Viral

“How long are you here?” Chaplin said. He was standing in the doorway.

“Not long. Just a few hours. I have an appointment overseas tomorrow.” He took a deep breath, thinking about Kip Nagame. “Think I’ll go for a swim.” He turned to Okoro, who was still watching him with his magnified eyes. “I also need to know everything you can find on Douglas Chase. He’s an attorney based in Houston who might have some connection with the Hassan terrorism network.”

His communications director did not acknowledge his request, but Mallory knew it had registered. Okoro just did things a little differently; that was okay.

“Oh, and Thomas Trent has been trying to reach you,” Chaplin said.

“Has he?” Charlie nodded, feeling again the burden of what had already been lost—his father, Paul Bahdru, Kip, a couple of hundred thousand innocent people in Sundiata—and what was potentially still ahead. He was reluctant to contact Trent again, though, knowing that Trent was under surveillance. And that they had agreed not to contact each other. They lacked the communications armor of the other side. It was why he was so guarded in his dealings with his brother. He had to be. He couldn’t jeopardize losing him. But he had to fulfill a promise, made to their father.

THE SEA WAS clear and cool, and it felt good to glide down through the water, to touch the grainy bottom and swim back toward the light. A brief interlude. Charlie had bought this waterfront property with his last government salary paycheck because St. Kitts was a place his grandfather had once come to do missionary work. That detail had stuck to his memory all of his life; he didn’t know why. It was the only piece of property Charles Mallory owned, although his company leased land in Africa and in Switzerland.

When Charlie came in from the beach, wrapped in a Carib Lager beach towel and wearing flip-flops, he saw Okoro standing in the doorway of his office, giant eyes watching him expectantly through his glasses.

“Encrypted,” Okoro said, sitting back at his desk. “Nothing to do with Pennsylvania.”

“I didn’t think so. What is it?”

“Steganographic code.” Charlie stepped closer, saw what was on Okoro’s computer monitors. Steganography was a form of encryption that hid messages inside the pixels of image files. Terrorists had used it for years to send messages through online pornographic sites and other websites. “Fairly simple. Meant for limited distribution.”

“So what does it show?”

“The payload,” he said, enlarging a corner of the image on his monitor, “is here.” At first, the aerial image of the three townships in Pennsylvania just became a blur. Then as it grew larger and blurrier, he saw something begin to form within the blur. “There’s a file inside this file. It opens into a second map here. The text is all encrypted. Fairly sophisticated. But here you can see the outline of the secondary map.”

Okoro dialed the hidden map into focus. Charlie stared at the shapes on his screen. Maps encoded within the pixels of the larger map. Three shapes that appeared to be townships or counties. But no. Not townships. Each was the shape of a country. Three small, little-known nations in Africa: Sundiata, Buttata, and Mancala.

And when he studied the map of Mancala a little more, he noticed something that he hadn’t been able to find in Sundiata. Or anywhere else: a river shaped like a backward “S.” The clue that Paul Bahdru had given him. It was in Mancala, not Sundiata. A country that he hadn’t even looked at. A river that ran near the capital city of Mungaza. The Green Monkey River, in Mancala.

That’s where he needed to go.

“What is it?” Chaplin said, standing in the doorway again.

“Mancala,” he said. “That’s where I think Isaak Priest is.”

Okoro frowned at him, then at the map. They all stared at the computer monitor.

“Really?” Chaplin said.

“Really,” Mallory said.

“Is that where you’re going?”

“No,” he said. “That’s where we’re going.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Monday, September 28

ON HIS FIRST MORNING home, Jon Mallory received five calls from Melanie Cross between nine o’clock and ten o’clock. He was not answering his phone, though, and Melanie, of course, did not leave messages.

Jon was going through notes, trying to formulate a plan for the day. Something to get him away from the house and the ringing phone. His answering machine had been full when he returned the night before, loaded with calls from news organizations about his Sundiata blog. Jon didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. He wanted to keep moving. Maybe Roger Church could help him figure it out.

As Jon was preparing to leave for Foggy Bottom, Melanie called again. This time, he took it.

“Hello?”

“Jon.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe you finally answered,” she said. “It’s Melanie Cross.”

“Yes, I know.”

She sounded out of breath. He listened, picturing her face—the smooth, lightly freckled skin, the large blue eyes. “That was quite a story you filed.”

“Thanks. You ought to mention that on your blog.”

“It’s caused a little chatter, as I’m sure you’ve heard. Not everyone quite believes it.”

“That it’s true?”

“No. That it’s you. They think it’s a hoax. Someone using your name.”

“I haven’t heard that.”

“But it does sort of confirm something I was told.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Well—” She managed to sigh and laugh almost simultaneously. When she spoke again, it was in a whisper. “I think I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. It might be better to talk in person.”

Vintage Melanie, Jon thought. “You’re at your office?”

“No. Actually, I’m not. I’m visiting friends in Annapolis. If you have time for lunch I could meet you on the deck at Mike’s Crab House, in Riva. At, say, 11. I think it’d be worth your while.”

He looked at his watch. Fifty minutes from now. About how long it would take to drive there. “Okay,” he said. “See you then.”

HE FOUND MELANIE sitting at the bar on the indoor deck, laughing in a loud, flirtatious manner with one of the bartenders. She was dressed in a low-cut blue sweater, straw hat, tight, faded jeans, and boots. Her hair was longer than he remembered, and somehow her face seemed younger. Men all gave her looks as they passed.

“Greetings,” he said.

“Well. Hello, stranger,” she said, standing to greet him. They kissed politely, on the cheek. “Have a seat. I ordered you a beer.”

She was a luminous woman with classical features and dark, cascading hair. When he was honest, Jon had to acknowledge that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever met, although as far as he knew she had never had a substantial relationship with anyone. Jon glanced at the sailboats on the river, breathing the aroma of grilled burgers, fries, and seafood.

“That was quite a story.”

“Yes. You said that.”

Melanie slipped on her sunglasses so he could no longer see her eyes. “What was it like?”

“What was it like? Oh. Well. I mean … it was horrible, of course. But also surprisingly efficient. Not to mention well-coordinated.”

“How’d you find out about it?”