The Traveler (34 page)

Maya took a wrong turn in the desert and got lost looking for the abandoned missile base. It was late in the day by the time she found the barbed-wire fence and the broken gate.

She felt comfortable wearing dark custom-tailored clothing, but that would have drawn attention in this environment. While she was in Las Vegas, she had gone to a Salvation Army store and bought drawstring pants, skirts, and tops—nothing too tight around the shoulders and legs. That afternoon, Maya was wearing a cotton pullover and a pleated skirt—like something a British schoolgirl would wear. On her feet were steel-toed mechanic's shoes, very effective when used with a roundhouse kick.

She got out of the van, slung the sword carrying case over her shoulder, and then glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. That was a mistake. Her tangled black hair looked like a bird's nest. It doesn't matter, Maya thought. I'm just here to protect him. She marched over to the gate, hesitated, and then felt compelled to re-turn to the van. Maya was furious—almost shouting with rage—as she brushed her hair. Fool, she thought.
Bloody fool.
You're a Harlequin. He doesn't care about you. When she was done, she threw the brush into the van with an angry flick of the wrist.

The desert air was getting cooler and dozens of king snakes were out, slithering across the asphalt road. Because no one was watching her, she drew the sword and kept it ready in case one of the reptiles got too close. This acknowledgment of
her own
fear was even more frustrating than the incident with the hairbrush. They're not dangerous, she told herself. Don't be a coward.

All these angry thoughts disappeared as she approached the little trailer parked beside the windmill. Gabriel was sitting at the picnic table beneath the parachute sunscreen. When he saw her, he stood up and waved. Maya studied his face. Did he look different? Had he changed? Gabriel smiled as if he'd just come back from a long journey. He looked glad to see her again.

"It's been nine days," he said. "I started to worry about you when you didn't show up last night."

"Martin Greenwald sent me a message through the Internet. He hadn't heard from Sophia, so he thought everything was all right."

The trailer door popped open. Sophia Briggs came out with a plastic pitcher and some cups. "And everything is all right at this particular moment. Good afternoon, Maya. Welcome back." Sophia placed the pitcher on the table and looked at Gabriel. "Did you tell her?"

"No."

"He crossed the four barriers," she told Maya. "You're defending a Traveler."

At first Maya felt vindicated. All the sacrifice had been worth while to defend a Traveler. But then much darker possibilities pushed through her mind. Her father was right: the Tabula had become too powerful. Eventually they would find Gabriel and then he would be killed. Everything she had done—finding this person, bringing him to the Pathfinder—had only pulled him closer to destruction.

"That's wonderful," Maya said. "This morning I was in contact with my friend in Paris. Our spy told him that Michael has also crossed over."

Sophia nodded. "We knew the news before you did. Gabriel saw him just before he left the fire barrier."

***

AS THE SUN went down, the three of them sat beneath the parachute and drank powdered lemonade. Sophia offered to make dinner, but Maya rejected the idea. Gabriel had stayed here too long and it was time to leave. Sophia picked up a stray king snake coiling beneath the table and carried it over to the silo. When she returned, she looked tired and a little sad.

"Goodbye, Gabriel. Come back here if you can."

"I'll try."

"In ancient Rome, when a great general came back from a successful war, they would parade him in triumph through the streets of the city. First would
come
the armor of the men he had killed and the standards he had taken, and then the captive soldiers and their families. Next
came
the general's army and his officers and, finally, the great man himself in a golden chariot. One servant would guide the horses while another stood behind the victor and whispered in his ear: `You are mortal. You are a mortal man.' "

"Is that a warning, Sophia?"

"A journey into the realms doesn't always teach compassion. A Cold Traveler is a person who has taken the wrong path. They use their power to bring more suffering into the world."

***

MAYA AND GABRIEL returned to the van,
then
followed the two-lane road that cut across the desert. Lights from the city of Phoenix glowed on the western horizon, but the sky above them was clear and they could see a three-quarter moon and the bright haze of the Milky Way.

As Maya drove, she explained her plan. Right now they needed money, a safe place to hide, and multiple forms of false identification. Linden was sending American dollars to contacts in Los Angeles. Hollis and Vicki were still there and it would be good to have allies.

"Don't call them allies," Gabriel said. "They're friends."

Maya
wanted to tell Gabriel that they couldn't have friends—not really. He was her principal obligation. She could risk her life for only one person. Gabriel's main responsibility was to avoid the Tabula and survive.

