The Traveler fr-1

by John Twelve Hawks

  It all happened very quickly, but Gabriel knew the cars were together and that they were following his brother. He kicked into fourth gear and went faster. He could feel the engine vibration in his legs and arms. Jerk to the left. Now to the right. And then he was on the freeway.

  Gabriel caught up with the group of cars about a mile down the road. There were two unmarked vans and two SUVs with Nevada plates. All four vehicles had tinted windows and it was difficult to see who was sitting inside. Michael hadn’t changed his driving at all; he seemed oblivious to what was going on. As Gabriel watched, one of the SUVs passed Michael on the left and cut back in front of him while another came up directly behind the Mercedes. The four drivers were in communication-maneuvering, getting ready to make a move.

  Gabriel glided into the right lane as his brother approached the transition to the San Diego Freeway. They were all moving so fast now that the lights seemed to streak past them. Lean into the curve. Brake slightly. And now they were gliding out of the curve and heading up the hill to the Sepulveda Pass.

  Another mile passed, then the SUV in front of the Mercedes slowed down while the two vans came up on the left and right lanes. Now Michael was trapped by the four cars. Gabriel was close enough so that he could hear his brother beeping his car horn. Michael moved a few inches to the left, but a van driver came back aggressively, slamming against the side of the Mercedes. The four cars began to slow down together as Michael tried to find a way out.

  Gabriel’s cell phone started ringing. When he answered it, he heard Michael’s frightened voice. “Gabe! Where are you?”

  “Five hundred yards behind your car.”

  “I’m in trouble. These guys are boxing me in.”

  “Just keep going. I’ll try to get you clear.”

  As his motorcycle hit a pothole, Gabriel felt something shift inside his messenger bag. He was still carrying a screwdriver and the adjustable wrench. Holding on to the handlebar with his right hand, he ripped off the Velcro strap, pushed his hand inside the bag, and grabbed the wrench. Gabriel went even faster and cut between his brother’s Mercedes and the van in the far right lane.

  “Get ready,” he told his brother. “I’m right beside you.”

  Gabriel got close to the van and smashed the wrench at the side window. The glass cracked into intricate lines. He swung the wrench a second time and the window shattered.

  For a brief moment, he saw the driver-a young man with an earring and a shaved head. The man looked surprised when Gabriel flung the wrench at his face. The van swerved to the right and hit the guardrail. Metal scraped against metal, sparks spitting out into the darkness. Keep going, Gabriel thought. Don’t look back. And he followed his brother off the freeway and down an exit ramp.

  7

  The four cars didn’t turn off the freeway, but Michael drove as if they were still chasing him. Gabriel followed the Mercedes up a steep canyon road where elaborate mansions jutted out into the air, their foundations supported by thin metal pylons. After several quick turns, they ended up in the hills overlooking the San Fernando Valley. Michael turned off the road and stopped in the parking lot of a boarded-up church. Empty bottles and beer cans were scattered across the asphalt.

  Gabriel pulled off his motorcycle helmet as his brother got out of the car. Michael looked tired and angry.

  “It’s the Tabula,” Gabriel said. “They knew Mother was dying and that we’d go to the hospice. They waited on the boulevard and decided to capture you first.”

  “Those people don’t exist. They never did.”

  “Come on, Michael. I saw those men try to force you off the road.”

  “You don’t understand.” Michael took a few steps across the parking lot and kicked an empty can. “Remember when I bought that first building on Melrose Avenue? Where do you think I got the money?”

  “You said it came from investors on the East Coast.”

  “It was from people who don’t like to pay income taxes. They’ve got a lot of cash that can’t be put into bank accounts. Most of the financing came from a mob guy in Philadelphia named Vincent Torrelli.”

