Viral

by James Lilliefors

  “This was something you thought you couldn’t win.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He gestured resignedly. “I have to be honest, I feel a little guilty that I jumped ship. I think about that a lot. I saw your brother’s story recently, by the way.” He slowed down, coasted and then pulled off into a gravel clearing beside the road. “The reason I asked you to give me a half hour wasn’t because of my wife’s seafood.” He smiled, showing crooked teeth. He lowered his window. Mallory heard the sound of water trickling over stones in the woods. “I wanted to get something. Make copies for you.”

  “Okay.”

  He lifted the envelope and handed it to Charles Mallory.

  “That’s yours. Several things in there might interest you.” He took a deliberate breath. Mallory saw the vapor as he exhaled. “Right before they shut the Lifeboat Inquiry down, your father wrote a memo about a disaster preparedness plan. I don’t know how he found out about it. It was something that a consulting firm in Houston, Texas, had done, apparently for this pharmaceuticals firm. A plan that basically looked at various disaster scenarios, one of which was for a runaway flu virus.”

  “Where? In Africa?”

  “No. Three counties in Pennsylvania.”

  “What? Why would a disaster plan for Pennsylvania interest him?”

  “No idea, but it did. He gave me a copy of part of it—all he had. It’s in there.”

  Mallory breathed the cold mountain air, thinking of the other questions his father had passed along to him.

  “Did he ever mention someone named Isaak Priest?”

  “Yeah. Of course.” He waited as a truck whooshed by from the other direction. “He was one of the main conduits into Africa, supposedly. A lot of money went through him.” He added, “Your father had a funny feeling about that, though.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He wondered if Isaak Priest was a real person. He thought maybe he didn’t actually exist.”

  “What?”

  “He thought it was an invention.”

  “But he has a past. You can Google his name and get newspaper stories. Going back ten, fifteen years.”

  “I know. But that’s assuming you believe what you get on the Internet is real.” He half-smiled at Charlie. “Your father questioned the integrity of those records. Sure, you could go online and find a story about Isaak Priest from The Washington Post from ten years ago. It might even show up on the Post archives if you go to their website. But if you actually went back and found the physical newspaper for that date, you’d find that the story wasn’t there.”

  “Why did he think that?”

  “He didn’t think it, he knew it. He went back and found hard copy of the newspapers for two specific stories. And those stories were never in the paper. They didn’t exist. They were created after the fact.” He nodded to the envelope. “It’s in there, too. For what it’s worth. Take it with you. There’s more,” he said. “I couldn’t find everything in twenty minutes. Some of it’s boxed up. I can get it for you in another day or two if you’re going to be around.”

  “No, I’m not. But I’ll give you an address, where you can send it.”

  “Okay.” He sighed and looked up at the mountains, his breath dispersing in the cold air. His eyes seemed to twinkle for a second. “You know what, between you and me? I’m sort of glad you found me. I really am.”

  IT WAS EARLY evening alongside the Green Monkey River. The circle of the sun had already dropped from sight, but its light burned reddish-orange across the tops of the western mountains and above the deserted coffee plantations and squatter farms. The hardwood room with the western picture windows was sparsely furnished—a large redwood desk, wicker sitting chairs, two simple lamps, file cabinets, Mancala dragon rugs.

  Isaak Priest went back to the computer monitor and studied the electronic map of the nation. Sites where they had purchased land, set up businesses. Many already operating: wind and solar farms, supply routes. A pattern no one had noticed yet.

  Then he saw that there had been another encrypted message from the Administrator. The man in Oregon. The last deal had been completed. The payment transferred. Finally: there was nothing now that could stop the operation from going forward. It was nine days until the “World Series” began. October 5.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JON MALLORY SAT IN the Costa coffee bar in Terminal 4 at Heathrow Airport, waiting for his British Airways flight back to Dulles. He finished a panini and Italian coffee, then used his international calling card to reach Roger Church. It was eight o’clock in London—three o’clock in Washington.

  His editor picked up on the second ring. “Church.”

  “Roger, it’s Jon.”

  He heard the familiar sigh—a little more drawn out than usual. “Jon. Where are you?”

  “In transit. What’s the reaction been to the story?”

  “Amazing. No words to describe it.”

  “Good.”

  There was something tentative, though, in his voice.

  “Are you on your way home?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. We’ll talk when you’re back.”

  Jon clicked off. He walked the airport corridors for a while, browsing the shop windows, anticipating familiar surroundings and routines, but he also realized that he was heading toward a place he had never been before. He sat on a bench, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. But it wasn’t any good. Opened or closed, it didn’t matter. The images still flashed through his thoughts: the faces of the dead, eyes opened as if they were looking back at him, as if they were trying to convey some message to him.

  “ALEC TOMKIN” CAUGHT the 11:34 A.M. American Airlines flight from Miami to Robert L. Bradshaw International Airport on the island of St. Kitts. He rented a Dodge Charger at the airport and drove along the coast road south of Basseterre.

