The Irish Harlequin removed the gold chain hanging from her neck. It held a black plastic device about the size of a stubby pencil. “Take this, Mr. Wilson. It’s a flash drive. If we’re able to get into the Tabula computer center, it’s your job to attach this to a USB outlet. You don’t even have to touch a keyboard. The drive is programmed to download automatically.”
“What’s stored on this?”
“Ever heard of a banshee? It’s a creature that wails outside a house in Ireland before someone dies. Well, this is the Banshee Virus. It destroys not only all the data on a mainframe computer, but the computer itself.”
“Where’d you get it? From some hacker?”
“The authorities like to blame computer viruses on seventeen-year-old boys, but they know quite well that the most powerful viruses come from government research teams or criminal groups. I bought this particular virus from former IRA soldiers living in London. They specialize in extortion attempts on gambling Web sites.”
Hollis placed the chain around his neck and tucked the flash drive under his shirt next to Vicki’s silver locket. “And what if this virus gets out onto the Internet?”
“That’s highly improbable. It’s designed for a self-contained system.”
“But it could happen?”
“Many unpleasant things can happen in this world. It’s not my problem.”
“Are all Harlequins as self-centered as you?”
Mother Blessing removed her glasses and gave Hollis a hard, critical look. “I’m not self-centered, Mr. Wilson. I concentrate on a few goals and discard everything else.”
“Have you always acted this way?”
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
“I’m just trying to understand why somebody becomes a Harlequin.”
“I suppose I could have quit and run away, but the life suits me. Harlequins have broken free of the petty annoyances of day-to-day life. We don’t worry about dry rot in the basement or this month’s credit card bill. We have no lovers to upset because we don’t come home on time, or friends who feel put out because we don’t return their calls. Aside from our swords, we have no attachment to any object. Even our names aren’t important. As I get older, I have to force myself to remember the current name on my passport.”
“And that makes you happy?”
“‘Happy’ is such an overused word it’s almost lost its meaning. Happiness exists, of course, but it’s a moment that passes. If you accept the idea that most Travelers cause positive change in this world, then a Harlequin’s life has meaning. We defend the right of humanity to grow and evolve.”
“You defend the future?”
“Yes. That’s a good way to put it.” Mother Blessing finished the champagne and placed her glass on the folding table. As she appraised Hollis, he sensed a perceptive mind working behind her harsh persona. “Does that life interest you? Harlequins usually come from certain families, but sometimes we accept outsiders.”
“I don’t give a damn about the Harlequins. I just want to make the Tabula suffer for what they did to Vicki.”
“As you wish, Mr. Wilson. But I warn you from my own experience: some hungers can never be satisfied.”
THEY REACHED THE Gare du Nord train station by ten o’clock in the morning and took a taxi to the northeast suburb of Clichy-sous-Bois. The area was dominated by public housing projects-huge gray buildings that loomed over side streets crammed with video stores and butcher shops. The blackened shells of burned-out cars were everywhere, and the only bright colors in the neighborhood came from bedsheets and baby clothes drying on clotheslines. Their French driver locked the doors of the cab as they glided past women in chadors and sullen groups of young men wearing hooded sweatshirts.
Mother Blessing ordered the driver to let them off at a bus stop, then led Hollis down a cobblestone street to an Arabic bookshop. The storeowner accepted an envelope of cash without saying a word and handed Mother Blessing a key. She went out the back door of the shop and used the key to unlock the padlock holding a steel garage door. Inside the garage was a late-model Mercedes-Benz. Every detail had been handled. There was fuel in the gas tank, water bottles in the cup holders, and a key in the ignition.
“What about the car’s registration?”
“It’s owned by a shell corporation with an address in Zurich.”
“And weapons?”
“They should be in the back.”
Mother Blessing opened the trunk and took out a cardboard shipping box that contained her Harlequin sword and a black canvas bag. She placed her laptop computer in the bag and Hollis saw that it held bolt cutters, lock picks, and a small canister of liquid nitrogen for disabling infrared motion detectors. Two aluminum suitcases had also been left in the trunk. They contained a Belgian-made submachine gun and two 9mm automatics with holsters.
“Where did you get this stuff?”
“Weapons are always available. It’s like a cattle auction in Kerry. You find a seller and haggle over the price.”
Mother Blessing went to the bathroom and returned wearing black wool pants and a sweater. She opened the equipment bag and took out an electric-powered screwdriver. “I’m going to disable the car’s black box. It’s connected to the air bag.”
“Why? Isn’t that supposed to record information about accidents?”
“That was the original intention.” The Harlequin opened the driver’s front door and lay down on the seat. She began to unscrew the plastic panel beneath the car’s steering wheel. “At first, Event Data Recorders were just for accidents, and then car rental companies began to use electronic monitoring to identify drivers who were speeding. These days, all new vehicles have attached the black box to the GPS device. Not only do they know the location of your car, but they can tell if you’re accelerating, using the brakes, or wearing your seat belt.”
“How did they get away with this?”
Mother Blessing pried off the panel, exposing the car’s air bag system. “If privacy had a gravestone it might read: ‘Don’t Worry. This Was for Your Own Good.’”
THEY TURNED ONTO the A2 highway and drove across the French border into Belgium. While Mother Blessing concentrated on the road, Hollis attached a satellite phone to the computer and contacted Jugger in London. Jugger had received another message from some Free Runners in Berlin. Once Hollis and Mother Blessing reached the city, they were supposed to meet these people at an apartment building on Auguststrasse.
“Did he give us any names?” Mother Blessing asked.
“Two Free Runners named Tristan and Kröte.”
Mother Blessing smiled. “Kröte is the German word for toad.”
“It’s just his nickname. That’s all. I mean-come on-you’re called Mother Blessing.”
“That wasn’t my choice. I grew up in a family of six children. My uncle was a Harlequin and my family picked me to carry on the tradition. My brothers and sisters became citizens with jobs and families. I learned how to kill people.”
“Are you angry about that?”
“Sometimes you talk like a psychologist, Mr. Wilson. Is that an American affectation? If I were you, I wouldn’t waste time worrying about childhood. We’re living in the present, stumbling toward the future.”
WHEN THEY CROSSED into Germany, Hollis took the steering wheel. He was startled to discover that there was no speed limit on the Autobahn. The Mercedes was going 160 kilometers an hour and other cars raced past them. After hours of driving, signs appeared for Dortmund, Bielefeld, Magdeburg, and finally-Berlin. Hollis took exit seven to Kaiserdamm, and a few minutes later they were cruising down Sophie-Charlotten-Strasse. It was close to midnight. Glass and steel skyscrapers glowed with light, but very few people were out.