“No.”
“Where is your love?”
“I’m searching for him.”
“Is the journey difficult?”
“Yes. Very difficult.”
“I know this. I can feel this. You must cross the dark river.” The singer touched Maya’s ears, lips, and eyelids. “May the saints protect you from what you must hear and taste and see.”
The woman began singing without a microphone as Maya returned to the table. Surprised, the masinko player hurried back to the stage. The song for Maya was different from the praises that had been given earlier in the evening. The words came sad and slow and deep. The bar girls stopped laughing; the drinkers put down their beers. Even the waiters paused in the middle of the room, money still clutched in their hands.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, the song was over, and everything was the same as before. Petros’s eyes glistened with tears, but he turned away so that Maya couldn’t see him. He threw some money on the table and spoke in a harsh voice. “Come on. It’s time to get out of here.” Maya didn’t ask him for a translation. For once in her life, she had been given her own song. That was enough.
IT WAS ALMOST one o’clock in the morning when they returned to the compound and parked in the courtyard. Most of the area was filled with shadows, and they stood under the only light. Wearing his black suit and necktie, Simon Lumbroso looked somber as he stared at the sanctuary. Petros, the smaller man, seemed nervous. He ignored the sanctuary and watched the church.
This time, everything happened much faster. First the young men appeared with their rifles; then the church door opened and the guardian came out, followed by the other priests. Everyone appeared very solemn, and it was impossible to predict the old man’s decision.
The guardian stopped on the pathway and raised his head as Petros approached him. Maya was expecting a special ceremony-some kind of proclamation-but the guardian simply tapped his walking staff on the ground and said a few words in Amharic. Petros bowed and hurried back to the Land Rover.
“The saints have smiled on us. He has decided that you are a Tekelakai. You have permission to enter the sanctuary.”
Maya slung the talisman sword over her shoulder and followed the guardian to the sanctuary. A priest with a kerosene lantern unlocked the outer gate, and they went inside to the fenced-in area. The guardian’s face was a mask without emotion, but it was clear that he felt pain whenever he moved his body. He climbed one step to the front door of the sanctuary, stopped to compose himself, and then took another step forward.
“Only Weyzerit Maya and the Tebaki will go inside the sanctuary,” Petros said. “Everyone else stays here.”
“Thank you for your help, Petros.”
“It was an honor to meet you, Maya. Good luck with your journey.”
Maya was going to offer her hand to Simon Lumbroso, but the Roman stepped forward and embraced her. This was the most difficult moment of all. Some small part of her wanted to stay within that circumference of comfort and safety.
“Thank you, Simon.”
“You’re as brave as your father. I know he’d be proud of you.”
A priest lifted up the red plastic tarp, and the guardian unlocked the door to the sanctuary. The old man placed the key ring inside his robes and accepted the kerosene lantern. He grunted a few words in Amharic and gestured to Maya. Follow me.
The door was opened very slowly until there was a two-foot gap. The guardian and Maya slipped into the building and the door was shut behind them. She found herself in an anteroom about twelve feet square. The only light in the room came from the lantern. It swung back and forth as the guardian shuffled across the concrete floor to a second door. Maya looked around her and saw that the history of the Ark had been painted on the walls. Israelites with the skin color of Ethiopians followed the Ark during the long journey through the Sinai desert. The Ark was carried into battle against the Philistines and stored within Solomon’s temple.
Now the second door was open, and she accompanied the guardian into a much larger room. The Ark had been placed in the middle of the room and was covered with an embroidered cloth. Twelve earthenware pots surrounded it, their lids sealed with wax. Maya remembered Petros explaining that this consecrated water was removed once a year and given to women who were unable to conceive.
The priest kept glancing at Maya as if he expected her to do something violent. He placed the lantern on the floor, walked over to the Ark, and removed the cloth. The Ark was a wooden box completely covered with gold leaf. It stood up to her knees and was about four feet long. There were poles on both sides held by rings, and the gold figures of two cherubim were kneeling on the lid. These angelic beings had the bodies of men and the heads and wings of eagles. Their wings glowed brightly in the lantern light.
