Viral

remembering his brother’s warnings. He drove to a Holiday Inn at Easton. Found a monitor where he could access Google without logging in.

Villars, it turned out, was a mountain village in western Switzerland. The nearest major city was Geneva. There were no direct flights from Washington, but nine flights left each day from JFK or Newark.

He read the message again, and he finally realized what he was missing—the first word: “Reservation.”

He began to call up websites for the airlines that flew directly from the New York area to Geneva. There were four: Delta, Qatar Airways, United, and Continental. He used the name on his passport, Martin Grant, to check on reservations. Hit it on the fourth one: Continental. A flight the following day, leaving Newark at 5:55 in the afternoon, arriving in Geneva at 7:45 A.M. A shuttle from Geneva to Villars. But was it his brother or someone using his brother’s M.O., wanting to keep him out of the picture for a few days?

HE CALLED MELANIE Cross three times that evening but got no answer. He wanted to confirm a hunch about what she had told him.

At four minutes past 9, he drove by her apartment in Falls Church and saw that her second-story lights were on. Had he really spent the night there? He parked across the street, climbed the stairs to her apartment, and knocked. No answer, although he could hear the television inside. Jon turned and looked up the street. He listened to the wind in the trees. Then he walked back to his car and sat for a few minutes, breathing the night air. He saw a light go on—her bathroom. A few minutes later, it went dark. He took out his cell phone and punched in her number. She answered on the fifth ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s Jon. I just stopped by your place.”

“That was you?”

“Who did you think it was?”

“No idea.”

“Can we meet for a few minutes?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Out front.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“What, are you stalking me now?”

“No, I’m just sitting here.”

He saw Melanie’s face pressing against the glass. “Jesus,” she said.

“Can you come out for a minute?”

She clicked off. Nine minutes later, her apartment door opened and Melanie came striding out. She looked angry, dressed in a bathrobe over jeans and flip-flops.

Jon pushed open the door and Melanie got in.

“Hi,” she said. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to talk with you for a second. About something that’s been bothering me.”

“Oh?” She looked different without her make-up, but still alluring, he thought.

“This story you were told. About Olduvai Charities and the TW Paper? I just wonder if your sources might have had an agenda.”

“What?”

“Because I think it’s the wrong story. I’m pretty sure, and I’m wondering where it came from.”

She laughed loudly. “What are you talking about?”

“I just wonder if it’s possible you’re being set up, for some reason.”

She laughed again, even louder. A one syllable laugh: “Ha! Who would be setting me up?”

“It’s what I’m wondering. That’s what I thought maybe you could tell me.”

“What makes you think it’s the wrong story?”

“I met with Tom Trent last night,” he said.

She twisted sideways in the seat and opened her mouth, staring at him. He smelled her shampoo and a freshly sprayed light cologne. “You met with him?”

“Yes. Within a stone’s throw of where he died. Probably a few hours before he was killed. He told me all about it.”

“Was killed?”

“Yeah.”

“And you believed what he said?”

“I did. Trent was self-absorbed and maybe a little kooky. But this isn’t something he’d be involved in. I’m sure.”

Melanie smirked. “Well, I mean, I’m not going to tell you my sources, if that’s what you’re after.”

“No. Although you already told me one’s an investor and one’s a contractor.”

Her brow furrowed. “I said that?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Well, I shouldn’t have.”

“The investor is involved with the Champion Group, presumably.”

“I’m not giving you a name, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Okay.” Jon sighed. “But I’m going to take a guess about the other source. The contractor.”

She made a scoffing sound. “I’m not going to tell you anything. And I’m not playing games.”

“I’m going to guess.”

“Whatever.”

She looked back toward her apartment building, gripped the door handle in her right hand, and started to pull.

“Your contractor source’s name is Gus Hebron,” Jon said.

Her face seemed to turn three different colors. Then the color drained away.

THIRTY-SIX

Thursday, October 1

CHARLES MALLORY KNOCKED TWICE on Room 503 of the Swissotel in the Kurfurstendamm district of Berlin. He waited. Knocked four times again. Anna Vostrak opened, smiling.

Charlie had made up his mind that they should only kiss briefly and then get to business. But she wouldn’t let him stop. And then he didn’t want to.

“That’s nice,” he said. “I think we still need some practice, though.”

“Agreed.”

“How about after the meeting?”

“All right.”

She turned away and took a seat by the window. She looked smart, dressed in a dark skirt, beige dress shirt, and jacket.

Charlie had arrived twenty-five minutes early for a reason, and not just to kiss her. He wanted to bring her up to date. To tell her about the past seventy-two hours: his meeting with Russell Ott and Ott’s subsequent murder; Peter Quinn; the emergency plan; Mancala; and his brother, Jon. Anna was Charles Mallory’s memory stick—the one person not connected with the mission who would know everything about it.

They were talking about his father’s message in the safe deposit box when he heard a rapping at the door