“Richard? Can you hear me?”
No answer.
Hollis remained in the pickup, distracting them from the real danger. Maya found the next Tabula at the second point of the triangle. Kneeling by the community center, he pointed a sniper rifle at the truck. Maya’s footsteps were silent on the hard-packed ground, but he must have sensed her approach. The Tabula turned slightly and her sword blade hit the side of his throat. Blood sprayed from a cut artery as the man collapsed.
“I think he’s getting out of the truck,” the South African said. “Richard? Frankie? Are you there?”
She made the quick, certain choice of a Harlequin in combat and sprinted toward the women’s dormitory. And yes, the third man was standing near the corner of the building. The Tabula was so frightened that he was talking loudly. “Can you hear me? Shoot the man in the truck!”
Emerging from the shadows, she slashed at his right arm. The South African dropped his rifle and she attacked again, cutting the hamstring tendons behind his left knee. He fell forward, screaming with pain.
Almost over. She stood beside the man and gestured with her sword. “Where are the two prisoners? Where did you take them?”
The mercenary tried to get away, but she swung the sword again and cut the hamstrings on his other leg. Now he was flat on his belly, crawling like an animal, his fingers digging into the soft dirt.
“Where are they?”
“They took them to Van Nuys Airport. Loaded them on a…” He groaned and his body jerked forward. “Private jet.”
“What’s the destination?”
“Westchester County, near New York City. The Evergreen Foundation Research Center.” The man rolled onto his back and raised his hands. “Swear to God, I’m telling you the truth. It’s the Evergreen…”
Her blade flashed through the shadows.
54
The beams from the truck’s headlights skittered across the road as Hollis drove down the hill from the church camp.
Maya leaned against the door with the Harlequin sword on her lap. She had been either fighting or running ever since she had arrived in America, and now she had failed completely. At this moment, Gabriel and Vicki were being transported to the East Coast in a private jet. And the Tabula had control of both Travelers.
“We need to attack the Evergreen Foundation Research Center,” she said. “There are only two of us, but I don’t see any other option. Drive to the airport and we’ll catch a plane to New York.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Hollis said. “I don’t have a fake ID and it’s going to be difficult to transport our weapons. You’re the one who told me all about the Vast Machine. The Tabula have probably entered every police data system in the United States and placed our photographs in a ‘fugitive’ category.”
“Could we go on a train?”
“America doesn’t have a high-speed rail system like Europe or Japan. Traveling that way could take four or five days.”
Maya spoke loudly, showing her anger. “So what are we supposed to do, Hollis? We have to respond immediately.”
“We’ll drive cross-country. I’ve done it before. It takes about seventy-two hours.”
“That’s too much time.”
“Let’s say a magic carpet took us straight to the research center. We’d still have to figure out the best way to get inside.” He smiled at Maya, trying to look optimistic. “All you need to get across America is caffeine, gasoline, and some good music. While we’re on the road, you’ve got three days to come up with a plan.”
Maya stared unblinking out the windshield, then nodded slightly. It bothered her that emotions might be influencing her choices. Hollis was right; he was thinking like a Harlequin.
Cardboard shoe boxes filled with music CDs were on the seat between them. The truck had a pair of large speakers and two CD players stacked on top of each other. As they turned onto the freeway, Hollis loaded a CD and punched the play button. Maya was expecting house music with a thumping beat, but suddenly she heard the Gypsy guitarist Django Reinhardt playing “Sweet Georgia Brown.”
Hollis found hidden connections between jazz, rap, classical, and world music. As they cruised down the freeway, he kept his left hand on the steering wheel while his right hand flicked through the CDs in the shoe boxes. He began a continuous soundtrack for their journey, merging one song into another so that a Charlie Parker saxophone solo flowed into Russian monks chanting which led to Maria Callas singing an aria from Madame Butterfly.
The Western deserts and mountains seemed to glide past them like a beautiful dream of openness and freedom. Reality was not part of the American landscape; it was only found in the massive tractor-trailer trucks that raced down the highway carrying gasoline, plywood, and a hundred frightened pigs sticking their snouts through the gaps of a cargo container.
While Hollis did most of the driving, Maya sat in the passenger seat and used her satellite phone and laptop computer to access the Internet. She found Linden in a chat room and explained in soft language where she was going. The French Harlequin had contacts with the new tribes forming in America, Europe, and Asia-mostly young people opposed to the Vast Machine. One of these groups met on a renegade Web site called the Stuttgart Social Club. Although none of these hackers actually lived in Stuttgart, the club shielded their identities and gave them instant communication. Linden told them that there was an urgent need to find out everything about the Evergreen Foundation Research Center in Purchase, New York.
At first the Stuttgart Social Club sent Maya downloaded newspaper articles about the Evergreen Foundation. Several hours later, club members began to break into corporate and government data systems. A Spanish hacker named Hercules entered the computer of the architectural firm that had designed the research center and electronic blueprints started to appear on Maya’s computer screen.
“It’s a big compound in a suburban environment,” Maya said, scrolling through the information. “There are four large buildings constructed around a central quadrangle. A windowless building is at the center.”
“What’s the security situation?” Hollis asked.
“It’s like a modern castle. There’s a ten-foot wall. Surveillance cameras.”
“We have one advantage. I bet the Tabula are so proud and confident that they won’t expect an attack. Is there a way to get in without tripping all the alarms?”
“The building that was designed for genetic research has four levels beneath the ground floor. There are water pipes, electric cables, and air-conditioning ducts that follow some underground tunnels. One of the maintenance points for the ventilation system is about two meters outside the wall.”
“Sounds promising.”
“We’re going to need tools to break in.”
Hollis slipped in a new CD and the door speakers blasted out dance music by a group called Funkadelic. “No problem!” he shouted and the music pushed them forward across the immense landscape.
55
It was almost midnight when Gabriel’s body was brought into the research center. A security guard knocked on the door of Dr. Richardson’s room in the administration center and told him to get dressed. The neurologist slipped a stethoscope into his coat pocket, then was escorted outside to the central quadrangle. It was a cold autumn evening, but the sky was clear. The Tomb was lit from the inside and it seemed to float like a massive cube in the darkness.
Dr. Richardson and his guard met a private ambulance and a black passenger van at the entrance gate and walked behind the convoy like mourners following a funeral cortege. When the vehicles reached the genetic research building, two foundation employees got out of the van along with an African American woman. The younger employee said his name was Dennis Prichett. He was in charge of the transfer and was determined not to make any mistakes. The older man had spiky hair and a slack, dissipated face. Prichett kept calling him “Shepherd”-as if that was his only name. A black metal tube dangled from Shepherd’s left shoulder and he carried a Japanese sword in a scabbard.