Viral

by James Lilliefors

  What almost seemed to be the shadow of a man, or a woman, sitting on his stone bench, facing the house. Watching him.

  Jon clicked off the kitchen light, and he looked again, waiting as his pupils widened in the darkness. Was he imagining it? No. Something was off-kilter. He walked into the living room. Parted an edge of the curtains and peered out. Saw it more clearly now: a figure was seated on the stone bench, leaning forward.

  He walked to the bedroom, trying to get his bearings. Looked out front: yellow street light cast shadows on the lawn. He considered the possibilities. It was too obvious to be someone doing surveillance. Could there be another explanation? A homeless person? A neighbor’s child? He glanced at the phone, thought about calling 911.

  Instead, he treaded back through the dark hallway to the living room, the floorboards squeaking. Thinking maybe the figure would be gone when he looked again. Surely, the person had noticed him switch the lights on and off. Had seen him standing in front of the kitchen window.

  Jon Mallory pulled back the drape and looked: the figure was still seated on the bench, in more or less the same position—facing the house, hands resting on his knees. Jon squinted into the darkness. A man, it seemed, although the shadows and the drifting fog made it difficult to tell.

  He listened to the clicking of the living room clock. Waiting for the figure to move. To reveal something. Three minutes passed, then four. Finally, impulsively, Jon switched on the back porch light, and the lawn lit up with a moist glow. His pupils narrowed. The light made deeper shadows among the trees, and the figure seemed to elongate slightly, its shadow blending with those of the trees and the shrubbery along the back fence. But no, that was just a trick of the light. Shifting in his imagination, an almost surreal visage—appearing for a moment to be a beggar, a man with his arms outstretched, as if asking for a handout. The hands clearly turned up, not down. His clothes tattered, like those of a homeless man. Then he saw that something was wrong with the man’s face. It seemed distorted, more a mask than a face. And as Jon continued to look, he sensed that maybe this wasn’t a real person at all. Maybe it was some sort of mannequin or statue, which someone had placed there. Leaning forward, hands together, palms up. A pilgrim asking for forgiveness. But who? Why?

  Jon turned back to the room. He pulled his down jacket out of the hall closet, slipped barefoot into his loafers. Took the flashlight from the side of the refrigerator. Opened the door and stepped out. The night air was cold and bracing on his face, smelling of dirt and bark and something faintly unpleasant. The figure didn’t move as Jon Mallory stood there.

  He scanned the flashlight beam across the wet lawn, left to right, right to left, from fence to fence. Stepping toward the oak tree, and the bench where he had sat dozens of times. Wondering how this man had entered the yard. What he wanted. Walking, holding the light in front of him like a weapon, arcing its beam across the lawn, picking up the glow of moisture in the grass and the fence links and the tree bark. Hearing his footfalls crunch the leaves. Halfway across the lawn, he pointed the light at the figure and stopped. Saw the distorted facial features. A small man, dark-haired. Jon Mallory moved the light beam up and down, cutting through the mist. Expecting the man to move, to dart away from him. But there was no response.

  “Hello!” he called. “Who’s there?”

  Jon held his breath, listening. Pointed the flashlight beam again.

  And then he began to see the face more clearly, and to realize what it was. Saw the dark hollow recesses behind the glasses where his eyes should have been. Saw the wounds on either side of his head, the swollen neck. And he knew that it wasn’t a person; it was a corpse.

  JON LOWERED THE flashlight beam slightly and walked forward, seeing more as he came closer: The exposed arms and chest were purple and blotchy. The face was discolored. A crescent of his left cheek seemed to be missing, so that the teeth showed, giving the appearance that he was grinning.

  He felt a stab of panic as he reached the corpse, breathing a familiar odor in the cold air. But who was it? What was it?

  Jon stopped two feet in front of the man now, his heart thumping. He shined the light on his face, listened to the night’s silence. Traced the arms to his upraised hands. Then turned away, shivering. Looked toward the house. The neighboring yards. Wondering if anyone was watching him. Everything was quiet. Still, except for a faint, occasional stirring of breeze in the dying shrubbery and the phone wires. The neighborhood asleep.

