The Secret Chamber Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Patrick Woodhead

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  About the Book

  THE TERROR

  A gifted young English doctor disappears into the dark heart of the Ituri Forest in northern Congo. He is not the first. No one who goes there ever comes back. One man is tasked to find him: brilliant and damaged climber Luca Matthews.

  THE SECRET

  Mining troubleshooter Beatrice Makuru has her own reasons for venturing into the same region. Coltan – the mineral essential to every laptop and mobile phone on the planet – is running dry, and the Congo is the key to the mystery. As a new wave of Chinese demand grips Africa, the race is on for its mineral wealth.

  THE CHAMBER

  In the depths of the terrible forest, a plan is taking shape – so simple, yet so daring, it will rock the foundations of the civilised world. As the world’s eyes turn towards the Congo, Luca and Beatrice find themselves embroiled in a mystery far more dangerous than just a simple quest for a friend.

  About the Author

  Patrick Woodhead has been professionally exploring for the last eight years. He has scaled unclimbed mountains in Kyrgyzstan, Tibet and Antarctica, kayaked through the unchartered tributaries in the Amazon and skied over 4,000 km across Antarctica. He is also the founder of White Desert (www.whitedesert.com), the first luxury safari company in Antarctica, and divides his time between London and South Africa.

  Also by Patrick Woodhead

  The Cloud Maker

  The Forbidden Temple

  Misadventures in a White Desert

  To the farmers at the refuge camp. May you find

  your way home.

  Chapter 1

  THE MAN WAS running, arms outstretched, fingers splayed, as if trying to feel the way.

  It was early in the morning and the first of the sun’s rays had just broken over the wide basin of the jungle. Despite the half-light coming down through the trees, the man’s eyes burned as if exposed to it for the first time. Dark rings of exhaustion circled each eye, while his skin was ashen white. He squinted, trying to see a way through, but there was only the jungle.

  He stopped by the low branches of an acacia tree, feeling his pulse beat at his throat and his lungs burn. Mud oozed up from between his bare toes and, for a moment, he simply stared at his feet, too tired to continue. After six hours of running, he had nothing left to give.

  There was the sound of slapping leaves, then a high-pitched call. They had found him again.

  Two hundred metres behind where he stood, three Congolese men moved with the skill of hunters born to the jungle. Their actions were fluid and self-assured, weapons held loosely in their left hand while their right was spread wide for balance. They were conserving energy, more jogging than running, being careful not to injure themselves on the treacherous ground.

  All were naked except for a tasselled belt of twine wrapped around their waists and draped down between their thighs. The lead hunter was taller than the other two, with long, supple muscles that flexed across his back as he ran. His black skin gleamed with sweat; his nostrils flared wide as he drew the air deep into his lungs.

  He looked up, recognising the acacia tree. They were nearing the river.

  Quickening his pace, the lead hunter took one of the arrows from his fist and ran it across the shaft of his bow, finding the string without looking down. In almost a single movement, he jolted to a stop and loosed the arrow. It sliced through the broad leaves at waist height, missing its mark by a few inches and sinking into the bark of a narrow tree.

  They were closer now, only twenty metres behind the man. Saplings still swayed as they passed them, while the hunters could hear the ragged sound of his breathing. As they crested a ridge they suddenly found themselves out in the open. There was the river, its waters brown and heavy in the heat. It wound through the jungle like the body of a giant snake, the only break in the canopy for hundreds of miles in each direction.

  Raising his hand against the sun’s glare, the lead hunter watched as ripples fanned out across the water. He waited, bow raised, for the man to surface. Then, almost a third of the way across, the water exploded with movement. They could see the man’s head thrown back as he gasped for air, his body drifting sideways in the current.

  For a moment, the hunters remained still, watching. Then, without a word, they retreated back into the jungle.

  The man stared back in confusion before slowly swinging round towards the opposite bank. He swam with both arms clumsily slapping against the water, and with each stroke his face dipped further beneath its foul surface. He was tiring fast. Soon, he could do no more than keep himself afloat, coughing as the water seeped into his mouth. The river was pulling him downstream towards a narrower stretch, its bed and banks strewn with huge granite boulders.

  There were the hunters. Just standing there, bent low, waiting.

  He tried to duck under the surface one last time and escape them, but sinewy fingers delved deep into the water, dragging him sideways on to the rocks. The man lay there, too tired even to raise his hands in self-defence, while the hunters bound his wrists with a thin twine cord, the fibres toughened from age. Dragging him to his feet, they looped a noose around his neck, pulling it tight into his throat. They pushed him back into the jungle, moving in single file and so close to him that he could smell the wood smoke on their skin.

  ‘S’il vous plaît …’ Please, he begged, but they didn’t respond.

