The television cut to Mark Barnes, the anchor in Atlanta, who said, “JoAngela, thank you for that report. Please stay safe. Now we go to Nancy Harwood in Cairo.”

  The screen cut to a short blond woman shouting into her microphone and looking nervous. Two firebombs exploded in the background, which was a street teeming with angry young men and women with scornful looks on their faces.

  “Mark, they don’t pay me enough to be standing here right now. The Islamic State has absolutely converged on Cairo, and this ancient city is in flames, literally. Many have thrown Molotov cocktails on the pyramids, which you know are just outside the city here, very close. The secretary of state has ordered all non-combatants out of Cairo, where, as you know, there are thousands of American citizens. There is no word right now from the president of Egypt, but we are expecting him to deploy the military to defend critical sites around Cairo, one of the most populated cities in the world. Anger here is palpable, with American flags being torched and the chants of ‘Hang Garrett’ and ‘Death to America’ being shouted everywhere.”

  The screen was back to Mark Barnes, who said, “Nancy, I think you’d better follow the secretary of state’s order.” With a well-practiced grimace, he said, “And now we go to Frank Crest in Rabat, Morocco, where things are not much better.”

  “That’s right, Mark,” said another anchor when his image appeared. “As you know, Morocco has struggled some with the virus that causes AIDS. To further worsen the situation, Ebola is creeping up the west coast from Liberia and Sierra Leone. As you can imagine, the average citizen is angry that an American is alleged to have destroyed this program. I’ve been talking to one young man here whose brother was infected with Ebola a few weeks ago—”

  “Death to American Garrett! Death to all Americans!” the man said.

  “Okay, Mishab, tell us what your family has gone through,” Frank Crest said, a furrowed look of concern on his face. In the background, young men were running through the streets, some carrying Molotov cocktails and AK-47s.

  “Ebola cure was coming. Islamic State announced the cure, and America destroyed it to keep Muslims under thumb! Death to Americans!”

  The television quickly flipped to Mark Barnes, who was sitting coolly in his anchor chair in Atlanta. “I think we’re getting an idea of the anti-American sentiment, already strong in the region, which has erupted, and I use the word carefully, across Africa. Let’s go to Sarah Dunnagin in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.”

  “Hi, Mark,” Sarah said. She was adjusting an earpiece beneath her dark brown hair. “As you know, I’m just a school teacher who does the occasional CNN report for the network, and I have to tell you that during my three years teaching here, I have never seen anything like this.”

  Sarah was standing on the balcony of a hotel with the camera panning across the streets, which were filled with tens of thousands of chanting Ethiopians.

  “The AIDS virus has been especially brutal in this country, and no one can understand the reports. Why would Amanda Garrett, a med school student, be working undercover for the CIA in an effort to destroy the Ebola and HIV vaccine programs? I have one source, to remain unnamed, that has told me that Jack Johnson Laboratories is about to release its Fabulous Five HIV cocktail that provides better quality of life to AIDS victims. Yet a vaccine or cure would render the Fabulous Five obsolete before it ever got out of the pipeline. And I do have a report, Mark, that a member of Jack Johnson Laboratories was involved in this caper.”

  The anchor shuddered at an explosion in the distance.

  “Listen, Sarah, that’s great information, which we will pursue. You need to stay safe there in Addis, and we will be back with you later.”

  “Thanks, Mark,” she said before her image disappeared.

  The screen shifted again. “And now we’re in Baghdad with our longtime correspondent Anna Savage.”

  A worried redhead appeared on the screen.

