When they first got into the car, he discovered that a polished wooden box with little drawers had been placed on the seat. Michael had assumed that the box held top-secret information involving the Brethren, but it actually contained a gold-plated thimble, a pair of silver scissors, and the spectrum of silk thread used for needlework.
Mrs. Brewster slipped on a phone headset and took out a sheet of canvas printed with an image of a rose. She made several calls, speaking in soothing tones to members of the Brethren while her strong fingers thrust the needle through the canvas. Her favorite expression was “brilliant,” but Michael was beginning to understand the different ways she used the word. Some members of the Brethren were worthy of praise. But if she said “brilliant” slowly or sharply or in a bored monotone, someone was going to be punished for failure.
HE HAD LEARNED a great deal about the Brethren during the weekend conference on Dark Island. All its members were eager to establish the Virtual Panopticon, but there were different internal groups based on nationality and personal relationships. Although Kennard Nash was head of the executive board and in charge of the Evergreen Foundation, some members saw him as being too American. Mrs. Brewster was in charge of an organization called the Young World Leaders Program and had become the head of the European faction.
On Dark Island, Michael had given Mrs. Brewster his private evaluation of each member of the executive board. When the conference was over, Mrs. Brewster announced that she wanted Michael to accompany her while she checked on the progress of the Shadow Program. General Nash seemed annoyed by this request and by the fact that Michael had mentioned his father at the meeting. “Go ahead and take him,” Nash told Mrs. Brewster. “Just don’t let him out of your sight.”
The next day, they were in Toronto boarding a private jet to Germany. Traveling with Mrs. Brewster was a quick education in power. Michael began to think that the politicians who made speeches and proposed new laws were only actors in an elaborate play. Although these leaders appeared to be in charge, they had to follow a script written by others. While the media was distracted by the culture of celebrity, the Brethren avoided the spotlight. They owned the theater, counted the tickets, and decided what scenes would be performed for the audience.
“PLEASE FOLLOW UP and inform me of any change,” Mrs. Brewster said to someone in Singapore. She took off her headset, put down her needlework, and pressed a switch in her armrest. A glass divider emerged from the back of the front seat and clicked into place. Now the driver couldn’t hear their conversation.
“Would you like some tea, Michael?”
“Thank you.”
There was a cabinet in front of them, and Mrs. Brewster took out cups and saucers, cream and sugar, and a thermos of hot tea.
“One lump or two?”
“No sugar. Just cream.”
“Now that’s interesting. I thought you had a sweet tooth.” Mrs. Brewster served Michael a cup of tea and then gave herself two lumps of sugar.
The china jiggled slightly when the car went over a bump, but sipping tea gave the backseat an odd atmosphere of domesticity. Although Mrs. Brewster had never had children, she enjoyed acting like a wealthy aunt who might spoil a favorite nephew. Over the last few days, he had watched her charm and flatter men from a dozen different countries. Men talked too much around Mrs. Brewster, and that was one of the sources of her power. Michael was determined not to make that mistake.
“So, Michael—are you enjoying yourself?”
“I guess so. I’ve never been to Europe before.”
“What’s your evaluation of our three friends in Hamburg?”
“Albrecht and Stoltz are on your side. Gunter Hoffman is skeptical.”
“I don’t know how you can assume that. Dr. Hoffman didn’t say more than six words during the entire meeting.”
“The pupils of his eyes contracted slightly whenever you spoke about the Shadow Program. Hoffman is some kind of scientist, right? Maybe he doesn’t understand the political and social implications of the program.”
“Now, Michael. You need to be more charitable toward scientists.” Mrs. Brewster resumed her stitching. “I got my degree in physics at Cambridge and considered science as a career.”
“So what happened?”
“In my final year at university, I began to read about something called chaos theory—the study of erratic behavior in nonlinear dynamic systems. The chattering classes have gotten hold of this term and use it in complete ignorance to justify romantic anarchism. But scientists know that even mathematical chaos is deterministic—in other words, what occurs in the future is caused by a past sequence of events.”
“And you wanted to influence those events?”
Mrs. Brewster looked up from her stitching. “You are a very clever young man. Let’s just say that I realized that nature prefers structure. The world will still have to deal with hurricanes and airplane crashes and other unpredictable disasters. But if we establish our Virtual Panopticon, human society will evolve in the right direction.”
They passed a sign for Berlin and the car seemed to go a little faster. There was no speed limit on this road. “Perhaps you could call Nathan Boone after the meeting at the computer center,” Michael said. “I’d like to know if he’s found out anything about my father.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Brewster wrote a memo to herself on her computer. “And let’s say Mr. Boone is successful and we find your father. What do you intend to say to him?”
“The world is going through a major technological change. The Panopticon is inevitable. He needs to realize that fact and help the Brethren achieve its goals.”
“Brilliant. That’s brilliant.” She looked up from the keyboard. “We don’t need any new ideas from Travelers. We just need to follow the rules.”