  He pointed the light again at the body, ready to examine it now. It was a mutilated corpse. The arms stretched to its knees, the fingers cupped, each hand holding two objects. Jon Mallory stood above it now, keeping the circle of light on the hands for a moment. Moving it from one to the other. Clicked off the light.

  The objects the man was holding were two human ears and two human eyes. His ears and his eyes.

  Jon Mallory strode back across the lawn to the house, his heart beating wildly. Stomach convulsing. He closed the door. Walked into the bathroom, stood above the toilet bowl, retched once, and then threw up.

  In the kitchen, he started to dial 911. Then he stopped.

  Something about the man’s face. What hadn’t been mutilated. Something about the curve of his nose, the shape of his chin. And the wire-rimmed spectacles. Something about them was familiar.

  He took a deep breath and went back outside, to have another look. He strode across the moist dead grass, gripping the flashlight in his right hand. As he came closer, pointing the beam at the man’s face, he realized that he was right. Yes, he knew why the figure seemed vaguely familiar.

  Jon stood in front of him, looked away, and swore. Breathed the cold air deeply several times, filling with anger. Then he turned back one more time, clicked the light again, to make sure he was right.

  Yes, he recognized the man. Knew him. It was Honi Gandera, Jon Mallory’s contact from Saudi Arabia. The man who had set this story in motion.

  THIRTY-THREE

  HE WOKE IN A place he did not recognize. A small bedroom, which felt warm and smelled faintly of perfume and powder. A room with inexpensive decorator furniture that he had never seen before, and four teddy bears lined up on a shelf. As he lay there, he smelled burnt toast and heard a television blaring in another room.

  He blinked at the daylight through a sheer curtain, his head throbbing. His mouth dry. Then he remembered.

  Honi Gandera.

  He remembered sitting in his kitchen and staring numbly at the back yard, tasting bile. Then calling 911. “I’d like to report a body.” He’d been on the phone with Roger Church when the paramedics and police arrived. Three cars and an EMS truck. Police stretched crime tape across one entrance to the yard, front-lit the crime scene to avoid shadows. Began to photograph the body and the surroundings even before he had been questioned. Later, another, unmarked car arrived, parking behind the police cruisers. A man in plain clothes—blazer, dress shirt, and dark slacks—had walked over to the police detective and touched his shoulder. Jon watched as he showed an ID, and the two men talked. He saw the officer nod and then step away.

  “Jon Mallory,” the man had said, extending a hand. His name was Daniel Foster. He was a “Special Agent.” FBI.

  Jon had answered his questions, telling him all he knew about Honi Gandera. But the agent didn’t seem especially interested. That had been strange. Daniel Foster had listened, nodding occasionally and glancing out back frequently, as police took more photos and finally removed the body.

  When the others had all gone, Foster had said, “Hold on.” Jon watched him walk out the front door and across the lawn. Unlock his unmarked car. Open the front passenger door and remove something. Close the door and return to the house.

  “This is my card,” he said. “Let me know if you need anything at any time.”

  He had handed Jon a business card, but also something else: a small dark plastic pouch, with a square-ish object inside.

  Jon reached for his trousers, which were on th
e floor beside the bed. The pouch was there, in his pants pocket, containing a passport and a credit card. He opened it and looked again. The passport bore his picture, the same one that was on his driver’s license. But the name wasn’t his. The name was one he didn’t know: Martin Grant.

  Moments after Agent Foster left, Jon Mallory had heard a car horn and looked at the street. It was a silver Lexus 260. Melanie Cross.

  Jon lay back and closed his eyes. Then he remembered the rest and realized where he was: this was Melanie Cross’s apartment. He was lying in her spare bedroom, slightly hung over.

  She had heard from “a source” that police had gone to his house, and she had stopped by to check. Drove him around for an hour or so. Then they’d gone to her apartment and talked some more, Melanie pouring him drinks while she drank green tea.

