crossing a tributary of the Congo, leaving them following a wide dusty track with shallow drainage trenches either side. The buildings here were now all one story with little and often no space between each one and the next, all cramped up tight together against the road and riverside. The walls where built from wood. Sturdy stakes at the corners supporting the length of the wall made from small branches weaved in-between larger uprights. These where then patchily rendered over with mud and straw. The roofs were made from aged sheets of corrugated steel. Yet still visible in the direction they came from was the hi-rise office towers of the wealthy city centre. Their modern glass walled aesthetic shapes rising high into the fading orange sky dominated the cityscape. From where the two walked down the road, which was risen slightly above the surrounding area, the community looked as a sea of orange-rusty rooftops, extending as far as could be seen. Just as before the road way was crowded with brightly dressed locals in many vibrant colours. Shallow trenches carried blackened streams to the main river. They were filled with rubbish, flies and excrement. The local’s livestock drank from this water as the goats, chickens and dogs mingled with the populace. Many of the people where visibly malnourished, none of them overweight. This was still one of the poorest places in the world, and yet it seemed to Pierre that the people here were amongst the happiest. He observed a group of women stood in a doorway, smiling and joking with one another. He wondered what they talked of, for they talked in Swahili, but he imagined it not to dissimilar to that which women speak of on the streets of distant Paris. The local children ran up to him, and shouted ‘Hello! Hello!’ or tried to introduce themselves. Pierre was atentative to each one of them, always smiling, and taking their hands, revelling in the attention and experience. Soon a crowd began to follow them before one of their mothers called them back from where they stood chatting in the doorway. Meneleks home was like all the others, if maybe a little larger. His four-yearold son greeted his father in the doorway, and was first to offer his hand to shake in a remarkable show of confidence that impressed Pierre. “He speaks only a little French, I’m afraid. We speak Swahili in the home.” “I’ll be glad I brought my translator then.” Pierre smiled. “What is his name?” “Kader.” He said as the boy grinned just like his father up at them on hearing his name.

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His wife was younger than him, a little over twenty Pierre reckoned, and already in the later stages of her pregnancy with their second child. She was very pretty and kindly, and seemed not to mind the imposition. Pierre helped them set up a large pot which was to be hung from an iron tripod over a small wood-fire which she lit; she then refused to let him do any more to help leaving him sat cross-legged on a blanket laid on the ground. From there he watched with fascination as she added the various herbs and spices to rice and meat. Guiltily he wondered of the safety of eating the meet that was previously hanging from the roof of the hut, and from where did she get the water? Kader pushed a wooden car around the hut floor leaving a trail through the fine dirt, making the appropriate engine noises as he went. Pierre wondered how Kader would receive an electronic car to play with instead, bright new and glossy to replace the worn away red paint of his. He resolved to bring one should he ever return. “So Pierre, what is it you like so much about Africa?” Menelek asked. “So much! I love the people, the cultures. The way people are always so brightly dressed and cheerful. I like the food, the beautiful scenery… So much!” “There is more to you than that Pierre. What the real reason? There is a whole world out there full of different cultures and so on. Why Africa? Why you?” Pierre paused for thought a few moments then answered. “I want to help Africa.” His voice deepened slightly and his smile finally faded. “For the sake of the world, and for that of my own soul. I believe that it does not matter what great things mankind has or can achieve as long as Africa is still like this, it is all meaningless, all for nothing -man on mars, the lunar colony, or whatever. Today the world is living and growing at Africa’s expense, every thing has ‘Made in Africa’ stamped upon it theses days, but none of that money makes its way here.” He pointed out the door. “You think you can change it?” Menelek smiled. “No, of course not. But I will do my bit, that’s more than most.” Pierre said. “I don’t think things will get better here for us.” He said as he lay back against the wooden door frame stretching his legs out before him. “Things have been getting better, have they not, you are surly better off than your grandparents where?” Pierre said. “Yes, a little.” He said dismissively “But even a hundred years ago people where saying what you are saying to day, Africa was then as it is now, war torn and starving. Still the UN are throwing food at us from the back of planes.” “This is why I chose to work along side the AU, it is by the political…” Pierre stopped as he saw Menelek cringe again at those two letters. “The AU, I think you have a low opinion of them, am I right?” “Yes. Very, very low. The AU is a good idea, or at least it was a good idea. It now does more to suck up to the firstworld industrial powers than to stick up for people out there.” He also pointed out the open door. “They are too week to stand up to them, to concerned on getting the money.” “That is true to an extent.” Pierre conceded. “But a lot of money dose go back to the people, certainly more so outside of Zaiander than within.” “When the AU set them self’s up, over a century ago, one of their aims in their charter was ‘to rid Africa of all traces of colonialism and apartheid’. Now see how you easily pass the checkpoints as a white man, but as a black man I get stopped by fellow black men! The Modernised Zone is an apartheid against ourselves.” “I agree with you there Menelek. This government has a lot to answer for.”

