Nairobi is a city of brutal contrasts. People walking with bones visible beneath their skin, and boutique cafés selling flat whites with organic camel milk. Radek moves between both worlds with unsettling ease. He has the gift of going unnoticed among those who believe everything is fine and among those who already know everything is fucked.
He wears the wrinkled jacket of a drunken diplomat and the smile of someone who never believed in diplomacy. He arrives at the Kileleshwa Hotel with no reservation, pays cash, leaves no name. He knows what he's after.
The witch doctor who handed him the finger had whispered a name before inviting him to the ritual: Dr. M. Nuru. Someone posing as a community doctor in a dispensary south of Kampala. In reality, Nuru is the link between superstition rituals and the mobile operating rooms that function in the shadows.
Radek has no proof yet, but he has intuition. And that's enough.
He sleeps little. Bathes in cold water. At dawn, he takes a charter flight.
Kampala greets him with humid heat, billboards of smiling children sponsored by European foundations, and the constant buzz of a city pretending to be modern while being devoured by its own ghosts.
He finds Nuru in a clinic where everything looks normal. A waiting room with pregnant women. A couple of coughing kids. Posters against malaria.
But on the second floor, behind an unmarked door, there are Japanese-brand refrigerators hooked to an independent power plant. White coolers, unlabelled, with reinforced locks. And a list printed on rice paper, filled with alphanumeric codes that don't match patients.
Radek doesn't go in. He just observes. Speaks to a receptionist who pretends not to understand English. He slips her an envelope with dollars. She gives him a name: Mutale.
"He carries the vaccines," she whispers.
Mutale is a big man, silent, scars across his knuckles, a knife tattoo on his neck. Radek finds him smoking beside a van with the logo of a Swiss NGO. The cooler sits in the trunk, next to a Bible.
Radek offers him a tip to let him ride along.
Mutale laughs.
Says nothing.
Opens the passenger door.
The drive is silent. The scenery shifts from tin-roofed slums to green areas where white people do yoga on the grass.
Mutale stops at a private hangar. Radek doesn't ask. He just takes notes.
The cooler gets a superficial inspection. Then it's loaded into a jet that takes off with no flight number. The only thing left is the sound of turbines fading.
Radek knows it isn't going to Switzerland to help African children. It's going to Switzerland to rejuvenate millionaires sick with guilt over wasted years.
Back in Nairobi, Radek sits in a bar where expats go to forget the world. He orders a local whisky.
Watches.
Two customs officers argue about a new crypto payment.
He approaches, introduces himself as a fashion reporter. They talk. Joke. One of them, drunk, ends up confessing that every week a batch of biomaterial leaves for different destinations: Miami, Dubai, Istanbul.
"It's not illegal if you don't open the box," he says, laughing.
Radek buys him a whole bottle for that sentence.
That night he hacks a cargo terminal with the help of a kid living in a cybercafé without a bathroom. Gains access to the manifests. The numbers match the disappearances. The codes on the coolers too. Some marked "B7-AU-ALB." Others simply "Red Origin."
Radek grasps the scale. The albino rituals aren't the source of the horror. They're the perfect disguise. Customs and traditions. A barbaric façade to justify a pristine logistics chain.
The chain is flawless: popular belief, mutilation, surgical extraction, trafficking; corporate profit.
The pharmaceutical companies buying organs distance themselves from the method. The NGOs moving the coolers believe in the forged paperwork. And the shamans—well, they just do their magic.
Radek's camera records everything. He doesn't indulge in the luxury of intervening. He documents. A man like him doesn't save children. He saves stories. And his stories carry weight. And price.
He bribes Mutale with a fake U.S. passport. In return, he gets footage: makeshift operating rooms, sedated albino bodies, European doctors working with surgical gloves and uncovered faces.
No rush.
No blood.
Everything clinical.
Cold.
Silent.
The images are more powerful than any text. And he knows it.
Back at the hotel, Radek drinks from the minibar. Listens to the audio. Sorts the names. Starts preparing the first cut of the report.
While the video editor sleeps thousands of miles away, Radek already has the headlines: The Body Route. White Blood, Black Money. The Business of the Impossible.
And just when he thinks he's in control, three emails land at once.
The Guardian. Le Monde. The New York Times.
All asking for an urgent meeting. "We're ready to buy."
Radek doesn't smile. But inside, he laughs like the bastards who are winning.
He looks at his phone. No signal. On purpose. He's kept it on airplane mode for three days. Connects only from secure points, swaps SIM cards as often as underwear.
His face online is clean. Just an academic profile, two columns in dead journals, and a travel blog written under another name, another voice.
Everything he says, reveals, or knows, he hoards until he has all the pieces. He doesn't throw bombs. He builds them.
With patience.
With precision.
With sadism.
In the morning, he meets the banker in a doorless house on Kigali's richest hill.
The man's name is Mwana, but his partners call him "the devil's accountant." His skin is smooth, his white shirt spotless, his smile pleasant. He serves coffee without asking.
They talk about art, wine, the difficulty of finding loyal employees.
Then, without changing tone, Mwana slides a leather folder across the table.
"Everything's in there," he says. "Dates, amounts, senders, mirror accounts. Money doesn't lie. It just hides."
Radek flips through the pages. Recognizes names. He's seen them in Forbes. Others etched on the walls of Swiss clinics with stained-glass windows.
One catches his eye: Alba Dynamics.
A foundation claiming to provide universal healthcare in marginalized regions. Offices in Oslo, Vienna, Nairobi. Tied to the UN and a pharmaceutical company developing personalized vaccines.
"What were they buying with these amounts?" Radek asks.
Mwana smiles.
"Blood. Organs. Compatibility guarantees. People." He shrugs. "What everyone wants. Eternal life."
Radek slips the folder into his backpack. Offers an envelope the banker doesn't take.
"Others already paid," Mwana says. "You just make sure this burns."
On his way back to the hotel, Radek notices a man tailing him. Shaved head, dark glasses, thick neck.
He sees him three times in reflection: in the taxi window, the glass of a closed shop, the phone screen he uses as a mirror.
He doesn't stop. Doesn't rush.
Enters the hotel, takes the stairs instead of the elevator, unlocks his room, waits.
The man never appears. Only a sealed envelope slid under the door.
Inside: a USB stick and a handwritten note: Don't open it online. Only watch it yourself. What comes next isn't for the living.
Radek sits. Opens his laptop. Shuts off the Wi-Fi. Inserts the USB.
The file is named TRAZA-RED-OMEGA.
Satellite images. Air route maps. Lists of bodies. But the most shocking is a video. Shot inside a clinic. Dated two months ago. Location: Miami. An albino boy, no more than six, strapped to a gurney. Four people around him: a doctor in Harvard Medical School scrubs, a man in a white cassock, another with military insignia… and a man in a suit Radek recognizes.
Genaro Alva.
Not because he's met him, but because he's interviewed him on Zoom—once for a piece on clean energy, another on genetic legacy. CEO of a Mexican multinational, the same company pressuring the U.S. government to loosen AI regulations.
In the video, the boy doesn't scream. He only trembles.
Someone hums a lullaby under their breath.
Radek pauses the video.
Breathes.
Plays it again.
This time, he doesn't flinch.
The reporter smiles. Not out of cynicism, but because he knows this story is now worth even more.
The kind of story that would let him vanish for years if he wanted. Rest his soul. Heal the wounds. Quiet the mind.