BY THE TIME Michael finished his second cup of tea, they were in Berlin, driving down the tree-lined boulevard of Unter den Linden. The few groups of tourists on the street looked overwhelmed by the baroque and neoclassical buildings. Mrs. Brewster pointed out a stack of enormous books with the names of German authors on the spines. The memorial had been set up in Bebelplatz, where the Nazis had emptied the libraries and burned books in the 1930s.
“Many more people live in Tokyo or New York,” she explained. “Berlin always feels like a city too large for its population.”
“I guess a lot of buildings were destroyed during World War Two.”
“Quite right. And the Russians blew up much of what survived. But that unpleasant past has been swept away.”
The Mercedes turned left at the Brandenburg Gate and followed the edge of a park toward Potsdamer Platz. The wall that had once divided the city had vanished, but its presence still lingered in the area. When the wall was torn down, the empty space created a real estate opportunity. The death zone was now a distinct strip of skyscrapers designed in a bland modern style.
A long avenue called Voss Strasse had once been the site of the Reich Chancellery during World War II. Much of the area was fenced off and under construction, but the driver parked in front of a massive five-story building that looked like it came from an earlier era.
“This was originally an office building for the German Reich Railway,” Mrs. Brewster explained. “When the wall came down, the Brethren gained control of the property.”
They got out of the car and approached the computer center. The building’s outer walls were defaced with graffiti, and most of the windows were covered with metal security shields, but Michael could see traces of a grand nineteenth-century facade. There were scrolled cornices and the faces of Greek gods carved above the large bay windows that faced the street. From the outside, the building was like an expensive limousine that had been stripped and dumped down a ravine.
“There are two sections to this building,” Mrs. Brewster explained. “We’re going to be in the public area first, so be discreet.”
She approached a windowless steel door guarded by a surveillance camera. There was
a small plastic sign to one side that announced that the building was the headquarters of a company called Personal Customer.
“Is this a British company?” Michael asked.
“No. It’s quite German.” Mrs. Brewster pushed the door buzzer. “Lars recommended that we give it an English name. It makes the staff think that they’re involved with something modern and international.”
The door clicked and they stepped into a brightly lit reception area. A young woman in her twenties with rings in her ears, lips, and nose looked up at them and smiled. “Welcome to Personal Customer. May I help you?”
“I’m Mrs. Brewster and this is Mr. Corrigan. We’re technical consultants here to see the computer. I do believe Mr. Reichhardt knows we’re coming today.”
“Yes. Of course.” The young woman handed Mrs. Brewster a sealed envelope. “You go to the—”
“I know, dear. I’ve been here before.”
They walked over to an elevator next to a conference room with glass walls. A group of company employees—most of them in their thirties—were sitting around a large table eating lunch and talking.
Mrs. Brewster ripped open the envelope, took out a plastic card, and waved it at the elevator’s sensor. The door glided open, they stepped into the elevator, and she waved the card a second time. “We’re going down to the basement. That’s the only entrance to the tower.”
“Is it okay to ask a question?”
“Yes. We’re out of the public area.”
“What do the employees think they’re doing?”
“Oh, it’s all perfectly legitimate. They’re told that Personal Customer is a cutting-edge marketing firm that is collecting demographic data. Of course, advertising to groups of people has become completely old-fashioned. In the future, all advertising will be directed toward each individual consumer. When you see a billboard in the street, it will sense the RFID chip on your key chain and flash your name. The energetic young people you just saw are busy finding every possible source of data about Berliners and feeding it into the computer.”
The elevator door opened and they stepped into a large basement without interior walls. Michael thought that the massive room looked like a factory without workers. It was filled with machinery and communication equipment. “That’s the backup power generator,” Mrs. Brewster said, pointing to the left. “That’s the air conditioner and filtration system because, apparently, our computer doesn’t favor polluted air.”
A white pathway had been painted on the floor, and they followed it to the other end of the room. Although the machinery was impressive, Michael was still curious about the people he had seen in the conference room. “So the employees don’t know that they’re helping establish the Shadow Program?”
“Of course not. When the time comes, Lars will tell them that their marketing data is going to help defeat terrorism. We’ll pass out bonuses and promotions. I’m sure they’ll be quite pleased.”
The white pathway ended at a second reception desk—this one manned by a burly security guard wearing a coat and tie. The guard had been watching their progress on a small monitor. He looked up when they approached the desk.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Brewster. They are expecting you.”
A door without knobs and handles was directly behind the reception desk, but the guard didn’t buzz it open. Instead Mrs. Brewster approached a small steel box with an opening at one end. It was mounted on a ledge a few feet from the door.
“What’s that?” Michael asked.
“A palm vein scanner. You place your hand inside and a camera takes a photograph with infrared light. The hemoglobin in your blood absorbs the light so your veins appear black in a digital photograph. My pattern is matched against a template stored in the computer.”