  What had he told her, exactly? He wasn’t sure. Had anything physical happened? No, he was pretty certain not.

  Jon finally climbed out of bed and pulled on his trousers. Stopped in the bathroom and then continued toward the kitchen.

  Melanie was wearing a black hoodie and sweatpants, staring at the television. She didn’t acknowledge him as he came in. It was a surprisingly utilitarian kitchen, like the rest of her apartment. The home of someone not used to entertaining. A renter.

  “Good morning,” Jon said.

  Nothing.

  “Hello?”

  That’s when he got it. The look on her face.

  Jon turned to the television. Saw the “Breaking News” banner across the bottom of the screen. “Breaking News” didn’t mean much anymore, but this time it did.

  He watched as she switched channels, to Fox, then to MSNBC, each of which carried a “Breaking News” banner.

  They both watched: Yellow crime scene tape blocked the entrance to what looked like a park. Men in uniforms walking back and forth. Police lights spinning. Then the scene shifted, and the banner changed. “Earlier.” The same location, but in darkness. A covered body being wheeled on a stretcher along a sidewalk to a D.C. EMS transport ambulance.

  It wasn’t a park, though, it was some sort of garden. With high walls and various sculptures. In fact, Jon knew exactly where it was: the sculpture garden in front of the Hirshhorn Museum on the National Mall. He had walked past it twice the night before. Jon recognized Rodin’s famous Burghers of Calais as the camera panned the sculptures.

  It was where he’d been fourteen hours earlier. Jon looked momentarily at Melanie, whose blue eyes were staring at the screen.

  On television, Mika Brzezinski was saying: “And if you’re just joining us, we have breaking news from Washington. It has now been confirmed that Thomas Trent, the maverick media tycoon, a pioneer in the fields of cable television, film, satellite, and Internet technology, was found dead this morning on the National Mall in Washington, D.C. We don’t have independent confirmation yet, but The Associated Press is reporting that he was the victim of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Thomas Trent was 66.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  FORTY-SEVEN MINUTES LATER, JON Mallory was downtown in Foggy Bottom, rapping on Roger Church’s door.

  “Come in.” Church turned away from his computer table. “How are you holding up?”

  “Feeling numb. What’s happening?”

  “Don’t know. Not sure.” Church was still more a reporter than an editor, a man with lots of curiosity and more than a few connections. Jon was sure he knew more about Trent than was being reported on television. “What do you think?” Church asked, reaching for his coffee mug.

  “It wasn’t self-inflicted,” Jon said.

  “Okay.” Church sipped his coffee, watching him. Returned the mug to the coaster on his desk.

  “What time did it happen?” Jon asked.

  “Early morning, they’re saying. Maybe 3 or 4 A.M. A capital policeman found him at about 4:45.”

  Not long after I found Honi.

  “It wasn’t self-inflicted,” he said again.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Police I talked with said that nothing about it seems suspicious, though.”

  “Meaning—?”

  “Gunshot residue on the right hand. Indentation in the web of skin between the thumb and forefinger consistent with the gun’s kick-back. Muzzle and cylinder residue on his shirt and collar. Angle of the shot, location of the gun, all checked out. And, most significantly, no bruises or signs of a struggle anywhere on the body. It all seems pretty consistent with a suicide.”

  “Or an expert at making it appear that way.”

  He tilted his head to the side: maybe.

  “How about the gun itself? Whose is it?”

  “Not clear yet,” Church said. “But you can see how this is going to play out: Trent was severely distressed because of all these stories coming out on the Internet. Depressed, maybe. Worried that he was going to be the target of a lot more media scrutiny and attacks in the days and weeks to come. Tied to something that would make him seem like a pariah.”

  “He was upset. But not suicidal. If anything, the opposite.”

  Jon looked out the window toward the Mall, where he had found Trent sitting on a bench fifteen hours earlier. “What’s happening, Roger?” he finally said. “Is this all because of the story?”