  “Why would you do business with someone like that?”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Michael looked defiant. “The bank refused to give me a loan. I wasn’t using my real name. So I took the cash from Torrelli and bought the building. A year ago, I was watching the news and saw that Torrelli got killed outside a casino in Atlantic City. When I didn’t hear from his family or his friends, I stopped sending the rent money to a post office box in Philadelphia. Vincent had a lot of secrets. I figure that he hadn’t told people about his Los Angeles investments.”

  “And now they’ve found out?”

  “I think that’s what happened. It’s not Travelers and all those other crazy stories Mom told us. It’s just some mob guys trying to get their money back.”

  Gabriel returned to his motorcycle. If he looked east, he could see the San Fernando Valley. Distorted by the lens of dirty air, the valley streetlights glowed with a dull orange color. At that moment, all he wanted to do was jump on his bike and ride off to the desert, to some lonely place where he could see the stars as his headlight beam skittered across a dirt road. Lost. Get lost. He would give anything to lose his past, the feeling that he was captive in an enormous prison.

  “I’m sorry,” Michael said. “Things were finally moving in the right direction. Now it’s all screwed up.”

  Gabriel looked at his brother. Once, when they were living in Texas, their mother had been so distracted that she had forgotten about Christmas. There was nothing in the house on Christmas Eve, but the next morning Michael showed up with a pine tree and some video games he had shoplifted from an electronics store. No matter what happened, they would always be brothers-the two of them against the world.

  “Forget about these people, Michael. Let’s get out of Los Angeles.”

  “Give me a day or so. Maybe I can make a deal. Until then, we’ll check into a motel. It’s not safe to go home.”

  ***

  GABRIEL AND MICHAEL spent the night at a motel north of the city. The rooms were five hundred yards from the Ventura Freeway and the sound of the passing cars pushed through the windows. When Gabriel woke up at four o’clock in the morning, he heard Michael in the bathroom talking on his cell phone. “I do have a choice,” Michael whispered. “You make it sound like there’s no choice at all.”

  In the morning, Michael stayed in bed with the covers pulled over his head. Gabriel left the room, walked to a nearby restaurant, and bought some muffins and coffee. The newspaper in the rack had a photograph of two men running from a wall of flame with a headline that proclaimed HIGH WINDS FAN SOUTHLAND FIRES.

  Back in the room, Michael had gotten up and taken a shower. He was polishing his shoes with a damp towel. “Someone is coming here to see me. I think he can solve the problem.”

  “Who is it?”

  “His real name is Frank Salazar, but everyone calls him Mr. Bubble. When he was growing up in East Los Angeles, he ran a bubble machine at a dance club.”

  While Michael watched the financial news on television Gabriel lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he put himself and his motorcycle on the top half of the highway that ran up the mountain to Angeles Crest. He was downshifting, leaning into each turn as the green world slipped past him. Michael stayed on his feet, pacing back and forth on the narrow strip of carpet in front of the television.

  Someone knocked. Michael peered through the curtains and then opened the door. A huge Samoan with a broad face and bushy black hair stood in the hallway. He wore an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a T-shirt and made no attempt to hide the shoulder holster holding a.45 automatic.

  “Hey, Deek. Where’s your boss?”

  “Down in dah car. Gotta check dis out first.”

  The Samoan came in and inspected the bathroom and the closet. He slipped his massive hands beneath the bedsheets and picked up the cushions on the chair
s. Michael kept smiling as if nothing was unusual. “No weapons, Deek. You know I don’t carry anything.”

  “Safety is dah first priority. Dat’s what Mr. Bubble say all day long.”

  After searching the brothers, Deek left and returned a minute later with a bald Latino bodyguard and an elderly man wearing large tinted glasses and a turquoise golfing shirt. Mr. Bubble had liver spots on his skin, and a pink surgical scar was visible near his neck. “Wait outside,” he told the two bodyguards, then closed the door.

  Mr. Bubble shook Michael’s hand. “Good to see you.” He had a soft, wispy voice. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is my brother, Gabriel.”

