The Dark River fr-2

by John Twelve Hawks

  The wolves glanced at each other. Their fear of the commissioner almost overwhelmed their desire to escape.

  “Maybe…maybe I could take you there for a quick view,” Dewitt said.

  “If you’re getting off the Island, then I’m leaving, too,” Lewis said. “Let’s do it now. Everyone is out of the building, doing a sweep for cockroaches…”

  The two men untied Gabriel’s wrists and helped him stand up. They held his arms tightly as they left the gymnasium and hurried down an empty hallway to the file room. The wolves appeared cautious and frightened as they opened the door and pulled him inside.

  The file room hadn’t changed since his last visit. The only light came from the small flares burning from broken pipes. Although Gabriel was in pain, he felt alert. There was something in this room. A way out. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Dewitt and Lewis were watching him as if he were a magician about to perform a spectacular trick.

  Slowly, he shuffled down the outside aisle past the metal file cabinets. When he and Michael were little boys they used to play a game with their mother on rainy days. She would hide a small object somewhere in the house and they would search for it while she occasionally told them they were “cold” or “warm.” Down one aisle. Up another. There was something near the work area at the center of the room. Warm, he thought. Warmer. No, now you’re going the wrong way.

  Suddenly, the door to the file room burst open. Before Lewis and Dewitt could react, a group of armed men ran down the aisles.

  “Take their weapons,” a voice said. “Don’t let them get away.” The men grabbed the two traitors as the commissioner appeared, holding his gun.

  38

  Hollis gazed out the window of the Eurostar train as it raced down a gradient and entered the tunnel that ran beneath the English Channel. The first-class train car resembled the cabin of a passenger plane. A French steward pushed a trolley down the aisle, serving a breakfast of croissants, orange juice, and champagne.

  Mother Blessing sat beside him wearing a gray business suit and eyeglasses. Her unruly red hair was pinned back in a neat bun. As she read coded e-mail on her laptop computer, she looked like an investment banker on her way to meet a client in Paris.

  Hollis had been impressed by the efficient way the Irish Harlequin had organized their trip to Berlin. Within forty-eight hours of the meeting at Winston Abosa’s drum shop, Hollis had been provided with business clothes, a forged ID, and documentation for his new identity as a film distribution executive based in London.

  The train emerged from the tunnel and headed east through France. Mother Blessing switched off her computer and ordered a glass of champagne from the steward. There was something about her imperious manner that made people lower their heads when they served her. “Is there anything else I can bring you, madam?” the steward asked in a soothing voice. “I noticed that you didn’t eat breakfast…”

  “You’ve done your job adequately,” Mother Blessing said. “We don’t need anything more from you.” Holding the napkin-wrapped bottle of champagne, the steward retreated back down the aisle.

  For the first time since they had left London, Mother Blessing turned her head toward Hollis and acknowledged the fact that another human being was sitting next to her. A few weeks ago, he might have smiled and tried to charm this difficult woman, but everything had changed. His anger about Vicki’s death was so powerful and unrelenting that sometimes it felt as if a malevolent spirit had taken over his body.

  The Irish Harlequin removed the gold chain hanging from her neck. It held a black plastic device about the size of a stubby pencil. “Take this, Mr. Wilson. It’s a flash drive. If we’re able to get into the Tabula computer center, it’s your job to attach this to a USB outlet. You don’t even have to touch a keyboard. The drive is programmed to download automatically.”

  “What’s stored on this?”

  “Ever heard of a banshee? It’s a creature that wails outside a house in Ireland before someone dies. Well, this is the Banshee Virus. It destroys not only all the data on a mainframe computer, but the computer itself.”

  “Where’d you get it? From some hacker?”

  “The authorities like to blame computer viruses on seventeen-year-old boys, but they know quite well that the most powerful viruses come from government research teams or criminal groups. I bought this particular virus from former IRA soldiers living in London. They specialize in extortion attempts on gambling Web sites.”