Maya approached the Ark and knelt before it. She gripped the two cherubim, removed the lid, and placed it on the embroidered cloth. Be careful, she told herself. No reason to move quickly. Leaning forward, she looked inside the Ark and found nothing but the acacia-wood interior. It’s nothing, she thought. A complete fraud. This wasn’t an access point to another realm-just an old wooden box protected by superstition.
Feeling angry and disappointed, she glanced back at the guardian. He leaned on his walking staff and smiled at her foolishness. Once again, she looked inside the Ark and saw a tiny black spot near the bottom edge. Is that a burn mark? she wondered. An imperfection in the wood? As she watched, the black spot grew larger-to the size of the British penny-and began to float across the surface of the wood.
The spot appeared to be immensely deep, a patch of dark space without limit. When the spot grew to the size of a dinner plate she reached into the Ark and touched the darkness. The tips of her fingers completely disappeared. Startled, she jerked her hand back. Still in this world. Still alive.
When the access point stopped moving, she forgot about the guardian and the other priests, forgot about everything but Gabriel. If she reached forward, could she find him?
Maya steadied herself, and then forced her right arm into the darkness. This time, she felt something-a painful coldness that caused a tingling sensation. She pushed her left arm in and the pain startled her. She suddenly felt as if she were being knocked over by an enormous wave, dragged out to sea by a powerful current. Her body wavered and then surged forward into nothingness. Maya wanted to say Gabriel’s name, but that was impossible. She was in darkness now. And no sound came from her mouth.
41
It was raining hard when Boone reached Chippewa Bay on the Saint Lawrence River. When he stood at the edge of the dock, he could barely see the castle on Dark Island. Boone had been on the island only a few times. Recently, it had been the site of the meeting where Nash had presented the Shadow Program to the executive board. Boone had expected to be in Berlin right now, looking for the criminals who had destroyed the computer center, but the board had insisted that he travel to the island. Although the job was going to be unpleasant, he had to follow orders.
When the two mercenaries finally arrived, Boone told the ferry-boat captain to head across the river. Sitting in the boat cabin, he tried to evaluate the men who were going to help him kill someone. Both mercenaries were recent immigrants from Romania who were somehow related to each other. They had long names with too many vowels, and Boone didn’t think it necessary to learn the correct pronunciation. As far as he was concerned, the smaller Romanian was Able and the larger man was Baker. The two men sat on the left side of the cabin and braced their feet against the floor of the boat. Able was the talkative one, and he babbled nervously in Romanian while Baker nodded every few seconds to show that he was listening.
Waves rose up from the river and splashed against the bow. Raindrops struck the fiberglass roof of the cabin and made a sound that reminded Boone of fingers drumming on a tabletop. The boat’s two windshield wipers clicked back and forth as a sheet of water flowed across the glass. The Canadian boat captain kept adjusting hi
s radio as the pilots of the container ships announced their position along the seaway. “We’re half a mile starboard,” a voice kept saying. “Can you see us? Over…”
Boone touched the front of his parka and felt two hard lumps hidden beneath the waterproof fabric. The vial of CS-toxin was in his left shirt pocket. In his right pocket was the black plastic case that contained the syringe. Boone hated to touch people, especially when they were dying, but the syringe demanded some degree of physical contact.
WHEN THEY REACHED Dark Island, the captain cut power and allowed the ferryboat to drift up against the dock. The head of island security, an ex-police officer named Farrington, came out to greet them. He grabbed the bowline and looped it around a stanchion as Boone stepped out of the boat.
“Where’s the rest of the staff?” Boone asked.
“They’re having lunch in the kitchen.”
“What about Nash and his guests?”
“General Nash, Mr. Corrigan, and Mrs. Brewster are all upstairs in the morning room.”
