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Hecate asked softly, “do you?”
    “Suspects what we’re doing or what we have planned for him?”
    “Either. Both.”
    Paris shrugged. “With him it’s hard to know,” he admitted. “Dad thinks he’s still in charge. But really—does it matter? By the time he could find out for sure it’ll be too late for him to do anything about it.”
    Their jet dropped its flaps and began a long, slow descent toward the desert.

Chapter Seven
    The Akpro-Missérété Commune, Ouémé, the Republic of Benin
    Eleven days ago
    Dr. Panjay stepped out of the tent and pulled off her mask to reveal a face that was deeply troubled and deeply afraid. She peeled off her Latex gloves and her hands were shaking so badly she missed the biowaste bin on the first try. She heard the tent flap rustle and turned to see her colleague Dr. Smithwick come out into the dusty afternoon sunlight. Despite his sunburn, Smithwick was white as a ghost. He stood next to Panjay and removed his blood-smeared gloves and threw them, his mask and apron into the biowaste bin.
    “You see why I asked you to come here? To see for yourself?” Panjay looked up into his face. “Thomas . . . what are we going to do?”
    He shook his head. “I . . . don’t know. Aside from sending samples and our notes . . . I don’t know what we
can
do. This is beyond me, Rina.”
    “Thanks for coming,” she said. “But . . . perhaps I should have prepared you better.”
    Smithwick looked back at the big tent. With the flap closed he could not see the rows upon rows of cots, each one occupied by a farmer from the Ouémé River basin. Sixty-two people.
    “Is this every case?” he asked.
    She bit her lip and shook her head. “No. These are the healthiest cases.”
    “I . . . don’t understand. . . .”
    “Since I came here three weeks ago we’ve had three hundred people present with symptoms. Most of them have hemoglobin levels in the range of six to eight grams per deciliter with a high reticulocyte count. Some have demonstrated features of hyposplenism Howell-Jolly bodies.”
    “You tested them all?”
    “Yes . . . and five hundred other people chosen at random from the same towns or farms. Every single one of them showed signs of sickles hemoglobin. I tested their Hb S in sodium dithionite, and in every case the Hb had a turbid appearance.”
    “Christ!”
    “Not everyone has active symptoms, but when symptoms present we’re seeing a wide range of them. We’ve seen ischemia resulting in avascular necrosis; there have been cases of priapism and infarction of the penis in males of all ages; bacterial bone infections . . . the list is endless. Every symptom in the book. Even symptoms typically common in different strains are showing up in the same patients, including strokes due to vascular narrowing of blood vessels. There have been nineteen cases of cerebral infarction in children and widespread cerebral hemorrhaging in adults. And we’ve had increased occurrences of
Streptococcus pneumoniae
and
Haemophilus influenzae
in any patient who had undergone surgery. And not just splenectomies—I mean
any
surgery.”
    “What are the primary causes of death?”
    “Renal failure,” she said. “Across the board.”
    Her words hit Smithwick like a series of punches. He staggered back and had to grab a slender tree for support.
    “All of them?”
    “Every one. Every person.”
    “That’s not possible.” He licked his lips. “Do you have a map? Can you show me where the cases were reported?”
    She nodded. “I knew you’d want to see it, so I have it already prepared.”
    Rina Panjay led the way through the nearly deserted village. Theonly sound they heard was that of quiet weeping from people huddled around fresh graves in the cemetery and a single high keening moan of loss echoing from a child’s bedroom where a desolated mother sat clutching a doll to her chest as she rocked back and forth. Panjay’s eyes were red from all the tears she had wept