  Hollis placed the chain around his neck and tucked the flash drive under his shirt next to Vicki’s silver locket. “And what if this virus gets out onto the Internet?”

  “That’s highly improbable. It’s designed for a self-contained system.”

  “But it could happen?”

  “Many unpleasant things can happen in this world. It’s not my problem.”

  “Are all Harlequins as self-centered as you?”

  Mother Blessing removed her glasses and gave Hollis a hard, critical look. “I’m not self-centered, Mr. Wilson. I concentrate on a few goals and discard everything else.”

  “Have you always acted this way?”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

  “I’m just trying to understand why somebody becomes a Harlequin.”

  “I suppose I could have quit and run away, but the life suits me. Harlequins have broken free of the petty annoyances of day-to-day life. We don’t worry about dry rot in the basement or this month’s credit card bill. We have no lovers to upset because we don’t come home on time, or friends who feel put out because we don’t return their calls. Aside from our swords, we have no attachment to any object. Even our names aren’t important. As I get older, I have to force myself to remember the current name on my passport.”

  “And that makes you happy?”

  “‘Happy’ is such an overused word it’s almost lost its meaning. Happiness exists, of course, but it’s a moment that passes. If you accept the idea that most Travelers cause positive change in this world, then a Harlequin’s life has meaning. We defend the right of humanity to grow and evolve.”

  “You defend the future?”

  “Yes. That’s a good way to put it.” Mother Blessing finished the champagne and placed her glass on the folding table. As she appraised Hollis, he sensed a perceptive mind working behind her harsh persona. “Does that life interest you? Harlequins usually come from certain families, but sometimes we accept outsiders.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the Harlequins. I just want to make the Tabula suffer for what they did to Vicki.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Wilson. But I warn you from my own experience: some hungers can never be satisfied.”

  THEY REACHED THE Gare du Nord train station by ten o’clock in the morning and took a taxi to the northeast suburb of Clichy-sous-Bois. The area was dominated by public housing projects-huge gray buildings that loomed over side streets crammed with video stores and butcher shops. The blackened shells of burned-out cars were everywhere, and the only bright colors in the neighborhood came from bedsheets and baby clothes drying on clotheslines. Their French driver locked the doors of the cab as they glided past women in chadors and sullen groups of young men wearing hooded sweatshirts.

  Mother Blessing ordered the driver to let them off at a bus stop, then led Hollis down a cobblestone street to an Arabic bookshop. The storeowner accepted an envelope of cash without saying a word and handed Mother Blessing a key. She went out the back door of the shop and used the key to unlock the padlock holding a steel garage door. Inside the garage was a late-model Mercedes-Benz. Every detail had been handled. There was fuel in the gas tank, water bottles in the cup holders, and a key in the ignition.

  “What about the car’s registration?”

  “It’s owned by a shell corporation with an address in Zurich.”

  “And weapons?”

  “They should be in the back.”

  Mother Blessing opened the trunk and took out a cardboard shippin
g box that contained her Harlequin sword and a black canvas bag. She placed her laptop computer in the bag and Hollis saw that it held bolt cutters, lock picks, and a small canister of liquid nitrogen for disabling infrared motion detectors. Two aluminum suitcases had also been left in the trunk. They contained a Belgian-made submachine gun and two 9mm automatics with holsters.

  “Where did you get this stuff?”

  “Weapons are always available. It’s like a cattle auction in Kerry. You find a seller and haggle over the price.”

  Mother Blessing went to the bathroom and returned wearing black wool pants and a sweater. She opened the equipment bag and took out an electric-powered screwdriver. “I’m going to disable the car’s black box. It’s connected to the air bag.”

  “Why? Isn’t that supposed to record information about accidents?”

  “That was the original intention.” The Harlequin opened the driver’s front door and lay down on the seat. She began to unscrew the plastic panel beneath the car’s steering wheel. “At first, Event Data Recorders were just for accidents, and then car rental companies began to use electronic monitoring to identify drivers who were speeding. These days, all new vehicles have attached the black box to the GPS device. Not only do they know the location of your car, but they can tell if you’re accelerating, using the brakes, or wearing your seat belt.”

