The man in charge.
“Sir, turn around,” the officer said. “Off-limits here.”
“You don’t understand,” Henry said reasonably. “I am authorized to enter anywhere there is a health situation—”
“No your business. You turn around.”
Henry tried to hand the officer his credentials, along with Maria’s letter, which had seemed so effective at the previous gate, but the officer turned around smartly and returned to the house.
Henry stood there, wondering what his next step should be. Only a few yards away, the detainees stared back at him, their faces filled with desperation and puzzlement as they awaited Henry’s decision. It had begun to rain again, but nobody moved. He started to walk toward the encampment, but then he heard the sound of a bullet being chambered. A guard in a jeep nearby gestured with his gun to get back into the rickshaw.
A muezzin’s cry announced the call to prayer, and at once the guards retreated and the detainees returned to the sprawling assemblage of tents and shacks and lean-tos, seeking a dry place to pray. Bambang got his prayer rug from under his seat and was about to spread it on the muddy parade ground when the slender officer appeared again on the porch and motioned him inside.
Henry sat in the rickshaw, confounded. There was nothing he could do. He had failed. Everyone else was praying. Maybe that’s the last resort, he thought.
Presently, prayers were finished, and Bambang rushed back through the rain.
“Let’s go to the airport,” Henry said. “There’s no reason to stay.”
“No, boss, is okay. We make a deal,” Bambang said, pointing at the officer on the porch.
“You gave him a bribe?”
“Not me. You.”
Henry silently cursed himself. It had never occurred to him that money alone might solve his problem. Bambang raced a wad of dollars to the officer, who took it inside, counted it, then emerged and nodded at the soldier in the jeep.
* * *
—
BAMBANG INSISTED ON carrying the umbrella, saying it was part of the deal.
“Too dangerous,” Henry said.
“You are my responsibility!” Bambang replied proudly.
Henry had brought only one protective gown, but he gave Bambang two pairs of latex gloves (Henry insisted on double-gloving) and a disposable mask to cover his mouth and nose, along with a warning not to touch anybody. The gate clanged shut behind them.
Danger is invariably present in the investigation of an unknown pathogen. Diseases may arise from many sources, including viruses, parasites, bacteria, fungi, amoebas, toxins, protozoa, and prions, and each has a strategy for survival. In addition to the multiple ways infection can spread, serious diseases can masquerade as something common and relatively harmless. Headaches may be a symptom of a sinus infection or a sign of an impending stroke. Fever, fatigue, and muscle aches can signal a cold or the onset of meningitis. Going into the field, alone, in an alien environment, with minimal resources, was the most perilous mission a disease detective such as Henry could undertake. On the other hand, the danger of an outbreak of virulent disease was great enough that Henry was willing to take the risk. He had long since recognized that luck was an unreliable but indispensable companion on such an adventure.
Henry and his driver were met by a delegation of young men, mostly in their twenties and thirties, with several teenagers among them. They were gaunt but not malnourished, and they had made an attempt to groom themselves despite their tattered clothes. Henry sensed a certain solidarity among them. Perhaps, having lived in the shadows for most of their lives, they had instinctively re-created their underground community.
One man approached Henry carrying a machete like a scepter. He had a gold stud in his nose and his hair was down to his shoulders. It had been dyed blond but it was growing out black. Henry did a quick calculation: three inches of hair growth would equal approximately six months of incarceration.
“He wants to know if you are human rights,” Bambang said, translating the man’s remarks. “He says they have been demanding this but the authorities refuse to accept their petition.”
“No, tell them I’m sorry. I’m just a doctor and—”
But the word caught fire as soon as it was out of his mouth. “Doctor! Doctor!” the men cried. Some of them began to weep and fall on their knees. It was clear from the clammy faces and the dilated eyes that many were feverish.
“You are the first outsider in a long time,” Bambang said.
“Don’t they have any medical assistance?”
Bambang asked the young man with the machete.
“French people,