  “Don’t know.” Church reached for his coffee. Jon waited, knowing he was about to tell him something. Knowing he saw a larger picture than Jon did. “It’s the middle of the day in Saudi Arabia, Jon. I’ve done a little checking there.” He set the mug back on the desk, keeping his fingers on the handle. “Honi Gandera was reported as a missing person by his wife to Riyadh police six days ago.”

  “Who brought him here? What happened?”

  Church shook his head. “That’s all I know. The police aren’t releasing any of it to the media. Which is interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone high up is blocking it. I don’t know.” He made a long exaggerated sighing sound. “Tell me what Tom Trent told you.”

  “What he told me?”

  “Last night.”

  “He told me this story going around about him is a fabrication. An elaborate set-up.”

  “Did he think anyone was going to try to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “If someone was trying to set him up, why would they then kill him?”

  “Well, it makes it harder for him to refute anything.”

  Church nodded. “That it does.” Jon imagined what was coming, how the stories would unfold. It was ingenious, just as Trent had said. The seeds of the next day’s headlines were already planted. And the day after that, on and on, for weeks. Episodic stories that would lead into one another. He knew how the media worked, how a good story could infect it like a virus. What had Trent said? How much would it cost to buy a news story?

  Dominoes: Begin with a controversial, charismatic businessman. Founder of an African-based charity organization. The organization is accused of distributing an experimental, unapproved flu vaccine in Africa that may, in fact, have caused a deadly mutation. Next, it turns out the businessman may have once authored a paper urging the “makeover” of the Third World by means of “humane depopulation.”

  Then, just as the revelations begin to surface, Trent commits suicide. Leaving the story to be molded any way people want to shape it.

  Jon Mallory understood the caprices of journalism, and he knew how this story was probably going to supplant his. Knew that it was designed that way. It had to be. The story would steal headlines for days, probably weeks. Meaning it would be difficult for the real story to find an audience.

  “Okay. Let’s assume it wasn’t self-inflicted,” Church said. “As far as we know, Trent hasn’t defended himself to anyone but you. I would imagine they had hoped to take him out before he talked with you. Which would make you a prime target now, too.”

  “Yes.” Jon felt a pang of fear, then a rush of adrenaline. “Except they still expect me to lead them to
my brother,” he said. “That’s what I think they want: my brother.” He looked at Church, took a deep breath. “He was married?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Honi.”

  “Yes.”

  “Children?”

  “I think so. Two boys.”

  Jon looked away, felt his eyes tear up. “Dammit!”

  “Is this making any sense yet, Jon?”

  “Not really. That kind of mutilation—I don’t know. The psychology behind it. It almost seems like something organized crime would do.”

  “Yes. Exactly what I’ve been thinking, actually,” Church said, surprising him. “There’s a terrorism group, Jon, called Al Khamsa. ‘The Five.’ Also known as the Hassan Network. At its core is a single family business. Three cousins, two brothers, named Hassan. They’ve grown beyond that into an international network. Sort of a terrorism-for-hire outfit. I’ve talked to people in the intelligence community who have seen their work first-hand.”

  The Hassan Network. Yes, Jon Mallory had heard the name, although he didn’t know much about them.

  “They supposedly have two signature methods of killing,” Church went on. “One has been called ‘extreme psychological terrorism.’ They have one operative in particular who does this, one of the cousins. He kills in a way that is specifically tailored to leave permanent psychological scars on people close to the victims. He makes sure that they discover, or see, the crime scene.” Church rubbed two fingers on the handle of his coffee cup. “Or the body. It involves mutilation, usually, deliberately left for the victim’s loved ones to find. The idea is to leave behind something so horrific that they can never really get the image out of their heads and resume a normal life. I’ve talked with FBI investigators about it. It’s a powerful technique.”

  Jon felt a quick wave of nausea. “That sounds like what happened with me.”

  “Yes. It’s been done in some drug-related cases, too. And a few high-end murder-for-hires. Mehmet Hassan is the name of the assassin. He’s known by the nickname Il Macellaio.”