often thought.
He scanned the street and windows as he made his way to the rented apartment. Walked past it once first. Then stood outside Room 207, and he looked at his watch: 7:19. He twisted the knob. Locked the door behind him. It was a cheap, three-room apartment, sparsely furnished. He glanced in the bedroom as he walked toward the kitchen, saw a bare mattress and small suitcase on the floor.
“Greetings,” Chaplin said. The two men shook hands. Charlie sat, and Chaplin poured him a cup of tea from a kettle on the stove. He was a careful, methodical man, the most organized person Charles Mallory knew.
On the table was a file folder. Charlie opened it. Inside was their meeting itinerary for the next three days and several maps of the city and surrounding country.
“Update. Your brother arrived in Switzerland. He’s safe. Writing.”
“Good.”
“Chidi passed your message on to Sandra Oku. The plasmids are stored with the vaccines, as you said. She identified the location. Wells is down on the border right now with Nadra, trying to infiltrate. We’ll know by morning.”
“All right. Good.”
“Unfortunately, some bad news. One of our liaisons was killed.”
Instead of explaining, Chaplin handed Charles Mallory two sheets of paper. One was a copy of a photo showing Honi Gandera. It was grainy, but clear enough.
Mallory winced. “Hassan.”
“Yes.
“Trent, too.”
Chaplin didn’t respond. Charles Mallory knew he could not afford to think about that now, although of course he would later. If the past became an enemy, you beat it by not thinking about it. He had to process information in the most effective manner possible now. Not haphazardly. “Okay,” he said, closing the folder. “What have we got?”
“Everything points to the next few days,” Chaplin said. “Contractors have been pouring in for a week. Some of them don’t seem to have specific tasks yet. Makes things somewhat easier for us.”
“Less conspicuous, you mean.”
“Yes. There are bunkhouses in half a dozen locations in the city. Some of the contractors are renting apartments. Medicines have been distributed for the past several weeks, at health clinics along the border and to many of the contractors here in the city.”
“Vaccines.”
“Yes.”
Chaplin handed him a second folder, containing color print-outs of aerial photos. “Okoro’s produced a good set of aerials of the whole country. We’ve been able to trace the movement of vehicles and isolate the location of what we believe is the viral property. Here’s the setup, as near as we can tell.” He pointed at the aerial on top of the stack. “The suspected air fields are all marked. The main one is here, northwest of the city. A clearing in the woods about seven kilometers from the city limits. Planes have been taking off from there just about every evening.”
“Planes. Plural.”
“Yes. Spray planes with a range of chemicals known as pyrethroids.” He shuffled two more aerials from the stack. “This shows a delivery truck going in there yesterday.”
“Delivering four-hundred-gallon spray tanks?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
Mallory shrugged. “That’s it, then, isn’t it?”
“We think that’s the viral property, yes. What they’re going to use to depopulate the capital and the surrounding regions. As I say, we’ve traced it very precisely through satellite images. We believe the tanks are here in this hangar. So that’ll be your target.”
“What kind of planes?”
“They’re similar to the NEDS planes your government used to spray drug crops in South America. Combat crop-dusters, they called them.” NEDS: Narcotics Eradication Delivery System. “Bigger than regular crop-dusters. Capable of staying airborne for up to seven hours. The biggest difference, though, is that these appear to be auto- piloted.”
“Drones?”
“Yes. Also, as you’ll see, there are lots of military and police vehicles all over the city. And armed security contractors roaming the streets. There’s also an outlaw contingent that’s supposedly been coming into town at night and kidnapping people off the streets.”
“Oh? Who are they?”
“We’re not sure. Origin unknown, at this point.” Chaplin’s brow wrinkled. As head of operations, he tried to anticipate every question; clearly, he didn’t have a good answer for this one. “City police seem afraid of them, give them a wide berth. Be careful.”
“Who do you think they are?”
“Don’t know. It’s possible they might be connected with the Hassan Network.”
“Really.”
“Possible.” Mallory heard a sound and looked up. Took a deep breath. Relaxed again. It was just the wind.
“We have weapons?”
“Yes. And a dozen IEDs. Wells will meet with you in the morning, at the Blue Star Cafe at 8:30. He’ll let you know what happened on the border tonight. Only one group meeting tomorrow, 1:40 in the afternoon.”
“Okay.” Only one group meet
“No. We hear the name. He’s sort of a phantom presence. He’s made some big deals with the government, evidently. Deals which, in effect, have allowed this to happen.”
“Do we know that he actually exists?
“What?”
“My father thought he maybe wasn’t a real person. That he was an invention of some sort.”
Chaplin frowned. “No, he exists. He moves through the city to the airfields and other contact points the way the heads of the big contracting firms do, in armored vehicles. He has a lieutenant, name of John Ramesh, who’s very visible.”
“Who is protecting Priest, exactly?”
“Private security. He’s escorted in cars with half-foot-thick armored doors, flat-run tires, bulletproof glass. It’s like Cadillac One, your president’s car. There’s an old mansion on the river south of here known informally as ‘the Palace.’ ” Chaplin straightened the papers in front of him. “We think he might be based there. About twenty-five kilometers from the capital. Thickly forested. There’s only one road in, and it’s closed. We haven’t been able to get good pictures of it.
“Anyway, here’s the key to your apartment for the first night. The key to your apartment for the next night will be there, in the kitchen drawer.”
“All right.” Charles Mallory stuck the folders in his bag and left. It was dark now, the streets crowded with pedestrians, rickshaws, bicycles, and mini-buses. He walked among the vendors until he found one selling clothes, bought a used long-sleeve collarless black shirt and dark corduroy trousers, and carried them into a cafe. White- skinned contractors sat at tables along the sidewalk, drinking beer, talking in loud voices. Charlie took a seat in the back and ordered a beer, along with a plate of red beans and rice and a cup of coconut bean soup.
“Where you from?” the waitress asked, pouring. She had a nice smile.
“Canada.”
“Not America?”
“No.”
“What sort of work you here for?”
“Water projects.”
She nodded. When she came back with his food, she smiled again. “So why are so many people like you
