Viral

Gardner Foundation Linked to Isaak Priest Banking Network

Bio-Weapons Figure Ivan Vogel Tied to Gardner Project

How Landon Pine Became ‘Isaak Priest’

What is ‘Covenant Division’?

Perry Gardner’s Frightening Vision: A ‘New Paradigm’

‘Depopulation’: First Step in ‘New Paradigm’ Project

Gardner Accused of Orchestrating Sundiata Genocide

Mancala Was Focus of New Paradigm Project

‘New Paradigm’ Would Have Killed 8 Million Africans

CIA Reportedly Knew of Paradigm Project

Congress Shuts Down Covenant Division

Covenant Probe: Richard Franklin, Gus Hebron, Seven Others Indicted

Gardner Middleman Douglas Chase Commits Suicide

Perry Gardner Indicted on Eleven Counts

Monday, March 29, 9:23 A.M.

Jon Mallory sat on the porch of his rented waterfront home on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Out back, the Patuxent River glittered with a cool morning sun and the dogwoods were in glorious bloom. Jon had decided to move away from the city at the beginning of March, to find a respite on the water where he could write his story and enjoy the changing season. The story had transformed Jon Mallory in many ways, not only the obvious ones. He had won accolades for his reporting and a lucrative book contract. But the attention seemed largely frivolous, a distraction from the things that mattered. For weeks he had found himself savoring the subtleties of his life, embracing feelings of gratitude that had no clear point of origin, noticing the nuances of nature as he hadn’t since childhood.

By late March, the international shock caused by the revelations about Perry Gardner and the “New Paradigm” were wearing off. The public had been riveted by the story through the winter, but attention spans were short and people seemed anxious for other news. Jon’s latest story, which began on the cover of The Weekly American, was a people story, about Sandra Oku and her return to Sundiata with her son and her fiance. Roger had titled it: “Journey Home: A Sundiata Story of Faith.” Sandra was working to help Sundiata recover, but also to make the world aware of how and why the devastation in her country had occurred.

Jon Mallory was watching the reflection of the dogwood trees rippling on the river when his cell phone rang.

Roger Church.

“Hi, Roger.”

“I think he got off easy,” he said

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear?”

“No.”

“Gardner.”

Jon slid open the screen door. He clicked on the television. Saw the “Breaking News” banner on CNN. Switched to Fox and saw the same.

“What happened?”

“Self-inflicted gunshot.”

“Really.”

“Well, that’s what they’re saying.”

Two days earlier, Gardner had been allowed to bail himself out of prison on the condition that he surrender his passport and wear an ankle monitor. He had been found at an office in the New Technologies Wing at the Gardner Foundation in Oregon, dead of a gunshot to the head.

Twelve minutes later, Melanie Cross called. It had been a couple of months since he’d heard from her, and he was surprised, and pleased, to see her number on the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” Her voice sounded unusually deep. “It’s Melanie Cross.”

“I know. Hi. How have you been?”

There was silence on the other end. Mallory strolled into the yard, waiting. Finally she said, “You’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding me over these past few months, haven’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Avoiding you? No. No, I haven’t.”

“You haven’t called. Or answered my calls.”

“You didn’t leave any messages, did you?” Something was funny about her voice. “I’m sorry. I’ve thought about you a lot, actually,” he said.

He heard her breathing heavily. “You really kind of hurt me, you know that? You just kind of left me hanging there.”

The next thing he knew, she was crying. Jon Mallory shifted the phone to his other ear and then cleared his throat. Melanie was such a smart and competitive woman that he had forgotten how emotional she could become. “I guess you were never really interested in dating me, were you?”

“I did date you.”

Jon might have said You broke it off but didn’t. He felt a strong and deep affection for Melanie Cross all of a sudden.

“Would you like to meet?” he said.

“When?”

“I don’t know. Now?”

Melanie said nothing for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, she said, “All right.”

Jon Mallory smiled.

FIFTY-SIX

CHARLES MALLORY SAT IN a lounge chair on the deck of his home in St. Kitts, drying in the sun from his late-morning swim.

Anna lay in a chaise under a coconut palm, paging through The New York Times as the still-rising sun spread gold light across the calm Caribbean waters. This was their vacation, the first he’d had in a while. It couldn’t have started better, he thought. Waking up on their first full day together and making love, followed by a leisurely breakfast and a swim.

Now Charlie was watching Anna. Seeing the sober clarity in her face that had always inspired him. And wondering what his father would have thought. He would have approved. Yes. He was pretty sure of that.

Anna turned. Her face seemed to open to him “You’re thinking about your father, aren’t you?”

“Am I? How did you know?”

She shrugged. “What were you thinking?”

“Wondering if I’ve wrapped this up to his satisfaction.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s complicated. You can’t feel good about something like this. Not with the people who died and suffered.”

“No.” She folded the newspaper section on her lap. “But maybe we can just enjoy ourselves for a couple of days.”

Yes. What a nice idea.

He was going back to work soon, but in a very different capacity. Back to Africa. His business would be based