The Dark River

22

The Evergreen Foundation occupied an entire office building at Fifty-fourth Street and Madison Avenue in Manhattan. Most of the employees thought they worked for a nonprofit organization that gave out research grants and managed the endowment. Only a small staff of workers with offices on the top eight floors handled the Brethren’s less public activities.

Nathan Boone passed through the revolving door and entered the atrium lobby. He glanced at the decorative waterfall and the small grove of artificial spruce trees placed near the windows. The architects had insisted on living evergreens, but each new transplant withered and died, leaving an unsightly carpet of brown needles. The eventual solution was a grove of manufactured trees with an elaborate air system that gave off a faint pine scent. Everyone preferred the imitation evergreens: they seemed more real than something that grew in the forest.

Boone approached the security desk, stood in a small yellow square, and allowed the guard to scan his eyes. Once Boone’s identity had been verified, the guard checked a computer screen. “Good afternoon, Mr. Boone. You’re authorized to go to the eighteenth floor.”

“Any other information?”

“No, sir. That’s all it says. Mr. Raymond here will escort you to the correct elevator.”

Boone followed a second guard to the last elevator in the hallway. The man passed an ID card in front of a sensor and then stepped out just before the doors closed. As the elevator began to rise, a video camera inside the elevator scanned Boone’s face and confirmed it with the biometric information in the Evergreen Foundation’s computer.

That morning, Boone had received an e-mail that asked him to meet with members of the Brethren’s executive board. This was highly unusual. In the past few years, Boone had met the board only when Nash was in charge of the meeting. As far as he knew, the general was still on Dark Island in the Saint Lawrence River.

The elevator doors opened and Boone stepped into an empty waiting room. No one was in the receptionist’s chair, but there was a small speaker on the desk.

“Hello, Mr. Boone.” The voice that came from the speaker was computer generated, but it sounded like a real person-a young woman who was bright and efficient.

“Hello.”

“Please wait here in the room. We’ll let you know when the meeting begins.”

Boone sat on a suede couch near a glass coffee table. He had never visited the eighteenth floor, and he had no idea what sort of equipment was evaluating his reactions. A highly sensitive microphone could be listening to his heartbeat while an infrared camera might be monitoring changes in his skin temperature-people who were angry or scared had flushed skin and a faster heart rate. The computer could analyze this data and predict the likelihood of a violent reaction.

There was a faint clicking sound and then a drawer in the receptionist’s desk glided open. “Our sensors have informed us that you are carrying a handgun,” said the computer voice. “Please place it in the drawer. It will be returned at the end of the meeting.”

Boone walked over to the desk and stared at the open drawer. Although he had worked for the Brethren for almost eight years, he had never been asked to surrender his weapon. He had always been a reliable and obedient employee. Had they started to doubt his loyalty?

“This is our second request,” the voice said. “A failure to comply will be considered a violation of security.”

“I’m in charge of security,” Boone announced, then realized that he was talking to a computer. He waited for a few seconds, just to assert his independence, and removed the handgun from his shoulder holster. When he placed it in the desk drawer, three lines of light surrounded the weapon in a precise triangle. The drawer glided shut, and Boone returned to the couch. Boone didn’t mind being scanned by a machine, but it annoyed him to be treated like a criminal. Obviously, the program hadn’t been calibrated to show different levels of respect.

He stared at the large painting on the wall in front of him. It was a pastel blotch with legs that resembled a squashed spider. Three doors, each painted a different color, were at the end of the room. There was no way out except for the elevator, and the computer also controlled that system.

“The meeting is about to begin,” the voice said. “Please go through the blue door and walk to the end of the corridor.”

Boone stood up slowly and tried not to show his irritation. “And you have a nice day,” he said to the machine.

The blue door moved smoothly into the wall the moment the sensors detected his body. He walked down a hallway to a stainless-steel door without a visible lock or handle. When this door slid open, he entered a conference room with massive windows that gave a view of the Manhattan skyline. Two members of the Brethren’s executive board sat behind a long black table-Dr. Anders Jensen and Mrs. Brewster, the British woman who was pushing for the new Shadow Program in Berlin.

“Good afternoon, Nathan.” Mrs. Brewster acted as if he were some kind of servant who had just dropped by her flat in South Kensington. “I assume you know Dr. Jensen from Denmark.”

Boone nodded to Jensen. “We met last year in Europe.”

A third person was standing in front of the windows, surveying the city. Michael Corrigan. A few months ago, Boone had captured Michael in Los Angeles and transported him to the East Coast. He had seen the young man scared and confused, but now a transformation had taken place. The Traveler seemed to radiate confidence and authority.

“I’m the one who asked for this meeting,” Michael said. “Thank you for joining us at such short notice.”

“Michael has become part of our effort,” Mrs. Brewster said. “He completely understands our new objectives.”

But he’s a Traveler, Boone thought. We’ve been killing people like him for thousands of years. He wanted to grab Mrs. Brewster and shake her as if she had just started a fire in her own house. Why are you doing this? Can’t you see the danger?

“And what are our new objectives?” Boone asked. “The Brethren have done everything possible to establish the Panopticon. Has that goal changed in the last few weeks?”

“The goal is the same, but now it’s becoming possible,” Michael said. “If the Shadow Program works in Berlin, we can expand it throughout Europe and North America.”

“That involves the computer center,” Boone said. “My job is to protect the Brethren from attacks by its enemies.”

“And you haven’t done a very good job of that,” Dr. Jensen said. “Our Westchester research center was infiltrated and nearly destroyed, the completion of the quantum computer has been delayed, and last night Hollis Wilson assaulted several of your men at a Manhattan dance club.”

“We expect to have some attrition of our contract employees,” Mrs. Brewster said. “What bothers us is that Hollis Wilson escaped.”

“I need a larger staff.”

“Gabriel and his friends are not the immediate problem,” Michael said. “You need to concentrate on finding my father.”

Boone hesitated, and then spoke carefully. “These days I’m receiving different instructions from different sources.”

“My brother has never been capable of organizing anything. He was just a motorcycle messenger in Los Angeles when your men tracked us down. My father has spent his life as a Traveler, and we know he’s inspired alternative communities. Matthew Corrigan is dangerous and that’s why he’s the objective. You have your orders, Mr. Boone.”

Mrs. Brewster nodded slightly, giving her assent. Boone felt as if the massive window had just shattered and there were shards of glass everywhere. A Traveler, one of their enemies, was speaking for the Brethren.

“If that’s what you want…”

Michael walked slowly across the room. He was staring at Boone as if he had just heard every disloyal thought. “Yes, Mr. Boone. I’m in charge of finding my father, and that’s what I want.”