11

“We need to stand up to the Chinese government. They know they can treat black men like slaves because in Africa no one will stop you.” “By stand up, do you mean as the ZRA?” “No of course not. I don’t mean kill innocent people, I mean to stop them killing us.” “It was the same in China once, but they were forced to treat their workers humanely. So industry, much of it already moved once from the west to exploit them, then came here.” Pierre said. “I know.” Said Menelek. “But the difference there was in China, China made the money, and now they are here, they still do.” “Things will get better.” Pierre said. “I doubt it.” “I believe they will.” Pierre said. “I think it is important to you that you can believe it.” Silence suddenly befell them, but then Menelek soon burst into laughter. “Come, doctor, we should not bring our work home with us!” “Political conversation is always a sure way to ruin your appetite, and this food looks good.” Pierre said. He watched her ladle out the fragrant rice with slender arms as Menelek translated the compliment. Smiling she made sure Pierre had the larger piece of the meat. She was dressed in a red cloth wrapped around her with bright blue denim trousers beneath. Kader was soon called and obediently left his game to eat sat beside them. Pierre looked to his mothers swollen figure, how much difficulty it caused her to move and how Menelek was so attentative of her. Kader was to have a sibling, and Pierre was envious of him. Such things were not allowed in France, or most places out side of Africa, and he often mournfully wondered what it would be like to have had a brother or sister. Kader soon bored of keeping polite company and snuck off to play with some friends before his mother called him back to bed. Pierre watched the sun slowly set over the rooftops as he enjoyed the company of Menelek and his wife, cementing a fledgling friendship. The evening progressed in what came to pass as one of Pierre’s most memorable nights in Africa. *

*

*

Three more Chinese died that night. All taken ill at different times, none of whom where staying at the Jade House. The first victim, a factory manager, became ill soon after arriving back at his hotel after exploring the inner city alone, the same flu-like symptoms resulting in rapid death. The second and third were a couple staying together at a different hotel, they had gone for a romantic meal together when almost simultaneously they fell ill and died in hospital. They had worked in the Chinese embassy. There was no comment from the ZRA. Pierre stood aside the other four in front of a filled conference room. “We need to find the common contact point!” He said.

12

In front of them was the team assigned to him, along with government officials in the front row. “It could still be out there. What the common link between these three? Where did they go, what did they touch?” It could be any thing, a door handle or a lamppost. Presumably it had to be made of metal, but that was all they had to go on. Many hours of video footage from various cameras about the city caught snippets of their final movements, and every thing they were seen to touch was analysed by forensics teams, to no avail. By lunchtime there were media reports of skirmishes with government troops in the hills and jungles, as a larger force was dispatched from China. Pierre watched with a sinking foreboding as he watched images of soldiers waving to the camera as they stepped onto huge transport aircraft. By two o’clock in the evening two more Chinese had died, then one more by four. China then demanded all Chinese nationals to return to China, but most by then where crowding into the airports in panic. At this point the ZRA now had more support from the people of Zaiander than ever before. The day passed with no more deaths, and no more leads. To become infected, Pierre learned as he interrogated one of the forensic team, you had first to touch the ‘point of contact’. But that was not enough; you then had to introduce the virus into your body either by licking your fingers, touching food, or by rubbing your eyes. The disease was not contagious, as the virus was built to not survive out side the body if not in contact with the adhesive. Giving the Chinese advice on how to minimise picking up the disease was then recommended to the government, and spread via the media. Pierre watched for the tenth time the video footage of the couple in the restaurant. They seemed so peaceful with each other, not a new couple but with that over familiarity that comes with living with a partner for so long. They touched the forks, knives, as you would expect. But what could it be? These innocent two did not need to die. They chatted and drank mineral water in complete innocence. The bill came and they place their debit card upon it. Pierre found himself wondering if they left a tip, a final act of kindness before their untimely deaths. “The coins? Has any one checked the coins?” He said aloud in an empty room. He rushed downstairs to the morgue where the forensics team had put the bodies on ice while they analysed endless streams of material sent in off the streets. Ryan Tailor was working with them. “Ryan!” He called him over. “Pierre, is every thing OK?” “The personal effects of the two, do they have any coins?” “Coins? Erm, I dunno, I’ll check.” He went to a consol on the wall. “Yeah, one of them had some small change.” “Have they been checked?” “Bloody hell, not yet no.” His eyes widened as he read Pierre’s mind. Pierre was indeed correct. The point of contact was the coinage. Some money circulating the streets of Kisangani had been laced with the virus. When that money found its way to the Chinese in the change from market stalls and taxi drivers the circle was completed. Just as they managed to get the news out across the air waves one final victim died in the airport having just paid his cab fare. Seven dead in two days. But there it stopped, and Pierre was congratulated whole-heartedly by the Chinese government and the UN-AU, and somewhat begrudgingly by the Zaiandian government.

