Viral

by James Lilliefors

  Mallory traced the top of a chair-back with his finger.

  “No comment?”

  “They’re probably right. Do they know who the victim was?”

  “Unidentified,” Franklin said. “Nothing on his person. Nothing back yet on fingerprints or dental.”

  “Do you want me to give you a name?”

  “If you have one.”

  “The victim’s name was Ahmed Hassan,” Charlie said.

  Franklin’s mouth seemed to tighten.

  “You know who he is.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know why he was there.”

  “No. I don’t. Tell me.”

  “He was there to eliminate Frederick Collins.” There was a long pause. Charlie noticed the tension under his eyes. “How did it happen, Richard?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one was supposed to know about Frederick Collins. That was the arrangement. No one was supposed to know he existed. No one was supposed to know who he was or where he was.”

  Franklin’s eyebrows arched very slightly. Both men knew that Collins’s identity, his passport, credit cards, and recent history, had been invented by the U.S. government. “It’s airtight, Charlie. No one has access to that information. It’s off the books, the whole thing. That was the arrangement. A single point of contact. You contact me when you want, I contact you. Your job is to hunt down Isaak Priest. Period. It’s your operation. We leave you alone.”

  “And it’s not possible that the arrangement was compromised. At any level?”

  “Not possible, no.” Franklin watched him. “Not from this end.”

  Not from this end. Charlie understood the implication. From his end, maybe. Anna. Anna knew about Collins. She had visited him in Nice, to talk about his father, and the project he had overseen. The parts of the Isaak Priest operation he hadn’t wanted Franklin to know about. But he didn’t want to think that. Wouldn’t think that. Because he knew it wasn’t true.

  Franklin said, “We also have a report that Collins may have been in Kampala recently. Which was surprising because there’s no indication Priest has any connection there.”

  Charles Mallory didn’t let on his surprise.

  “As you say, it’s my operation.”

  “Yes. It is. But, frankly, Charlie, I’m afraid we may be at something of an impasse.”

  “How so?”

  He sighed. “I mean, Collins is useless now. And I’m having a hard time justifying this—”

  “Give me ten days,” Mallory said.

  “Ten days.”

  “Yes.”

  After a lengthy silence, Franklin lowered his eyes, nodding once.

  “All right.”

  “But there are two things I’m going to need to know, Richard. Before I leave here.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “First: I need to know what happened to Operation Tribal Eyes.”

  Franklin showed nothing. He seemed to be waiting for the next question.

  Tribal Eyes. A heavily funded signals intelligence project that Charles Mallory had worked on as a consultant, because of his experience in tracking targets in mountainous terrain. The technical coordinator had been Russell Ott, a smarmy, well-connected military contractor who spoke fluent Arabic. Ott had worked with several bad actors in the Middle East and Africa, people the government needed to know about. Charlie had never met Ott, but he’d heard things about him over the years; not good things.

  The objective of Tribal Eyes had been two-fold: to aggressively develop and then implement satellite imaging technology more advanced than anything on the market—capable of seeing through a window and reading a note that someone was writing inside a house. In 2009, the government had managed to capture several video images of Osama bin Laden walking from a Mercedes sedan to what seemed to be a French-made armored transport vehicle on a low mountain road in the North Waziristan region of Pakistan. But as with several of the government’s other efforts to capture Bin Laden prior to May 1, 2011, this one had failed to produce the prize. They had monitored the location for several weeks and found nothing more, determining that Bin Laden had moved on, almost as if he had known what was happening.

  “Why?” Richard Franklin said, finally. Charlie answered with silence, feeling something stir deep within himself, a yearning he couldn’t articulate.

  The things he was chasing were different from what Franklin’s branch was pursuing. Charles Mallory’s real clients, he reminded himself, were his father and Paul Bahdru. But there was an overlap. Priest was a name his father and Bahdru had also given him.

  “I mean, Tribal Eyes is history, Charlie. Why would you want to know about it now?”

