Viral

“Where? In Africa?”

“No. Three counties in Pennsylvania.”

“What? Why would a disaster plan for Pennsylvania interest him?”

“No idea, but it did. He gave me a copy of part of it—all he had. It’s in there.”

Mallory breathed the cold mountain air, thinking of the other questions his father had passed along to him.

“Did he ever mention someone named Isaak Priest?”

“Yeah. Of course.” He waited as a truck whooshed by from the other direction. “He was one of the main conduits into Africa, supposedly. A lot of money went through him.” He added, “Your father had a funny feeling about that, though.”

“How do you mean?”

“He wondered if Isaak Priest was a real person. He thought maybe he didn’t actually exist.”

“What?”

“He thought it was an invention.”

“But he has a past. You can Google his name and get newspaper stories. Going back ten, fifteen years.”

“I know. But that’s assuming you believe what you get on the Internet is real.” He half-smiled at Charlie. “Your father questioned the integrity of those records. Sure, you could go online and find a story about Isaak Priest from The Washington Post from ten years ago. It might even show up on the Post archives if you go to their website. But if you actually went back and found the physical newspaper for that date, you’d find that the story wasn’t there.”

“Why did he think that?”

“He didn’t think it, he knew it. He went back and found hard copy of the newspapers for two specific stories. And those stories were never in the paper. They didn’t exist. They were created after the fact.” He nodded to the envelope. “It’s in there, too. For what it’s worth. Take it with you. There’s more,” he said. “I couldn’t find everything in twenty minutes. Some of it’s boxed up. I can get it for you in another day or two if you’re going to be around.”

“No, I’m not. But I’ll give you an address, where you can send it.”

“Okay.” He sighed and looked up at the mountains, his breath dispersing in the cold air. His eyes seemed to twinkle for a second. “You know what, between you and me? I’m sort of glad you found me. I really am.”

IT WAS EARLY evening alongside the Green Monkey River. The circle of the sun had already dropped from sight, but its light burned reddish-orange across the tops of the western mountains and above the deserted coffee plantations and squatter farms. The hardwood room with the western picture windows was sparsely furnished—a large redwood desk, wicker sitting chairs, two simple lamps, file cabinets, Mancala dragon rugs.

Isaak Priest went back to the computer monitor and studied the electronic map of the nation. Sites where they had purchased land, set up businesses. Many already operating: wind and solar farms, supply routes. A pattern no one had noticed yet.

Then he saw that there had been another encrypted message from the Administrator. The man in Oregon. The last deal had been completed. The payment transferred. Finally: there was nothing now that could stop the operation from going forward. It was nine days until the “World Series” began. October 5.

TWENTY-SEVEN

JON MALLORY SAT IN the Costa coffee bar in Terminal 4 at Heathrow Airport, waiting for his British Airways flight back to Dulles. He finished a panini and Italian coffee, then used his international calling card to reach Roger Church. It was eight o’clock in London—three o’clock in Washington.

His editor picked up on the second ring. “Church.”

“Roger, it’s Jon.”

He heard the familiar sigh—a little more drawn out than usual. “Jon. Where are you?”

“In transit. What’s the reaction been to the story?”

“Amazing. No words to describe it.”

“Good.”

There was something tentative, though, in his voice.

“Are you on your way home?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. We’ll talk when you’re back.”

Jon clicked off. He walked the airport corridors for a while, browsing the shop windows, anticipating familiar surroundings and routines, but he also realized that he was heading toward a place he had never been before. He sat on a bench, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate. But it wasn’t any good. Opened or closed, it didn’t matter. The images still flashed through his thoughts: the faces of the dead, eyes opened as if they were looking back at him, as if they were trying to convey some message to him.

“ALEC TOMKIN” CAUGHT the 11:34 A.M. American Airlines flight from Miami to Robert L. Bradshaw International Airport on the island of St. Kitts. He rented a Dodge Charger at the airport and drove along the coast road south of Basseterre.

It was Sunday, September 27. At 3:28, Tomkin was idling in front of a large, gated, walled home. Two minutes later, the gate opened.

Charlie drove forward, parking next to the house. Joseph Chaplin, the director of operations for Mallory’s firm, was seated at a desk in what had been the living room, but which had been divided into two enclosed offices. In the next office was Chidi Okoro, a lanky, long-legged West African man who served as his communications director.

It was balmy on St. Kitts, eighty degrees. The mountains of Nevis were visible five miles across the green Caribbean water. From a boat, this home looked like any other beachfront property, with deck chairs, umbrellas, a boat dock. But its actual function was as one of the bases for D.M.A. Associates, Charles Mallory’s company.

“How’s it look?”

He took a seat in front of Chaplin’s desk.

“A lot of movement. Your brother’s story is causing a stir. The government of Sundiata is adamantly denying it, of course.”

“What’s the public reaction?”

He pushed several reports across to Charles Mallory. “Not a lot,” he said.

Charlie sighed. “Is Sandra Oku okay?”

“Yes. She’s fine.”

“Good. Kip?”

“No.” Chaplin lowered his gaze. “He didn’t make it out.”

Charles Mallory turned away. Another casualty. Another witness gone. Another good man dead.

He stood and took Quinn’s packet into the next office.

“I’ve got something here,” he said. “Hard copy and disk.”

“Okay.” Okoro watched him through the thick lenses of his black, rectangular glasses.

“It’s called a ‘tri-county emergency preparedness report.’ Three townships in Western Pennsylvania. Something about it’s not right.”

He handed it to Okoro, who studied the map on the front of the report. He was a soft-spoken man, Nigerian, who didn’t talk much, but he was a brilliant computer technician. He had worked a succession of related jobs— imaging analyst, digital forensics researcher, digital security consultant—before Charlie had hired him as the company’s digital and communications director. It was Chaplin, though, who had recruited him, and Okoro still seemed more comfortable with Chaplin than with Mallory, or anyone else on the team.