13

The Chinese war against the ZRA terrorist group began in earnest the following day. Video footage showed Chinese gunships providing covering air power for the Zaiandan army. Images of death covered the front page of firstworld newspapers, and images of victory in Zaiandias’ state run newspapers. Footage of automated gunship hanging lifeless in the air as it dispensed rocket after rocket into the cover of green trees below appeared in Pierre’s morning news. The media dronecameras could fly up in close to the action streaming their live action footage back to base. The drones flew to where the rockets landed and Pierre stared though the dark smoke to catch a glimpse of men running, and then the camera cut out. Apparently the gunship destroyed it. The drones had been used this way in previous conflicts and where often targeted, as they tended to give their position away or saw ‘sensitive material’, they thus became viable targets by convention. The Democratic Republic of the Congo launched an official complaint to the UN and the North Hemisphere Treaty Organisation, claiming that the Chinese had raided a small village within their borders. The Chinese lead task force claimed it to have been a legitimate target within Zaianders own borders that was harbouring millitants. It also hastened to add its regret that some civilians appeared to have been killed in the incident. Drone cameras were quick to find the charred remains of a little girl, but slow to find any weapons within the village. Many outraged Congas slipped across the border to join en-masse the ranks of the ZRA, as did an increasing number of predominantly peasants from other surrounding countries, including from within Zaiainda itself. The situation was escalating; surely it was only a matter of time before the ZRA attempted to use the bio-weapon against the Chinese troops. It was strange that they appeared not to have tried already. This was what Pierre had hoped to be able to avoid, although he wasn’t quite sure how he intended to do it, he never the less felt as if he had somehow failed the people of Zaiander. In the afternoon of the third day of this war Pierre resived a phone call from Menelek. The phone itself was part of the cyber-integrated system that was literally within Pierre’s skull. By choosing to answer the call and placing one hand cupped to his ear –a clear signal that you are indeed talking into a phone not a mad man talking to yourself- his words where exchanged with Menelek who was in a phone box. “Hello?” “Pierre? Is that you?” Menelek sounded agitated. “Yes, what’s wrong?” “Come to my house. You remember where it is?” “Yes I remember. What’s wrong has something thing happened?” An apparition of his pregnant wife flashed before him. “I can’t say. Just come to my house now.” He pleaded. “Now? Why can’t you tell me?” “Pierre, please, just come now, please, for god’s sake!” “OK, OK, I’m coming! I’m on my way.” He left the office in a hurry, not telling anyone where he was going he just ran out to the street and called a taxi. His new friend had sounded so shaken. Soon he was walking on shaky legs back down that dusty road just past the river, down into the mud-iron huts. The rust stained rooftops now below the orange setting sun cast long haunting shadows across the road. The street was all but deserted, the locals now settling down for the night. Pierre stared suspiciously down each dark alley and into every shadow straining to resolve the shapes he saw there.