  “Family is good. Always stick with your family.” Mr. Bubble went over and shook Gabriel’s hand. “You’ve got a smart brother. Maybe a little too smart this time.”

  Mr. Bubble settled himself in the chair next to the television set. Michael sat on the corner of the bed and faced him. Ever since they had run away from the farm in South Dakota, Gabriel had watched his brother convince strangers that they had to buy something or become part of his plan. Mr. Bubble was going to be a hard sell. You could barely see his eyes behind the tinted lenses and he had a slight smile on his lips as if he were about to watch a comedy show.

  “Did you talk to your friends in Philadelphia?” Michael asked.

  “It will take some time to set that up. I’ll protect you and your brother for a few days until the problem is solved. We’ll give the Melrose building to the Torrelli family. As payment, I’ll take your share of the Fairfax property.”

  “That’s too much for one favor,” Michael said. “Then I won’t own anything.”

  “You made a mistake, Michael. And now some people want to kill you. One way or another, the problem has to be solved.”

  “That may be true, but-”

  “Safety is the first priority. You lose control of two office buildings, but you’re still alive.” Still smiling, Mr. Bubble leaned back in his chair. “Consider this a learning opportunity.”

  8

  Maya retrieved the video camera and tripod from the Hotel Kampa but left her suitcase and clothes in the room. On the train to Germany, she carefully searched the video equipment but couldn’t find any tracer beads. It was clear that her citizen life was over. After the Tabula found the dead taxi driver, they would hunt her down and kill her on sight. She knew that it would be difficult to hide. The Tabula had probably taken her photograph numerous times during her years in London. They might also have her fingerprints, a voice scan, and a DNA sample from the tissues she tossed into the rubbish bin at the office.

  When she reached Munich, she approached a Pakistani woman in the train station and got the address of an Islamic clothing store. Maya was tempted to cover herself completely with the blue burqa worn by Afghani women, but the bulky clothing made it difficult to handle weapons. She ended up buying a black chador to cover her Western clothes and some dark sunglasses. Back at the train station, she destroyed her British identification and used a backup passport to become Gretchen Voss, a medical student with a German father and an Iranian mother.

  Air travel was dangerous so she took a train to Paris, went to the Gallieni Métro station, and got on the daily charter bus that traveled to England. The bus was filled with Senegalese immigrant workers and North African families carrying bags of old clothes. When the bus reached the English Channel everyone got out and wandered around the enormous ferryboat. Maya watched British tourists buy duty-free liquor, pump coins into slot machines, and stare at a comedy on a television screen. Life was normal-almost boring-when you were a citizen. They didn’t seem to realize, or care, that they were being monitored by the Vast Machine.

  There were four million closed-circuit television cameras in Britain, about one camera for every fifteen people. Thorn once told her that an average person working in London would be photographed by three hundred different surveillance cameras during the day. When the cameras first appeared, the government put up posters telling everyone that they were SECURE BENEATH THE WATCHFUL EYES. Under the shield of new antiterrorism laws, every industrial country was following the British example.

  Maya wondered if citizens made a deliberate choice to ignore the intrusion. Most of them truly believed that the cameras protected them from criminals and terrorists. They assumed that they were still anonymous whenever they walked down the street. Only a few people understood the power of the new facial-scanning programs. The moment your face was photographed by a surveillance camera, it could be transformed into a head shot with a consistent size, contrast, and brightness that could be matched against a driver’s license or passport photograph.

  The scanner programs identified individual faces, but the government could also use the cameras to detect unusual behavior. These so-called Shadow programs were already being used in London, Las Vegas, and Chicago. The computer analyzed one-second images taken by the cameras and alerted the police if someone left a package in front of a public building or parked a car on the shoulder of a highway. Shadow noticed anyone who strolled through the city observing the world instead of trudging to work. The French had a name for these curious people-flâneurs-but as far as the Vast Machine was concerned, any pedestrian who lingered on street corners or paused at construction sites was instantly suspicious. Within a few seconds, images of these people would be highlighted in color and sent to the police.