"They're
friends,
" he repeated. "You understand that. Don't you?"

She decided to change the subject. "So what was it like?" Maya asked. "How did it feel to cross the barriers?"

Gabriel described the endless sky, the desert, and the vast ocean. Finally he told her about seeing his brother in the burning church.

"And did you speak to him?"

"I tried to, but I was already in the passageway. By the time I got back, Michael had disappeared."

"Our spy with the Tabula says that your brother has been very cooperative."

"You don't know if that's true. He's just trying to survive." "It's more than survival. He's helping them."

"And now you're worried that he'll become a Cold Traveler?"

"It might happen. A Cold Traveler is someone who's been corrupted by power. They can cause a great deal of destruction in this world."

They drove in silence for another ten miles. Maya kept glancing in the rearview mirror, but no one was following them. "Do the Harlequins protect Cold Travelers?"

"Of course not."

"Do you kill these people?"

The Traveler's voice sounded different and Maya turned to look at him. Gabriel was staring at her with a sharp intensity in his eyes. "Do you kill these people?" he repeated.

"Sometimes.
If we can."

"You'd kill my brother?"

"If that was necessary."

"And what about me?
Would you kill me?"

"All this is just speculation, Gabriel. We don't need to talk about it."

"Don't lie to me. I can see your answer."

Maya gripped the steering wheel, not daring to look at him. One hundred yards ahead of them, a black shape darted across the road and disappeared into the weeds.

"I have this power, but I can't control it," Gabriel whispered. "I can speed up my perceptions for a moment and see everything clearly."

"You can see whatever you want, but I'm not going to lie to you. If you became a Cold Traveler, I'd kill you. It would have to be that way."

The cautious solidarity between them, their pleasure at seeing each other, had disappeared. In silence, they traveled down the empty road.

Lawrence Takawa placed his right hand on the kitchen table and stared at the little bump that showed where the Protective Link device had been inserted beneath his skin. He picked up a razor blade with his left hand and contemplated its sharp edge. Do it, he told himself. Your father wasn't afraid. Holding his breath, he made a short, deep cut. Blood oozed out of the wound and dripped onto the table.

***

NATHAN BOONE HAD studied the surveillance photos taken at the front desk of the New York–New York Hotel in Las Vegas. It was clear that
Maya
was the blond young woman who checked into the room using Michael Corrigan's credit card. A mercenary had been sent to the hotel immediately, but the Harlequin escaped. Twenty-four hours later, one of Boone's security teams found Gabriel's motorcycle in the hotel parking lot. Was Gabriel traveling with her? Or was all this just a decoy operation?

Boone decided to fly to Nevada and question everyone who had encountered the Harlequin. He was driving to the WestchesterCountyAirport when he got a phone call from Simon Leutner, the head administrator of the Brethren's underground computer center in London.

"Good morning, sir.
Leutner here."

"What's going on? Did you find Maya?"

"No, sir.
This concerns another issue. A week ago, you asked us to run a security check on all Evergreen Foundation employees. Along with the standard phone and credit card examination, we tried to see if anyone had used their access code to enter our system."

"That would be a logical target."

"The computer does an access code sweep every twenty-four hours. We just learned that a level-three employee named Lawrence Takawa entered an unauthorized data sector."

"I work with Mr. Takawa. Are you sure this wasn't a mistake?"

"Not at all.
He was using General Nash's access code, but the information went directly to Takawa's personal computer. I guess he didn't realize we had added a destination-specific capability last week."

"And what was Mr. Takawa's objective?"

"He was looking for any special shipments from Japan to our administrative center in New York."

"Where is the employee at this moment? Did you check his Protective Link location?"

"He's still inside his residence in WestchesterCounty. The time log says he reported a viral illness and will not be working today." "Let me know if he leaves his house."

Boone called the pilot waiting at the airport and postponed his flight. If Lawrence Takawa was aiding the Harlequins, then the Brethren's security had been severely compromised. A traitor was like a tumor hidden within the body. They would need a surgeon—someone
like
Boone—who wasn't afraid to cut out the malignant tissue.

***

THE EVERGREEN FOUNDATION owned an entire office building at

and Madison Avenue in Manhattan. Two-thirds of the building was used by the foundation's public employees who supervised research grant applications and managed the endowment. These employees—nicknamed the Lambs—were completely unaware of the Brethren and their activities.