  “Mark, the unrest from Morocco to Ethiopia to Egypt to Syria and Jordan is extremely unsettling for Iraq. While we’ve had a rise in violence tonight, commanders here believe that the bow wave, as they call it, will hit in the next few days. The reports of a med school student who has destroyed Africa’s greatest hope, and quite frankly the world’s greatest hope, of ridding itself of Ebola and HIV, has absolutely stunned those in charge here. Many say that they know Colonel Zachary Garrett, the father of Amanda Garrett, and are convinced that the Islamic State is behind this report and the destruction of the medical laboratory. One officer said to me, and I quote, ‘There’s no way in hell that Amanda Garrett did this. Her husband and father are Army officers. Her entire family is fulfilling a service to their nation, Amanda included. What this is all about is our screwed up information operations capabilities and our broken public affairs capabilities. Islamic terrorists leave us holding our jockstraps every time in this domain.’ For obvious reasons, this general did not want to be seen on television or associated with that quote, but his point, Mark, is that this war is beyond the borders of any battlefield. And as we’ve seen with the beheadings, this war is being fought in the media. So the question commanders here have is, how much of this is the Islamic State manipulating the media? Mark, the big concern is that these riots will translate into a flood of foreign fighters right at the time President Jamal Barkum claims he is not going to get into a ground war against the Islamic State. Quite a dilemma for the president tonight. Back to you.”

  “Thanks, Anna, for that insightful analysis.”

  President Barkum clicked off the television and turned to his wife, Cynthia.

  “The world is exploding,” he said, looking at her. They were retired in the East Wing, and she was lounging on a chaise with her head resting gently on a pillow. He was massaging her feet.

  “So are my feet, chosen one.” She smiled. “I’ve been standing all morning at the Annual Women’s Basket Weaving Association Convention, or something like that.”

  “So, what do you think of what Isaiah Jones is telling us?”

  “Well, if you can save the world the way you massage feet, then I’d definitely say you are the chosen one. Aside from that, you’re just my husband.”

  “Can I get you to be serious for one second?” the president asked.

  Cynthia sighed. “Darling, I’ve been serious all day, all month, all year, ever since I met you. It’s been all about you.” She was toying with her heart-shaped broach made of diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. Her mother had given it to her to wear for the inauguration two years ago. The heart was forged platinum with half-carat gems alternating in a red, white, and blue pattern.

  “That’s not fair,” he said.

  “It’s fair,” she countermanded. She studied the broach again and placed it on her nightstand. “But I don’t mean it in a negative way. Honey, I chose you. You chose me. And in my corner of the world, that’s all that matters; that and our three beautiful children.”

  “But if you believe in God and the scriptures, what do you think this means?” he asked.

  “You know I’m getting this family to church every Sunday. You know what my beliefs are, Jamal.” She shifted on the chaise lounge and pulled her feet away so that she could sit up. Her long, brown legs looked sexy and smooth, and Jamal eyed them as her bathrobe fell away.

  “Is the chosen one having sinful thoughts?” she asked.

  Barkum smiled. “Not yet, but I could be convinced.”

  Cynthia Barkum was beautiful and slender, as her television roles had required. A quick burst through Ford Modeling Agency as a teenager had landed her some semi-significant television roles, mostly playing high school kids or college students in situation comedies. After graduating from New York University, she’d been studying for a role about a young black woman who challenges a state legislature to change its immigration rules. There, she’d met Senator Jamal Barkum. Ever since, she had been his primary advisor and confidant.

  She ignored his comment and said, “So, you know, I made a speech today, and I told the story of the day you were to speak at Howard University’s commencement and said to me, ‘Honey, did you think in your wildest dreams that I would ever be speaking at such an esteemed university as Howard University?’ And then I told the crowd that I said, ‘Baby, you aren’t in my wildest dreams.’ That got a chuckle.”

  He laughed and caressed her leg at the calf muscle and kneaded it.

  “It’d be pretty wild if I am the chosen one,” he said.

  “You really want to talk about this, don’t you?”

  “I can see you don’t believe it,” he said.

  “Baby, I believe in you. I believe in God. Do I believe that you have been chosen by God to lead the world because a thirty-thousand-year-old documents talks about a black man marching through time?”

  “This year, 2015,” he reminded her. “It’s not like I asked for it, but there it is.”

  She slid across the chaise next to her husband of twenty-four years and kissed him.