14

He knocked on the door. “Menelek?” He said softly. Silence. “Menelek?” He tried again louder banging harder on the door. The door gave a little –it was not locked. He pushed the door gingerly open. “Hello? Is any one there?” He spoke in French this time, looking around the entrance to be sure it was the same house. He saw Kader’s red toy car on its side just within the doorway. It was the right house. He stepped in peering into the darkness, seeing nothing he stepped in feeling ahead with both hands as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. A disembodied hand reached out from the darkness and was around Pierre’s throat lifting him backwards and pinning him against the wall. Shocked Pierre did nothing to resist at first. The door was kicked shut leaving him in darkness, there was a cloth now being pressed against his mouth, he was struggling to breathe, his hand around the assailants trying to prise the fingers back from his throat, and then the darkness consumed him. *

*

*

When Pierre came too the first thing he became aware of was the fact that he was moving. He was still in total darkness, a rough cloth bag was over his head and his hands and feet were tied together, his mouth gagged. He soon found that his thought-controlled phone had no reception, which meant that its signal was being jammed. He was in a car boot. He could not move far in any direction but he managed to find the locking mechanism, but try as he might he could not open it nor use it to cut his tight bonds. Each bump in the road, if they were on a road, jolted him upwards to bounce hard of the boot-door. He had been kidnapped. Had Menelek betrayed him? Surly not he thought. What would happen to him? It must be the ZRA, and they would have no reason to show him mercy. Pierre had a terrifying flashback to a hostage situation in the news a year ago, they beheaded a man then aired the video footage. All that man has wanted to do was help the people of that land. Panic was rising in Pierre. Then he felt the car slow down, slow to a stop. Voices, Swahili? no French, they where at a check point! He strained hard to hear them. There was a brief exchange then laughter. The engine started again. ‘Why did I lay still?’ he moaned inwardly and tried to bang his head sideways against the door. The car kept moving, his salvation had missed him. Tears where streaming down his face. He knew his fate, he was to die. ‘Please don’t let my parents see this on the news.’ He imagined his beheading, the bite of the knife against his fragile skin and the inevitable spill of blood as their son expired for all to see. ‘He had only wanted to help these people!’ he heard mum cry. His hard faced father crying as he held inconsolable mum. He gasped for air in the confinement of the now damp sack. ‘Pull yourself together Pierre!’ He said ‘There will be a way out of this, calm. Relax. Think. Am I hurt? I don’t think so, no. No injuries, that’s a good thing to start.’ Delving deep he desperately searched for some inner strength to focus upon. He was not the most religious of men; he always felt some vague sense of purpose to his life and to the world that he attributed to some ill-defined external source. But lying there he felt not alone anymore as if there was some comforting presence with him, a hand upon his shoulder.

15

Pierre lay tied in the boot for three hours, but yet if any one was to ever ask him, he would have said much longer. But either way his journey came to an end eventually. The car stopped and he was lifted free, his bare feet feeling hot sandy rocks beneath them. The ties about his feet were cut, and held by each elbow he was forced to walk blind, slipping on the uneven ground as he went. His captors spoke Swahili, muttering soberly to one another. Soon he was pushed down to his knees and made to kneel. He tensed up imagining the long knife hovering just above his neck. The voices about him where now echoing, and he no longer felt a breeze, the ground now cool beneath him, -they where in a cave he reasoned. Soon there was a lot more voices and footsteps on the stone floor. A hand was at his neck tugging to untie the bag, and suddenly it was lifted free to be followed by a cool moist breeze. For a few moments he was blinded by the sudden appearance of flaming torches, but as he regained his vision he saw his captors for the first time. One man stood directly before him, legs wide apart tall muscular with a green short-sleeved t-shirt and camouflaged combat trousers. His large face was cold and lifeless; a scar ran down one cheek. He stared into Pierre’s face, reaching forwards to grab his jaw and twist his head left and right as if checking they had kidnapped the right man. Looking around Pierre saw six other men, two guards stood directly behind him and the others to his right crouched against the cave wall, he saw no camera, though several men carried guns. One of the guards who escorted him bent down to him and cut his gag away with one stroke of a knife. “Do you know who we are?” The man in front spoke to him in heavily accented African-French. “Part of the ZRA.” Pierre tried to sound as unemotional as possible. “No. I am the ZRA, Upinduzi Jeshi Zaianada! I am their leader, The General!” he boasted, “And do you know why you are here? You are here by your own stupidity, your sins have found you out! For centuries you, particularly you French have been the curse to Africa, God’s last clean lands. First it was the colonies, then two hundred years of suppression! It starts from here, from the green lands divided only by the great river will rise up to stand united against the foreign invader and exploiters of God’s people.” Pierre watched a silver crucifix swing about a leather lace around his neck. How is it that terrorism and God seem to have become so inseparable? The General was becoming over animated with his speech, spraying Pierre’s face with spittle as he shouted at him. So this was the face of the man responsible to the attacks. Pierre could not gauge him, could not find any resemblance to any human being he had met before, no standard by which to second-guess his him. “What do you want with me?” “I will show you something.” Sneering he gestured to the two guards who lifted him up by his shoulders to stand on his feet and pushed him to follow the General down the cave. He led them deeper into the cave, which was littered with rubbish, discarded torn cloths, makeshift beds, guns, and empty bottles of beer. Eventually they came to a dead end, where the cave became so narrow as to be impassable. There rested amongst the tall shadows drawn by flaming torches a simple wooden crate. “Come here.” He pointed to the crate. Pierre went down to one knee struggling for balance with his hands still tied behind him. He allowed himself to fall clumsily

