Wells stood, glanced out at the beautiful blue ocean, and then back at the jungle. He heard the lava approaching, crashing through the trees and obliterating everything in its path.
He took a big, deep breath, and then said to no one, "I guess I'm about to find out, one way or another."
14
As far as Dr. Stacy could tell, the corporate jet on which she was an unwilling passenger flew to the west, southwest over a perfectly calm Pacific Ocean through brilliantly blue skies.
She kept to herself for the first two hours, her mind occupied by questions about their fate; wondering if a firing squad — or worse — waited at the other end of this flight.
Every so often she would glance across the center aisle at Major Gant, half expecting to see him executing a brave plan for escape. Why, at any second he would spring from his seat, overpower the guards, take control of the plane, and fly them to safety.
Of course he did no such thing. Like her, he sat there contemplating what lay ahead and trying to glean information from glances out the window and the occasional bits of chatter between the soldiers and scientists on board the flight.
She wondered if he had managed to learn more than the plane's general heading, which was about as much information as she could wrap her head around.
But Major Gant was not the only person who kept drawing her eye. Dr. Waters sat facing her, although his attention was focused on all manner of reports, images, and other paperwork provided to him by his assistants, particularly the English woman with her hair in a bun who went by the name of Pearl.
In any case, he made copious notes, repeatedly consulted a computer tablet, and occasionally mumbled words of either approval or surprise under his breath.
After a tremor of turbulence nearly caused Waters to lose his grip on a clipboard, he noticed her stare.
"You'll have to excuse me," he said. "I don't have much time for conversation. Lots of data to review, but then again I'm sure you understand. However, if you would care to discuss your identity, I could spare a few moments for chitchat."
She replied, "It's actually your identity that has me curious. You look familiar, Dr. Waters. Is that your real name?"
He smiled, a little. Not a friendly smile. More amused, as if a lab animal performed entertaining tricks.
Waters put aside his notes and sipped from what remained in a glass of ice water he had nursed for the last half hour.
"Does it really matter? What is so important about a name? I suppose I am just as guilty. I am curious to find out your name, and that of your friend. And why is that? So that we can understand who you are. In this case, your name is the marker that will allow us to trace your reason for being on the island and how we should handle you. So it's not so much your name that I care to know, but who you are and what you want. Very interesting, isn't it?"
His smile faded away and his eyes drifted to the round portal to his right, although it seemed to Annabelle that those eyes saw something even farther away.
"I have been known by many names. I was given a name when I was born, but when I was a teenager a man told me I had to change that name. So I did. He was the type of man you listened to. All of a sudden I was someone new, and that's when I understood that anything that can be changed with a word or the stroke of a pen really means very little when you think about it. When I was older, I changed it again, and then again. I found it useful to not get attached to any one name for too long."
Stacy tilted her head and studied him. She saw again his watery eyes, the chapped skin, and the cane with which he walked.
She then repeated his words: "A man told you to change your name?"
Waters turned back to her and smiled a little more genuinely this time, perhaps sensing that she closed in on something; perhaps appreciating the game. It seemed he was willing to provide a few more clues to help her along, as if enjoying the diversion.
"Yes. And my country changed its name on more than one occasion. I'm not even sure what they are calling it these days. It has been a while since I've been home. Then again, I was never one for nationalism; it seemed so petty, and in my part of the world it tended to be enforced by the bayonet. No, my interests are far broader."
Stacy noticed Thom watching the conversation, listening for any tidbit of information she could pry from their host.
"You don't have much of an accent," she noted, although that was not quite true. There seemed to be a rough hint of French in some of his words. "I'll guess that English is your second language."
"And there you would be wrong." Again he appeared delighted with the exchange. "I now consider English my first language. But then again, so does most of the world. It's all about accommodating you Americans. You spend your money on so many things all around the world, and in return for your investment you expect to be spoken to in your native tongue. I hate to break this to you, miss, but the truth is that the rest of the world thinks that Americans are either too dumb or too lazy to bother learning the languages where they visit. Still, you have the money, so everyone else will take English classes so we can sell you hotel rooms and souvenirs."
This time she acted amused and hit back, "I sense a little resentment toward the United States."
"Not at all! I love America. I have worked many times with Americans. Like I said, you have money to throw around, or invest as you often call it, with an emphasis on results. I appreciate such an approach. I have a track record of producing results, to which you can attest after the events of today."
"I know you," she said again, although she still could not pin it down. "I've seen your face."
"But you can't quite place it, can you? Very good. Keep trying. Tell me, what can you deduce about me so far?"
Stacy stiffened in her chair and gave him a good look over.
"Okay, let's see. I'd say you're in your midfifties."
"Very good, but that was fairly easy."
"You said you were a teenager when a man told you to change your name. So let's assume you were between fifteen and nineteen when that happened. If you were younger, you'd probably refer to yourself as a child. So, we start at fifty-five years old and take you back to fifteen, so that's forty years ago. That means your name was changed sometime in the seventies; early to midseventies. And you said someone made you change your name. I'm guessing that person was not your father. The way you said it, it sounds as if it was someone of authority."
Waters nodded but remained silent.
Stacy said, "Your country changed its name, too. Okay then, Zaire. You're from Zaire."
"What makes you say that?"
"First off, the name has changed. It's the Democratic Republic of Congo these days, just like it was before Mobutu, who took over in the late sixties or so, changed the country's name, and made anyone with a Western name change it to something more traditional African. Is that what happened to you?"
"My parents were Catholic and heavily influenced by French missionaries."
"So Mobutu takes over, pretty much nationalizes everything, including religion, and embezzles all the wealth. You get a new name. And then of course—" she stopped fast as a revelation hit home. "Wait a second. Zaire … the 1970s," she stared at his watery eyes.
"Go ahead, miss. What is it you think you know?"
The conversation had drawn in Major Gant so much that he could no longer hold his tongue. He blurted out the question, "What is it? What do you know about him?"
Stacy glanced over at Thom and then back to Waters.
"I can tell you what village he came from. I can even tell you what year he lived there."
"Go ahead then," Waters encouraged.
She said, "Yambuku, Zaire, 1976. You walk with a limp, your eyes, your skin … chronic conditions?"