  “You have been elected by the people of the greatest nation on Earth, and the foundation of our beliefs is based upon Judeo-Christian faith. If you announce to the world that Genesis is a bunch of make-believe, you will not only lose your constituency but you will throw the world into further turmoil.” She turned her head toward the television as she finished her comment.

  He heard her, but he could not let go of the notion that he was the chosen one.

  “I’ve thought of that, Cynthia. And maybe initially it would. But what about the notion that the Book of Catalyst proves the existence of God?”

  “Baby, it doesn’t prove anything other than people back then could read and write on animal skins.”

  “So, your advice would be to log it away as an interesting development but not to announce it to the world?”

  “You know me well, Jamal Barkum. You know that old saying, ‘never believe your own press releases’?” she asked.

  “But the date and the campaign themes and the commonality between what we’ve been saying and doing, it just all fits,” he said.

  “It fits if you want it to fit. I admit that the date is freaky and the letters match, but still,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s just too wild to consider. I mean, the fact that you are president isn’t good enough? You need to be Jesus, too?”

  “I didn’t invite this, Cynthia,” Barkum countered.

  “I know you didn’t, baby, but if you accept it, what then?” She wrinkled her forehead the best she could with the recent Botox shot still holding firm.

  “I have to consider it as part of our destiny,” Barkum said. He looked at his wife. She was worried, and her eyes drooped at the corners, weighted by doubt and concern.

  “Our destiny? This book say anything about the chosen one’s wife? Do I get special powers, too?”

  For the first time, he felt his anger surge, and he let it show. “Get serious, Cynthia, please!”

  She flinched at his voice but came back quickly. She stiffened her back and put her hands out to either side to emphasize the point she was about to make. Her face was expressive: eyes wide, lips pursed, and teeth flashing. She spoke rapidly, the thoughts tumbling into one another as they rolled off her tongue.

  “Oh, I’m serious, Jamal. This is my way of dealing with it. What if it is true? What does that mean for me and the kids? You don’t think you’ll be become a target, more than you already are? What am I supposed to do? I have supported you ever since we got married. I have been there for you one hundred percent of the time. You are the president of the United States, and now you are telling me you’re a Biblical savior? Cut me some slack, please. Am I supposed to get pregnant or something, you know, without you doing anything?”

  Barkum reached out to his wife, whose emotions were revealed at the slightest hint of stress, perhaps an indicator of how close to the surface they truly were. Her nerves, every day, screamed that her husband was going to be shot or that some lunatic was going to kidnap their sons or daughter.

  “Now that wouldn’t be any fun, would it?” he said, nuzzling his face into Cynthia’s now wet cheeks.

  “Shut up,” she said, smiling. “You wanted to be serious. And I’m just telling you if this whole Jesus gig is real, don’t leave me behind.”

  “I would never,” he said.

  They both stared at the television as more news reports showed violence spreading across the Northern Tier of Africa like a wildfire.

  35

  Dar es Salaam, Tanzania

  “Matt, Kristyana here,” she said into the cell phone.

  “Whatcha got?” Matt asked. He was standing in the SCIF staring at the map, waiting on a radio call from his brother.

  “I just went over everything with my people at State. You ever hear of Jonathan Beckwith?” she asked.

  “The TV guy?” Matt responded.

  “Well, yes. He’s more than television, though. He’s everywhere there’s media: TV, radio, Internet, satellites, etc.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s the one who paid for this Book of Catalyst. I had no idea there’s a huge market in precious religious documents. People accept the Bible as if it has always been leather-bound, but there are dozens of books and documents that are missing or could have been included. No one knows for sure where the Book of Catalyst came from ultimately, but now some pastor named Isaiah Jones is advising the president on its significance. He says it’s real.”

  “Do we have anything on Jones?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve got people building me a file. He spent some time in Africa finishing his theology studies. The history professor who had these documents is another story. He and his wife were killed in 2013.”

  “Okay. What else?” Matt asked.

  “As we pull the string on this thing, it appears the history professor sent an email to Raul Akunsada, an Egyptologist in Cairo.”