  “Because I think it has something to do with Frederick Collins. With what happened to him.”

  Franklin made a face. “I thought you said you wanted to leave everything else behind you when you got into this. You wanted to focus on this organization. On finding Priest—”

  “I did. But I didn’t realize the two were connected.”

  Franklin blinked once. “I don’t see how that’s possible, Charlie. Collins was created after Tribal Eyes was disbanded. Why do you think they’re related?”

  “It is possible, Richard. I saw it.”

  Franklin gestured impatiently with his right hand. “Would you mind telling me what you’re talking about?”

  “Yes. A man came to kill Frederick Collins, in Nice. I saw him. It was a man who had been approached by the American government two years ago. For Tribal Eyes. A Yemen-based wetboy named Ahmed Hassan. Also known as Albert Hahn. Two of his cousins are a pretty big deal in terrorism circles, as you know. Tribal Eyes made use of a process developed in part by Russell Ott, which had a lot of government bucks behind it. It’s probably the most powerful satellite imaging in the world right now. Ott, interestingly, also had a way of contacting Hassan when other people couldn’t. He’d done business with the network. That was one of the reasons he was kept on the government payroll. Two points of intersection, Richard, and I don’t think that’s just coincidence.”

  Franklin pushed at the coaster under the lemonade glass. “So what are you asking for?”

  “I’d like to know how Hassan might have learned about Collins. I need to know anything you have on Russell Ott and Tribal Eyes. I need every loose thread, Richard. I’m not taking a chance again until I know everything you know.”

  Charles Mallory waited. He had a deep-rooted allegiance to the government, but he also knew that there were too many inconsistent and corrupt players to ever trust it categorically.

  “Hassan was never employed by the Company, Charlie. Okay? He was approached by a private contractor and paid for information about the region. It never got to the point of using anyone. It remained a surveillance operation.”

  “He was approached because of his organization,” Charlie said. “The government wanted it to be the devil they knew. And the Hassans seemed to be open for bids.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Franklin sat up straight, crossing his legs at the knees. Both men knew that the Hassan Network represented a troubling new model for the intelligence community—a greater threat in some ways than al Qaeda and its many spin-off groups. A professional, terrorism-for-hire network that carried out select projects strictly as business, with no interest in ideology—although they didn’t like to work with American clients. Which was why Ott’s connection with Ahmed Hassan, even if Ahmed was a weak link to the network, had been considered valuable in Washington.

  “What happened to the people involved in Tribal Eyes?”

  “Reassigned.”

  “Ott?”

  Something subtle changed in his eyes. “Private sector. Based in California. Works for various companies.”

  “Works for the government still?”

  “He has. Some. I think so.”

  Franklin’s cell phone rang. He checked the number, stood. “Excuse me for a minute, Charlie,” he said. He walked b
ack to the kitchen, talking in a low voice.

  Charlie stepped into the den. He looked out the side windows and saw the fencing, the faraway camera towers. Underground sensors probably. Bare trees, rolling hills in the distance. On an antique tavern table was an old wooden globe. Charlie spun it round to Africa, looked at a remote region where he maintained an office that even Richard Franklin didn’t know about. On the desk was a manual typewriter, a cast-iron Underwood No. 5. Next to it, a stack of typing paper. Maybe fifty sheets. Charlie gazed at the yard and thought about his brother. And other autumn afternoons. He remembered hurling a baseball with his father in the back yard as dusk soaked the air. Trying to throw the perfect pitch. And other evenings with his brother. Football. Jon running patterns but missing catches, not able to keep his eye on the ball.

  Then he thought of something less pleasant, something that was maybe his fault. He tucked a sheet of paper into the typewriter, twisted it through several notches. Sat at the desk and pecked out a single word. Seven letters. Looked at it. Pulled out the sheet. Folded it into eighths and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

  “So, how’s your family been?” he asked, as Franklin returned.

  “Fine. Big get-together planned for Thanksgiving this year. All of us up in Michigan. You?”

