The Secret Chamber by Patrick Woodhead Page A

clearing with a huge medical tent dominating one side of it. A long line of people sheltered under a canvas awning as they patiently waited their turn to enter. By the entrance stood a white man smoking a cigarette. He wore a doctor’s lab coat with a stethoscope around his neck, and stared into the middle distance with an air of exhausted indifference. René and Luca were standing almost directly in front of him before he seemed to register their presence.
    ‘My name’s René, and this is Luca. Have you got a minute?’ the Belgian said, offering his hand.
    ‘Doctor Sabian,’ the man said automatically, more resting his hand in René’s than shaking it. ‘Christophe Sabian.’ He looked towards Luca, who had his eyes turned towards the ground.
    ‘And you have all of my attention … until I finish this cigarette,’ Christophe continued, raising the half-smoked butt in front of his face. ‘There was another massacre out by Bunia this morning. So my diary’s kind of full.’
    ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ René said.
    ‘What the hell for? You didn’t do it.’
    ‘Look, I know this is a bad time … but we really need some information.’ As René drew a small notepad from his pocket, Christophe’s expression suddenly darkened.
    ‘Great,’ he hissed, ‘more bloody reporters.’ Before René could protest, he raised a finger towards him in warning. ‘Just don’t think you’re going to start interviewing the women again. The last fucking story chaser from Reuters might as well have hung a sign out to the husbands as to which one of them had been raped.’ Anger coloured his cheeks as he flicked the cigarette down into the mud. ‘You know the men don’t take them back again, don’t you? Once they’ve been raped, I mean. The women are cast out of the camps and have to take their children with them.’
    Nodding towards the dying glow of the cigarette, Christophe shook his head in disgust.
    ‘Time’s up,’ he said, but before he could take a step further, Luca suddenly pushed past René, grabbing the lapel of the doctor’s white coat and shunting him back against the side of the tent.
    ‘What the hell do you think …’ Christophe began, but as he looked into Luca’s eyes for the first time, he fell silent.
    ‘We’re not reporters,’ Luca hissed. ‘We want information about a man named Kofi. Joshua Kofi.’
    ‘Joshua? Why do you want to know about him?’
    ‘We’re looking for him.’
    Christophe didn’t respond for a moment, then a flicker of recognition passed across his face. ‘Luca?’ he asked. ‘You’re his friend from England, right?’
    As Luca released the front of his coat and stepped back, Christophe stared into his eyes. ‘Yeah, that’s right. He mentioned you a few times. You’re that climber.’
    Luca didn’t respond.
    Christophe slowly straightened the front of his white coat, smoothing out the fabric. He shook his head.
    ‘Look, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Josh is … gone.’ He looked skyward for a second. ‘Jesus, someone at the agency should have informed you. Why the hell they let you come all the way out here like this … Really, I’m sorry.’
    Luca’s jaw clenched. ‘You knew him well?’ he asked.
    Christophe shrugged. ‘Yes, I’d say quite well. We worked together for a couple of months right here in Kibati. But after that convoy got lost, he disappeared. Like all the rest of them.’
    As he spoke, a huge Congolese man ducked his head under the entrance flap of the tent. He wore the same sort of stained white coat as Christophe, and had jet-black, pockmarked skin. Shoving the nearest of the line of patients out of his way with a rough swing of his arm, he stared up at the bruised sky for a moment before lighting a cigarette and turning towards them.
    ‘Break’s over, Sabian,’ he said, in a thick French accent.
    Luca turned to him, his eyes narrowing, but before he said anything, René quickly interjected.
    ‘Could you give us a