  “Let me guess, Akunsada met an untimely death also?”

  “Bingo. The day after Aktar, the history teacher.”

  “So how did Beckwith get it?”

  “He got copies. We’ve got the originals, if, in fact, they’re real. The best we can tell is that Aktar probably scanned the documents and emailed them to Akunsada. Beckwith must have his own version of Carnivore for his own reasons.”

  Carnivore was the National Security Administration email-scanning algorithm that vetted millions of emails and texts hourly for threats against the country or leadership.

  “So he intercepts the document and then kills the only two people who know about it, but couldn’t find the actual document until recently?”

  “Makes sense, though there’s no proof. All of Aktar’s email files operated using a Beckwith satellite and—”

  “Have been erased. Oh, man,” Matt said.

  “So get this,” Kristyana continued.

  “Do I hear optimism?”

  “Yes. Two things. First, Mohammed Aktar was a document thief of some renown. In black market circles, he was on the short list.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “While Aktar’s Beckwith Media emails have been erased and his hard drive stolen by the masked gunmen, he’d also had a cloud account with Al Rhazziq Media.”

  “Have we tapped it?”

  “Not yet, but we’re trying. There’s a team on it.”

  “I’m wondering if Rhazziq knew Aktar. What’s the second thing?”

  “Well, guess where Beckwith’s yacht, the Intrepid , is right now.”

  Matt stepped out of the SCIF and walked over to the window of the U.S. Embassy in Dar es Salaam. He looked through the thick, yellow-tinted, blast-proof material that gave him a distorted view of the neighborhood’s rooftops and satellite dishes, which gave way to the flat, pristine surface of the Indian Ocean.

  “Where?” he asked.

  He could tell that when she heard the inflection in his voice, she visualized him staring at the sea. “You guessed it,” she said.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “About to go into the National Security Council meeting,” she said.

  “Don’t tell them what I’m about to do.”

  “Be careful, Matt. If Beckwith is pulling the strings here, he’s going to be security conscious. This is a bad dude.”

  “We’ve got to stop him, though. He might be the reason Amanda is being plastered all over the world as a pariah.”

  “Might be,” she said. “But Zhor Rhazziq has something up his sleeve. Thousands of foreign fighters are moving into Syria as we speak. His network is alive with chatter.”

  “Well, I’ll do my part down here. Keep me posted on the rest.”

  Matt hung up and called Zach on the satellite phone.

  “Status?”

  “We’ve been fighting the Tanzanian Army for about a day now and lost contact with the trail of this guy,” said Zach. “Amanda and her crew are nowhere in sight. It’s like they vanished.”

  “I arranged a Merlin airplane with SAFIRE night-and-day thermal and infrared optics for you. The contractor had to fly it over from North Carolina, but they’re here and will be ready in a few hours. It’s got full capability. The only issue is that it’s manned and can only stay on station for about five hours.”

  “That’s five hours more than I’ve got now. Also, I’m running low on ammo. Can you get us any?”

  “I’ll work it. Maybe the Merlin can drop you some. You know, Zach, the entire Muslim world along the Northern Tier of Africa is going nuts about Amanda and this Ebola and HIV thing. Al Rhazziq Media especially, on behalf of ISIS we think, has really spun this hard.”

  “Well, the only way to get the truth out there is to find Amanda and get those cures into the public,” said Zach.

  “Roger. Another development that’s come up, and we’re not sure how it relates, is that Jonathan Beckwith is somehow involved in this thing. His boat is offshore. I’m taking a couple of the SEALs from the embassy protection detail, and we’re going to scope that thing out tonight.”

  “You and your boats, man. Be careful,” Zach said.

  Zach was referring to the time Matt had ventured into the Chesapeake Bay with his best friend, Blake Sessoms, in search of a Chinese merchant ship that had crudely but effectively been converted into an aircraft carrier. Zach had been held captive on the ship. Matt, with Peyton O’Hara’s help, had rescued him and saved the United States from an attack by unmanned Predators rigged with nuclear devices.