Dark River (16 page)

“So what’s our next move?” Hollis asked.

“Linden thinks we should travel to England and help him look for Gabriel, but there are two problems involving identification. Because Gabriel grew up off the Grid, the false passport we obtained for him matches the facts we inserted into the Vast Machine. That means he has the ‘cleanest’ passport— the one that is the most likely to be accepted by the authorities.”

Vicki nodded slowly. “But the Tabula probably have biometric information about Hollis and me.”

“They also have information about Maya,” Hollis said. “Remember— she spent a couple of years in London living on the Grid.”

“Linden and I have the resources to obtain clean, nontraceable identification when we’re in Europe, but it’s too risky for everyone to use our current passports on a plane trip. The Tabula have supporters in the various government security agencies. If they know our false identities, they’ll attach a terrorist alert to our files.”

Hollis shook his head. “What’s the second problem?”

“Alice Chen doesn’t even have a passport. There’s no way we could take her on a plane to Europe.”

“So what are we supposed to do?” Hollis asked. “Leave her here?”

“No. We don’t want the church involved. The easiest plan is to check into a hotel, wait until she falls asleep, and then walk away.”

Vicki looked shocked. Hollis was angry. They’ll never understand you, Maya thought. That was what Thorn had told her a thousand times. The average citizen walking down the street could never comprehend the way a Harlequin saw the world.

“Are you out of your mind?” Hollis said. “Alice is the only witness to what happened at New Harmony. If the Tabula know she’s still alive, they’ll kill her.”

“There is an alternative plan. But you need to accept the fact that, from this point on, either Linden or I will be making all the decisions.”

Maya had deliberately made her voice harsh and uncompromising, but Hollis didn’t look intimidated. He glanced at Vicki, and then chuckled. “I think we’re about to be given an answer to our problems.”

“Linden has made arrangements for us to leave on a merchant ship to Great Britain. The trip across the Atlantic will take about a week, but it will allow us to enter the country without a passport. I’ll protect Alice from the Tabula here in New York, but we can’t keep guarding her. When we reach London, she’ll be given new identification and placed in a safe environment.”

“All right, Maya. You’ve made your point,” Hollis said. “The Harlequins want to be in charge. Now give us a minute to talk it over.”

As Hollis and Vicki sat next to each other on the bench, Maya walked over to the windows and looked across the street at St. Raymond’s Cemetery. The huge cemetery was as crowded and gray as the city itself; the tombstones, pillars and sad angels were packed together like a jumble sale.

The fact that Hollis and Vicki were in love changed everything; it implied a life together. If they’re clever, Maya thought, they’ll run away from both the Tabula and the Harlequins. There’s no future in this endless war.

“We’ve made a decision,” Vicki said. Maya returned to the middle of the room and noticed that the two lovers were now sitting apart. “I’m going with you and Alice on the boat to England.”

“And I’m going to stay in New York for a few weeks,” Hollis said. “I’ll make the Tabula think that Gabriel is still in the city. When I’m done, you can figure out another way to get me out of the country.”

Maya nodded her approval. Hollis wasn’t a Harlequin, but he was starting to think like one. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “Just be careful.”

Hollis ignored her and looked into Vicki’s eyes. “Of course I’ll be careful. I promise.”

** CHAPTER 15

Sitting in the back of a Mercedes, Michael gazed out the side window at the German countryside. This morning he had eaten breakfast in Hamburg, and now he was traveling on the Autobahn with Mrs. Brewster to see the new computer center in Berlin. A security guard wearing a black suit was in the front seat next to the Turkish chauffeur. The guard was supposed to watch the Traveler and keep him from escaping, but that wasn’t going to happen. Michael had no desire to return to the ordinary world.

When they first got into the car, he discovered that a polished wooden box with little drawers had been placed on the seat. Michael had assumed that the box held top-secret information involving the Brethren, but it actually contained a gold-plated thimble, a pair of silver scissors, and the spectrum of silk thread used for needlework.

