James Lilliefors - Viral

Number 4 referenced a parking space at a shopping center garage in Arlington, Virginia, a five-minute walk from the Ballston Metro stop. Pasted in the window with Franklin’s message had been a news story about anti-government uprisings in Iran, something Franklin had evidently copied from The Washington Post ‘s website. For Charles Mallory, the story contained only two pieces of pertinent information, and they had nothing to do with Iran. Two other numbers, agreed upon verbally, which corresponded to words in the story. Six and seventeen.

A date and a time.

Charlie had counted out the words in the story: The sixth was “protest,” the seventeenth “nullify.” One signified a day of the week, the other a time. The first word contained seven letters, translating to the seventh day of the week. Saturday . The second word corresponded to a number, also. “Nullify” began with “n.” The fourteenth letter in the alphabet. Which translated to 1400 hours.

So, Richard Franklin was asking to see him at 1400 hours.

2 P.M. on Saturday. Today.

The rest was up to Charlie. He was not obligated to accept the request or even to acknowledge it. That was the arrangement. If he wanted, he could let it disappear into cyberspace and move on. But this time, he would respond. He had to. This time, he needed to know more. After Kampala, there was too much at risk, and there was nothing, it seemed, that he could afford not knowing.

As the train snaked through the concrete tunnel below the Virginia suburbs, Charles Mallory glanced at a man standing by the opposite set of doors who had let his eyes linger on Charlie a moment too long. He took inventory of the others—a young man holding onto a pole, nodding to a beat playing through earphones; an older woman staring at a newspaper, then closing her eyes, then opening them, then closing them—and returned to the man. He was not going to look at him again, he saw. It was okay.

Charlie went back to his thoughts. To the three people:

A defense contractor named Russell Ott, who had helped coordinate the surveillance project code-named Tribal Eyes.

Ahmed Hassan, the assassin who had tried to kill him in France, whose organization was known as the Hassan Network.

And his father, whose final message about a shadowy African businessman named Isaak Priest included several questions, one of which might be answered by a former colleague of his father’s. A man named Peter Quinn.

CHARLES MALLORY EXITED the subway train and proceeded through the underground tunnel to the parking garage in Ballston Common Mall. He walked with the crowds as long as he could, then took a stairway into the garage. He found the designated spot, on the third level. An Escalade, parked earlier in the day, presumably, reserving the space.

Charlie looked at his watch as he approached the passenger door.

1:59 P.M.

He reached for the handle, pulled open the door, and got in. Behind the wheel was a familiar face: Richard Franklin, Ph.D. Head of Special Projects Division. Former deputy director for clandestine services. Former CIA analyst. A mentor to Charles Mallory when he had come to work for the Agency years ago.

“Greetings.”

“Richard.”

“I’m glad you decided to do this.”

“Not a decision I made, Richard.”

FRANKLIN GLANCED AT him but said nothing. Didn’t speak for the next twenty-seven minutes as he drove them through the busy suburban streets to the Beltway and then out toward Virginia farm country. Franklin was an unusual mix of intelligence and instinct. Silver-haired, in his mid-sixties now, he conveyed an air of knowledge and sophistication, yet he retained a robust physical presence, as well—an active man who, like Charles Mallory, understood the connection between mental and physical acuity. He was dressed in a tan sports jacket and open blue shirt, khaki slacks. Driving five miles an hour above the speed limit, he took them into the rural suburbs of northern Virginia, where the road became two lanes. Winding, hilly terrain. Horse country. Then he made another turn, onto a long gravel road, finally pulling up to a stone house set on a slight rise.

Franklin’s division, Special Projects, fell under the umbrella of the CIA’s Special Activities Division. Traditionally, the SAD had been divided into two sections, one for paramilitary operations and the other for political action. But the distinctions had blurred with the rapid development of new technologies and cybercrime. The division relied heavily now on “blue badgers”—private contractors like Charles Mallory, who were not officially part of the government and did not carry identification showing they were.

Franklin stopped under the carport, next to another vehicle, a Jeep Liberty with Maryland plates. This was a safe house, owned by the government. Its parameters were fenced off, the grounds protected by wireless sensors, monitored by camera towers and a guard station at the rear gate. A wide open, nearly flat space; no one could approach the house without being spotted from a distance.

No house is really safe, though , Charlie thought.

“Fly here from Nice?” Franklin asked as they walked to the side door.

“To Heathrow. Heathrow to Dulles.”

“British Air?”

“Continental.”

“How are their meals these days?”

Mallory shrugged. “Airplane food.”

“Get to see a decent movie, anyway?”

“Skipped the movies.”

Franklin unlocked the door and led Mallory inside. Neither man was much for small talk. It was a tidy, airy house, single-story, with antique furnishings, hardwood floors, a fireplace. Surprisingly warm. They walked into the living room, and Charlie stood by the picture window.

“Coffee? Lemonade?”

“No, thanks.”

Franklin went into the kitchen. He came out with a glass of lemonade for himself.

“Not a decision you made. Interesting.”

Franklin sat on an antique easy chair. Whether he was happy or in crisis, his face rarely changed. But it was like detecting seasons in the tropics, Charlie had found; the changes were there, they were just subtle.

“That’s right,” Mallory said, still standing. “But go ahead. Tell me why you contacted me.”

“Something of the same thing on this end, I suppose.” He waited until Charlie was looking at him. “We had a report that Frederick Collins was involved in a shooting death in Nice two nights ago. That may not have to get out to the media, if we’re fortunate. But the police are fairly certain Collins was the perpetrator.”

Mallory traced the top of a chair-back with his finger.

“No comment?”

“They’re probably right. Do they know who the victim was?”

“Unidentified,” Franklin said. “Nothing on his person. Nothing back yet on fingerprints or dental.”

“Do you want me to give you a name?”

“If you have one.”

“The victim’s name was Ahmed Hassan,” Charlie said.

Franklin’s mouth seemed to tighten.

“You know who he is.”

“Yes.”

“And you know why he was there.”

“No. I don’t. Tell me.”

“He was there to eliminate Frederick Collins.” There was a long pause. Charlie noticed the tension under his eyes. “How did it happen, Richard?”

“What do you mean?”

“No one was supposed to know about Frederick Collins. That was the arrangement. No one was supposed to know he existed. No one was supposed to know who he was or where he was.”

Franklin’s eyebrows arched very slightly. Both men knew that Collins’s identity, his passport, credit cards, and recent history, had been invented by the U.S. government. “It’s airtight, Charlie. No one has access to that information. It’s off the books, the whole thing. That was the arrangement. A single point of contact. You contact me when you want, I contact you. Your job is to hunt down Isaak Priest. Period. It’s your operation. We leave you alone.”