  Unlike the British government, the Tabula weren’t encumbered by regulations or civil servants. Their organization was relatively small and well financed. Their computer center in London could hack into any surveillance camera system and sort through the images with a powerful scanning program. Fortunately, there were so many surveillance cameras in North America and Europe that the Tabula were overwhelmed with data. Even if they got an exact match to one of their stored images, they couldn’t respond fast enough to arrive at a particular train station or hotel lobby. Never stop, Thorn had told her. They can’t catch you if you keep moving.

  The danger came from any habitual action that showed a Harlequin taking a daily, predictable route to some location. The facial scanner would eventually discover the pattern and then the Tabula could set up their ambush. Thorn had always been wary of situations he called “channels” or “box canyons.” A channel was when you had to travel one particular way and the authorities were watching. Box canyons were channels that led to a place with no way out-such as an airplane or an immigration interrogation room. The Tabula had the advantage of money and technology. The Harlequins had survived because of courage and their ability to cultivate randomness.

  When Maya reached London, she took the Underground to the Highbury and Islington station, but didn’t return to her flat. Instead she went up the road to a takeout restaurant called Hurry Curry. She gave the delivery boy an exterior door key and asked him to wait two hours, then place a chicken dinner inside her entryway. As it began to get dark, she climbed onto the roof of the Highbury Barn, a pub across the street from her building. Concealed behind an air vent, she watched people stopping to buy wine at the off-license shop on the ground floor of her building. Citizens hurried home carrying briefcases and shopping bags. A white delivery van was parked near the entrance to her flat, but no one was in the front seat.

  The Indian boy from Hurry Curry appeared at exactly seven thirty. The moment he unlocked the door that led upstairs to her flat, two men jumped out of the white van and shoved him into the entryway. Perhaps they’d kill the boy or maybe they’d just ask questions and let him live. Maya didn’t really care. She was sliding back into Harlequin mentality: no compassion, no attachments, no mercy.

  She spent the night at a flat in East London that her father had purchased many years ago. Her mother had lived there, concealed within the East Asian community, until she died from a heart attack when Maya was fourteen. The three-room flat was on the top floor of a shabby building just off Brick Lane. A Bengali travel agency was on the ground floor and some of the
men who worked there would arrange work permits and identity cards for a price.

  East London had always been outside the walls of the city, a convenient place to do or buy something illegal. For hundreds of years it had been one of the worst slums in the world, the hunting ground for Jack the Ripper. Now crowds of American tourists were led around on nightly Ripper walks, the Old Truman Brewery had become an outdoor pub, and the glass towers of the Bishop’s Gate office complex thrust itself into the heart of the old neighborhood.

  What used to be a warren of dark passageways was now dotted with art galleries and trendy restaurants, but if you knew where to look you could still find a wide range of products that helped you avoid the scrutiny of the Vast Machine. Every weekend peddlers appeared on upper Brick Lane near Cheshire Street. The peddlers sold stiletto knives and brass knuckles for street fighting, pirated videos, and SIM chips for cell phones. For a few extra pounds, they would activate the chip with a credit card attached to a shell corporation. Although the authorities had the technology to listen to phone calls, they couldn’t trace them back to cell phone owners. The Vast Machine could easily monitor citizens with permanent addresses and bank accounts. Harlequins living off the Grid used an endless supply of disposable phones and identity cards. Almost everything except their swords could be used a few times and tossed away like a candy wrapper.

  Maya called her employer at the design studio and explained that her father had cancer and she was going to have to quit work to take care of him. Ned Clark, one of the photographers who worked for the studio, gave her the name of a homeopathic doctor, and then asked if she had tax problems.

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “A man from Inland Revenue was in the office asking about you. He talked to the people in accounting and requested information about your tax payments, phone numbers, and addresses.”

  “And they told him?”