The Brethren used the top eight floors of the building, which were accessed by a separate elevator bank. On the building directory, this was listed as the headquarters of a nonprofit organization called Nations Stand Together, which supposedly helped Third World
countries
upgrade their antiterrorist defenses. Two years ago at a Brethren meeting in London, Lawrence Takawa met the young woman from Switzerland who answered the phone calls and e-mails sent to Nations Stand Together. She was an expert at deflecting all inquiries in a courteous and bland manner. Apparently the United Nations ambassador from Togo was convinced that Nations Stand Together wanted to give his country a large grant to buy airport X-ray machines.

Lawrence knew that the building had
one vulnerability
: the security guards on the ground floor were Lambs who were ignorant of the Brethren's larger agenda. After parking his car in a lot on

, he walked up Madison to the building and entered the lobby. Although it was cold outside, he had left his overcoat and suit coat in his car. No briefcase just a takeout cup of coffee and a manila folder. That was part of the plan.

Lawrence showed his ID card to the older guard at the desk and smiled. "I'm going to the Nations Stand Together office on the twenty-third floor."

"Stand on the yellow square, Mr. Takawa."

Lawrence stood facing an iris scanner, a large gray box mounted on the security desk. The guard pressed a button and a lens photographed Lawrence's eyes,
then
compared the imperfections in his irises to the data in the security file. A green light flashed. The older guard nodded to a young Latino man standing by the desk. "Enrique, please process Mr. Takawa to twenty-three."

The young guard escorted Lawrence to the elevator bank, swiped a card at the security sensor, and then Lawrence was alone. As the elevator glided upward, he opened the manila envelope and pulled out a clipboard holding some official-looking papers.

If he had been wearing an overcoat or carrying a briefcase, the other people in the hallway might have stopped to ask where he was going. But a neatly dressed and confident-looking young man with a clipboard had to be a fellow employee. Perhaps he was a new hire in computer services
who
had just come back from his coffee break. Thieves didn't carry cups of fresh latte.

Lawrence quickly found the mail room and swiped his ID card to get inside. Boxes were stacked against the walls, and surface mail had already been placed in different mail slots. The mail-room employee was probably pushing a cart down the hallway and would return in a few minutes. Lawrence had to find the package and get out of the building as quickly as possible.

When Kennard Nash mentioned the idea of obtaining a talisman sword, Lawrence nodded obediently and promised to come up with a solution. He called the general a few days later and kept his information as vague as possible. The data system said a Harlequin named Sparrow was killed during a confrontation at the Osaka Hotel. There was a chance that the Japanese Brethren had acquired the dead man's sword.

Kennard Nash said he would contact his friends in Tokyo. Most of them were powerful businessmen who felt that Travelers undermined the stability of Japanese society. Four days later, Lawrence used Nash's access code to enter the general's message file.
We have received your request. Glad to be helpful. The item requested has been sent to the administrative center in New York.

Stepping around a half wall, Lawrence saw a plastic shipping box in the corner. Japanese characters were on the shipping sticker along with a customs declaration that described the contents as
samurai film props for movie premiere.
No need to tell the government that they were shipping a thirteenth-century sword, a national treasure created by one of the Jittetsu.

There was a box cutter on the shipping counter and Lawrence used it to slash through the sealing tape and customs stamps. He opened the lid and was disappointed to find a set of fiberglass armor made for a samurai movie.
Breastplate.
Helmet.
Gauntlets.
And then, near the bottom of the case, a sword wrapped in brown paper.

Lawrence picked up the weapon and knew it was too heavy to be made of fiberglass. Quickly, he ripped off the paper that covered the sword's handle and saw that the fittings were burnished gold.
His father's sword.
A talisman.

***

BOONE WAS ALWAYS suspicious when a troublesome employee decided not to come into work. Five minutes after his conversation with the staff in London, he sent a member of his security team to Lawrence Takawa's residence. A surveillance van was already parked across the street from the town house when Boone arrived. He got into the back of the van and found a technician named Dorfman munching on corn chips while he stared at the screen of a thermal imaging device.

"Takawa is still in the house, sir. He called the research center this morning and said he had the flu."

Boone knelt on the floor of the van and examined the image. Faint lines showed walls and pipes. A bright patch of warmth was in the bedroom.

"That's the bedroom," Dorfman said. "And there's our sick employee. The Protective Link is still active."

As they watched, the body jumped off the bed and appeared to crawl to the open doorway. It hesitated for a few seconds,
then
re turned to the mattress. During the entire sequence the body was never more than two or three feet off the floor.

Boone kicked open the back of the van and stepped out onto the street. "I think it's time to meet with Mr. Takawa—or whatever is lying on his bed."

