The sign on the wall said, “Internet café.” No food or drink, however, was served there. Old tables covered with old computers lined the drably decorated room. Handmade wooden chairs made locally at side-of-the-road woodshops lined the tables. The old hardware ran the latest and greatest software, all pirated almost immediately after its release.

“Ah, the computer.” Virgil said the word slowly, enunciating each syllable carefully. “I have read about these.”

He sat down at one and stared at it intently. His eyes surveyed the keyboard. He tentatively pressed the “enter” key. Tiyana looked at him skeptically.

“Do you know what you are doing?” She asked.

“I have read of these devices. I can certainly…” Virgil squinted at the screen and stared blankly at the keys. “um, well, no I do not know what I am doing.” Virgil hung his head in shame as he admitted defeat.

“Alright then. First, we pay the guy. Then he gives us a log in username and password. The computer tracks our time and cuts us off when we run out. I’ll walk you through a few basics and you’ll be on your own. I’m going to dive right in.” She said.

She paid the clerk who sat behind the desk absentmindedly chewing on khat. She gave Virgil a brief introduction to doing web browser searches, and then she got to work on her own computer.

After an hour or so of running Boolean logic on databases that Tiyana subscribed to, some that she had access to via her scientific credentials and others that were free to the public, she came across an article by Doctor Ragnar Sudbø. The article was no more than a brief note in the back of the New International Infectious Diseases Journal. It discussed the potential effects on the brain of a perplexing new strain of malaria that he had observed recently in northern Mozambique. Doctor Sudbø had recently completed a fellowship there in a World Health Organization clinic set up to study viral strains and compare them with other research from all over the world to garner information on new developments in old diseases as they occur. The article listed the findings as potentially groundbreaking, but inconclusive due to the mysterious disappearance of all of the test subjects after a few days of study. Doctor Sudbø recommended further study and analysis of the rapid mental retardation and other strange side effects that seemed to occur in patients with this esoteric and seemingly localized strain of illness.

“What do you think about this Vee?” Tiyana asked.

Virgil very slowly hunted for each letter on the keyboard and pecked at it in a slow, methodical rhythm. He had gotten nowhere in the past hour. The learning curve had proved too much for him. Tiyana told him about Doctor Sudbø and his note.

“Yes, yes, we must meet with this Sudbø. He may be able to help us narrow our search.” Virgil replied.

“We could just call him you know. Also, we could hit up the clinic ourselves and start digging around.” Tiyana suggested.

“True, however, Malacoda knows now about Hunter and myself. We can expect Ghaelvord to cover his tracks. This Sudbø may be our only chance at whatever pieces of the trail have not been swept away.”

With a couple mouse clicks, Tiyana pulled up his contact information.

“He’s Norwegian. Looks like we’re going to Oslo.”

• • •

Doctor Sudbø met them for lunch at the 77 Kjøkken. They brought a translator and got a private room. The ultramodern restaurant sat in the heart of the Oslo city center. The windows looked out over the great Oslo fjord.

The good Doctor turned out to be a garrulous talker who thoroughly enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He rambled on at length before allowing even a slight pause for the interpreter to jump into the conversation.

“He says the patients had fever, excessive sweating, either cataracts or just whitening eyes, weight loss, loss of skin tautness, especially in the face, and discoloration of the flesh. These side effects, he says, were only the tip of the iceberg. He noticed that they had slurred speech, ravenous appetites, and some mental retardation. He says they were as if they had undergone a frontal lobe lobotomy, or something. He talks quite fast, I may have left things out.”

The interpreter asked a question in Norwegian. The Doctor responded with another explosion of rambling speech. Finally, the interpreter interrupted.

“He says…” He waited for the Doctor to stop talking, but it was no use. “He says, he says…” As he got louder, the Doctor eventually wound down. “He says his blood work was stolen. It went missing. He had begun to analyze the strain. He could tell that it was different and quite unique. He says the research frightened him because the patients became so emaciated and seemed to worsen every day. He says that every time he began a treatment, the patients went missing and never returned for their follow up. They were getting free health care, which was highly valuable in that area of the world. He could not imagine why they would not come back.”

The Doctor began talking again. This time, Tiyana interrupted.

“Doctor Sudbø, what tribe were these patients from? Did they come from a certain area of the country? Or the city? I understand that your clinic was in Zomba.”

The interpreter interpreted.

The Doctor began talking again, but paused and thought for a moment before continuing in a more contemplative manner.

“He says they all came from the city. They came from all over. But then, he says, that on second thought, he asked a sick young man where he came from and he answered in a tribal language. He says that one of the nurses told him that the language was Makhuwa and the man came from the Port of Nacala in Mozambique.”

“That’s something.” Hunter said. “Did he ask anyone else where they came from?”

The interpreter asked and answered, “No, he says that he only remembers that one.”

“It’s an equivocal lead at best.” Hunter said to his compatriots. “But it is a lead. It narrows down Hongo’s observations to one city.”

As they considered their next move, the good doctor began talking again.

The interpreter relayed, “He is thanking you for the expensive meal, he is enjoying it, he loves this restaurant, and on and on, and, finally, he is asking to know what organization you said you were with.”

“The Price Expedition.” Hunter said.

The interpreter’s jaw dropped, “You mean the archaeologists who dug up the Egyptian treasure? You all work with them?” He said incredulously. “You have been all over the news. They say it is the biggest find since, well, anything. It’s the biggest find of all time!”

“Yes, it’s quite the haul.” Tiyana said dryly.

The interpreter picked up his jaw, remembered his duty, and relayed to the doctor. The doctor took the news in and exploded again into a long jabbering oration. The quartet leisurely finished their long lunch by chatting with the doctor and interpreter about the digsite. Shortly afterwards, they procured a flight to Mozambique.