“Where are we going?” Maya asked.
“Up the canal to Camden Town.” The bearded man had a strong East London accent.
“Shall we stay in the cabin?”
“If you want to stay warm. No reason to worry about the cameras. No cameras where we’re goin’.”
Vicki retreated to the little cabin, where a coal fire was burning in a cast-iron stove. Alice went in and out of the cabin, inspecting the galley, the sunroof, and the walnut paneling.
Maya sat next to the tiller as Mackintosh turned the boat around and headed up the Thames. A rainstorm had surged through the city’s drainage system, and the water had turned dark green. The dense fog made it difficult to see more than ten feet in any direction, but the bearded man was able to navigate without visible landmarks. They passed a clanging buoy in the middle of the river and Mackintosh nodded his head. “That one sounds like an old church bell on a cold day.”
Fog drifted around them, and the damp coldness made her shiver. The splashing waves disappeared, and they passed a dock with yachts and other pleasure boats. Maya heard a car horn in the distance.
“We’re in Limehouse Basin,” Mackintosh explained. “They used to bring everything here and dump it on barges. Ice and timber. Coal from Northumberland. This was the mouth of London, swallowing everything up so the canals could take it to the rest of the body.”
The fog parted slightly as the narrow boat entered the concrete channel that led to the first canal lock. Mackintosh climbed a ladder to shore, closed a pair of wooden gates behind the boat, then pushed a white lever. Water surged into the lock and the boat rose up from the level of the basin to the canal.
Weeds and scrubland were on the left side of the canal; a flagstone pathway and a brick building with barred windows were on the right. It felt as if they had entered the London of an earlier time, a place with carriages and chimney soot that lingered in the air. Passing beneath a railway bridge, they continued up the canal. The water was shallow, and a few times the bottom of the boat scraped across sand and gravel. They had to stop every twenty minutes to enter a lock and rise up to the next level. Waterweeds brushed against the bow of the slowly moving boat.
Around six o’clock, they passed through the last canal and approached Camden Town. This once run-down neighborhood had become a site for small restaurants, art galleries, and a weekend street fair. Mackintosh pulled over to one side of the canal and unloaded the canvas shoulder bags that contained the women’s belongings. Vicki had bought clothes for Alice back in New York, and everything was stuffed into a pink knapsack that had a unicorn on the back.
“Go up to the road and look for an African bloke named Winston,” Mackintosh said. “He’ll take you where you want to go.”
Maya led Vicki and Alice up the pathway to the road that cut through Camden. A Harlequin lute was scrawled on the sidewalk, and it had a small arrow pointing north.
They walked about a hundred yards on the sidewalk to a white van with an interlocking diamond pattern painted on the side. A young Nigerian with a round, chubby face got out and opened the side door of the van. “Good evening, madams. I am Winston Abosa, your guide and driver. I am most pleased to welcome you to Britain.”
They got into the back and sat on steel benches welded to the walls. A metal grate separated this cargo area from the two front seats. Winston made several turns down the narrow streets of Camden. The van stopped, and suddenly the side door was yanked open. A big man with a shaven head and blunt nose peered in.
Linden.
THE FRENCH HARLEQUIN wore a long black overcoat and dark clothing. A carrying case for his sword hung from his shoulder. Linden had always reminded Maya of a foreign legionnaire who had no allegiance to anything except his comrades and fighting.
“Bonsoir, Maya. You’re still alive.” He smiled as if her continued survival were a subtle joke. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Did you find Gabriel?”
“Nothing so far. But I don’t believe the Tabula have found him either.” Linden sat on a bench nearest the driver and slipped a piece of paper through the grate. “Good evening, Mr. Abosa. Please take us to this address.”
Winston pulled back onto the street and headed north through London. Linden placed his broad hands on his legs and studied the other passengers.
“I assume you are Mademoiselle Fraser.”
“Yes.” Vicki looked intimidated.
Linden glanced at Alice Chen as if she were a plastic bag of trash retrieved from the narrow boat. “And this is the child from New Harmony?”
“Where are we going?” Maya asked.
“As your father used to tell me: ‘Solve the first problem first.’ These days, there are very few orphanages, but one of our Sikh friends found a foster home in Clapton where a woman takes in children.”
“Will Alice be given a new identity?” Maya asked.
“I’ve obtained a birth certificate and passport. She’s been renamed Jessica Moi. Parents killed in a plane crash.”
Winston drove slowly through the rush-hour traffic, and forty minutes later he pulled over to the curb. “Here we are, sir,” he said softly.
Linden opened the side door and everyone got out. They were in Clapton near Hackney in North London. The residential street was lined with two-story brick terrace houses that had probably been built in the early 1900s. For years the neighborhood had presented a respectable face to the world, but now it was tired of keeping up appearances. Pools of dirty rainwater filled potholes in the street and pavement. The patches of ground in front of each building were overgrown with weeds and cluttered with plastic bins stuffed with garbage. A wanted poster for a lost dog was stapled to a tree, and the rain had made each letter bleed wavery black lines.
Linden glanced up and down the street. No obvious danger. He jerked his head at Vicki. “Take the girl’s hand.”
“Her name is Alice.” Vicki had a stubborn look on her face. “You should say her name, Mr.-Mr. Linden.”
“Her name is not important, mademoiselle. In five minutes she will have a new one.”
Vicki took Alice’s hand. The girl’s eyes were frightened, questioning. What’s going on? Why are you doing this to me?
Maya turned away from her. The little group walked down the sidewalk to number seventeen, and Linden knocked on the door.
Rain had trickled down the side of the house and swollen the door frame. Now the door was stuck, and they could hear a woman cursing as the knob moved back and forth. Finally the door popped open, and Maya saw a sixtyish woman standing in the hallway. She had stocky legs and broad shoulders, dyed blond hair with gray roots. Not foolish, Maya thought. A false smile on a shrewd face.
“Welcome, ducks. I’m Janice Stillwell.” She focused on Linden. “And you must be Mr. Carr. We’ve been waiting for you. Our friend Mr. Singh told me you were looking for a foster home.”
“That’s correct.” Linden stared at her like a detective who had just encountered a new suspect. “May we come in?”
“Of course. Where are my manners? It’s been a drab little day, hasn’t it? Time for a cup of tea.”
The house smelled like cigarette smoke and urine. A skinny little red-haired boy wearing nothing but a man’s T-shirt sat halfway up the staircase in front of them. He retreated to the second floor as they followed Mrs. Stillwell into a front room with a window that faced the street. On one side of the room was a large television set playing a cartoon about robots. The sound was off, but a Pakistani boy and a small black girl sat on the couch, staring at the garish images.
“Some of the children,” Mrs. Stillwell explained. “Right now, we’re taking care of six. Yours would be lucky number seven. We got Gloria here from the court system. Ahmed is a private arrangement.” Looking annoyed, she clapped her hands. “That’s enough, you two. Can’t you see we’ve got guests?”