16

backwards and scratched his fingernails across the hard cave floor before the guards righted him. The general lifted open the lid. Pierre peered inside the crate to see nine cylinders nestled tightly together in wood shavings. They bore the insignia of the raised bio-weapons faculty. On closer examination there was more annotations. ‘Oriental’ he first noted, but there was more, there was also ‘African’ and ‘Caucasian’ amongst them. Pierre looked up to the General realising he was not going to kill him. “Are these all viruses?” “Yes. And they are all we have. None have been opened, we have been set up.” “Set up?” Pierre said struggling to his feet feeling his bravery returning now he sensed they needed him. “Yes! By the Chinese, or the government, I don’t know!” He was struggling to control himself, he seem as if all he really wanted to do was hit Pierre, not talk with him. He was afraid and Pierre now knew why. He was loosing the war and he wanted out, but didn’t want to loose face, admit defeat. “Arthur Bradley.” The General said through gritted teeth. “You’re paid to find where we got it from? I’ll tell you, we brought it from Arthur Bradley! He set us up, we brought it but we have never used it! Never! Now take it away with you, we don’t want it. Take it back to them, tell the world the truth!” Pierre did not believe his story but he would play along with it as it was his ticket out of there, and if he could take the viruses away with him then he may at least be able to end the war. “Arthur Bradley?” Pierre repeated. “Yes, he is American. Find him. He should hope you find him before we do.” With that he turned to the guards who then pulled the bag back down hard over Pierre’s head and made him walk back the way they came back out the cave to this time sit in the passenger seat for the journey. Pierre could not see any thing, and his captors would not speak to each other as they drove, but he sensed there were again two of them. “What of Menelek?” He finally forced the French words out of him. “He is safe.” A voice returned after a pause. “Safe? Is he one of yours?” “You were spotted at his house by one of us. We threatened him to kill him if he did not call for you. That is all. We did not hurt him.” “And his wife?” There was a brief silence, and then another voice spoke. “She ran away. They are safe, but you will not be if you keep talking.” After travelling again for what seemed like a lifetime he was lifted out of the car and made to crouch in the roadside. “Listen to the car.” The second warned him as his hand ties were cut from behind. “Do not remove the bag until you can’t here it any more, or we shoot you. A taxi has been called to take you home.” Obediently Pierre sat there until the mummer of the car had faded away and then took the bag off. In front of him was the crate, sitting innocently in the rode side with him. *