“Keep the staff in the kitchen for the next twenty minutes. I need to present some important data. We don’t want anyone walking into the room and eavesdropping on the conversation.”
“I understand, sir.”
They hurried through the sloping tunnel that went from the shore to the ground level of the castle. Boone transferred the syringe case and the toxin to his pants pocket while the two mercenaries removed their damp overcoats. Both men wore black suits and neckties, as if they were back in Romania attending a village funeral. The soles of their leather shoes made a scuffling sound on the grand staircase.
The oak door was closed, and Boone hesitated for a few seconds. He could hear the Romanians breathing and scratching themselves. They were probably wondering why he stopped. Boone smoothed down his wet hair, stood up straight, and led them into the morning room.
General Nash, Michael, and Mrs. Brewster sat at one end of a long table. They had finished their bowls of tomato soup and Nash was holding a platter of sandwiches.
“What are you doing here?” Nash asked.
“I received instructions from the executive board.”
“I’m the head of the board and I know nothing about it.”
Mrs. Brewster took the platter from Nash and placed it in the middle of the table. “I called a second teleconference, Kennard.”
Nash looked surprised. “When?”
“Quite early this morning-when you were still asleep. The Brethren weren’t happy with your refusal to resign.”
“And why should I resign? What happened yesterday in Berlin has nothing to do with me. Blame it on the Germans or blame it on Boone-he’s the one in charge of security.”
“You’re the head of the organization, but you won’t accept responsibility,” Michael said. “Don’t forget the attack a few months ago when we lost the quantum computer.”
“What do you mean, we? You’re not a member of the executive board.”
“He is now,” Mrs. Brewster said.
General Nash glared at Boone. “Don’t forget who hired you, Mr. Boone. I’m in charge of this organization and I’m giving you a direct order. I want you to escort these two down to the basement and lock them up. I’ll call a meeting of the Brethren as soon as possible.”
“You’re not listening, Kennard.” Mrs. Brewster sounded like a schoolteacher who had suddenly lost patience with a stubborn pupil. “The board has met this morning and voted. It’s unanimous. As of today, you are no longer executive director. There’s no negotiation about this. Accept your emeritus position and you’ll be given a stipend and perhaps an office somewhere.”
“Do you realize who you’re talking to?” Nash asked. “I can get the president of the United States on the phone. The president-and three prime ministers.”
“And that’s exactly what we don’t want,” Mrs. Brewster said. “This is an internal matter. Not something to discuss with our various allies.”
If Nash had remained seated, Boone might have allowed him to continue talking. Instead the general pushed back his chair as if he were going to run into the library and call the White House. Michael glanced at Boone. It was time to follow orders.
Boone nodded to the mercenaries. The two men grabbed Nash’s arms and pinned them to the table.
“Are you crazy? Let go of me!”
“I want one thing to be clear,” Mrs. Brewster said. “I’ve always considered you to be a friend, Kennard. But remember-all of us answer to a higher goal.”
Boone stepped behind Nash’s chair, opened the plastic case, and took out the syringe. The toxin was in a glass container about the size of a pill vial. He forced the needle through the safety seal and filled the syringe with the clear liquid. Kennard Nash glanced over his shoulder and saw what was about to happen. Shouting obscenities, he struggled to get away. Dishes and silverware fell onto the floor, and a soup bowl cracked in two.
“Calm down,” Boone murmured. “Have a little dignity.” He jabbed the needle into Nash’s neck just above the spine and injected the toxin. Nash collapsed. His head hit the table and spit drooled out of his mouth.
Boone looked up at his new masters. “It only takes two or three seconds. He’s dead.”
“A sudden heart attack,” Mrs. Brewster said. “How very sad. General Kennard Nash was a servant to his nation. Missed by his friends.”
The two Romanians were still holding Nash’s arms as if he might come back to life and jump out the window. “Go back to the boat and wait,” Boone told them. “I’m done with you.”
“Yes, sir.” Able adjusted his black necktie, bowed his head, and he and Baker left the room.
