Code of the Eagle - For The Motherland Book 1

Chapter 4

Tsholo forced down the bile that rose to her throat. In her fourteen years of police work she had seen her fair share of gruesome scenes. She had attended murder scenes where the victims had been decapitated and disemboweled, but nothing in her thirty four years of life had prepared her for what she was witnessing now.

What was inside the bank that had caused the weird death of the policeman?

An incisive and detached part of her mind worked at high-speed. She analysed the situation from all angles and concluded that, the only thing that made sense was that there was some sort of an unprecedented viral outbreak or, God forbid, a bioweapon attack. Either way they had to contain the situation. Fast.

Dikitso was just staring dumbly at his deceased officer, his mouth working but not saying anything. At that moment, he did not seem to be capable of captaining a thing.

Tsholo walked over to him and shook him in an effort to ground him. He blinked twice, closed his mouth and slowly focused on her.

“Call Cooper, now.” Tsholo told him. Chief Superintendent Cooper was the Officer In Charge for Gaborone police.

She herself made a call to the Gaborone CSI (Crime Scene Investigators), telling them to come equipped with Hazmat suits and body bags.

Block 10

A text message from ‘Unknown’ alerted Garikai about the commotion at Broadhurst Mall. He had just finished his perusal of the file Lynnette had given him, and was closing his trusty Hp Spectre laptop when he saw the message. It simply read: Broadhurst mall, right now.

Garikai hopped into a taxi, instructed the driver to take him to the mall. Sitting back, he reviewed what he knew, compartmentalizing everything neatly in the sections of his mind. Dr Mare had stolen the virus, not from greed but out of a deep sense of camaraderie with his counterparts in Botswana. Their plight of being taken for granted by the government they worked for was one that resonated with him. So when, three months earlier, at an international conference for African microbiologists and virologists, Mare was approached by one Dr Kogetso - himself a renowned author of a number of books on the study of viruses - he was easily convinced. Thus, over the previous months, the two had planned and plotted.

Dr Mare had spewed everything out during his “conversation” with Lynnette and her team. Unfortunately it was not much.

He knew the doctors were planning to use the viral WMD to retaliate against their government, but didn't have any details. He, however, had provided three names: Bruce Bubi the courier, Dr Bennett and Dr Kogetso.

Garikai’s plan was to confront the courier first. Thanks to the electronic system and surveillance cameras at the border control, he had a picture of him standing in line to have his passport stamped. He had long knotted Rastafarian locks, sunken eyes and thin bony shoulders.

Apparently, the canister of Ngozi Omega had been in a bag with dozen others like it, which were passed off as perfume cans.

The taxi stopped a block away from the mall. The driver swivelled in his seat to face Garikai. He gestured through the windscreen.

“I can't go further, the street is blocked.”

Garikai paid him and disembarked.

True enough, a sizable crowd had formed, chattering excitedly about the horrific and gruesome scene they had witnessed before being pushed back by the police.

Garikai’s Setswana was limited, but he gathered enough to make an educated guess as to what had happened.

Shoving his way to the front, he scanned the area. A bright orange inch-wide ‘CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS’ tape was being stretched out across the whole street. Parked just inside the taped area was a light blue CSI minibus. Garikai furtively moved closer to the bus. After making sure no one was paying him any attention, he ducked under the tape and pulled open the back door. Thanking his God that it was unlocked, he pulled himself in. A quick perusal of the interior showed him exactly what he was seeking: a spare Hazmat suit.

A few minutes later, he entered the bank, the suit making him blend in with other similarly clad men and women. The sight that met him gave him pause.

Bodies lay strewn about the banking hall in varying degrees of contortions and implosion. Blood carpeted the cream-coloured floor tiles. A glance at the tellers’ cubicles showed that they hadn't been spared the horrific fate of their clients, even from behind their reinforced glass screens.

Even though facial expressions couldn't be seen through the masks, Garikai could see through the slow shakes and movements of the CSI officers that they were shaken to the core. He assisted in bagging the bodies, studying their faces. If his deductions were correct, the courier was the one who had deployed the virus here. His reasoning was: the courier was at the bottom rung of the plotters’ ladder and was likely an untrustworthy fellow whose erstwhile colleagues wanted to cut loose at the earliest opportunity without leaving a loose end.

His calculations were confirmed when he spotted a Rasta in a blood soaked white suit near the counter. Garikai wanted to frisk the body but couldn't because another officer was already there. From the way she went over the body, Garikai knew she had somehow figured he was the primary victim or suspect. Even as he watched, the officer pried an empty hypodermic syringe from his dead, ruptured hands. She sealed it into an evidence bag, before flicking through his wallet.

Garikai had seen enough. He had to go to the courier's apartment before the police got there.