John Hawks - The Traveler

“Shepherd has my weapons and identification. You’re supposed to go to 489 Southwest-whatever that means.”

“It’s a code. He told me to be careful talking on the cell phone.”

Vicki got a Los Angeles phone book from the backseat and turned to page 489. In the lower left corner-the southwest section of the page-she found an ad for a business called Resurrection Auto Parts. The address was in Marina del Rey, a few miles from the ocean. They left the parking lot and drove west on Washington Boulevard. Maya stared out the window as if she were trying to find landmarks that she could remember.

“Where’s the center of Los Angeles?”

“Downtown, I guess. But not really. There’s no center here, just little communities.”

The Harlequin reached beneath the sleeve of her sweater and adjusted one of her knives. “Sometimes my father would recite a poem by Yeats when we were walking around London.” She hesitated, then spoke softly: “ Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart, the centre cannot hold…”

They drove past shopping malls and gas stations and residential areas. Some of the neighborhoods were poor and shabby with little Spanish-style houses or ranch houses that had flat roofs covered with gravel. In front of each house was a strip of Bermuda grass and a tree or two, usually a palm or a Chinese elm.

Resurrection Auto Parts was on a narrow side street between a T-shirt factory and a tanning salon. On the front of the windowless building someone had painted a cartoon version of God’s hand from the Sistine Chapel. Instead of giving life to Adam, the hand was hovering over a muffler.

Vicki parked across the street. “I can wait for you here. I don’t mind.”

“That’s not necessary.”

They got out of the car and unloaded the luggage. Vicki expected Maya to say “goodbye” or “thank you very much,” but the Harlequin was already focused on this new environment. She glanced up and down the street, evaluating each driveway and parked car, then picked up her bag, camera, and tripod and began to walk away.

“Is that all?”

Maya stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“We’re not going to see each other again?”

“Of course not. You’ve done your job, Vicki. It’s best if you never mention this to anyone.”

Carrying all the luggage with her left hand, Maya crossed the street to Resurrection Auto Parts. Vicki tried not to feel insulted, but angry thoughts pushed through her mind. When she was a little girl, she had heard stories about the Harlequins, about how they were brave defenders of the righteous. Now she had met two Harlequins: Shepherd was an ordinary person, and this young woman, Maya, was selfish and rude.

It was time to go home and prepare dinner for Mother. The Divine Church had prayer service tonight at seven o’clock. Vicki got back in her car and returned to Washington Boulevard. When she stopped at a red light, she thought about Maya walking across the street with the luggage in her left hand. That kept the right hand free. Yes, that was it. Free to draw the sword and kill someone.

Maya avoided the front door of Resurrection Auto Parts. She entered the parking lot and began to circle the building. There was an unmarked emergency door near the back with a diamond Harlequin mark scrawled on the rusty metal. She pulled the door open and entered the building. Smell of oil and cleaning solvent. Sound of distant voices. She was in a room filled with racks of used carburetors and exhaust pipes. Everything was stacked and sorted by make and model. Pulling her sword out a little farther, she moved toward the light. A door was open a few inches, and when she peered through the crack she saw Shepherd and two other men standing around a small table.

They looked surprised when Maya came through the door. Shepherd reached beneath his jacket for a gun, then recognized her and grinned. “There she is! All grown up and very attractive. This is the famous Maya I’ve been telling you about.”

She had seen Shepherd six years ago, when he visited her father in London. The American had a plan to make millions of dollars from pirated Hollywood movies, but Thorn refused to finance the operation. Although Shepherd was in his late forties, he looked a good deal younger. His blond hair was cut in a spiky style and he wore a gray silk shirt and a tailored sports jacket. Like Maya, he carried his sword in a case slung over his shoulder.

The other two men looked like brothers. They were both in their twenties with bad teeth and bleached blond hair. The older one had smudged prison tattoos on his arms. Maya decided that they were taints-Harlequin slang for low-class mercenaries-and she decided to ignore them.

“What’s going on?” she asked Shepherd. “Who’s been following you?”

“That’s a conversation for later,” Shepherd said. “Right now I want you to meet Bobby Jay and Tate. I’ve got your money and identification. But Bobby Jay is providing the weapons.”

Tate, the younger brother, was staring at her. He wore warm-up pants and an extra-large football jersey that probably concealed a handgun. “She’s got a sword like yours,” he said to Shepherd.

Shepherd smiled indulgently. “It’s a useless thing to carry around, but it’s kind of like being in a club.”

“What’s your sword worth?” Bobby Jay asked Maya. “You want to sell it?”

Annoyed, she turned to Shepherd. “Where did you find these taints?”

“Relax. Bobby Jay buys and sells weapons of all kinds. He’s always looking for a deal. Pick out your gear. I’ll pay for it and they’ll go.”

A steel suitcase was on the table. Shepherd opened it and displayed five handguns lying on a foam pad. As Maya stepped closer, she saw that one of the weapons was made of black plastic with a cartridge mounted at the top of the frame.

Shepherd picked up the plastic weapon. “Ever seen one of these? It’s a Taser that delivers an electric shock. You’d carry a real gun, of course, but this would give you the choice of not killing the other person.”

“Not interested,” Maya said.

“I’m serious about this. Swear to god. I carry a Taser. If you shoot someone with a gun, the police are going to get involved. This gives you more options.”

“The only option is to attack or not attack.”

“All right. Fine. Have it your way…”

Shepherd grinned and pulled the trigger. Before she could react, two darts attached to wires flew out of the barrel and hit her in the chest. A massive electric jolt knocked her to the floor. As she struggled to stand up she was hit with another shock and then another that brought darkness.

General Nash called Lawrence on Saturday morning and said that Nathan Boone was going to have a teleconference with the Brethren’s executive committee at four o’clock that afternoon. Lawrence drove immediately from his town house to the research center in Westchester County and gave an entry list to the guard at the front gate. He dropped by his own office to check e-mails, and then went up to the third floor to prepare for the meeting.

Nash had already typed in the command allowing Lawrence to enter the conference room. When Lawrence approached the door, his Protective Link was detected by a scanner and the lock clicked open. The conference room contained a mahogany wood table, brown leather chairs, and a wall-sized television screen. Two video cameras photographed different angles of the room so that the Brethren living overseas could watch the discussion.

Alcohol was never allowed at committee meetings, so Lawrence placed bottled water and drinking glasses on the table. His primary job was to make sure that the closed-circuit television system was working. Using the control panel placed in one corner, he connected with a video camera set up at a rented office suite in Los Angeles. The camera showed a desk and an empty chair. Boone would sit there when the meeting started and give a report about the Corrigan brothers. Within twenty minutes, four small squares appeared at the bottom of the television screen, and the control panel indicated that Brethren living in London, Tokyo, Moscow, and Dubai would be joining the discussion.