“When will you call the police?” Michael asked.
“In five or ten minutes.”
“And how long will it take them to travel to the island?”
“About two hours. There will be no trace of the toxin by the time they get here.”
“Dump him on the floor and rip open his shirt,” Michael said. “Make it look like we were trying to save him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think I’d like a drop of whiskey,” Mrs. Brewster said. She and Michael stood up and walked over to the side door that led to the library. “Oh, Mr. Boone. One more thing…”
“Ma’am?”
“We need a higher level of efficiency in all our endeavors. General Nash didn’t understand that. I hope you do.”
“I understand,” Boone said, and then he was alone with the dead man. He pulled back the chair, pushed the body to the right, and it fell onto the floor with a thump. Crouching down, Boone ripped open the general’s blue shirt. A pearl button flew through the air.
First he would call the police, and then he would wash his hands. He wanted hot water, strong soap, and paper towels. Boone walked over to the window and looked out over the trees at the Saint Lawrence Seaway. The rainstorm and the low clouds colored the water dark silver. And the waves rose up and collapsed as the river flowed eastward to the sea.
42
Maya passed through darkness so absolute that her body seemed to disappear. Time continued, but she had no point of reference, no way to judge if this moment lasted a few minutes or a few years. She existed only as a spark of consciousness, a succession of thoughts unified by her desire to find Gabriel.
SHE OPENED HER mouth and it was filled with water. Maya had no idea where she was now, but water surrounded her and there didn’t seem to be a way to the surface. Desperately, she flailed her arms and legs, then controlled her panic. As her body screamed for oxygen, she relaxed and let the bubble of air held in her lungs pull her body upward. When she felt certain about the right direction, she kicked hard with her legs and emerged from the top of a wave.
Breathing deeply, she floated on her back and looked up at a yellowish-gray sky. The water around her was black with patches of white foam. It smelled like battery acid, and her skin and eyes began to burn. She was in a river with a current that was pushing her sideways. If
she changed position and bobbed up and down, she could see a riverbank. There were buildings in the distance and points of orange light that looked like flames.
Maya closed her eyes and began to swim toward land. The scabbard strap was slung around her neck and she could feel the sword moving slightly. When she stopped to adjust the strap she realized that the riverbank was even farther away. The current was too strong here. Like an abandoned rowboat, she was spinning around aimlessly.
Looking in the direction of the current, she could see the distant outline of a shattered bridge. Instead of fighting the river, she turned slightly and swam toward the stone arches anchored in the water. Both the current and her own strength propelled her forward until she slammed against the rough gray stone. Maya held on for a minute or so, then swam over to a second arch. The current wasn’t as powerful at this point, and she walked through shallow water to the shore.
Can’t stay here, she thought. Too exposed. She scrambled up the bank of the river into a patch of dead trees. Fallen leaves crunched softly beneath her shoes. Some of the trees had already fallen, but others were leaning against one another like silent survivors.
About a hundred yards from the river, she crouched down and tried to adjust to her new surroundings. This dark forest was not a fantasy or a dream. She could reach out and touch the dry stalk of grass in front of her. She could smell something burning and hear a distant roaring sound. Her body sensed danger, but-no, it was more than that. This was a world dominated by anger and a desire to destroy.
Maya stood up and moved cautiously through the trees. She found a gravel pathway and followed it to a white marble bench and a park fountain filled with fallen leaves. These two objects seemed so out of place in the dead forest that she wondered if they were put there to mock the person who found them. The fountain suggested a genteel European park with old men reading newspapers and nannies pushing perambulators.
The pathway ended at a redbrick building with all the windows smashed and the doors ripped off their hinges. Maya shifted her sword so that she was ready for combat. She walked inside, passed through the empty rooms, and peered out the window. Four men were out on the road that ran past the abandoned park. They wore boots or mismatched shoes and a motley collection of clothes. All of them were armed with homemade weapons-knives, clubs, and spears.
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