Hollis drew the semiautomatic pistol, then pulled back and released the slide mechanism, forcing a round into the firing chamber. He heard an ammunition clip being loaded into a rifle and ran toward the sound. Light came from the open elevator at the end of the room, and he fired at a dark shape standing beside one of the machines.
Another burst of firing. And then silence. Hollis switched on the flashlight and found a dead man lying six feet in front of him. Cautiously, he moved across the basement and almost tripped over another body near the air-conditioning unit. The mercenary’s right arm had been separated from his shoulder.
Hollis swept the flashlight beam across the room and spotted another dead man near the far wall and a fourth body near the elevator. A crumpled figure was a few feet away, and when Hollis ran forward he saw it was Mother Blessing. The Harlequin had been shot in the chest and her sweater was soaked with blood. She still gripped the handle of her sword as if it could save her life.
“He got lucky,” she said. “A random shot.” Mother Blessing’s voice had lost its usual harshness, and it sounded as if she were trying to catch her breath. “It seems right that death comes from randomness.”
“You’re not going to die,” Hollis said. “I’m going to get you out of this place.”
Her head rolled toward him. “Don’t be foolish. Take this.” Mother Blessing extended her hand and forced him to accept the sword. “Make sure you pick the right Harlequin name, Mr. Wilson. My mother chose my name. I’ve always hated it.”
Hollis placed the sword on the ground and reached down to pick her up. With her remaining strength, Mother Blessing pushed him away.
“I was a beautiful child. Everyone said so.” Her speech became slurred as blood trickled from her mouth. “A beautiful little girl…”
40
When she was eighteen, Maya was sent to Nigeria to retrieve the contents of a safe-deposit box kept at a bank in downtown Lagos. A dead British Harlequin named Greenman had left a packet of diamonds there, and Thorn needed the money.
There was a power failure at the Lagos airport, and none of the conveyer belts was working. It started to rain as she was waiting for her luggage. Dirty water poured through holes in the ceiling. After paying bribes to everyone wearing a uniform, Maya entered the airport’s main lobby and was surrounded by a crowd of Nigerians. Taxi drivers fought for her suitcase, screaming and waving their fists. As Maya pushed toward the exit, she felt someone tugging at her purse. An eight-year-old thief was trying to cut the leather strap, and she had to twist a knife out of his hand.
IT WAS A different experience to fly into Bole International Airport in Ethiopia. Maya and Lumbroso arrived about an hour before dawn. The terminal was clean and quiet, and the passport officials kept saying tenastëllën-an Amharic word that meant “May you be given health.”
“Ethiopia is a conservative country,” Simon Lumbroso explained. “Don’t raise your voice and always be polite. Ethiopians usually call one another by their first names. For men, it is respectful to add Ato-which means ‘Mister.’ Because you’re unmarried you’ll be called Weyzerit Maya.”
“How do they treat women in this culture?”
“Women vote, run businesses, and attend the university in Addis. You’re a faranji-a foreigner-so you’re in a special category.” Lumbroso glanced at Maya’s travel clothes and nodded with approval. She was wearing loose linen pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. “You’re dressed modestly, and that’s important. It’s considered vulgar for women to display bare shoulders or knees.”
They passed through customs to the welcome area, where Petros Semo was waiting for them. The Ethiopian was a small, delicate man with dark brown eyes. Lumbroso towered over his old friend. They shook hands for almost a minute as they spoke Hebrew to each other.
“Welcome to my country,” Petros said to Maya. “I’ve hired a Land Rover for our journey to Axum.”
“Did you talk to the church officials?” Lumbroso asked.
“Of course, Ato Simon. All the priests know me quite well.”
“Does this mean that I can see the Ark?” Maya asked.
“I can’t promise that. In Ethiopia we say Egziabher Kale-if God wills it.”
They left the terminal and got into a white Land Rover that still showed the emblem of a Norwegian aid organization. Maya sat up front with Petros while Lumbroso took the backseat. Before leaving Rome, Maya had sent Gabriel’s Japanese sword to Addis Ababa. The weapon was still in its shipping container, and Petros handed the cardboard box to Maya as if it were a bomb.
“Forgive me for asking, Weyzerit Maya. Is this your weapon?”
“It’s a talisman sword forged in thirteenth-century Japan. It’s said that a Traveler can take talisman objects into different realms. I don’t know about the rest of us.”
“I think you are the first Tekelakai to be in Ethiopia for many years. A Tekelakai is the defender of a prophet. We used to have many of these people in Ethiopia, but they were hunted down and killed during our political troubles.”
In order to reach the northern road they had to pass through Addis Ababa-Ethiopia’s largest city. It was early in the morning, but the streets were already clogged with blue-and-white taxi vans, pickup trucks, and yellow public buses covered with dust. Addis had a core of modern hotels and government buildings surrounded by thousands of two-room houses with sheet-metal roofs.
The main streets were like rivers fed by dirt roads and muddy pathways. Along the sidewalk, the Ethiopians had put up brightly painted booths that sold everything from raw meat to pirated Hollywood movies. Most of the men on the street wore Western clothes. They carried an umbrella or a short walking staff called a dula. The women wore sandals, full skirts, and white shawls wrapped tightly around the upper body.
On the edge of the city, the Land Rover had to force its way through herds of goats being driven into the city for slaughter. The goats were only a prelude to more encounters with animals-random chickens, sheep, and slow-moving groups of humpbacked African cows. Whenever the Land Rover slowed down, the children standing beside the road could see that two foreigners were inside the vehicle. Little boys with shaven heads and skinny legs would run beside the vehicle for a mile or more laughing and waving and shouting, “You! You!” in English.
Simon Lumbroso leaned back in his seat and grinned. “I think it’s safe to say that we’ve stepped out of the Vast Machine.”
After passing through low hills covered with eucalyptus trees, they followed a dirt road north though a rocky highland landscape. The seasonal rains had fallen a few months earlier, but the grass was still a yellowish green with patches of white and purple Meskel flowers. About forty miles from the capital they passed a house surrounded by women dressed in white. A high-pitched wailing came through the open doorway, and Petros explained that Death was inside the building. Three villages down the road, Death appeared again: the Land Rover came around a curve and almost hit a funeral procession. Wrapped in shawls, men and women carried a black coffin that appeared to float above them like a boat on a white sea.
The Ethiopian priests in the villages wore cotton togas called shammas, and their heads were covered with large cotton caps that reminded Maya of the fur hats worn in Moscow. A priest holding a black umbrella with gold fringe was standing at the beginning of the zigzag road that led down a gorge to the Blue Nile. Petros stopped and handed the priest some money so that the old man would pray for their safe journey.