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‘Ah. Erica's entourage,' Friederikson said. ‘And is the great woman herself here yet?'

Milward and Zoe looked at each other. It was Max who spoke. ‘No she isn't.'

‘Well, I hope she hurries up. We are all impatient to hear about her breakthrough, if that is indeed what it is.'

Milward turned to Max. ‘Professor Friederikson will be showing his own results for the eradication campaign on Monday. It is thanks to his contacts in Africa that we have been able to get the latest World Health Organization project…'

‘Pish. Don't get too excited about that. Insecticide and bed nets, good will and chit chat. Malaria is not so easily overcome.'

Behind Friederikson stood a powerfully-built bespectacled African wearing a sharp suit and a gleaming smile, Erica's surprise visitor from Africa. Loebe gave them all a firm double-handed handshake, grinning delightedly. Each smile puckered his cheeks to reveal symmetrical tribal scars. To Max it was like a baring of knives.

‘When are we going to hear about the vaccine?' Loebe said.

‘The minister is a great believer in vaccines,' said Professor Friederikson, managing simultaneously to convey that this view was unwisely optimistic.

‘And I understand that Dr Stroud-Jones has developed one,' the minister beamed. ‘The new unity government is pledged to improve the health of all our people and we would be happy to be the first to test any malaria vaccine.'

‘I think you may be working on rumours, minister,' said Milward.

‘Of course he is,' Friederikson exploded. ‘We all are. When is she going to tell us what she has discovered? Then this pointless speculation can cease. I trust Mr Milward that the paper will be presented by someone, even if Dr Stroud-Jones is not here to do it?'

‘No. I have been expressly asked to keep it confidential. If, God forbid, Dr Stroud-Jones does not appear, another paper will be substituted.'

‘Preposterous! What is she playing at? God knows malaria gets little enough newspaper coverage when there is HIV and bird flu to chase after, but what little we get is focused on her alleged discovery. Every time a journalist speaks to me they only want to know one thing – Have I read the Stroud-Jones paper? I haven't, and I want to.'

‘Where is she?' Loebe asked.

‘I'm afraid nobody knows,' Zoe said. ‘She's disappeared.'

‘Disappeared? There can only be one explanation,' Friederikson said. ‘Her discovery is a myth. It doesn't work, she now knows it doesn't work and she's too cowardly to come out and say it.'

‘What a crock of shit,' Max said. ‘I'm no scientist, Prof, but I know one thing. You don't have the first idea what's going on, so why don't you wait until you do, okay?'

‘And I've known Erica for twenty years,' yelled Zoe. ‘She has more moral courage in her little finger than you, Professor, have in your entire body. If it didn't work she would admit it. Your trouble is that you don't want it to work.'

‘Outrageous!' roared Friederikson, knuckles tight on his stick. ‘Before you were born I was devoting my life to this…'

‘Please, everybody. Calm down.' Milward nodded towards the doorway, where a bearded man in jeans and a press pass pinned to his polo shirt was scribbling notes furiously. Tanya was doing her best to block him from getting any closer.

‘Mike Penstein, Newsweek,' the journalist barked. ‘Is it true that Stroud-Jones has gone missing?'

Zoe, Max, Friederikson, Loebe and Milward looked at each other for a moment, then chorused ‘No comment'. The journalist looked heavenward as Tanya closed the door on him. They ignored the further questions shouted through the door.

Loebe was laughing softly to himself, his scars flexing. ‘Perhaps Erica has been kidnapped?'

‘Minister,' said Milward. ‘This is
Amsterdam
.'

‘Hunchbacked and silent, it gorges itself on the blood of its victims as they sleep. The disease it carries kills more than 1.5 million people a year, and reduces three hundred million to a shivering, sweating terror. For fifty years humanity has tried to wipe it out – and failed.

The name of the beast is
Anopheles
, the malarial mosquito. It has adapted brilliantly to all mankind's worst habits. It delights in rainforest destruction, climate change, and pollution. It adores population and refugee movements, which give it new and vulnerable populations on which to feed. It revels in war in common only with the rat and the maggot.

The adaptable mosquito can breed in a few drops of clean water in an old tyre or tin can or a wheel rut, and has readily taken to urban areas. In India there is even a species of Anopheles which breeds in rooftop airconditioning tanks.

