It would be either Quinn’s salvation or a waste of time. If something else was killing him, or if he suffered some adverse reaction to the antidote itself, Bolan had no more remedies on tap. He couldn’t operate, couldn’t keep Quinn alive with CPR and still meet Jack Grimaldi for their pickup. He would simply have to watch the young man die, then take the bad news back to Val.
Screw that.
Bolan removed his last syringe from its high-impact case, peeled back one of Quinn’s denim sleeves and found a vein. He pinched Quinn’s bicep, made the vein stand out more prominently and administered the dose with steady pressure on the hypo’s plunger. Ten long seconds saw it done, and Bolan stowed the kit, now useless to him, as he settled back to wait.
Some fifteen seconds after the injection, Quinn began to twitch, as if experiencing a mild seizure. Warm color rose from underneath his collar, tingeing throat and cheeks. Quinn muttered something unintelligible, batting weakly at his face with his left hand.
And then his eyes snapped open.
“EXPLAIN THE PROBLEM once again, if you don’t mind,” Pablo Camacho said. His frown was thoughtful, almost studious.
It angered Gaborone to have his concentration interrupted, but he couldn’t show impatience to Camacho or the man who stood beside him, likewise waiting for his answer. One of them would soon pay millions for the key to Armageddon, and until the contract had been executed, Gaborone couldn’t afford to vent his spleen toward either one.
“The fires were set deliberately,” Gaborone replied in even tones. “Having discovered that, I realized that someone might be injured, or else missing from the camp.”
“The fire setter.” Adnan Ibn Sharif remained impassive as he spoke.
“Perhaps. In any case, a survey of our people has revealed one absent from his dormitory. An American. My men are searching for him now in other barracks, the latrines, mess hall.”
“You have guards here,” Camacho said. “Can anyone simply walk out, unseen?”
“It’s a community, Mr. Camacho, not a prison camp. My people stay because they wish to. They have faith in me and in the Process. We await the end times here.”
Camacho fairly sneered. “Someone grew tired of waiting, it would seem.”
“We don’t know yet if the young man in question set the fires. He may still be in camp, somewhere. In any case, he will be found and questioned.”
“Found in any case?” Sharif was plainly skeptical. “What if he’s run into the jungle? Can you find him there?”
“Some of my men are native hunters. They can track a leopard through the thickets to its lair.”
“This is a man,” Camacho said, “not some dumb animal.”
“A white man from the U.S.A.,” Gaborone said. He forced a smile. “If this one ran into the forest, he’ll be lost by now.”
“But going somewhere, all the same,” Sharif replied. “We’re wasting time.”
“On the contrary. Even as some search the village, others are scouting the perimeter. They will discover any signs of recent passage.”
Camacho shifted restlessly, hands clinched to fists inside his trouser pockets. “Tell us something more of this American you’ve lost. How do you know he’s not a spy?”
“I know my people,” Gaborone replied. “They’re converts, gentlemen, not infiltrators. Each has sacrificed to demonstrate devotion. They have given up their lives and families to follow me.”
“Still, if a spy wants to impress you,” said Camacho, “he could do all that and more. I’ve been indicted in absentia by the government in Washington. For all I know, your arsonist is a narcotics agent and these fires were signals for a raid.”
“In which case,” Gaborone asked his uneasy guest, “where are the raiders? Do you hear the sound of aircraft circling overhead? The only landing strip within a hundred miles is guarded by my men, and they have radios as well as weapons. You are perfectly secure in Obike.”
“Why don’t I feel secure?” Camacho asked.
“Perhaps you’ve lived in fear too long,” Gaborone said. “In fact, the young man whom we seek converted to the Process months ago. Before I had the pleasure of your company—or yours, Mr. Sharif. Could he predict that we would meet and come to terms on business matters, gentlemen? I doubt it very much.”
“We have not come to terms,” Sharif reminded him. “Not yet.”
Gaborone was rapidly reaching the end of his patience. “Indeed,” he replied, “have we not? Please pardon my presumption. I assumed that our discussions had some basis in reality. If you prefer to look elsewhere for what you seek, I won’t detain you any further. I can halt the trivial pursuit of one young man and have you taken to the airstrip. Are your things in order? Is an hour soon enough?”
Camacho fanned the muggy air with an impatient hand. “No one said anything about leaving. I can’t speak for Sharif, but I still want the merchandise, if we can strike a bargain on the price.”
“And I!” Sharif confirmed. “I’ve come empowered to close a deal.”
“Then, by all means,” Gaborone said, “leave petty matters of internal discipline to me. I’ll soon find out who set the fires and what possessed him to make such a grave mistake. Until then, gentlemen, please take advantage of our hospitality.”
He left them less than satisfied, but they were staying. It was all that mattered at the moment.
That, and finding Patrick Quinn.
NICO MBARGA HAD INFORMED his men, at the beginning of the search, that all results should be reported directly to him, without troubling the master. His troops knew the drill well enough, but it did no harm to remind them, especially when there were strangers in the village who might form a bad impression of the Process if its guards ran willy-nilly, here and there, spreading false rumors to the populace.
In this case, though, Mbarga was concerned with truth, as much as lies.
He wanted to be confident of every detail the master received about what had transpired. He also meant to be the only messenger with access to the throne.
To that end, long ago, Mbarga had commanded that his men shouldn’t address the master unless spoken to directly by His Eminence. If such a conversation should occur outside Mbarga’s presence, they were tasked to find him afterward and faithfully report whatever had been said. And as insurance against crafty liars, Mbarga had decreed that his soldiers had to always work in pairs, thus providing a witness for any chance encounter with the master.
It was the best he could do, and now it seemed that his system might be shattered by a pasty-faced American of no account.
Mbarga knew Patrick Quinn as he knew everyone in Obike, as a sketchy printout from the personal computer in his head. Quinn was a white boy from America, apparently devoted to the Process if his former words and actions were a proper guide. He’d come from money but had been cut off from access by his parents. That occurred from time to time, and while the disappointment hadn’t been enough for Gaborone to cut him loose, it ended any chance of Quinn’s advancement to the master’s inner circle. Quinn would be a cipher, toiling in the fields or begging handouts for the Process on some street corner until he either quit the sect or died.
This day, the latter exit seemed more probable.
Mbarga supervised the search, rather than rushing door-to-door himself and peering into cupboards, groping under cots. He left the grunt work to his men, as usual, and relegated to himself the task of asking questions where he thought they might be useful.
His knowledge of the white boy didn’t extend to peripheral friendships, so Mbarga questioned first the