*

17

*

Within half an hour the taxi arrived having answered a call from a payphone, and Pierre soon found himself sat in the back seat beside the rattling cylinders as the cab returned him to the Police Commission building. He was beginning to recover from his ordeal, crashing back down to reality with immense relief and shock but soon returning to his professional collected self. The first port of call was the forensics lab; the damp mud still beneath his fingernails would hopefully betray the location of the cave, which also covered his trouser knees. If they acted fast his kidnapping could end up as being the fatal error of the proud General. Pierre cared not for aiding the war, but would never the less do what he could to bring a murderer to justice. The cylinders where given to Ryan Tailor under strict instructions. “Find out if these are indeed the same viruses we have seen before, make sure they are not hoaxes.” “OK will do Doctor.” “Be bloody careful with this stuff, this wont effect just the Chinese this time.” Pierre said to him. “I understand.” “And most importantly don’t tell the authorities what you find until you have finished. If it is a bio-weapon I want you to destroy all of it first, do you understand?” “Destroy it?” “Yes.” “Surly it would be better to study it? We may be able to design an antidote?” “The Zaiandian government will confiscate this from us if we give them half a chance, and I don’t trust them –nor any one else for that matter- with this technology. Destroy it, that’s an order. Understand?” “Yes. Of course.” Tailor nodded in uneasy compliance. “They wont be happy.” “I don’t care. On my head be it.” His next port of call was Allenby, who then took a statement from him regarding every detail of the kidnapping and the events that lead up to it. His old colleague remained deathly silent all through the retelling, only interrupting to say ‘Are you OK? Where you harmed? Did you get a doctor to look at you?’ and ‘Are you sure this Menelek character is innocent?’ “Allenby, I want you to look for any details of an ‘Arthur Bradley’, the American the militant leader spoke of, look to the list of employers in the Congo bioweapons faculty.” “Who ever he is he will be using a pseudonym, you can be sure of it Pierre.” “Try anyway, we may be lucky.” Within four hours Tailor had confirmed the canisters to be the same virus as used in the attacks, modified to target the labelled gnomes. The seals were not broken and as Pierre requested they were all destroyed by incineration. A DNA sweep of the crate uncovered trace material of numerous individuals, but only two Europeans, and one was found to be Pierre. This individuals DNA trace matched that found for an unidentified European detected in a DNA trace of the Hotel. Pierre called his immediate team back into his office where they sat around his large desk pouring over their consoles. “The man who sold the virus to the rebels also planted it in the hotel. We have been chasing one man all this time.” Allenby observed.

18

“Why haven’t we told the officials?” Tailor asked. “We will be able to get the Chinese to halt their attacks.” “Because we haven’t caught him yet. If we go public now he will know his game is foiled and we will be on to him in no time, and it is reasonable to assume he had more of these viruses. What would have happened if the African specific virus found its way onto the local coinage?” Said Pierre. “Ah, result!” called Allenby looking up from his screen. “Three white people worked at he weapons faculty, two Brits and a Yank. The Yank worked under the name Thomas Macintosh. I sent our DNA trace to the US federal archive first and it returns a hit, eighty nine percent probable match, this time under the name of David Gower. Now listen to this…” He said his finger tracing the words as he gleefully read from the screen. “David Toby Gower, born Illinois, forty-six years ago. Obtained his doctorate in microbiology from Harvard, then moved to work in Grenoble and became a EU national five years later and married a local. Has his first child artificially, then applied for a second and was refused but went ahead anyway and had a son born naturally. As a consequence the pair had to pay the extortionate penal tax. Things get even worse for our David when ten years later his wife runs off with his two children with one of his work colleagues. There are details here of a legal battle to see his children at weekends, which he wins. Enters counselling for depression, and is prescribed medication. His downward spiral has not yet finished though, as five years later he is prosecuted by his firm for selling sensitive information to competing companies, and he consequently loses his job. He is on benefits briefly then drops of the grid, no contact for the last twenty-four years. Yet the disappearance of David Gower coincides with the arrival of Thomas Macintosh at our faculty in the Congo.” “This is our man!” Brooker said, clasping his hands together. “The net is closing.” “If only Zaiander had a DNA archive then we would have him with this.” Tailor remarked. “How did he get to Kisangani, and how did he know what level the Shinyota CEO was due to stay on?” Pierre said. “All the management are either Chinese or African.” Brooker said as he started typing into his screen. “When was the research centre raided?” “Twelve years ago.” Tailor answered. “Two of their white employees started around that time who are still working there.” He said reading as it came on the screen. “One French chef,” he winked at Pierre “and one Brit teaching English to the staff.” “An American who lived in Grenoble could pretend to be British or French easily enough to fool the Chinese or Africans. But I bet he is the English teacher not a chef.” “A chef with access to biological weapons, eh? Makes you wonder what his soup of the day is!” Brooker joked to the amusement of Allenby. “Brooker, do you have the address of this English teacher?” “Yes and his name, for the list, is Brian Maison!” “OK, give it to the police, I’m authorising a raid.” Pierre said as he stood up and made for the door. “Lets hope it’s the right man, lets get him before he strikes again.” Pierre left his office and found Menelek stood waiting in the corridor.