  It was Sunday, September 27. At 3:28, Tomkin was idling in front of a large, gated, walled home. Two minutes later, the gate opened.

  Charlie drove forward, parking next to the house. Joseph Chaplin, the director of operations for Mallory’s firm, was seated at a desk in what had been the living room, but which had been divided into two enclosed offices. In the next office was Chidi Okoro, a lanky, long-legged West African man who served as his communications director.

  It was balmy on St. Kitts, eighty degrees. The mountains of Nevis were visible five miles across the green Caribbean water. From a boat, this home looked like any other beachfront property, with deck chairs, umbrellas, a boat dock. But its actual function was as one of the bases for D.M.A. Associates, Charles Mallory’s company.

  “How’s it look?”

  He took a seat in front of Chaplin’s desk.

  “A lot of movement. Your brother’s story is causing a stir. The government of Sundiata is adamantly denying it, of course.”

  “What’s the public reaction?”

  He pushed several reports across to Charles Mallory. “Not a lot,” he said.

  Charlie sighed. “Is Sandra Oku okay?”

  “Yes. She’s fine.”

  “Good. Kip?”

  “No.” Chaplin lowered his gaze. “He didn’t make it out.”

  Charles Mallory turned away. Another casualty. Another witness gone. Another good man dead.

  He stood and took Quinn’s packet into the next office.

  “I’ve got something here,” he said. “Hard copy and disk.”

  “Okay.” Okoro watched him through the thick lenses of his black, rectangular glasses.

  “It’s called a ‘tri-county emergency preparedness report.’ Three townships in Western Pennsylvania. Something about it’s not right.”

  He handed it to Okoro, who studied the map on the front of the report. He was a soft-spoken man, Nigerian, who didn’t talk much, but he was a brilliant computer technician. He had worked a succession of related jobs—imaging analyst, digital forensics researcher, digital security consultant—before Charlie had
hired him as the company’s digital and communications director. It was Chaplin, though, who had recruited him, and Okoro still seemed more comfortable with Chaplin than with Mallory, or anyone else on the team.

  “How long are you here?” Chaplin said. He was standing in the doorway.

  “Not long. Just a few hours. I have an appointment overseas tomorrow.” He took a deep breath, thinking about Kip Nagame. “Think I’ll go for a swim.” He turned to Okoro, who was still watching him with his magnified eyes. “I also need to know everything you can find on Douglas Chase. He’s an attorney based in Houston who might have some connection with the Hassan terrorism network.”

  His communications director did not acknowledge his request, but Mallory knew it had registered. Okoro just did things a little differently; that was okay.

  “Oh, and Thomas Trent has been trying to reach you,” Chaplin said.

  “Has he?” Charlie nodded, feeling again the burden of what had already been lost—his father, Paul Bahdru, Kip, a couple of hundred thousand innocent people in Sundiata—and what was potentially still ahead. He was reluctant to contact Trent again, though, knowing that Trent was under surveillance. And that they had agreed not to contact each other. They lacked the communications armor of the other side. It was why he was so guarded in his dealings with his brother. He had to be. He couldn’t jeopardize losing him. But he had to fulfill a promise, made to their father.

  THE SEA WAS clear and cool, and it felt good to glide down through the water, to touch the grainy bottom and swim back toward the light. A brief interlude. Charlie had bought this waterfront property with his last government salary paycheck because St. Kitts was a place his grandfather had once come to do missionary work. That detail had stuck to his memory all of his life; he didn’t know why. It was the only piece of property Charles Mallory owned, although his company leased land in Africa and in Switzerland.

  When Charlie came in from the beach, wrapped in a Carib Lager beach towel and wearing flip-flops, he saw Okoro standing in the doorway of his office, giant eyes watching him expectantly through his glasses.

  “Encrypted,” Okoro said, sitting back at his desk. “Nothing to do with Pennsylvania.”

  “I didn’t think so. What is it?”

  “Steganographic code.” Charlie stepped closer, saw what was on Okoro’s computer monitors. Steganography was a form of encryption that hid messages inside the pixels of image files. Terrorists had used it for years to send messages through online pornographic sites and other websites. “Fairly simple. Meant for limited distribution.”

  “So what does it show?”

  “The payload,” he said, enlarging a corner of the image on his monitor, “is here.” At first, the aerial image of the three townships in Pennsylvania just became a blur. Then as it grew larger and blurrier, he saw something begin to form within the blur. “There’s a file inside this file. It opens into a second map here. The text is all encrypted. Fairly sophisticated. But here you can see the outline of the secondary map.”

  Okoro dialed the hidden map into focus. Charlie stared at the shapes on his screen. Maps encoded within the pixels of the larger map. Three shapes that appeared to be townships or counties. But no. Not townships. Each was the shape of a country. Three small, little-known nations in Africa: Sundiata, Buttata, and Mancala.

  And when he studied the map of Mancala a little more, he noticed something that he hadn’t been able to find in Sundiata. Or anywhere else: a river shaped like a backward “S.” The clue that Paul Bahdru had given him. It was in Mancala, not Sundiata. A country that he hadn’t even looked at. A river that ran near the capital city of Mungaza. The Green Monkey River, in Mancala.

