Page 9 of Devlin

Margarethe’s expression was grim. “Yes, but just the basics. Theft isn’t uncommon in refugee camps, though it’s a tragedy wherever it happens. Sometimes locals break into storage units for food, which is usually isolated and dealt with quickly. But what’s happening here… could be systematic, organized theft. There’s the fear that the stolen food might be crossing the border into Congo and sold on the black market. If that’s true, it’s not just theft—it’s exploitation of the desperate for profit. And if someone in a leadership position at the camp is involved…” Her frustration was evident.

Devlin nodded, his mind already turning over the implications. “And the whistleblower? What do we know about them?”

Margarethe’s expression softened slightly. “She’s someone I’ve worked with for years. Intelligent, tenacious, and dedicated. She’s put herself at risk to bring this to light.”

Devlin smiled faintly, picturing someone with Margarethe’s fortitude and resolve. “And her safety?” he pressed.

Margarethe’s gaze hardened. “The camp should offer some protection. But if this operation is as extensive as I fear—if large sums of money are changing hands—there’s no telling who might be involved. The danger is very real.”

The weight of her words settled over the room, a somber reminder of what lay ahead. Devlin exchanged a glance with Todd and Cole, their silent understanding confirming their readiness.

“Wouldn't the thieves assume the food security officer discovered the discrepancy and raised the alarm?” Devlin asked, his brow furrowed in thought.

Margarethe shook her head, her calm demeanor underscoring her years of experience. “Not necessarily. If the stolen goods are being moved outside the camp, suspicions wouldn’t immediately fall on anyone specific within. The organizer could be someone in the camp—or someone further down the chain on the black market.”

The conversation was interrupted when their boarding was announced. They gathered their belongings and followed Margarethe to the plane. Owned by the World Food Program, it was designed for transporting personnel and supplies, and its utilitarian interior was stark but efficient.

Hours later, the plane touched down in Entebbe, Uganda. Warm air greeted them as they stepped onto the tarmac, the sun bright in the expansive sky. Around them, workers buzzed with efficiency, sweat dripping as they loaded supplies onto waiting trucks.

A young man approached them, his stride energetic and his grin infectious. “Margarethe!” he called, his exuberant voice carrying above the noise. She turned, her face lighting up as she embraced him warmly.

“Jonan!” Margarethe exclaimed, pulling back to gesture toward her companions. “These are the people traveling with me. Everyone, this is Jonan Muwange.”

Jonan nodded in greeting, his posture both relaxed and confident. He led them to a van, and together, they loaded their luggage and equipment into the back. Margarethe claimed the passenger seat while Devlin, Cole, and Todd slid into the middle row.

As the van pulled away, Jonan glanced at them in the rearview mirror, his smile as bright as the Ugandan sun. “Is this your first time in Uganda?”

“For me, yes,” Devlin replied, his voice steady.

“I’ve been here before, but only briefly,” Cole added, his eyes scanning the streets outside. “I never left the airport.”

“New for me, too,” Todd said, his tone tinged with curiosity.

“You’ll like it here,” Jonan assured them. His smile widened, revealing straight white teeth. “It’s a beautiful country.”

Devlin watched the city as they drove. The streets were well-paved, and traffic was orderly. For a moment, it reminded him of a European city—clean, bustling, and efficient. But as they left the heart of Entebbe, the surroundings began to shift. Neighborhoods gave way to more rural areas, where the roads grew narrower and less marked. Traffic became chaotic with vehicles and pedestrians. Walkers darted between cars, and motorcyclists weaved through traffic with practiced ease and what Devlin assumed was a hefty dose of hope.

Jonan glanced over his shoulder. “Are you here to investigate something?”

The Keepers exchanged sharp glances, their silence speaking volumes. Margarethe, unfazed, nodded. “I need to conduct an inventory inspection and ensure everything is as it should be.”

Jonan’s brow quirked in understanding. “If you’re here, I imagine it’s not as it should be.”

Margarethe smiled, turning in her seat to look at Devlin, Cole, and Todd. “Jonan isn’t just a driver.”

Jonan chuckled, meeting their curious gazes in the rearview mirror. “That’s true,” he said, his tone laced with humor. “I’m Ugandan. I served in the military for several years before leaving to pursue my education in health, welfare, and safety. Now, I work in the department of WHS and am contracted by the WFP for security.”

Devlin nodded, impressed. Jonan wasn’t just their guide—he was an ally who understood the terrain, the culture, and the stakes. But he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of surprise at Margarethe’s candor about Jonan’s background. It wasn’t that he doubted her judgment, but his years of service had taught him that trust could be as fragile as glass. Anyone could become a traitor under the right or even the wrong circumstances.

As they drew closer to the refugee camp, the road changed. Though still paved, it was riddled with potholes, making the van’s progress slower and bumpier. Dust kicked up around them, catching the sunlight in golden swirls. Finally, they reached the main camp entrance, where Jonan eased the van to a stop.

Devlin took in the scene outside. Young men with rifles slung casually over their shoulders stood at the gate, their khaki uniforms clean but worn from use. Their gazes were sharp, their postures a mix of authority. Jonan and Margarethe produced their identification, and Margarethe handed over the Keepers’ passports. The guards cross-checked the documentsagainst a list, their movements methodical but unhurried. After a moment, the barrier lifted, and they were waved through.

The van rolled forward, and the road was now a mix of dirt and packed gravel. Devlin scanned the camp’s surroundings, noting the variety of structures that lined the way. Some were humble mud-and-thatch huts, while others were patched together with corrugated metal and weathered wood. A few larger, sturdier buildings made of wood were scattered among them. Margarethe’s voice broke the silence. “The area we just passed through serves as the reception zone. This is where buses bringing in new refugees arrive. Once the refugees are processed here, they’re assigned to one of the villages.”

“Are the villages still completely separate?” Todd asked, his curiosity evident. “We were given information but were told it was ever-changing.”

“Yes,” Margarethe replied. “Each village operates independently but interconnected through shared resources and infrastructure. Once you’ve had a chance to explore, the layout will make more sense.”

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