Prologue

Ivory Coast

Dr. Smith patted the sweat from his forehead with a clean white handkerchief. It wasn’t yet ten in the morning but already the sun was merciless. A fiery orange ball in a deep blue sky.

The village was in the middle of nowhere, though he supposed that was the point. The buildings nothing but a cluster of mud and thatch huts and the surrounding land arid, just miles and miles of scrubby bush and red soil. Chickens scratched in the dirt and a few mangy-looking cows stood listlessly in a corral, flies buzzing around their eyes. God knows how the people survived here. Or even why they would want to. The place was disgusting, crawling with insects and stinking of cow dung. He was doing these people a favor, really.

He smiled at the thought.

“Everything is ready, doctor.”

The man in front of him was tall with dark brown skin and a shaved head. He was dressed in khaki pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Sergeant Yakouba Sekongo was in charge of the convoy that had brought them here. The trip had taken four interminable hours. They’d set off from Diva at two a.m. driving through the dark to arrive early in the morning the time best calculated to have all the subjects in place. They’d been sleeping, and the village had been surrounded before any of the occupants had even realized they were here.

“How many?” he asked.

“Two hundred and seven in total. Fifty-two men, sixty-three women, and ninety-two children.”

It was a good spread and should give the results required.

The residents had all congregated in the open area in the center of the village. Most were seated on the ground. Children played in the red dirt and somewhere a baby cried. The adults seemed almost jovial, but then they had each received more money than they probably saw in a year in return for taking part in the test.

“Have the subjects all been labeled?” he asked.

Irritation flashed across Sekongo’s face, and he slapped at a fly on his arm before answering. “Of course. Your instructions have been carried out precisely.”

Dr. Smith had the idea that the man didn’t like him. He was used to it and unconcerned. As long as he did his job. “Are your men in place?”

“We have a secure perimeter.”

He glanced at his watch. “Okay. Then we’re good to go. Time to suit up.”

This was going to be extremely unpleasant but unavoidable when you considered the alternative.

He waited until Sekongo disappeared and then headed over to where his protective gear lay on a stool under the awning he’d had the men set up at the edge of the village. He took off his shoes and peeled off his socks, then stripped off his slacks and shirt. Thin latex gloves came first, followed by latex boots on his feet. The actual Hazmat suit went on next; silver and waterproof, it crackled as he dragged it over his body. He pulled the zipper up to his neck. A surgical mask covered the lower half of his face. Next he picked up a roll of gray tape and sealed the cuffs and ankles. He checked the suit; the slightest leak could be a catastrophe. Once he was sure it was airtight, he pulled on rubber boots and then finally, he donned the full face mask. The world took on a distant feel as though he were in a bubble.

He shuffled over to where he had set up the recording equipment and glanced at his watch. It was two minutes to ten and he waited. At precisely 1000 hours he flipped the switch, his fingers clumsy in the thick gloves. A shiver of anticipation ran through him.

“Ivory Coast. Field Test Four. Day One. 1000 hours.” His voice came out muffled through the mask.

The screen showed the villagers seated in a ragged circle, chatting and laughing. Smith adjusted the machine so the camera panned out to reveal the men in silver Hazmat suits, masks covering their heads and faces, moving in from the surrounding bush. The villagers went quiet then. Maybe they were thinking that this was overkill for testing a new insecticide. They’d be right. A man stepped forward—Smith recognized Sekongo behind the mask—into the center of the village, carrying a cylinder. He set it down inside the circle, flipped open the top, and a trail of white gas rose slowly into the air. As it gained height, the gas diffused until it vanished from sight.

The villagers stirred uneasily. One man rose and backed away. A guard approached him and spoke, and the man returned to the circle.

Smith sat down clumsily on the stool and settled down to watch.

By 1400 hours most of the subjects were down, lying prone in the dirt. A single figure stumbled to his feet and took a swaying step to the edge of the circle. A guard stepped forward and knocked him with the rifle butt so he collapsed to the ground. Smith focused the camera in on him, to reveal bloodshot eyes, blood seeping from open sores on his cheeks and arms. Good. The test was progressing as expected.

Smith ignored the sweat rolling down his face. He hardly noticed it; his attention focused on recording what was happening.

By 1800 hours the temperature was cooling as the sun lowered in the sky. The majority of the subjects were inert, either dead or too sick to move. The guards shuffled among them, checking for signs of life, removing the labels from the deceased, noting the time of death, then dragging away the bodies for disposal.

Off to the left, smoke drifted into the sky.

Then the sun vanished with that peculiar suddenness of the African nightfall, and the work continued under flashlights and the flickering light from the bonfires.

By 2200 hours they had achieved 100 percent mortality rate, exactly as anticipated. Beautiful.

The gas was like nothing he had ever seen before. Where had it come from? He knew better than to ask.

Inside his mask, Smith smiled with satisfaction tinged with relief. He could report back that everything had worked as planned.

Which was good. His employers did not appreciate failure.