throughout downtown Nairobi and sitting at the Yaya Centre shopping mall. But early in the afternoon, he had disappeared. There had been no trace of him for hours. No images. No electronic communications. No indication where he had spent the night. Jon Mallory had not led them to his brother, as they had hoped, or to the message that his brother had intended to give him. And now he was off the map.
Frederick Collins—Charles Mallory—had also disappeared, leaving some personal belongings in a rowboat found drifting in the Bay of Angels, according to marine police communications.
It was not good news, and the Administrator was not pleased with the people he had hired to find the Mallorys—or with Douglas Chase, who had negotiated the deal. But there were contingencies and diversions for things like this. Strategies and counterstrategies. Reasons that this project could not be stopped. It had been constructed that way, written with built-in safeguards and detours that anticipated all possible outcomes. One of them they had called the “TW Paper.” A diversion Douglas Chase didn’t even know existed.
The groundwork for the diversion had already been established. To launch the plan, all the Administrator had to do was enter an eleven-digit code and press a button. The mechanism would launch automatically. In Building 67, the only facility where the plan could be made operational, he entered the code and pressed “Send.” Several minutes later, almost as an afterthought, he sent a quantum-encrypted message to Isaak Priest in Africa, informing him what he had done.
TWENTY
JON MALLORY LAY CURLED up on the hard earth, wrapped in a tattered cloth blanket, breathing the scents of pepper trees and burning wood smoke. He was sheltered in a cave-like opening on the hillside. A thick growth of trees blocked most of the sky. He gazed at the light from Sandra Oku’s candles in the chinks of the mud walls until the candles went out. Heard a whispering and realized it was her. Kneeling in the entranceway. Saying a prayer.
Later, it felt much cooler and he could not sleep. The groundnut stew had been delicious and should have made him sleepy, but it didn’t. Sandra Oku had talked with Jon some more after dinner, and all night he sorted through what she had told him—about Paul and Kip and what was coming, the “ill wind” and “the October project.” Charlie had told her that Paul had been killed and had informed her that Jon would be coming soon to “be a witness.” But she was reluctant to tell him more. To speculate on where Charlie might be now.
His skin still felt cold from the river water, and his thoughts raced much of the night. For a while, he thought about Melanie Cross, and the elusive pleasures of being with her. He wondered what she had written in her blog the night before. It was late afternoon now in Washington. She was getting off work. He listened to the regular splash of the river water, the stirring of night creatures in the brush, the calls of birds and monkeys, the human sounds from the lean-tos and mud shacks: music, voices, distant moaning, snoring. The sounds of life, after dark. Jon Mallory stared into the trees, which dimly glowed with the moonlight, remembering how he had loved to look at the stars as a kid, way up above the tops of the oak trees on Marianna Drive, marveling at how big everything was. Remembering his brother, his father, his mother. For a while, safe.
HE WAS AWAKENED by the sun—a sharp glare through the scrub bush and banana leaves. He turned over in the dirt and closed his eyes. The blanket was wet with dew. When he opened his eyes again, he sensed the presence of someone else. A wide-shouldered, shirtless man was standing above him, barefoot, on the rise.
“Come on now to breakfast,” he said, and turned.
Kip.
Jon sat up, blinking. Cool angles of shadow and light gave the trees and shanties of Larkin Farm a fresh, innocent look. He pulled on the straw hat, went around a clump of bushes to urinate, then walked toward the space where Sandra Oku lived. She was cooking benne cakes on the iron grill, moving with an easy grace. She wore a rust-colored dress and a matching scarf on her head. Kip stood beside her. The boy sat on a rock with a plate of food.
“Good morning.”
“Did you sleep?” she said.
“I’ve done better.”
“You met Kip.”
“Yeah.” Mallory turned. Kip was watching him. A serious-looking man in his late thirties, maybe younger, wearing wrinkled dirt-colored shorts. A man who’d done lots of manual labor, Jon guessed, or else put in hours lifting weights. His face was strong and boyish, almost child-like except for the frown lines around his eyes and on his forehead.
“What’s the plan for this morning?”
“We have a journey,” Kip said. “We leave in a few minutes.”
“Here.” Sandra Oku handed him a warm plate of food. “Eat first,” she said.
“Where?” he asked, taking the plate.
“We drive twenty-three kilometers to a work site,” Kip said. “If work is available, we stay there. Work until five or six. If not, we come back.”
Kip was still watching him. It made Jon uneasy.
They ate the benne cakes and bread with jam and butter and beans and drank warm Diet Pepsi from twelve-ounce cans, gazing out at the misty countryside beyond the shanties, not speaking for a long time. The air tasted of breakfast rolls and wood smoke. In the distance, he saw, spouts of rain slanted over the jungle.
“We’re going to fix you up now,” Kip said, once he finished.
“Fix me up? …”
“Yes. Then we go.”
For the first time, Kip seemed about to smile. Like the woman, he struck Jon as someone stripped of artifice, with an instinctive understanding of the value of time, a quality most people didn’t have. He reminded Jon in that way of his brother. And his father.
“Before you finish your soda, take this,” Sandra Oku said. She handed both men pills. Jon ingested his with the last of his drink.
Kip led him down the trail, then, to a small clearing, where they sat on rocks. He held an oval tin in his hand—something Sandra Oku had taken from the refrigerator—and an old, oversized white shirt. “Sit still,” he said. He opened the tin; inside was a circle of dark brown make-up. Kip swiped the forefinger and middle finger of his left hand through the make-up, scooped it out, and touched it to Jon’s face. It was cool and smelled like shoe polish.
“What are you doing?”
Kip said nothing. His brow was creased with concentration. Over the next several minutes, he applied the paint to Jon’s face with a slow and even hand, stepping back several times to study his work, as an artist might with a painting.
“Okay,” he said when he finished. There was no mirror, only the expression on Kip’s face. “Now, wear this,” he said. He handed Mallory what he’d been carrying: a dirty old white long-sleeved shirt. “We can go now.”
Jon pulled on the shirt and hat and followed him along the path to another clearing, where a vehicle was partially covered by a sheet of black plastic, the kind used to ferment cocoa beans on the cocoa farms. Next to it were four other, older vehicles, one of them without tires. Kip yanked off the tarp, revealing a two-seat military Jeep. A CJ-3B, probably from the 1970s. Kip climbed in, started the engine. Jon got in the passenger seat. The whole vehicle rattled as they drove away into the misty morning, west toward new hills.
The roads were dirt and gravel, as they had been to the east. But the land soon turned to jungle, the leaves and vines glistening with dew. As the sun rose higher, the air felt dry, and sometimes the breeze carried a stale stench of standing water. Kip drove a little too fast at times, the Jeep bouncing on the uneven terrain. He took his foot off the accelerator each time he started to speak.
“I grew up in Buttata,” he said. “It’s a lot like this.” And then he told Jon the story about the first time he had gone hunting. Told him how, as a boy of seven, he had shot a deer through the chest with a wooden arrow and the men who were with him had congratulated him. But the deer was still alive when they reached it, its legs struggling