Mrs. Brewster slipped on a phone headset and took out a sheet of canvas printed with an image of a rose. She made several calls, speaking in soothing tones to members of the Brethren while her strong fingers thrust the needle through the canvas. Her favorite expression was “brilliant,” but Michael was beginning to understand the different ways she used the word. Some members of the Brethren were worthy of praise. But if she said “brilliant” slowly or sharply or in a bored monotone, someone was going to be punished for failure.

HE HAD LEARNED a great deal about the Brethren during the weekend conference on Dark Island. All its members were eager to establish the Virtual Panopticon, but there were different internal groups based on nationality and personal relationships. Although Kennard Nash was head of the executive board and in charge of the Evergreen Foundation, some members saw him as being too American. Mrs. Brewster was in charge of an organization called the Young World Leaders Program and had become the head of the European faction.

On Dark Island, Michael had given Mrs. Brewster his private evaluation of each member of the executive board. When the conference was over, Mrs. Brewster announced that she wanted Michael to accompany her while she checked on the progress of the Shadow Program. General Nash seemed annoyed by this request and by the fact that Michael had mentioned his father at the meeting. “Go ahead and take him,” Nash told Mrs. Brewster. “Just don’t let him out of your sight.”

The next day, they were in Toronto boarding a private jet to Germany. Traveling with Mrs. Brewster was a quick education in power. Michael began to think that the politicians who made speeches and proposed new laws were only actors in an elaborate play. Although these leaders appeared to be in charge, they had to follow a script written by others. While the media was distracted by the culture of celebrity, the Brethren avoided the spotlight. They owned the theater, counted the tickets, and decided what scenes would be performed for the audience.

“PLEASE FOLLOW UP and inform me of any change,” Mrs. Brewster said to someone in Singapore. She took off her headset, put down her needlework, and pressed a switch in her armrest. A glass divider emerged from the back of the front seat and clicked into place. Now the driver couldn’t hear their conversation.

“Would you like some tea, Michael?”

“Thank you.”

There was a cabinet in front of them, and Mrs. Brewster took out cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and a thermos of hot tea.

“One lump or two?”

“No sugar. Just cream.”

“Now that’s interesting. I thought you had a sweet tooth.” Mrs. Brewster served Michael a cup of tea and then gave herself two lumps of sugar.

The china jiggled slightly when the car went over a bump, but sipping tea gave the backseat an odd atmosphere of domesticity. Although Mrs. Brewster had never had children, she enjoyed acting like a wealthy aunt who might spoil a favorite nephew. Over the last few days, he had watched her charm and flatter men from a dozen different countries. Men talked too much around Mrs. Brewster, and that was one of the sources of her power. Michael was determined not to make that mistake.

“So, Michael— are you enjoying yourself?”

“I guess so. I’ve never been to Europe before.”

“What’s your evaluation of our three friends in Hamburg?”

“Albrecht and Stoltz are on your side. Gunter Hoffman is skeptical.”

“I don’t know how you can assume that. Dr. Hoffman didn’t say more than six words during the entire meeting.”

“The pupils of his eyes contracted slightly whenever you spoke about the Shadow Program. Hoffman is some kind of scientist, right? Maybe he doesn’t understand the political and social implications of the program.”

“Now, Michael. You need to be more charitable toward scientists.” Mrs. Brewster resumed her stitching. “I got my degree in physics at Cambridge and considered science as a career.”

“So what happened?”

“In my final year at university, I began to read about something called chaos theory— the study of erratic behavior in nonlinear dynamic systems. The chattering classes have gotten hold of this term and use it in complete ignorance to justify romantic anarchism. But scientists know that even mathematical chaos is deterministic— in other words, what occurs in the future is caused by a past sequence of events.”

“And you wanted to influence those events?”

Mrs. Brewster looked up from her stitching. “You are a very clever young man. Let’s just say that I realized that nature prefers structure. The world will still have to deal with hurricanes and airplane crashes and other unpredictable disasters. But if we establish our Virtual Panopticon, human society will evolve in the right direction.”