***

IT TOOK THEM forty-five seconds to break down the front door and ten seconds to enter Lawrence's bedroom. Puppy biscuits were scattered across the bedspread where a mongrel dog sat chewing on a beef bone. The animal whimpered slightly when Boone came closer. "Good dog," he murmured. "Good dog." A plastic sandwich bag was taped to the dog's collar. Boone pulled the bag open and found a Protective Link device covered with blood.

***

AS LAWRENCE HEADED south on

, a raindrop splattered on the windshield of his car. Dark gray clouds covered the sky, and an American flag on a steel pole fluttered wildly. Bad storm coming. He would have to drive carefully. The back of Lawrence's right hand was covered with a bandage, but the wound still hurt. Trying to ignore the pain, he glanced over his shoulder at the backseat. A day earlier he had purchased a set of golf clubs and a golf bag with an outer traveling case. The sword and scabbard were nestled between the irons and the putter.

Driving his car to the airport was a calculated risk. Lawrence had considered buying a used car that didn't have a Global Positioning System, but the purchase might be detected by the Tabula security system. The last thing he wanted was a computer inquiry asking him:
Why did you purchase another car, Mr. Takawa? What's wrong with your vehicle leased by the Evergreen Foundation?

The best disguise was to act as ordinary as possible. He would drive to Kennedy airport, board a plane to Mexico, and reach the vacation town of Acapulco by eight o'clock that evening. At this point, he would disappear from the Vast Machine. Instead of going to a hotel, he would hire one of the Mexican drivers who waited at the airport and head south toward Guatemala. He would use additional drivers for hundred-mile segments, check into small pensions, and find a new driver a few hours later. As he made the transition into the Central American countryside, he could avoid the facial scanners and the Carnivore programs accessed by the Brethren.

Twelve thousand dollars in cash was sewn into the lining of his raincoat. Lawrence had no idea how long this money would last. Perhaps he would have to bribe the authorities or buy a house in a rural village. The cash was his only resource. Any use of a check or a credit card would immediately be detected by the Tabula.

More raindrops fell, two or three at a time. Lawrence waited at a stoplight and saw that people with umbrellas were walking quickly, trying to find shelter before the storm began. He turned left and headed east toward the Queens Midtown Tunnel.
It's time to start a new life,
he told himself.
Throw the old life away.
He lowered the window and began to toss his credit cards into the street. If some stranger found them and used them, it would cause even more confusion.

***

A HELICOPTER WAS waiting for Boone when he reached the foundation research center. He got out of his car, walked quickly across the grass, and got inside. As the helicopter slowly rose up into the air, Boone plugged his headset into the communication jack and heard Simon Leutner's voice.

"Takawa was at the administrative center in Manhattan twenty minutes ago. He entered the mail room using his ID card and left the building six minutes later."

"Can we find out what he did there?"

"Not immediately, sir. But they're starting an inventory assessment of the mail and packages that might have been in the room."

"Start a full information scan looking for Takawa. Have one of your teams focus on his charge card and bank account activity"

"We've already started that. He emptied his savings account yesterday."

"Organize another team to enter the airline data systems and check for a flight reservation."

"Yes, sir."

"Direct the major effort toward tracking his car. At this point, we have one advantage. Takawa is driving somewhere, but I don't think he knows we're searching for him."

Boone peered out the side window of the helicopter. He saw the two-line asphalt roads of WestchesterCounty and, in the distance, the New York State Thruway. Cars and other vehicles were headed for different destinations.
A school bus.
A FedEx delivery truck.
A green sports car cutting in and out of traffic.

In the past, people had spent extra money to order global positioning technology for their cars, but this was gradually becoming standard equipment. The GPS provided driving directions and helped the police find stolen cars. They gave monitoring services the ability to unlock doors or flash headlights if a car was lost in a parking lot, but they also turned each car into a large moving object that could easily be monitored by the Vast Machine.

Most citizens didn't realize that their cars also contained a black-box system that provided information about what was going on in the vehicle a few seconds before a collision. Tire manufacturers had implanted microchips into the tire wall that could be read by remote sensors. The sensors linked the tire to the vehicle identification number and the name of the owner.

As the helicopter continued to rise, the Brethren computers in London were forcing their way into code-protected data systems. Like digital ghosts, they glided through walls and appeared in storage rooms. The external world still looked the same, but the ghosts could see the hidden towers and walls of the Virtual Panopticon.