  The procession twisted one way then the next, not pausing, through the maze of trees and undergrowth, until finally they started to climb. The canopy grew thinner, with natural light pouring in through the gaps between the treetops with burning luminescence. Overhead, a vast column of black rock slowly appeared, dust swirling around its base in the breeze. Before they even reached it, the man could feel the heat of the volcano and smell the bitter stench of sulphur.

  A wide crack ran down the rock face in front of him, funnelling back into the mountain. As he was pulled to a halt in front of it, he slowly sank to his knees, knowing only too well what lay in the shadows.

  ‘Libérez-le.’ The order to release him came from the darkness. There was the faint scraping sound of a boot, then a silhouette appeared just beyond the line of shadow.

  ‘Faites-le rapidement!’ Do it quickly.

  The hunters hesitated a second more, not wanting to come closer. Then, snatching off the noose, they pushed the man forward, pitching him on to his hands and knees. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes, mingling with the sweat runnin
g down his cheeks.

  ‘Please,’ he stammered, ‘I never meant to …’

  ‘Joshua … Joshua,’ came the voice again. ‘You have only to ask forgiveness. All I have ever wanted is that you should open your heart.’

  The silhouette moved closer, its hands reaching out into the bright sunlight, gently pulling him closer.

  ‘Come back to us, Joshua. Repent and you shall be forgiven.’

  ‘I do. I do,’ he blurted out, his voice choking with fear. In front of him, he saw the apparition slowly lower itself to its own knees. It was close now, almost touching him.

  ‘See how easy it is,’ the voice whispered. An arm reached forward to pat him on the back.

  Joshua suddenly screamed as a knife was stabbed into the back of his right thigh. His mouth widened, the scream becoming high-pitched as the blade worked back and forth, severing his hamstring. A second later the knife was yanked free and Joshua was pushed back on to the hard rock.

  ‘You may be forgiven,’ came the voice one last time, ‘but now you can never leave us.’

  Chapter 2

  A LOW-PITCHED, MECHANICAL noise bled out across the openness of the Kalahari Desert. It reverberated for a moment longer before being lost to the huge, still skies.

  Three thousand feet above the scrubland and winding past the sporadic towers of brilliant white cloud, a Cessna 206 gradually made its way west. In the left hand seat of the low cockpit sat Beatrice Makuru, her long body hunched forward and one hand loosely gripping the control column. The side of her head was pressed against the perspex window as she idly watched the desert pass by beneath. It was hot inside the plane, the air stifling despite the vents being fully open, making her feel heavy and lethargic.

  Every few seconds, her eyes flicked back to the instruments, instinctively scanning from left to right, the airspeed indicator, the DI and altimeter, before settling back upon the unchanging landscape beneath. She yawned, her wide, brown eyes blinking several times as she tried to force herself awake and find some sort of reference point outside the cockpit. But the desert was just too vast. It drifted past, endless and desolate, and she let her gaze blur in and out of focus. It seemed strangely peaceful out there, as if the sheer absence of people was something to be treasured. Ever since she could remember, she had always preferred to be alone, the solitude matching a rare stillness in her character.

  ‘Golf. Hotel. Juliet. Come in.’

  The radio crackled to life and for a moment the sound washed over her. After a pause, she pulled her head clear of the window and sat up straight.

  ‘Hotel. Juliet. What’s up, Johnny?’

  ‘Listen, Bear, we’ve just got word of some kind of explosion at the Bloemfontein mine. I don’t have much more than that to tell you right now, but the labs might have been hit and there could be some contamination. Can you divert, over?’

  ‘Stand by.’

  Bear dragged her charts up from the seat behind, unfolding the first then pulling out the marker pen and slide rule from a clip in the sun visor. She quickly drew two tight green circles and, with the pen clamped to her mouth, measured the distance between them with the slide rule. She scrawled a quick fuel calculation, before pressing her thumb down on the comms switch.

  ‘Affirm, I can divert. ETA twenty-five to thirty minutes. Any casualties?’

  ‘Negative. Looks like they were lucky.’

  ‘Wilco …’ Bear paused, the faint crackling of the radio echoing in her headset. ‘And, Johnny, who’s on the ground?’

  ‘That’s Wilhelm.’

  ‘Copy that. Hotel. Juliet.’

  Bear slowly shook her head, sliding the map off her lap and on to the empty seat beside her. She looked down at the smooth skin of her thighs and cursed herself for having worn such a tight skirt to the office that morning. She instinctively wriggled back in the seat, pulling it half an inch further down her legs, but knew it was useless. As she lifted her arm to check the DI against the compass for her new heading, she felt the shirt she was wearing cling to her skin in the heat. It outlined her cleavage perfectly. She shook her head once again.

  That was all the excuse those testosteroned idiots at the mine would need. Stuck out in the middle of the Kalahari, they didn’t see women for weeks on end. The only female contact most of them had was in the knocking shops in town. The proceeds of a month’s work for a long weekend of boozing and whoring. Seemed like a high price to pay, given the looks of most of the women out in Bloemfontein.

