Viral

Church tugged at one sleeve, then the other. “Joking?”

“Partly.”

Jon stood to go.

“Oh, by the way, if you haven’t seen Melanie Cross’s blog from last night, you might take a look.”

“Okay,” Jon said, wincing. “Thanks, Roger, as always.”

Jon left the door a third of the way open, as Church liked. His heart began to race as he walked down the hallway, thinking about Melanie’s blog, which he had avoided looking at today. He returned to his closet-sized office, booted the computer, hit his “Favorites” button. Clicked open her site. “Cross Currents,” she called it. In large letters under the name, in case anyone missed the pun, was her byline: “By Melanie Cross.”

He skimmed through her entry from the night before. This one seemed pretty straightforward: a Federal Trade Commission insider’s reaction to the proposed merger of a major online ad-serving company with one of the world’s largest search engines—a story she’d been covering in the newspaper. But then Jon’s eyes drifted to the bottom of the entry, to her “Etc.” section, and he saw what Roger was talking about:

“…And, on the West Coast, software pioneer Perry Gardner is reportedly less than pleased with the assertions that the Gardner Foundation’s investment policies in Africa are somehow in conflict with its mission.

“An associate of Gardner is reportedly considering a point-by-point rebuttal of assertions in journalist Jon Mallory’s Weekly American blog last week, but is still counting to ten.

“J.M.—who, in the interest of full disclosure, is an acquaintance—promised some ‘new details’ in his blog today. But sources speculate that these ‘details’ may be delayed. We’ll stay tuned.”

Mallory felt a chill race through him. “May be delayed.” Who would have told her that? Did she make it up? An “acquaintance?” He picked up the office phone and started punching in her number, but then stopped, remembering that he was supposed to be mad at her.

Instead, he went back to the computer screen to search for flights to Saudi Arabia.

Summer’s Cove, Oregon

Douglas Chase still felt a rumble of apprehension every time he made the journey to the waiting room in Building 67. It was a privilege, of course, to be summoned. But he had made this journey so many times that it seldom felt that way to him anymore.

It wasn’t only the inconvenience—the absurd layers of security and secrecy and the wait, which could surpass an hour. It was also the man himself: a cold, complicated person who rarely showed gratitude to the people closest to him. A man he was to refer to only as the “Administrator.”

The Administrator had done some nice things for Douglas Chase, paying him handsomely over the years for carrying out what had often seemed routine negotiations. He had also praised him in ways that no one else had. That was how the Administrator hooked people: he made them feel special. That had stopped some time ago, and yet the man still had an inexplicable hold over him.

When the door to the Administrator’s office finally slid open, Douglas Chase stood and his apprehension evaporated.

He silently took a seat in front of the familiar desk and waited. His boss was reading a report. He would not look up or speak for seven minutes.

Finally, the Administrator showed his thin, flat smile.

“I need you to arrange for an unusual payment.”

“All right,” Chase said.

“It has to be completed quickly. Before October 5. You’ll have to deal with your fellow in Johannesburg on this.”

“All right. A payment to whom?”

“Isaak Priest.”

Chase nodded. The Administrator then gave him the details, none of which Douglas Chase was permitted to write down.

As he stood to leave, Chase decided to ask one last question. Occasionally, the Administrator allowed him a glimpse of the larger picture. “What happens on October 5?” he asked.

“The wheel of history turns,” his boss said.

As he left the office, Douglas Chase felt exhilarated. Such was the power of the man known as the Administrator.

ELEVEN

Friday, September 18

JON MALLORY LAY IN bed blinking at the morning light. The air was cool through the window screen and he smelled something good cooking in someone else’s kitchen. Then he heard the sound again that had wakened him. He reached for his cell phone and saw the call was from Saudi Arabia.

Honi Gandera.

“Hello,” he said, sitting up.

Charlie had warned him to be careful, to use disposable phones and pre-paid calling cards. To avoid saying actual names during phone conversations. It had seemed a little paranoid to Jon at first. Not anymore.

“Jon?”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s Honi.” Jon winced. “I’ve checked around a little for you.”

“Okay.”

“I made some inquiries. I was able to find someone who knows your brother.”

“Really. Go on.”

“Has done business with him, anyway. I don’t think you’ll find him here in Saudi Arabia, Jon.”

“No?” Jon walked to the window, suddenly wide awake.

“His company is based in Riyadh,” Honi said. “With an office in Dubai. But their contracts, their business, is mostly elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“I’m told he had an ongoing project in Kuala Lumpur. But I understand he is, or was, in Nairobi most recently. I’m told he may be renting an office there right now, as well as an apartment.”

Jon squinted at the sunlight in the trees, feeling a surge of hope. “That’s quite a bit of information. How did you get it?”

“Good fortune. I located someone who worked with him. A subcontractor. All in confidence, of course. But a reliable man.”

“Any indication that he’s there now?”

“Yes. That’s what I’m told. I can’t vouch for it, Jon. He’s quite a mystery, your brother.”

“I know that. Do you have a contact? An address? Anything else?”

“Yes, actually, I do,” he said, and gave it to him—a street address on Radio Road, twelve blocks from the twenty-four-hour Green and White Club, in downtown Nairobi.

Jon jotted down the street number on the pad beside his bed and began to memorize it. “What’s he doing in Kenya? Do you know who the client is?”

“I can’t give you a name. This is the rest of what I was told: His company has been setting up surveillance systems outside of the city. Possibly for a private business moving to the Rift Valley. Apparently, he may have a message for you there, in Nairobi.”

“Really. A message?”

“That’s what I was told.”

“That he may have a message for me there?”

“Yes.”

Jon waited a moment, not sure how much of it to believe. “Okay,” he said. It was, in fact, a lot more