But as he approached the door, he heard the sound of Suliman speaking in a raised voice.
The language was Lingala, the dialect more common further to the west of the country, near Kinshasa. Suliman was speaking hurriedly, as though he were trying to persuade somebody of something. 'Everything is under control,' he asserted.
Abele stopped by the door, something preventing him from entering. He stood with his back against the wall, listening carefully to what Suliman was saying.
'I already told you yesterday,' Suliman said in that characteristic half-whisper of his, 'that the scientist has confirmed the ore is good.' A pause while the person on the other end of the phone spoke. 'Well, if you need more confirmation, you will have to send somebody else. He has succumbed to the illness and he is raving. I expect him to be dead in less than a week.'
Abele's face hardened.
'No,' Suliman continued after a moment. 'They are still unaccounted for. My men are tracking them, so they won't get far. If my people do not overcome them, then the forest will – they have no food, or water, or weapons. I don't expect to see them again.'
Abele muttered a curse underneath his breath. What was this fool thinking of?
'The workforce is thin,' Suliman was saying. 'Have you made arrangements for others to come? You realize that those who succumb will not survive long?' A long silence. 'No, Mr Kruger,' Suliman continued with a humility that sounded strange coming from him, 'I am not trying to tell you what to do. I will wait for them to arrive. Goodbye, Mr Kruger.'
Abele heard the phone being replaced in its cradle. What were these people up to? Why did they seem so worried about Ben and his father? Before he did anything, he needed to speak to Russell, to find out what was going on. As silently as his heavy frame would allow, he crept away from the open door and the office and started running back down the road towards the village. Had there been any camouflage, he would have made use of it; but there was none. He cut a lonely figure as he hurried along the road, unaware that from behind the mosquito-net window of the office, a solitary, dead-eyed face was watching him disappear into the indistinct haze of the distance.
He was drenched with sweat and humidity by the time he reached the centre of the village. The Rwandan guard was still standing there, a look of bored insolence on his face, and he did not seem to have noticed Abele watching him from the other side of the square. Abele turned the situation over in his mind. He needed to get in there, to talk to Russell Tracey. There were two ways he could do it: overpower the guard, or create some sort of diversion. Abele was not a subtle man: for him, the best way was always the most direct.
He skirted round the edge of the square; he tried to look nonchalant, but it was not something that came naturally to him, so his thick-set features remained fixed in an unfriendly frown. The guard still did not seem to have noticed him, however, and remained oblivious to his presence as Abele approached him from the side. The Rwandan was not carrying a weapon – to do so would have been to cause consternation and gossip in the village, something Suliman was clearly keen to avoid – so it would be a fist-fight, man against man. Abele's fists clenched as he got nearer, and he prepared to make his first punch a good one. Get him down before he had a chance to realize what was happening: it was the only way to ensure you would come out on top.
It was not until Abele was about two metres away that the guard realized something was afoot. Suddenly he became more alert, his casual slouch replaced with a wary, cat-like position, his eyes flashing cautiously and his lips curled into a patronizing sneer. He was a big man, his neck thick and his shoulders broad, but Abele was a match for him. And besides, he had the advantage. Using the full force of his weight, he pushed the guard into the compound, out of the eyesight of any interested passers-by. Once out of sight, he raised his knee sharply into the man's groin. The man bent over double in pain, and as he did so Abele jerked his knee up underneath his chin. There was a loud crack as the jaw crunched together and the man was propelled to the ground, landing heavily a good body's length away from Abele. He groaned as he tried to push himself from the ground, but a sound kick below the ribs soon made him collapse once more, and he fell into unconsciousness. Abele picked him up by the feet and dragged him across the ground to the edge of the courtyard. He tapped him sharply on the side of the face to check he really was out, and grunted with satisfaction when there was no response. Then he went in search of Russell.
Ben's dad was still lying on the bed. His lips were cracked and bleeding, and his waxwork pallor had given way to a jaundiced yellow sheen. Two days worth of grey stubble added a decade to his features. The room, Abele noticed, had the pungent smell of body odour that suggested that the heavily perspiring man in front of him had not moved for some time. 'Mr Russell,' he said gruffly, his voice low. There was no response. 'Mr Russell!' he said again, louder this time.
Russell's eyes flickered open and looked blankly at Abele. 'Ben? Is that you?'
'No, Mr Russell. It is me. Abele.'
Russell stared at him for some time, before closing his eyes again. 'Abele,' he murmured, the fact that he had finally recognized the man standing by his bed seeming to come as a great relief to him. 'I need some water.'
Abele looked around him. A half-full bottle of water was on the floor by Ben's bed, so he picked it up and gently trickled some of it into Russell's mouth. The white man tried to swallow, but the reflex had deserted him, and soon the water overflowed from his mouth and spilled down the side of his face. Abele stopped pouring, and Russell moved his moistened tongue around in his mouth. His eyes flickered around him, as though he was trying to work out where he was and what was happening. Suddenly everything seemed to come flooding back. When it did, he spoke. 'Don't touch me,' he whispered hoarsely, and clearly with great difficulty. 'Get out of here.'
Abele stayed where he was.
'You have to leave now, Abele…'
Russell spoke with all the urgency he could muster, but he was interrupted by the black man.
'Ben is in danger,' Abele said curtly. 'You are both in danger. What is happening?'
Russell was breathing heavily, almost gasping for air. 'The reservoir,' he choked, before his whole body was overcome by monstrous coughing.
Abele looked perplexed.
'Ben was just with me,' Russell struggled to say when the spasm had subsided. His eyes rolled in their sockets.
'No,' Abele stated. 'I have not seen him for two days. You are ill, Mr Russell. I think you do not know what you are saying.'
Russell pushed his tongue out of his mouth – Abele could see it looked furred and unpleasant – and used it weakly to lick his bloodied lips. 'How do you know Ben is in trouble?'
'I heard Suliman talking. He said his men were tracking him, but I do not know where.'
Suddenly Russell gripped the edge of the bed, and he held on as tightly as his weakened arms would allow. 'The room is spinning,' he muttered. He took some tremulous breaths before continuing his conversation with Abele. 'What else did you hear?'
'They are bringing more men in from the next village to work the mine,' Abele told him. He seemed about to say something else, but was interrupted by Russell's attempts to speak. What came out of his mouth, though, were not words but a garbled sequence of sounds. A blankness came over his expression, and he passed out.