  “How did they get away with this?”

  Mother Blessing pried off the panel, exposing the car’s air bag system. “If privacy had a gravestone it might read: ‘Don’t Worry. This Was for Your Own Good.’”

  THEY TURNED ONTO the A2 highway and drove across the French border into Belgium. While Mother Blessing concentrated on the road, Hollis attached a satellite phone to the computer and contacted Jugger in London. Jugger had received another message from some Free Runners in Berlin. Once Hollis and Mother Blessing reached the city, they were supposed to meet these people at an apartment building on Auguststrasse.

  “Did he give us any names?” Mother Blessing asked.

  “Two Free Runners named Tristan and Kröte.”

  Mother Blessing smiled. “Kröte is the German word for toad.”

  “It’s just his nickname. That’s all. I mean-come on-you’re called Mother Blessing.”

  “That wasn’t my choice. I grew up in a family of six children. My uncle was a Harlequin and my family picked me to carry on the tradition. My brothers and sisters became citizens with jobs and families. I learned how to kill people.”

  “Are you angry about that?”

  “Sometimes you talk like a psychologist, Mr. Wilson. Is that an American affectation? If I were you, I wouldn’t waste time worrying about childhood. We’re living in the present, stumbling toward the future.”

  WHEN THEY CROSSED into Germany, Hollis took the steering wheel. He was startled to discover that there was no speed limit on the Autobahn. The Mercedes was going 160 kilometers an hour and other cars raced past them. After hours of driving, signs appeared for Dortmund, Bielefeld, Magdeburg, and finally-Berlin. Hollis took exit seven to Kaiserdamm, and a few minutes later they were cruising down Sophie-Charlotten-Strasse. It was close to midnight. Glass and steel skyscrapers glowed with light, but very few people were out.

  They parked the car on a side street and took their weapons out of the trunk. Both of them concealed a 9mm automatic beneath their clothing. Mother Blessing slid her Harlequin sword into a metal tube with a shoulder strap while Hollis unloaded the submachine gun and placed it in the equipment bag.

  Hollis wondered if he was going to die tonight. He felt empty inside, detached from his own life. Perhaps that was what Mother Blessing had seen in him; he was cold enough to become a Harlequin. It was a chance to defend the future, but Harlequins were always going to be hunted. No friends. No lovers. No wonder Maya’s eyes had shown such loneliness and pain.

  The address on Auguststrasse turned out to be a shabby five-story building. On the ground floor was Ballhaus Mitte, a working-class dance hall now taken over by a restaurant and nightclub. There was a line of young Germans waiting to get inside. They smoked cigarettes and watched as one couple kissed passionately. When the door was opened everyone was hit with a sound wave of harsh electronic music.

  “We’re going to 4B,” Mother Blessing said.

  Hollis checked his watch. “We’re an hour early.”

  “It’s always best to be early. If you don’t know your contact, never show up when you promised.”

  Hollis followed her into the building and up a staircase. Apparently, the wiring was being replaced throughout the building, because the walls were ripped open and plaster dust covered the floor. The music coming from the nightclub began to fade and then it disappeared.

  When they reached the fourth floor, Mother Blessing motioned with the palm of her hand. Be quiet. Get ready. Hollis touched the doorknob for apartment 4B and realized that it wasn’t locked. He glanced over his shoulder. Mother Blessing had drawn her automatic and was holding it close to her chest. When he opened the door, the Harlequin charged into an empty room.

  The apartment was filled with cast-off furniture. There was a couch with no legs, two old mattresses, and some mismatched tables and chairs. Every wall in the apartment was decorated with printed photographs of Free Runners performing cartwheels in the air, backward somersaults, and running cat leaps from one building to another. It looked as if the young men and women in the photographs were free of the laws of gravity.

  “Now what?” Hollis asked.

  “Now we wait.” Mother Blessing slid the gun back into her shoulder holster and sat down on a kitchen chair.

