Abele didn't reply, other than to flash them a dark look; he just picked up their luggage and started walking out of the building. They trotted behind.
The airfield to which they were travelling was about an hour outside Kinshasa, and the journey was thankfully uneventful, allowing Ben to watch the alien scenery through the window. Outside the city the road was poor, and Abele was forced to drive slowly; occasionally they would pass through a village, and the sight of a strange car – especially one containing two white faces – would provoke curious stares from the adults and invariably a horde of excited children, thin and poorly clothed, running after them.
The airfield itself was little more than a parched expanse of earth with an iron hut and a short, bumpy looking runway. Waiting on the runway was a black and white twin-engined aircraft. Since Adelaide, where circumstances had forced him to fly a microlight over the burning city, Ben had made a study of such things, and he thought he recognized it as a Cessna 414. As they approached it, he became more sure he was right: the twin propellers, the long pointed nose – he'd be willing to bet money on it. He'd been wondering what sort of plane would be taking them to the village of Udok – there weren't many light aircraft that had the necessary range, but the Cessna was one of them. He felt a thrill of excitement that for a moment made him forget the worries that had been buzzing in his head; he was really looking forward to going up in this thing.
Abele parked the car by the metal shed and they all got out. A smiling man approached them and introduced himself as the pilot: Ben and his dad shook hands, but Abele seemed unwilling to speak, simply going about his usual business of carrying their bags across to the plane. Along with the pilot he lifted the bags up into the cabin; Ben and his dad walked up the steps, took their seats, and before they knew it the engines were humming, the propellers were spinning and they were trundling their way at increasing speed down the runway. Ben's eyes darted between the instruments on the control panel and the view out of the window: suddenly the jolting that shook them around in their seats was replaced by the familiar lurch in the stomach and that curious sense of weightlessness as the plane smoothly rose into the air. There was not a cloud in the sky here in the heart of Africa; there was unlikely to be any turbulence today. Ben found his eyes transfixed by the disappearing ground: the parched earth of the airfield soon gave way to a patchwork of browns and yellows, punctuated in the distance by the sparkling blue of the River Congo and the liver-shaped delta on which Kinshasa and Brazzaville lay. He was transfixed by the sight for some minutes, before the plane stopped climbing and settled into its steady flight.
The passengers sat in silence – Dad reading a book next to him, Abele sitting opposite, looking fiercely out of the window. Ben decided to ask the Congolese man the question that had been on his mind ever since his conversation with Fatima. 'Abele,' he said, 'why did you say you didn't want to travel to Udok?'
Abele's forehead creased into a frown. 'It doesn't matter,' he replied. His eyes flickered over at Ben, then looked sharply away again when he realized he was staring straight at him. Almost involuntarily, the black man's fingers brushed against a necklace he was wearing. Ben hadn't noticed it before: a piece of black leather, with a shiny triangle of metal and what looked like an etching he recognized upon it. It was an eye – one not a million miles away from the token Fatima had given him only a couple of hours ago. Ben felt a sudden coolness in his blood as Abele hid the necklace under his clothes, having realized that Ben had been gazing at it.
'What was that?' Ben asked quietly.
Abele shook his head. 'Nothing.'
'You weren't wearing it this morning.'
'Ben,' his dad chided.
Ben fell silent, but did not stop looking at Abele, who seemed to be deliberating whether or not to say something. Finally, it appeared, he could not help himself. 'It is a charm,' he said in a low voice. 'To protect against evil. If you were wise, you would wear one yourself.'
'That's enough, Abele.' Ben's father was uncharacteristically firm, but his face had a look of gentle amusement about it – his scientist's mind would not tolerate such superstitious talk, Ben realized. 'You'll frighten the lad.'
But I'm not frightened, Ben thought to himself, as Abele looked resolutely out of the window once more. Just intrigued. He thought back to what Fatima had said. There was something she had been trying to tell him, something she did not have good enough English to say. What was the word she used? Maudit. The village was maudit.
In his bag, Ben had a pocket French dictionary, ready to help him when his own schoolboy knowledge of French let him down. Wordlessly he opened the zip, rummaged around and pulled it out. The type was small, difficult to read in the vibrating plane, but as he diligently thumbed through the lists of unfamiliar words, he eventually found it.
Maudit.
It meant 'cursed'.
As the plane sped across the skies of central Africa, four men met in a plush room in the middle of Kinshasa. There was air conditioning and a carpet, and a bottle of Scotch whisky on the large mahogany meeting table. Two of the men were black, two of them white. They all wore suits and sipped their drinks from heavy tumblers. They didn't speak, but rather seemed to be waiting for someone.
Eventually that someone came – another white man with thick black hair and a lined face. He nodded at each of the others in turn before taking his seat at the table. 'You are all aware of what is happening?' he asked in a marked South African accent.
One of the black men spoke. He was short, with chubby features and a sing-song voice in which he spoke immaculately polite English. 'I think it would be best, my friend, if you filled us all in from the beginning.'
The South African nodded. 'Certainly, Mr Ngomo. As major shareholders, you will all be aware that the Eastern Congo Mining Corporation has been mining for tin in the east of the country for just over a year. Profits have been' – he shrugged – 'adequate.'
The men round the table nodded their heads.
'A little over six weeks ago, our mine manager there extended the excavations and believes he has come across a source of Coltan. Very plentiful, and on first examination of very high quality. I know a number of you have interests in other Coltan plants, so I needn't explain how lucrative it can be.'
'That rather depends,' one of the other white men interrupted, 'on the quality of the ore.'
'Indeed. As we speak, we have a British scientist flying out there to examine what we have found. He's one of the best.'
The men around the table nodded their approval.
'There is, however,' the South African continued, 'as you know, one small hitch.'
None of the men around the table looked at each other, and there was an oppressive silence before Mr Ngomo spoke. 'I assume you are referring to the unfortunate deaths of the mine-workers in recent weeks.'
The South African nodded almost serenely.
'Correct me if I'm wrong,' Ngomo continued, 'but the symptoms sound very much like those of extreme malaria.'
The South African inclined his head. 'Similar enough, I would say, for our purposes at least. Of course, there are rumours among the villagers…'
'Rumours are fine. They will keep people away. I understand that the village is extremely isolated, and that it seldom attracts visitors from the surrounding area. But if word gets out that we have discovered Coltan here, we can expect unwanted interest – you know how unstable that region is. I assume you have taken steps to stop word leaking out.'