JON MALLORY BLINKED AT the wall several times, then padded to the kitchen to heat a cup of tea. It was 1:23 A.M. He had fallen asleep at his desk, waiting for one o’clock so that he could call Honi Gandera in Saudi Arabia. It was eight hours later in Riyadh. The start of another working day.
The caffeine had a nice effect, making him want to be traveling somewhere, losing himself in the turns of a new story, not sitting at home waiting for information.
Another sip and Jon returned to the study, entered an international calling card number on his cell phone, punched in 966—the country code for Saudi Arabia—and 1, the city code for Riyadh.
After five rings: “Allo. Salam Alaikum.”
“Honi Gandera.”
“Aywa.”
“Honi. Jon Mallory. In Washington.”
“Jon Mallory! Greetings, my friend. Long time.”
“I know. How are you?”
“I am well. You?”
“Fine. Listen, I’m writing a story and I need to talk with someone in Riyadh. Some people there. I’d like you to sponsor me.”
Jon pictured him, his narrow face tightening slightly, his long nose wrinkling behind silver eyeglasses, an elfin smile edging a corner of his lips. Honi had been the editor of an Arabic-language Saudi newspaper for six or seven years but had resigned under pressure after writing editorials critical of Wahhabism and what he called the kingdom’s religious “fanatics.” He was an assistant editor now for a smaller, English-language journal. They’d met in 2005, when Jon had visited the Saudi capital for three days to write a story for The Weekly American about the “new Riyadh.”
“Which people?”
“My brother, actually.”
Honi laughed. “We’ve been through this before, my friend. Haven’t we?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, you may come here, certainly. But it does not mean you will find him.”
Vintage Honi, Jon thought. He was a small, deliberative man, who sighed excessively when nervous or anxious.
Other than as part of an approved group tour, Westerners could visit Saudi Arabia only if they had business or relatives in the kingdom. To travel on business, Jon needed a sponsor who could arrange an invitation through the Saudi Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
“Your brother is … difficult to find. A rather elusive character. You know that.” Honi sighed. “We had this conversation some months ago.”
“Yes. I know. But there’s a difference this time.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve been in touch with him recently. He’s part of the story I’m working on. An ongoing series of stories, actually.”
“Do you have an address? Or a contact?”
“Sort of, yes,” Jon said. Not technically true, although he did have the name of a Saudi contractor Charlie may have once done business with—the only lead he had been able to find after hours of Internet searches.
“Why don’t you give it to me and I’ll see what I can find.”
“Don’t think so. I’d rather try to find him myself,” Jon said, suddenly hearing Charlie in his head. You need to be a witness to something that hasn’t happened yet. “I’m going to the embassy in the morning. I can file a letter of responsibility and e-mail a copy to you. Okay? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
Honi sighed again. “You’re determined, my friend. And a little obsessive.”
“Yes. I know.”
“And when you get here, how will you find him? You’ll want my help, then, too?”
“Maybe.” Jon felt a rush of apprehension. He wasn’t sure what he would do, or where he would go, only that he needed to find him.
“Can you tell me what the story’s about?”
“Not in a sentence or two, no. But I will when I get there. I’d be glad to.”
“I’d like to hear it.”
“Okay. Good.”
Jon waited, sensing that a moment of silence would probably seal things.
“Well, okay. Let me see what I can do. How about if I call you tomorrow?”
“Okay. Great. Thanks, Honi.”
WHAT WAS THE story about? Jon Mallory pulled on his down jacket and walked out into the back yard, kicking his feet through the dead grass, enjoying the bracing cold air. He settled on the stone bench at the east edge of the yard, leaning against the oak tree. On one level, it was simply a human interest story—about people coping with the problems of poverty and disease. Problems that, incredibly, had only worsened over the past four decades despite nearly a trillion dollars of development aid funneling into the continent.
But there was another story, too, which his articles had only touched, and maybe it was the story his brother really wanted him to write: Over the last twelve months or so, a handful of Western foundations and relief organizations had poured billions of dollars into aid and development projects in unlikely regions of Africa. Some of the projects were fairly typical, others not. In the impoverished nation of Buttata, a substantial road-building operation was under way, which would eventually link dozens of mud-hut farming villages where the only modes of transportation at present were bicycles and donkey carts. In the Republic of Sundiata, which was virtually cut off to Western visitors because of ongoing ethnic and tribal conflicts, the government had partnered with Chinese charity groups to build health clinics, hospitals, and a wind farm in sparsely populated, remote regions of the country without electricity or running water. In a valley inhabited by goat-herders, what appeared to be a medium-hub airport was under construction, eight or nine kilometers from the vestiges of a village that, according to one account, had recently been decimated by a mysterious flu-like disease.
Jon had stumbled on accounts of this deadly illness elsewhere, too, while interviewing subsistence farmers. An illness that had supposedly infiltrated several villages and farming communities, killing dozens of people, maybe hundreds. The accounts were all anecdotal and took up only three sentences in his story about the people of Sundiata. But it seemed to bother some of the investors who had interests there.
His stories had also alluded to an apparent contradiction in how some Western foundations operated: Issuing millions, in some cases billions, of dollars in grants to combat poverty, disease, and malnutrition while at the same time investing similar amounts in businesses that contributed to those problems. The prestigious, well-heeled Gardner Foundation, for example, had recently awarded $730 million to a fund battling AIDS and malaria in Africa, primarily in East Africa, while the company also held $1.9 billion worth of stock in thirteen drug companies that were restricting the flow of AIDS and malaria medicines and lobbying for international legislation to prevent other drug-makers from producing cheap generic versions.
He had published two installments of the story in The Weekly American. The more recent story, about the two impoverished West African nations, had, for reasons he didn’t understand, elicited denials from some prominent philanthropists. It had also prompted an anonymous, mean-spirited e-mail campaign to Roger Church, Jon Mallory’s editor at The Weekly American. All of which had made him suspect that he was on to something he didn’t yet understand.