  Charlie shrugged. He thought of Anna Vostrak. The sober clarity of her face, her dark eyes watching his. “Nothing, really.”

  Franklin coughed. “Does this change the favor you asked me for last week? Your brother?”

  “Should it?”

  “No. Everything’s good. You can trust me, Charlie.”

  Mallory breathed in deeply and exhaled. Then he nodded. “Okay.”

  Forty-nine minutes later, Richard Franklin stopped in the parking garage at another suburban shopping complex, this one in Rockville, Maryland. He was driving the Jeep Liberty now; the Cadillac sat under the carport at the Virginia safe house. They had answered each other’s questions, but neither seemed fully satisfied with the results.

  Charlie shook Franklin’s hand and opened the door, stepped out. Then, almost as an afterthought, he leaned in the passenger window. “One other thing, Richard. If something were to happen—to me or to anyone else in the next few days—see if you can isolate it. Okay? Don’t let the local pathologist keep it. Have it sent to an Army lab.”

  Franklin squinted at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Just listen to me, okay?”

  “Okay. But why?”

  “Just in case someone wants to ensure a pre-determined outcome. All right? Hypothetically.”

  “And what would we be looking for?”

  Charlie pulled the folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to him. Franklin opened it, looked at the single word that Charles Mallory had typed out at the house in the Virginia countryside. Seven letters. “Ouabain.”

  “What is it?”

  Genuinely confused, Mallory thought.

  “Probably nothing. But just make sure the pathologist is aware of it, okay? It’s just a hunch. I’m probably wrong. I hope I am.”

  Charlie stepped back, closed the door, nodded, and walked away. He took the escalator down fifty-seven feet to the Metro train platform, walking among the tourists, not expecting to see Richard Franklin again for a long time. He was anxious to be away from Washington. Contingencies. He needed to eliminate the possible scenarios in order to get closer to the real one. That was all. Now he could move on to the next step. Although he needed to take care of one other matter first. He needed to send a message to his brother. To give him a new direction.

  THIRTEEN

  Washington Dulles International Airport, Dulles, Virginia

  THE TRIP FROM WASHINGTON to Nairobi would take about nineteen hours, including a three-hour layover at Heathrow. The first available seat to London was on a flight that left in five hours, though, meaning it would be a full day before Jon Mallory set foot in Kenya.

  Dressed in jeans, an untucked lime-green polo shirt and Nikes, he wandered the airport corridors, browsing shop windows, drinking coffee, searching for an Internet café. He carried only his laptop and a gym bag. He was tired but energized, a junkie for the buzz of airports, the brief intersections of so many diverse lives.

  As he came to a bank of GTE pay phones, Jon checked his watch. 3:40. The only time Roger Church actually answered his phone was between three o’clock and 3:35 in the afternoons. Jon had just missed him. But he called and left a message: “Roger, it’s Jon. FYI: I’m traveling overseas tonight, to Kenya. Research for the third story. Something’s waiting for me there. I’ll be in touch.”

  Minutes later, he found an open terminal at the Triangle Cyber Café. He swiped his credit card and logged in. There were seventeen e-mails in his inbox, and he scrolled through them quickly. The usual stuff—ads for weight loss, vitamin supplements, no-fee credit cards. One by one he deleted them. Just as his finger went to click “delete” on the one titled “Urgent Business Opportoonity,” though, Jon Mallory hesitated. That was strange. The sender was listed as: Mr. Gude 13914.

  Jon opened the message and skimmed through it. The letter-writer wanted to entrust him with $11 million—he would receive 25 percent of the fortune if he allowed the sender to transfer the money to his bank in the States. The exchange would have to be carried out in “strick confidence.” This was an “opportoon time.”

  He clicked the “Details” button to find the e-mail’s place of origin. Lagos, Nigeria. A typical Nigerian 419 scam—named for the fraud section of the Nigerian code. With their deliberate lapses in language and promise that the recipient would become an instant millionaire, 419 scams played into the gullibility of the American mind-set. Those who responded were typically asked for payments to cover “handling” and “transfer” charges, all the while being promised a stake in the fortune.