  At exactly one o’clock in the morning, someone climbed down the façade of the Ballhaus. Hollis saw two legs dangling in the air just outside the window, and then the climber’s left foot found an ornamental cornice. He reached the ledge outside, pulled up the window, and jumped into the room. The climber was about seventeen years old. He wore torn jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. His long black hair was braided to resemble dreadlocks, and he had geometric tattoos on the backs of his hands.

  A few seconds later, another pair of legs dangled above the window frame. The second Free Runner was a boy about eleven or twelve years old. He had a mass of curly brown hair that made him look like a feral child raised in the forest. A digital recording device was clipped to his belt, and earphones covered each ear.

  After the boy entered the room, his older friend bowed. There was a certain exaggerated quality in his movements; he was like an actor who was always conscious of his audience.

  “Guten Abend. Welcome to Berlin.”

  “I’m not impressed with your climbing,” Mother Blessing said. “Next time you can use the stairs.”

  “I thought this was a quick way to show-what is the English word-our ‘credentials.’ We are from the Spandau crew of Free Runners. I’m Tristan and this is my cousin, Kröte.”

  The curly-haired boy was bobbing his head up and down to whatever music was in his download file. Suddenly, he noticed that everyone was staring at him. Looking shy, he retreated to the window. Hollis wondered if Kröte was going to return to the ledge and escape.

  “Does he speak English?” Hollis asked.

  “Just a few words.” He turned to his cousin. “Kröte! Speak English!”

  “Multidimensional,” the boy whispered.

  “Sehr gut!” Tristan smiled proudly. “He learned that on the Internet.”

  “And is that how you heard about the Shadow Program?”

  “No. It was from the Free Runner community. Our friend Ingrid was working for a company called Personal Customer. I guess she was good at her job, because a man named Lars Reichhardt asked her to work for his division. Each person on the team was given a small job and told not to share information with their colleagues. Two weeks ago, Ingrid got access to another part of the system and found out about the Shadow Program. Then we got the e-mail from the British Free Runners.”

  “Hollis and I need to get into the c
omputer center,” Mother Blessing said. “Can you help us?”

  “Of course!” Tristan extended his hands as if he were offering them a gift. “We’ll take you all the way.”

  “Do we have to climb up walls?” Mother Blessing asked. “I didn’t bring any ropes.”

  “Ropes are not necessary. We’re going beneath the streets. During World War Two, thousands of bombs fell on Berlin, but Hitler was safe in his bunker. Most of the bunkers and tunnels are still there. Kröte has been exploring the system since he was nine years old.”

  “I guess you guys don’t have time for school,” Hollis said.

  “We go to school-sometimes. The girls are there, and I like to play football.”

  THE FOUR OF them left Ballhaus a few minutes later and crossed the river. Kröte was carrying a nylon backpack that contained his equipment for going underground. Looking like a wild-haired Boy Scout, he kept darting ahead of his cousin.

  After walking down a wide avenue that bordered the Tiergarten, they reached the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe. The Holocaust memorial was a large, sloping grid covered with concrete slabs of different heights. Hollis thought they looked like thousands of gray coffins. Tristan explained that the antigraffiti chemical painted on the slabs was provided by an affiliate of the company that had manufactured the Zyklon-B used in the death chambers.

  “For war, they made poison gas. For peace, they fight taggers.” Tristan shrugged. “It’s all part of the Vast Machine.”

  A row of souvenir shops and cafés was directly across the street from the memorial. The building looked like a flimsy structure created with plywood and a few pieces of glass. Kröte ran past a Dunkin’ Donuts shop and disappeared around the corner of the building. They found the boy unlocking a padlock on a steel hatch cover set flush to the concrete.

  “Where’d you get the key?” Mother Blessing asked.

  “We cut the city lock a year ago and put on a substitute.”

  Kröte opened his knapsack and took out three flashlights. For his own use, he slipped on a headlamp with a high-intensity lightbulb.