They passed a sign for Berlin and the car seemed to go a little faster. There was no speed limit on this road. “Perhaps you could call Nathan Boone after the meeting at the computer center,” Michael said. “I’d like to know if he’s found out anything about my father.”

“Of course.” Mrs. Brewster wrote a memo to herself on her computer. “And let’s say Mr. Boone is successful and we find your father. What do you intend to say to him?”

“The world is going through a major technological change. The Panopticon is inevitable. He needs to realize that fact and help the Brethren achieve its goals.”

“Brilliant. That’s brilliant.” She looked up from the keyboard. “We don’t need any new ideas from Travelers. We just need to follow the rules.”

BY THE TIME Michael finished his second cup of tea, they were in Berlin, driving down the tree-lined boulevard of Unter den Linden. The few groups of tourists on the street looked overwhelmed by the baroque and neoclassical buildings. Mrs. Brewster pointed out a stack of enormous books with the names of German authors on the spines. The memorial had been set up in Bebelplatz, where the Nazis had emptied the libraries and burned books in the 1930s.

“Many more people live in Tokyo or New York,” she explained. “Berlin always feels like a city too large for its population.”

“I guess a lot of buildings were destroyed during World War Two.”

“Quite right. And the Russians blew up much of what survived. But that unpleasant past has been swept away.”

The Mercedes turned left at the Brandenburg Gate and followed the edge of a park toward Potsdamer Platz. The wall that had once divided the city had vanished, but its presence still lingered in the area. When the wall was torn down, the empty space created a real estate opportunity. The death zone was now a distinct strip of skyscrapers designed in a bland modern style.

A long avenue called Voss Strasse had once been the site of the Reich Chancellery during World War II. Much of the area was fenced off and under construction, but the driver parked in front of a massive five-story building that looked like it came from an earlier era.

“This was originally an office building for the German Reich Railway,” Mrs. Brewster explained. “When the wall came down, the Brethren gained control of the property.”

They got out of the car and approached the computer center. The building’s outer walls were defaced with graffiti, and most of the windows were covered with metal security shields, but Michael could see traces of a grand nineteenth-century facade. There were scrolled cornices and the faces of Greek gods carved above the large bay windows that faced the street. From the outside, the building was like an expensive limousine that had been stripped and dumped down a ravine.

“There are two sections to this building,” Mrs. Brewster explained. “We’re going to be in the public area first, so be discreet.”

She approached a windowless steel door guarded by a surveillance camera. There was a small plastic sign to one side that announced that the building was the headquarters of a company called Personal Customer.

“Is this a British company?” Michael asked.

“No. It’s quite German.” Mrs. Brewster pushed the door buzzer. “Lars recommended that we give it an English name. It makes the staff think that they’re involved with something modern and international.”

The door clicked and they stepped into a brightly lit reception area. A young woman in her twenties with rings in her ears, lips, and nose looked up at them and smiled. “Welcome to Personal Customer. May I help you?”

“I’m Mrs. Brewster and this is Mr. Corrigan. We’re technical consultants here to see the computer. I do believe Mr. Reichhardt knows we’re coming today.”

“Yes. Of course.” The young woman handed Mrs. Brewster a sealed envelope. “You go to the—”

“I know, dear. I’ve been here before.”

They walked over to an elevator next to a conference room with glass walls. A group of company employees— most of them in their thirties— were sitting around a large table eating lunch and talking.

Mrs. Brewster ripped open the envelope, took out a plastic card, and waved it at the elevator’s sensor. The door glided open, they stepped into the elevator, and she waved the card a second time. “We’re going down to the basement. That’s the only entrance to the tower.”

“Is it okay to ask a question?”

“Yes. We’re out of the public area.”

“What do the employees think they’re doing?”

“Oh, it’s all perfectly legitimate. They’re told that Personal Customer is a cutting-edge marketing firm that is collecting demographic data. Of course, advertising to groups of people has become completely old-fashioned. In the future, all advertising will be directed toward each individual consumer. When you see a billboard in the street, it will sense the RFID chip on your key chain and flash your name. The energetic young people you just saw are busy finding every possible source of data about Berliners and feeding it into the computer.”