She inserted her hand in the slot, a light flashed, and the lock clicked. Mrs. Brewster pushed open the door and Michael followed her into the second wing of the building. He was surprised to see that the interior had been completely gutted, exposing the rafters and the brick walls. Inside this windowless shell was a large glass tower held within a steel frame. The tower contained three stories of interconnected storage devices, mainframe computers, and servers racked up on cabinets. The entire system was accessible by a steel staircase and elevated catwalks.
Two men sat at a control panel in one corner of the room. They were separate from the closed environment of the tower—like acolytes not permitted to enter a chapel. A large flat-screen monitor hung above them, showing four computer-generated figures in a shadow car, rolling down a tree-lined boulevard.
Lars Reichhardt stood up and spoke in a loud voice. “Welcome to Berlin! As you can see, the Shadow Program has been tracking you ever since you arrived in Germany.”
Michael looked up at the screen and saw that yes, the car on the screen was a Mercedes and it contained computer-generated images that resembled himself and Mrs. Brewster as well as the guard and chauffeur.
“Keep watching,” Reichhardt said, “and you’ll see yourself about ten minutes ago, driving down Unter den Linden.”
“It’s all very impressive,” Mrs. Brewster said. “But the executive board would like to know when the system will be completely operational.”
Reichhardt glanced at the technician sitting at the control panel. The young man touched his keyboard and the shadow images instantly disappeared from the screen.
“We’ll be ready to go in ten days.”
“Is that a promise, Herr Reichhardt?”
“You know my dedication to our work,” Reichhardt said pleasantly. “I’ll do everything possible to achieve this goal.”
“The Shadow Program has to work perfectly before we can contact our friends in the German government,” Mrs. Brewster said. “As we discussed on Dark Island, we’re also going to need suggestions for a national advertising campaign similar to what we’ve been doing in Great Britain. The German people need to be convinced that the Shadow Program is necessary for their protection.”
“Of course. We’ve already done some work on that.” Reichhardt turned to his young assistant. “Erik, show them the ad prototype.”
Erik typed some commands and a television ad appeared on the screen. A knight with a black cross on his white surcoat stood guard as cheerful young Germans traveled on a bus, worked in office cubicles, and kicked a soccer ball in a park. “We thought we’d bring back the legend of the Teutonic Order of Knights. Everywhere you go, the Shadow Program will be protecting you from danger.”
Mrs. Brewster didn’t look impressed with the television ad. “I see where you’re going with this, Lars. But perhaps—”
“It doesn’t work,” Michael said. “You’ve got to present an image that’s more emotional.”
“This isn’t about emotions,” Reichhardt said. “It’s about security.”
“Can you create some images?” Michael asked the technician. “Show me a mother and father looking at their two sleeping children.”
Slightly confused about who was in charge, Erik glanced up at his boss. Reichhardt nodded and the young man continued typing. At first only faceless computer figures appeared on the screen, but then they began to morph into recognizable images of a father holding a newspaper and a mother holding his hand. They were standing in a bedroom filled with toys as two little girls slept in matching beds.
“So you start with this picture—an emotional picture—and you say something like ‘Protect the Children.’”
Erik kept typing and the words Beschuetzen Sie die Kinder floated across the screen.
“They’re protecting their children and—”
Mrs. Brewster interrupted. “And we’re protecting them. Yes, it’s all rather warm and comforting. What do you think, Herr Reichhardt?”
The head of the computer center watched the screen as little details appeared. The mother’s kind face filled with love. A night-light and a storybook. One of the sleeping girls hugged her toy lamb.
Reichhardt smiled thinly. “Mr. Corrigan u
nderstands our vision.”
16
T he Prince William of Orange was a cargo ship owned by a group of Chinese investors who lived in Canada, sent their children to British schools, and kept their money in Switzerland. The crew was from Suriname, but all three officers were Dutchmen who had trained with the Netherlands merchant navy.
During the journey from America to England, neither Maya nor Vicki ever found out what was being carried inside the sealed shipping containers packed in the hold. The two women ate their meals with the officers in the ship’s galley and, one night, Vicki had given in to her curiosity.
“So what’s your cargo for this trip?” she asked Captain Vandergau. “Is it something dangerous?”
Vandergau was a big, taciturn man with a blond beard. He lowered his fork and smiled pleasantly. “Ahhh, the cargo,” he said, and considered this question as if it had never been asked before.
The first mate, a younger man with a waxed mustache, was sitting at the end of the table. “Cabbage,” he suggested.
“Yes. That is correct,” Captain Vandergau said. “We carry green cabbage, red cabbage, canned and pickled cabbage. The Prince William of Orange provides cabbage to a hungry world.”
It was an early spring crossing with a raw wind and a drizzling rain. The exterior of the boat was gunmetal gray, almost matching the sky. The sea was a dark green, the waves rising up to slap the bow like an endless series of small confrontations. In this dull environment, Maya found herself thinking too much about Gabriel. Right now Linden was in London, searching for the Traveler, and there was nothing she could do to help him. After several restless nights, Maya found two rusty paint cans that had been filled with concrete. Holding these weights in each hand, she ran through a series of exercises that left her muscles sore and her skin covered with sweat.