MAXIXE, MOZAMBIQUE
Abilio’s phone read 11:48 as he stepped off the dhow that had ferried him across the baia from Inhambane. The tide was out and he had to climb a few extra steps on the ladder up to the top of the quay.
A long, strange day. After the initial torrent of words from the Afrikaner, the rest of the trip had passed in silence. What a relief to set the Hummingbird down at Inhambane Airport. Once the rotors had stopped, Jeukens had simply got out, paid the rest of the charter fee in cash as agreed, and walked to his SUV. No handshake, no thank-you for the safe trip.
Abilio had watched the taillights speed south and disappear into the darkness, then he’d set about cleaning out his copter and bedding her down for the night. He would give her a thorough inspection before taking her up again—she needed an oil change among other things—but that could wait until tomorrow. He was tired and she wasn’t going anywhere tonight.
It had taken time for a taxi to answer his call, and more time to track down one of the ferrymen to take him back across once he reached the long Inhambane quay.
The ferry trip had given him time to think about the Afrikaner, his cargo, and the new island. Abilio had promised to say nothing about its location, and he would honor that. But what about those canisters? He wasn’t sure he believed Jeukens about their not containing VX. It seemed logical they wouldn’t—why would he bring a deadly toxin to a place where he wanted to study the wildlife?
Still, maybe he should make discreet inquiries among his old superiors in the FADM to see if any whispers about VX were in the wind.
The concrete quay was dark and deserted as he strolled toward the whitewashed Terminal de Passageiros da Maxixe on the shore. He lived in a rented apartment only a half dozen blocks away. The streets were empty, with only an occasional car or motorbike passing. Even on Saturday night most people here did not stay out late.
He had just passed the post office when he heard the scrape of a shoe on the sidewalk behind him. He turned and saw a silhouetted figure pointing something at him. He started to cry out as a tepid stream splashed over his face and neck, some getting in his mouth. No taste but it felt oily on his tongue and his skin. He spat and wiped it away.
“That’s right,” the figure spoke in English. “Smear it around, and get it on your hands as well. The more surface contact, the better.”
Abilio recognized the voice. “Jeukens?”
“Keep rubbing, Abilio. It will work quicker that way.”
Quicker? What would work quicker?
And then Abilio knew.
“Ah, não! Não VX!”
“Afraid so. You were right. And you’ve just been sprayed with it.”
Abilio cried out but his tongue wouldn’t respond, and his throat seemed locked. His cheeks were bathed in sweat as the muscles of his face began to twitch.
“I didn’t want to do this,” Jeukens said. “Truly, I didn’t. But you left me no choice.”
Abilio retched, then vomited the water he’d drunk on the dhow ride over. His legs would no longer support him and he crumbled to the ground.
Air! He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t draw air!
“Your diaphragm is seizing up now, Abilio. It won’t be long. I didn’t want to hurt you. You seem like a good man. We could have gone our separate ways, but it’s just terribly bad luck that you recognized that canister. You must understand that I can’t risk you talking about it. Not when my work is so important.”
Abilio’s vision was fading as Jeukens leaned over him.
“Do you have any children? We never did get around to discussing family. Well, if you do, your children and your children’s children would understand. If they knew the holocaust I’ll be preventing, they might even thank me for silencing you.”
The Afrikaner’s face faded as darkness roared in.