“Yes, that’s a very wise idea, Mr. Turner.”

Elim stripped the outer glove off his right hand, drew his phone out of his pocket, and snapped a photo.

Back at his desk, he composed an email to Lucas’s parents.

Subject: A message from your son Lucas

Dear Sir and Madam,

I am a physician at Mandera Referral Hospital currently caring for your son. He asked me to pass this message along.

Sincerely,

Dr. Elim Kibet

** Message from Lucas follows **

Dear Mom and Dad,

Please don’t worry about me. I know you worry yourselves sick as it is.

Since my last email, I’ve begun running a fever. They don’t know if I have what Steven had, but the doctors and nurses here are doing everything they can for me. I am in no pain.

I want you to know that I love you and I appreciate all the opportunities you’ve given me. I feel very lucky. I’ve had the chance to work on a cause I believe in and see a part of the world few ever experience.

I feel that my life has had purpose and meaning. I don’t want to be grim or worry you. I’ll see you soon.

I love you both. Please don’t worry.

Lucas

Elim sent the email, then started making calls—to the Mandera County Commissioner, the County Health Director, National Disaster Operations Centre, and anyone else who would pick up.

When he was done, he sat back in his chair and realized something: he was running a fever. He pulled his shirt up and froze. The bumps were small but unmistakable. The beginnings of a rash. He was infected with whatever had sickened and killed the American.

The hospital administrator appeared in his door, and Elim quickly jerked his shirt down.

“We’ve got company, Elim.”

They walked to the main entrance and held their hands up to shade their eyes. Three large trucks had pulled up outside. They had just arrived—a cloud of brown dust they had kicked up was now engulfing the vehicles, preventing Elim from seeing any markings or identification.

Figures emerged from the dust cloud. They were dressed in protective suits, but they carried military rifles. They formed up around the hospital and waited. Ten seconds later, a second wave of figures in PPE stepped out of the cloud and walked directly toward Elim.

Off the Horn of Africa, the cargo vessel Kentaro Maru was slowly making its way down the coast of Somalia toward Kenya. It kept its distance from the shore, and out of the reach of pirates, though it was well equipped to repel such attacks.

In his cabin, Conner McClain sat at a desk, watching the drone footage of the trucks rolling up to Mandera Referral Hospital.

Behind him, the door opened and footsteps echoed on the floor.

He didn’t turn to see his guest, who stood and watched the video for a moment.

“You think they’ll take the boy back to America?”