  This would have to be the one day she’d had to dress up for meetings. To make matters worse, the fitted jacket to match the skirt was hanging neatly on the back of her chair in the office. In the heat and the hurry to get back to Cape Town, she had managed to forget it.

  Pulling her long, black hair into a tight ponytail, Bear looked down again to see the material of her white shirt clinging to the sides of her breasts.

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered, her French accent drawing out the ‘s’ so that it reverberated into the radio mic. She buttoned the shirt a notch higher and pulled it away from her skin, trying to get some air beneath the fabric.

  And Wilhelm too. That fat Boer bastard had barely been able to stop himself from rubbing up against her when she’d been in overalls, let alone dressed like this. That leering grin of his always made her want to grab him by the balls and squeeze the look from his jowly face.

  With another shake of her head, she angrily jerked the control column forward, sending the plane diving down in a steep banking turn. The noise of the wind increased with each turn of the altimeter and she held the column pressed forward, enjoying the feeling of really flying once again. Even an old boneshaker like a 206 could be fun if you knew how to push it.

  Levelling out at only 100 feet, Bear rolled the wings on to her new heading and put in the power. Her eyes darted between the instruments and the horizon, while everything else seemed to fade into significance. It was always like this when she flew the way her father, Jean-Luc, had taught her. She was a gangly teenager with barely enough strength in her arms to pull out of a dive when she first started flying, yet even now she could remember his voice coming through softly on the mic. It was always calm, always precise. The instructions whispered, getting her to edge lower and lower, until the ground ripped past in such an adrenalin-fuelled blur that she could hardly breathe. It felt as if the termite mounds dotted across the red savannah would rip off the undercarriage, but still his voice told her everything was OK, that she could go lower, push it a bit more.

  That was always the way it was with her father. It was one of his many hang ups from a life spent touring Africa as a mercenary. They’d ingrained it in him, and he, in turn, in her.

  And here she was, the result of the most incompatible union imaginable. A single night spent by her father, the French mercenary, with a local woman from the Hema tribe in Eastern Congo. Back then her father had been a different man – a kind man with principles, despite the realities of his profession.

  Eight years after that fateful night, when Bear’s mother had abandoned her for some merchant trying to make it big in Lubumbashi, it was Jean-Luc who came looking for her. He’d found her at last on the streets in Bunia, her stomach swollen from malnutrition, her hair infested with lice, and wearing nothing but a ragged T-shirt and the beaded belly chain given to each girl from her tribe on the day of her birth.

  With no paperwork or witnesses, Jean-Luc had smuggled her across the border into Rwanda. As the years passed, they travelled from Uganda to Liberia, then Angola to Sierra Leone; heading off into every war-torn, shit-hole on the planet where her father’s mercenary unit could make some money. It became her life, became normality. She was just a little girl trying to do her homework amid the faded grandeur of the ex-colonial hotels with their pockmarked ceilings and incongruously smart waiters. She would hide under the piano, practising her English by listening to the BBC World Service.

  In each new country she had to find her own space, construct her own little world
amongst the chaos, while her father disappeared into the bush with his faithful unit, losing another part of his soul with every new war.

  But it was Sierra Leone that really changed him. Something had happened out there while he was fighting the RUF. Even at the mention of Freetown, Jean-Luc’s face would darken, his grey eyes clouding over with a terrifying blanknesss.

  Then came the drinking. Drinking so hard that the weeks would blur and missions converge into a monotonous litany of atrocities. What little meaning there was to it became quickly lost amongst the spiralling complexity of feuding autocrats as he took one job, then the next. Her father became a stranger to her, showing sides of his character that she had never known existed, until finally he had become as amoral as the people he was fighting.

  The others in the unit tried to hide it, of course; Laurent and Marcel the most. They’d apologise for him, tell her it was malaria or that her father wasn’t feeling himself, but the excuses soon became hollow and repetitive. It was only when she got her scholarship to the University of Cape Town and actually broke away from it all that she realised how wrong it had all become, or had always been.

  A few years later her father came to Cape Town to make amends, but instead of repairing their relationship, he spent the entire first day meeting an Englishman at Uitsig restaurant in the Cape winelands, getting increasingly drunk as lunch wore on. That evening, as they had all ventured off to one of the nightclubs on Long Street, Jean-Luc had screwed one of Bear’s friends in the toilets before arguing with the coat check girl about his jacket. Bear had to drag her father off the bouncer he had beaten unconscious in the ensuing argument and walk him into one of the back alleys to try to calm him down. And as she stood there, barring him from returning to the club, all she could see were the wild eyes and bloodstained knuckles of a fighter and a drunkard. This wasn’t her father any more.