19

“Ah, my friend!” Menelek said almost in tears. “Thank God you are OK!” “And you too Menelek, are you hurt? What did they do?” “They said they would kill her, my wife, if I did not say what they wanted me to! I’m so, so, sorry Pierre!” The two talked as they walked the corridors of the Police Commissionary. Pierre asked Menelek to accompany him for one more visit within the city centre, he picked up a small hand held DNA sweeper from the forensic labs and made his way to the address with the guide. “Is she OK?” Pierre asked him as they stepped into a cab. “Yes, thank the lord, she is ok.” “My captors said they had to tie her up, that must have been hard for you Menelek.” “Not as hard for me as for her, my poor thing.” Pierre winced at how easily he had now betrayed himself. He had also betrayed his happy family by risking the firing squad. “I wont turn you in Menelek.” “Pierre? What do you mean? You can’t believe that I…” “My captors said that she ran away that’s all I knew.” Pierre revealed. “I didn’t…” Menelek started. “It’s no use arguing the point. I will keep it quiet, I understand why you did it.” A deathly silence followed that seemed as if it would not end as the taxi slowly negotiated the traffic. “I’m sorry Pierre.” He said at length. “I know you are.” “I wouldn’t have done it without re-assurance of your safety. I made absolute certain!” “I’m sure you did. I said I understand.” Pierre said calmly but doubting the logic of the statement. A tear escaped to roll down Meneleks cheek, and Pierre tried his hardest not to do the same. “Where was your wife?” Pierre asked looking out the window away from him. “Staying at friends.” “My captors seemed unsure what to say when I mentioned her.” Pierre said, and Menelek nodded. The DNA sweeper, which operates like a small vacuum cleaner, draws air in though a stiff hose and examines the human DNA picked up mostly from shed skin cells. The device was set up this time to search for the specific DNA found on the crate, and at the hotel. The address lead the two to a nice block of flats situated close to the Jade House. The Sweeper picked up traces of the target DNA at soon as they entered the main lobby. Ironically they found the lift button to his floor to have the next greatest concentration. Once on the suspects corridor Pierre sent Menelek down to wait in the lobby and then walked off holding the sweeper under his arm to conceal is as he went now looking at the door numbers, at the right door he allowed the hose to brush against the door handle. Looking down to the display he noted the highest hit yet.

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He made his way strait to the confinement of the nearest lift. As the door closed leaving him alone he automatically cupped his hand to his ear and wished to talk to Brooker. “Hello? Pierre? Where the bloody hell are you?” “Just swept the target address. Identification confirmed send the police in!” “Bloody hell Pierre! Why do you have to do these things alone? This is how you got in trouble before.” Brooker complained as Pierre hung up. Menelek met him in the lobby as they made their way out. “Thank you for your services Menelek.” Pierre spoke to him in French without looking at him. “I have no more need for you now.” “Good bye Pierre.” Menelek said as he stopped walking. “Good bye Doctor.” But Pierre did not reply, nor did he look back to him, but kept on walking dead ahead until he was a safe distance from the block of flats. The raid was done rapidly and professionally. Six policemen in anti-bioarmour first took the spare key from the landlord living in the ground floor then entered the flat without damaging the door way. The target was not at home, but they found yet more cylinders of even more racial viruses. They lay in wait silently for their quarry to return home and when he did they incapacitated him with an electric dart, and brought him into Pierre’s custody along with the biological weapons stash. Pierre was sat opposite the man, voce recorder between them and the one waywindow to his right that to him looked like a mirror. Both of his hands were cuffed to the chair, his ankles to the char legs that were in turn bolted to the cold grey cement floor. A light bulb hung bare from the end of its cord illuminating the two sat face to face in the drab white walled room. Pierre looked into his eyes. He did not look evil he looked perfectly normal. Calm collected and intelligent. The polar opposite of the agitated Generaly who so looked the part. David Toby Gower, middle aged, lean-built average height, hint of baldness at the temples, and the reddened jowely face of a white man who has spent a long time in a hot climate. He was smiling at Pierre. “I’m sorry doctor, would it be easier for you if I was black? Did you expect that? I’m sorry to let you down.” “Where did you get the viruses.” “I made them. It used to be by job. But then if you have caught me then you must already know this, Doctor.” “What was your plan David? What was it you set out to achieve by killing those innocent people?” “Innocent? The ZRA wouldn’t call them innocent doctor, so why do you?” “What where you trying to achieve?” “Innocents is a relative term. If those in power write the law, then crime can only be committed by those under power. So does that mean the government is always innocent?” “I’m not interested in a theological debate. What where you trying to achieve?” “Why should I be trying to achieve anything? Would it be easier for every one to accept if I said I herd voices, the voices tolled me to do it? Or maybe God tolled me to do it? I did it because I wanted too, because I could. And I’ll tell you what doctor, I enjoyed it.” “Did you intend to frame the ZRA?”

