Viral

“I know that. Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t know that you have a trustworthy client.”

“It’s a military contractor. URW Industries. It’s based in Texas.”

A subsidiary of Black Eagle Services, the largest military contractor in the United States. Mallory didn’t let on anything.

“Okay. And who’s your contact there?”

“There’s no contact. It’s handled through an attorney. A middleman, as I say.”

He sighed and seemed to wince. And then he gave Charlie what he wanted, a name: Douglas Chase.

“Okay. How do you reach him?” Mallory lifted the weapon slightly, knowing that if anyone in the restaurant saw the gun, there was a chance he or she would call 911. He needed to get this over with.

“Chase is an attorney. He has a private practice in Houston.”

“And who is his boss?”

“I don’t know. Someone nicknamed ‘the Administrator.’ I know nothing about him.”

The Administrator. He had heard that before. Where?

“Okay. Now tell me about the Hassan Network.”

“I don’t know.”

“You were able to reach Albert Hahn, though. How?”

He was pushing the fork to a new position on the placemat. “The same.”

“The same?”

“Doug Chase. He has a client who’s able to reach them.”

“Okay. So your client isn’t Isaak Priest?”

“Who?” Ott stared back at him, his thin lips forming an O. “No. I don’t know who that is. It’s this other person.”

“The Administrator.”

“That’s right.”

Mallory studied his face. Believed him. “Okay.” Good. “Now. Final question: Who’s working for you?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Satellite imaging. You’re outsourcing, developing systems with subcontractors. There are very few corporations capable of doing that, at the level you’re working at. Give me a name.”

“Sky Glass Industries.”

“Okay.” Good again. Gus Hebron’s company, in Virginia.

“Thank you.” Ott exhaled. Mallory nodded, and Ott got to his feet.

He kept a grip on the handle of the gun as Russell Ott lumbered away, pushed against the door and walk- limped into the parking lot. Charlie was ready in case he decided to retrieve a handgun and come back in, or to fire at him through the plate glass. But he didn’t. He unlocked the SUV, sat behind the wheel for a moment and then pulled out wildly, almost hitting an oncoming car.

Charles Mallory looked toward the counter and saw the young manager frowning at him, his face a question mark. The manager held up Russell Ott’s box of fresh doughnuts. Charlie just shrugged and lifted his palms, as if to say, What can you do?

But he was thinking about other things: the seven-letter message he had typed out and left with Richard Franklin. And what Ott would do next.

EIGHTEEN

JON MALLORY LAID THE contents of the envelope on the table by the television. He sipped his drink and examined them closely again, considering the roles each would play in his life over the next several days.

The envelope contained three items: a paper voucher for a Nairobi auto transport service with a date and reservation time stamped on the back—tomorrow afternoon at 1:15, the location in downtown Nairobi, on Green Street; a blank rectangular ID badge with a magnetic stripe enforcer, no other identifying characteristics; and a travel visa with his photo, allowing him entrance to the Republic of Sundiata in West Africa. The photo was from his driver’s license.

Why had his brother made him go through hoops to find this package? Was it because he wanted him to know for sure that it was him? Perhaps. Or could it be some sort of set-up? There was no way of knowing. If it was his brother, he was also warning him to be careful, Jon realized. The surveillance was more sophisticated than the man in the Renault, he was saying. The Renault was a diversion, probably, to make him careless. Or nervous. Or both. It was probably someone hired by the police, the same people who had raided Charlie’s office. Who had been told that Jon would lead them to Charles. The real threat was more sophisticated. His brother had been ambushed, he sensed, and didn’t want it to happen again.

There was also another message in these items, Jon suspected, as he continued to examine them. Something he had considered before, several times, but had set aside with the directive to Kenya: His first story had focused on projects in two East African nations. It was only when he had reported on West Africa, and the tiny nations of Sundiata and Buttata in particular, that his stories had drawn fire. Now, Mallory’s brother appeared to actually be sending him there, to Sundiata. So it had been a valid connection. The October project, “the ill wind,” would happen in West Africa, not in East Africa. Coming here, to Kenya, then, was also a diversion. But could he possibly leave without being noticed?

IN THE MORNING, Jon zipped up his bag and walked out into the hallway. He took the stairs to the ground level and found a side entrance. Walked through the alley for several blocks, emerging at an intersection where he hailed a cab for downtown. He found the address on Green Street: a narrow lane of non-descript brick office buildings. But the designated address wasn’t an auto transport service, he saw, as he passed by several minutes before 9. It was a legal services firm. Jon peered in through the glass at the dusty office space, saw four desks in the center of the room, a separate office on one side. He walked up the street and bought a cup of coffee at a vendor’s stall. Drank it standing on the corner, soaking in the morning. When he finished, Jon walked past the address once more. This time the office was lit by a fluorescent ceiling light. He looked in, saw two women through the window, one sitting on the edge of a desk, the other seated.

At the next intersection, he hired a taxi-cab to Yaya Centre—a huge, American-style shopping mall with a hundred shops and offices. He had a leisurely brunch of tea and almond croissants at the French bakery there, then sat out front on a ledge and typed some notes on his laptop. Twice, the Renault passed, its driver pretending not to notice him.

At 12:50, Jon was on his way back downtown, to Green Street, walking among the crowded lunch stalls and merchant stands, staying among people, when he felt a hard object press against the center of his back, then fingers tightening around his left arm.

He looked, simultaneously trying to pull his arm away: a bulky dark-skinned man wearing a shiny olive suit and white shirt, about Jon’s height but much stockier.

“Excuse me, sir. Just keep walking.” Deftly, then, he took the gym bag from Jon’s left shoulder and slipped it over his own left shoulder. “Keep walking. Look straight ahead, please.”

The man’s grip remained steady, becoming tighter only when Jon resisted. He stayed slightly behind, so that oncoming pedestrians would not notice he was holding Jon’s arm, guiding him forward through the crowds. Jon stole glances, saw that the man appeared to be smiling slightly—but it was a detached smile, as if he were remembering something pleasant. A device to make him seem on his own, not connected to Jon Mallory.

They came to an intersection and waited together at the curb. Traffic roared back and forth over the potholed street, spewing fumes: mini-buses, motorbikes, trucks, cars. On the other side, a group of schoolchildren waited to cross. Behind them, fruit and produce stands and a crowded marketplace.

The light changed, but several bus drivers sped brazenly through the intersection, honking horns. The men began to walk, part of the mass of pedestrians. Bicycle taxis rode through them, bells ringing. A mini-taxi inched