Of course,
Anopheles
is only the steed that carries malaria. In this Apocalypse there are also Four Horsemen:
Plasmodium falciparum
,
Plasmodium vivax
,
Plasmodium ovale
and
Plasmodium malariae
. Their names are familiar only to the few dedicated and underfunded scientists who fight them, but their effects are known to billions in the tropical world. These are the tiny parasites which cause the disease in man and mosquito, the deadly cycle of death and sickness.

The parasites have foiled all attempts to develop a vaccine against them, and are increasingly resistant to the drugs used to treat them. There is a desperate need for funding to find new drugs, but major pharmaceutical companies have largely turned their backs on a market where the victims have no money.

Beware! We are the four horsemen's greatest ally. Global warming may bring them back as killers to the temperate world, in which we, the complacent wealthy, have taken our shameful refuge.'

(Extract from the speech of Professor Jürgen Friederikson to the United Nations conference on health in less developed countries, 1994.)

Henry Waterson hadn't meant to fall asleep, but waking on a Sunday afternoon with the young woman he loved still asleep and entwined around him was a warmth to savour. As gently as possible he slid his fingers along her shoulder, under the bedclothes until he found the heavy flesh of her right breast. Barely touching, he circled towards the centre until the nipple rose hard to meet him. Still she slept as he traced a line under her ribs along the slight curve of her belly and along her thigh down to her knee.

She sighed and looked up at him, smiling. Her legs parted and she spoke. ‘Go on.'

Henry caressed her inner thighs, feeling the slick stickiness of their earlier lovemaking on her skin as he moved higher. He pressed a flat hand against her sex, and she thrust her hips, describing a moist, hot lick on his palm. He pressed his fingers inside, and hearing her ragged exhalation felt a stiffening jolt in his own groin.

They embraced and he slid on top, her hand grasping then guiding. ‘Not such an old tired man then, Henry?' she said.

He chuckled as he slid into her heat and rhythm. ‘You're supposed to be somewhere else now, aren't you?'

‘Not for an hour. I've done what I need to for him, and this,' she gripped his buttocks hard, drawing him deep into her. ‘ …is for me.'

Henry, trying to slow the pace, glanced across at the next bed, spread with plastic bags and wrapping paper. ‘You shouldn't do…all that for…him, Penny.'

‘I know. But if I hadn't …been buying more presents for his wife, I would… have been stuck in meetings all day.' They abandoned conversation as her urgency overtook his slower rhythm, and the headboard began to tap tap tap against the wall.

Fifty minutes later Penny Ryan knocked gently and pushed open the door into Jack Erskine's hotel suite. The hallway reeked of stale sweat. She went through to the bedroom. Curtains shut out the late afternoon light and the air was foul. She clicked on a bedside lamp and flicked on the air conditioning. The chief executive was staring at her through bewildered and bloodshot eyes, his breathing a gentle rasp. The bed covers were dishevelled and damp, his pyjama jacket open. Beads of perspiration stood out on his top lip and his hair was like a dark, damp stain on his head.

‘Jack you look terrible!'

He said nothing. Penny carefully set aside the gifts she had bought for Jack's anniversary on the dresser, and to calm herself tidied up the room, picking up and folding clothing, bringing him fresh water to set by the bedside, fiddling with the air conditioning. Jack's eyes followed her around the room, but somehow the Jack she knew wasn't in them.

‘Momma.' The voice rasped out from the bed.

‘Jack, it's me, Penny. You're sick, Jack, and we're going to get you a doctor.'

‘Please Momma. Open the window. It's real hot.'

‘You've got a fever, you'll be fine. I've turned up the aircon.' Penny dialled reception. They promised to send a doctor and a thermometer.

Once the thermometer arrived it took Penny three attempts to keep it under his tongue while Erskine called out in his delirium. He was convinced he was back at his boyhood home in Abilene, Texas. Finally, Penny lost patience and held his jaw shut with one hand. ‘Honey, Momma gonna spank you 'ness you keep still!'

It did the trick. She wondered what Pharmstar's 78,000 employees, every one of them scared of Iron Jack, would make of this performance.

