Free Viral by James Lilliefors Page A

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 therapid 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