  That’s where he needed to go.

  “What is it?” Chaplin said, standing in the doorway again.

  “Mancala,” he said. “That’s where I think Isaak Priest is.”

  Okoro frowned at him, then at the map. They all stared at the computer monitor.

  “Really?” Chaplin said.

  “Really,” Mallory said.

  “Is that where you’re going?”

  “No,” he said. “That’s where we’re going.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Monday, September 28

  ON HIS FIRST MORNING home, Jon Mallory received five calls from Melanie Cross between nine o’clock and ten o’clock. He was not answering his phone, though, and Melanie, of course, did not leave messages.

  Jon was going through notes, trying to formulate a plan for the day. Something to get him away from the house and the ringing phone. His answering machine had been full when he returned the night before, loaded with calls from news organizations about his Sundiata blog. Jon didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. He wanted to keep moving. Maybe Roger Church could help him figure it out.

  As Jon was preparing to leave for Foggy Bottom, Melanie called again. This time, he took it.

  “Hello?”

  “Jon.”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t believe you finally answered,” she said. “It’s Melanie Cross.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  She sounded out of breath. He listened, picturing her face—the smooth, lightly freckled skin, the large blue eyes. “That was quite a story you filed.”

  “Thanks. You ought to mention that on your blog.”

  “It’s caused a little chatter, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Not everyone quite believes it.”

  “That it’s true?”

  “No. That it’s you. They think it’s a hoax. Someone using your name.”

  “I haven’t heard that.”

  “But it does sort of confirm something I was told.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Well—” She managed to sigh and laugh almost simultaneously. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. “I think I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. It might be better to talk in person.”

  Vintage Melanie, Jon thought. “You’re at your office?”

  “No. Actually, I’m not. I’m visiting friends in Annapolis. If you have time for lunch I could meet you on the deck at Mike’s Crab House, in Riva. At, say, 11. I think it’d be worth your while.”

  He looked at his watch. Fifty minutes from now. About how long it would take to drive there. “Okay,” he said. “See you then.”

  HE FOUND MELANIE sitting at the bar on the indoor deck, laughing in a loud, flirtatious manner with one of the bartenders. She was dressed in a low-cut blue sweater, straw hat, tight, faded jeans, and boots. Her hair was longer than he remembered, and somehow her face seemed younger. Men all gave her looks as they passed.

  “Greetings,” he said.

  “Well. Hello, stranger,” she said, standing to greet him. They kissed politely, on the cheek. “Have a seat. I ordered you a beer.”

  She was a luminous woman with classical features and dark, cascading hair. When he was honest, Jon had to acknowledge that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met, although as far as he knew she had never had a substantial relationship with anyone. Jon glanced at the sailboats on the river, breathing the aroma of grilled burgers, fries, and seafood.

  “That was quite a story.”

  “Yes. You said that.”

  Melanie slipped on her sunglasses so he could no longer see her eyes. “What was it like?”

  “What was it like? Oh. Well. I mean … it was horrible, of course. But also surprisingly efficient. Not to mention well-coordinated.”

  “How’d you find out about it?”

  “Well. Long story.” Jon looked at his reflection in her sunglasses. He smiled. “You aren’t asking me to reveal my sources, are you?”

  He said it in a joking tone, but Melanie laughed defensively. “Of course not. I’m just curious. It’s interesting. I was told pretty much the same thing, but in a different context. Who knows, we might even be able to help each other.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I don’t know,
I tend to be pretty much of a solo act.”

  The beers arrived, followed by crab cake sandwiches. The crab cakes were good, with chunks of back-fin lump crab meat, served on toasted hamburger buns. Her enthusiasms ran down a little as they ate and caught up on their lives. She seemed to become edgier.

  “Anyway, the reason I called you,” she said, “was I thought maybe I could help you with your story.” She lifted her eyebrows and smiled beguilingly. “Your next story.”

  “How would you do that?” he said. “And why?”

  “The fact is, I wanted to write about some of this, too. Several weeks ago. But my editors wouldn’t touch it. Mostly because of the people involved. Also, it’s not really my beat.” She paused, wiping her hands. “I think I may have learned something you’d be interested in, though. Something that I suspect is sort of the key to the whole thing.”

  “Oh? And what’s that?”

  “Okay.” She sighed, pushed aside her plate and wiped her hands again. “Let me start at the beginning, okay? For me, this started six, seven weeks ago. With a tip. Which turned out to be the tip of an iceberg. Okay? The tip had to do with a group called the Champion Funds Venture Partnership, or the Champion Group.”

  Jon nodded. He had written about the Champion Group, an international private equity investment firm based in Washington, months ago. Its directors and advisers included several heavyweight Washington political figures. Recently it had expanded its portfolio into several African nations.

  “Last winter,” she said, “it funded, or helped to fund, a seven-hundred-million-dollar medical research initiative in the developing world known as Project Open Borders.”

  Jon nodded. “I know. I’m familiar with it.”