Then she took out the thermometer and gasped. 105.5 Fahrenheit. She didn't know a human being could get so high and live. She put the thermometer in a glass and grabbed the phone to call reception.

‘This is suite 417. We are still waiting for the doctor you promised. If he doesn't arrive in five minutes I want an ambulance. Yes really.' She dropped the receiver back on the hook, and then snatched it up again. Five minutes later Quiggan was standing in the room as Penny harangued him.

‘And you mean to say you just let him come up here alone.'

‘Sure,' said Quiggan. ‘He's a big boy now.'

‘Why didn't you check on him? Why didn't you call a doctor immediately?'

‘He wouldn't let me, Penny,' said Quiggan. ‘He said he just needed an hour shut-eye and we have a conference call with the minister at five.' He looked at his watch. ‘Well, I guess he's not going to be better by then. Best make it tomorrow.'

‘For Christ's sake Don, he's running a fever of over a hundred five. He is not going to be better for a week. This ain't flu, I'll tell you that.'

The knock on the door made them jump. Quiggan opened the door. A beautiful dark-skinned woman stood there, with a cheeky smile and the smell of wine on her breath. She was a little taller than he, in her mid-twenties and slender except where her full breasts and and bulging cream dress revealed her pregnancy.

‘Hello.' Her brown eyes danced with intelligence as she watched Quiggan's gaze move slowly back up to her face. ‘Well, you're not the sick one are you?'

‘No, he's inside. I'm Don Quiggan, pleased to meet you.'

‘I'm Saskia Sivali. I just happened to be at a reception downstairs when the manager asked me to help. I'm a graduate student from the Randstad Medical Centre.'

He showed her into the room. ‘This is Dr Sivali,' he said to Penny.

‘Not yet I'm not,' Saskia said. ‘One more piece of paper required. I'm just plain Ms for now.'

‘Hell, but I'm sure you've done all the work just the same.' The moist, avaricious grin on Quiggan's face followed the woman's long legs into the bedroom. Penny had seen the same expression when Quiggan assessed the balance sheets of rival companies, ripe for takeover and dismemberment.

Saskia Sivali looked into Erskine's eyes, took his pulse and checked the glands under his jaw. ‘So how are you feeling?' There was no response except a sigh. She looked up at Penny. ‘Has anyone taken his temperature?'

‘Yes. One-oh-five. Fahrenheit, that is.'

Saskia let a sceptical half smile slip as Penny handed her the thermometer. She checked the bulb carefully and shook it repeatedly. Then she eased Erskine over on to his front, and eased his pyjama pants down while she probed with the instrument. Quiggan grinned, wishing he had a camera to capture this precious moment.

She needed only one shocked glance at the thermometer. ‘I'll get an ambulance immediately.'

We stayed up in Etenzi's hut this evening, listening to the hissing of the hurricane lamp and waiting for Georg's translations of the headman's conversation. A beautiful girl called Cecile waited on Etenzi, moving gracefully with food and drink. I assumed she is Etenzi's grandaughter, but Sister Margaret corrected me. She is his wife, and just fourteen years old. Etenzi's first two wives died several years ago.

Etenzi didn't even look at Cecile when she gave him something, but just reached out and carried on talking. I got quite annoyed about that but Sister Margaret put me straight. She pointed out Cecile's jewellery: jangling metal bracelets on wrist, neck and ankle. Then she told me. Etenzi has never seen his beautiful wife. He contracted river blindness thirty years ago, and now he sees her with his ears. To him that is as beautiful as anything in the world.

River blindness is endemic in Zizunga. Blackflies swarm by the river, and their bite infects humans with a tiny worm which can live for eighteen years. They produce their larvae in the eye, but do not in themselves harm the body. The blindness is caused by the progressive damage to tissues such as the cornea from dead larvae.

Sister Margaret struggles to treat the disease. She was recently delighted to get hold of a batch of Ivermectin on the black market in Kinshasa. The drug is used to kill livestock parasites in the developed world, but ended up in Africa being used on people only because it was past the expiry date. Ivermectin kills the adult worms, but Sister Margaret reserves its use for those patients who pass an eye test. The drug must be husbanded for those who still have some sight to save.

Such is Africa, I am learning.

(Erica's Diary 1992)