Viral

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 needed 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.

He watched the Nairobi skyline as they came to the crush of the city—the I&M Bank Tower, the Times Tower, the Kenyatta International Conference Centre, the NSSF Building, and a dozen other skyscrapers. Things were better in Nairobi, he had heard; the economy growing again, the corruption not so bad as it used to be. Reliable services, good restaurants. The civil unrest of the Moi era had long since abated, although new violence had swept through the slums surrounding Nairobi after the 2007 election. The wounds had not all healed. It was still a dangerous city, where a dozen or more carjackings occurred each day. A city that sometimes seemed to live up to its nickname: “Nairobbery.”

In town, Mallory’s cab driver barreled wildly along Haile Selassie Avenue, dodging the overpacked mini-buses, hurtling past the site where the U.S. Embassy and the Ufundi Co-operative House had been blown up in 1998—a highly circuitous route to the Norfolk, for sure. By the time they reached the City Market, Jon was fairly certain they were being followed—by a dark-colored Renault he had noticed ever since leaving the airport. It was right behind them crossing the Nairobi River, and then two cars back as the driver turned onto Uhuru Highway.

It was no longer in sight when they arrived at the Norfolk Hotel. But as Jon Mallory paid the driver and thanked him, he saw that it was parked in the next block, the driver’s head slumped down slightly behind the wheel.

THE NORFOLK WAS a charming old colonial-style hotel, a little creaky but comfortable and clean, with colorful gardens in back and a busy terrace lounge. Jon checked in, pretending to be a businessman, setting his computer case on the counter. He asked perfunctory questions about Internet and phone service and requested a map of the city. He was given a room on the second floor, facing the gardens.

Upstairs, he took a Tusker lager from the mini-bar and downed half in one long drink. He clicked on the television, found the international news on CNN and cracked open the window to enjoy the air. During his second beer, he tried calling his old colleagues in Nairobi, without success—Sam Sullivan’s number didn’t answer; Sara Musoka’s came back as out of service.

Jon latched the door. He sat at the table and unfolded the sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, puzzling again over what those letters might mean: htunoilerctt. Was it an anagram? A substitution cipher? He finally gave up and tried to nap, but it was no good. He felt restless, tired, and energized at the same time. At a few minutes past five, he went out, slipping through the rear servants’ entrance and heading along the back streets toward downtown; after several blocks, he saw that the Renault was right with him, following at a distance of a half block. Jon wondered who it might be—someone trying to find his brother, perhaps. But why were they being so obvious? He tried taking an alley, too narrow for auto traffic. But the Renault was right there when he emerged on Radio Road.

A block from the Hilton, Jon impulsively hailed a cab. “The Carnivore,” he said.

The cab darted into traffic.

The Carnivore was one of Nairobi’s most popular tourist restaurants, an upscale nyama choma joint. Jon followed a waiter to the back of the restaurant, past the roasting pit where hunks of crocodile, zebra, antelope, goat, and ostrich were cooking. He ordered a bourbon and water and watched the waiters walk briskly back and forth carrying trays and meat on spears. Mostly what Jon wanted was to hide, to think and to let a little time pass.

LEAVING THE RESTAURANT, after a drink and a plate of olives, Jon took a cab back to Radio Road. It was nearly dark now, and the streets were alive with a new energy. He wanted to have a look first, at the street, if not the residence. The cabbie let him off three blocks away. There was no sign of the Renault anymore.

The address Honi had given him was in a rundown neighborhood of brick apartments, a street that might have belonged to any inner city in America—except this one seemed deserted. He heard a persistent low rattling sound as he walked through the night shadows.