  There were three unusual details in this letter, though: the number 13914 in the address; the words Dr. Marianna three times in the text—the name of the woman who had died, along with her husband, Daniel Ngage, in a plane crash; and Mr. David Gude, the letter-writer’s name.

  It was odd: three pieces of Jon Mallory’s childhood, right there in an e-mail from Nigeria.

  Dr. Marianna. 13914.

  Reverse the order and that had been the address, in the Montgomery County suburbs of Washington, D.C., where Jon grew up: 13914 Marianna Drive.

  David Gude, too, was a name from his childhood, He had been the grade-school mathematics instructor who had taught both Jon and his brother geometry—a subject Charlie had always aced. Jon had come home with B’s.

  He read through the note again, more carefully, and then noticed something else. At the very bottom, below the name of the “executor,” in a smaller type, was a series of letters: htunoilerctt.

  Twelve letters that didn’t make any sense, forward or backward. He tried breaking them apart, scrambling the order to make words.

  Hut. Coil. Tern. With a “t” left over. No.

  Jon let the letters go and read the note again, recognizing as he did that this could not be a coincidence. No, there had to be a message here. One piece might have been coincidence, but not three. These were names and numbers that he and his brother would recognize instantly—but no one else.

  He printed out a copy of the e-mail, then deleted it from the mailbox.

  In the air above the Atlantic, he sipped a Jim Beam and Diet Coke and ate a veggie sandwich. Time, distance, perspective. In the dark and quiet of the cabin, Jon began to recognize what his brother’s message from Wednesday might have been. He had just missed it, until now. Of course. In trying to reach Charlie, he had gone about things all wrong. Now he understood that. The information will come to you. That was what had happened. Information encoded in silence. By not calling at the appointed time, Charlie was telling him something. He hadn’t called because their phone calls were being monitored; someone was on to him in ways he hadn’t suspected before. Something had gone wrong, and they n
eeded to communicate now in different, less detectable ways. Which meant what? He could guess: that the people who were threatened by Jon Mallory’s stories had sophisticated technology and surveillance capabilities; that they were engaged in something with very high stakes; and that somewhere in his stories he had touched on something they didn’t want known.

  FOURTEEN

  Sunday, September 20

  BRITISH AIRWAYS FLIGHT 1281 touched down at Terminal One in Nairobi’s Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. It was a balmy, overcast afternoon in Kenya’s capital, about twenty degrees warmer than it had been in Washington.

  After de-boarding, Jon Mallory purchased a travel visa, passed through Customs and stopped at the bureau de change to trade dollars for shillings—a thousand dollars for 90,817 shillings. He figured he’d be in Kenya for two or three days at most—a day to settle in and scope out the location, another day to find his brother, or else his “message.”

  He avoided the airport safari hawkers and souvenir sellers, making his way to a cab stand in front of the terminal where a fleet of yellow-striped Kenteaco Transport Mercedeses was lined up. “Downtown, please,” he said, climbing in the back of one. “The Norfolk.”

  As the cab raced to the city, a distance of about fifteen kilometers, he rolled down his window and enjoyed the view of dusty plains with the hazy rim of mountains in the distance. Kenya rose up to him with a simple, quiet beauty he recalled fondly. As someone coming here from the so-called First World, Jon saw it not as a place that lagged behind but as a land that was emerging, that offered lessons and opportunities. Twice he had reported from Nairobi, and he knew a few people here. Two, in particular: Sara Musoka, a food and travel writer for Kenya’s oldest newspaper, who was born and raised in Nairobi and had attended college in the States; and Sam Sullivan, a hard-drinking former Reuters sports writer who had quit journalism to manage a safari resort. Sullivan had been a character, always embarking on schemes to become wealthy or famous. It might be fun to see him again, Jon thought.