The Source - Michael Cordy [19]
The figure stepped over Ross and made for the stairs, Lauren in his path. Vision blurred, Ross reached up and grabbed the intruder's trouser leg, exposing a thick scar above the right ankle. The man barrelled past him, shoving Lauren against the balustrade with such force that the rail broke and she plummeted to the floor of the hall below. There was a thud and a sickening crack. Then she was silent. The last sound Ross heard before darkness claimed him was the click of the front door closing.
9
Uganda, Africa
Thousands of miles away, in a small town near Lake Victoria, the Jambo Internet café represented an outpost of extraordinary technology, its air-conditioned interior a refuge from the sweltering heat. Amid its young clientele of locals and tanned backpackers, drinking coffee and tapping at computer terminals, one pale elderly face stood out. Sipping a sweet latte, Sister Chantal studied her screen.
Every month she took her walking-stick and strolled into town from the Aids hospice on the hill, ordered a latte and a pastry, then sat at one of the terminals. Every month her frail fingers entered the same keyword in the major search engines and scoured the Internet, and every month she found nothing new. When she had finished her pastry and the latte, she would return to the hospice and tell herself that next month things would be different. Next month her burden would be lifted.
She had lived at the hospice for the last twelve years and she enjoyed her work there, but she knew it would soon be time to leave. It wasn't just that the mother superior and the Church authorities would eventually start asking questions – as they had done in every other hospital and hospice where she had worked. Her precious supplies were running low and to continue her lonely vigil she had to replenish them. It was hard to believe she was running out of time. A stab of self-pity pierced her serene self-discipline. She pushed it away and concentrated on the computer screen.
First, she scanned the BBC and CNN. As usual, the news wasn't good. A story about Alascon Oil's new pipeline project was particularly worrying. When she had read enough she went to Google and entered her search word. She scrolled down the first four pages, dismissing each hit.
Then something caught her eye.
She paused, coffee in hand, but remained calm: she had found encouraging items before, all of which had come to nothing. She clicked on the entry and studied the website. Then she placed her untouched coffee on the desk. As she read, her heart beat faster and her palms moistened. She reached up and loosened her wimple, suddenly short of breath. Struggling to control her rising excitement, she visited two more websites, gaining more background information, then sent the relevant pages to the printer. Next she accessed the Banque Genève secure site, then entered her password and account number. She barely glanced at the large balance. The money was a means to an end. Nothing more. She paid for a plane ticket and transferred funds to the nearest bank, in Jinja. Finally she stood up, settled her bill and rushed out, leaving her coffee on the desk.
When she returned to the hospice it was quiet. Most of the nuns were in the chapel or tending the abundant crops in the small garden of fertile red earth. She went straight to her spartan room and packed everything she owned into a small suitcase. Before closing it she retrieved an old wooden box and undid the padlock. She took out a smaller, ornately carved box, opened it and examined the contents. The leather drawstring pouch was almost empty. A rush of relief and elation flooded her. It had once been full to bursting but it no longer mattered that her supply was almost exhausted. Her wait would soon be over.
A hesitant knock made her spin round and slam the box shut. Two small, painfully thin boys stood in the doorway. 'What are you doing, Sister?'
She smiled at them. 'Jambo, Samuel, Joshua.'