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“Obviously, yes. I wanted to cause a bit of confusion.” “And then what David?” “I was going to release all the viruses.” He said leaning in over the recorder to look Pierre in the eye. “First the Chinese, then the African and finally the Caucasian. All in a similar way. I wanted doctor,” He turned to glance at the mirror before returning to Pierre “to kill as many people as possible.” “Why?” “Because I could. I knew the response it would create if the ZRA used such a virus. Especially if they were later recovered after a firefight in some remote jungle hide out. Which I assume Doctor that’s what lead you to me?” “Almost, they were handed back to us.” “Ah! I see. You have been most fortunate doctor. Most fortunate indeed. I had hoped that they would be daft to try and use them, that would have been very interesting. Don’t you think doctor?” “You say you where to release all the viruses?” “Oh yes.” “Then you intended to die also?” “Yes.” David sat back in his chair and looked at Pierre in amusement. “Why do you care so much for these innocent people as you so affectionately refer to them? Trust me no one is innocent. Don’t think for a moment that I am any thing abnormal, there are thousands if not millions of people like me. You will never here of them because it was only me who had the opportunity. Human beings occupy, my doctor, a lower form of existence than any ant. They like us war with each over, but no ant will ever turn against its colony, no wolf turn against its’ pack.” “Why do you have such a loathing for humanity, I wonder? Had your wife not left you, where would you be now? Is this all for her David?” Pierre said trying to brake his calm act. David laughed rolling his head back to the ceiling before returning red-faced and smiling to Pierre. “We done doctor! Yes well done indeed! You have done your home work! And I’m sure you are correct, if it were not for her I would not have done this, but that is all incidental, circumstance and coincidence. It could just as easily be you here doctor, sat cuffed to my chair. Or any of you!” He said directing his final words to the mirror. “You are a rare thing David, not many people could do what you have done. No sane person.” “Sane? Now I thought you didn’t want a theological debate and now you so readily define what is sane. Think of it like this my doctor, what would it take to turn you into me? What would it take to kill that which lives within you, that always stops you from doing what you perceive as evil?” David Gower was shot by firing squad almost exactly a month after his arrest, there was no jury and the trial token. The Chinese stopped their campaign against the ZRA and withdrew their troops. Despite a raid on the Generals cave the militant leader was never caught and the ZRA movement continues. The biological weapons found at the flat were impounded by the Zaiandian authorities that then claimed to have destroyed them. The four delegates then returned home leaving only Pierre in Africa. In an age that has slipped away firstly from the large scale wars of previous centuries, and then survived the rise of nuclear super-powers, the biggest threat to humanity, or so it seemed to Pierre, was now the individual. Despite firstworld

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attempts to re-design the gene pool, to weed out the surplus material linked to both undesirable physical characteristics and mental instabilities, the human race remained self destructive and as long as it stayed that way, it will always be in danger from itself. What David Gower had done Pierre knew was nothing compared to what could happen next time. What if the virus was non-selective and highly contagious? Pierre’s parents often tolled him of the pandemic that killed millions fifty years ago, a man-made plague could be infinitely worse, maybe even the end of humanity.

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