The GoldenCity

Winston dropped them off on the south corner of Russell Square near the British Museum. Maya was familiar with the area, and she led Gabriel across the square, passing through the plaza that surrounded a central fountain. The Hotel Russell was directly in front of them, its copper-roof turrets and red brick chimneys rising over the tops of the beech trees. Passing an outdoor café, they reached the north corner of the square and crossed the street. Students with backpacks and book satchels formed chattering groups outside the hotel and the Russell Square tube station. Maya touched the outline of the hidden shotgun as they continued down Bernard Street toward Coram’s Fields.

The fields had once been the site of a foundling hospital where mothers left their babies in a large basket near the front gate. There was always a coin or a locket tied to the children’s wrists or braided into their hair-a final gesture of hope that mother and child would find each other again. The hospital was torn down in the 1920s, and now a massive playground was built on the bones of those children who had died there.

When they reached Brunswick Square, Maya looked down the street and saw the small white buildings used by the petting zoo and the children’s nursery. There was only one entrance to the Fields, and a black spike fence guarded the area like a row of spears. Peering through the gaps in the fence, Maya saw three little girls blowing soap bubbles and then chasing them around a playground.

“This is Coram’s Fields,” she told Gabriel. “My mother used to bring me here.”

“You want to stop for awhile? We have plenty of time.”

“There’s a rule here. Adults are only allowed through the gate if accompanied by a child. If you leave the Fields-and grow up-you can’t get back inside.”

Continuing down Guildford Street, Maya and Gabriel reached Mecklenburgh Square. The Nighthawk supposedly lived in the graduate student dormitory on the north side of the square. They passed through a glass door to a lobby that looked like it hadn‘t changed in fifty years. Foreign students sat around a scratched coffee table covered with newspapers while a clerk sorted through the mail and placed letters into numbered cubbies.

A sign said they were supposed to announce themselves at the desk, but no one stopped them. Gabriel grinned at her and pretended to be a student. “So how did you do on the German Lit. exam?”

“Just keep moving,” she whispered, and they wandered down a hallway past a laundry room and a communal kitchen. Maya smelled popcorn and heard a Beethoven symphony blasting through the walls. Room 108 was at the end of the hallway, and the brass door bracket held a smudged card with the name Eric Vinsky.

If this was a trap, then Tabula mercs would be waiting inside. Maya lowered the tennis bag so that the sawed-off shotgun was pointing forward. She motioned for Gabriel to step back and tried the door knob. It was unlocked. She centered herself, preparing for battle, then pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

The ceiling light was switched off and the curtains were taped shut. Light came from the bathroom and from three computer monitors glowing with different images: a conversation in a chat room, luminous lines of programming code, and a silent, dancing ballerina. Instead of someone with a gun, they found a man sitting in an electric-powered wheelchair. His hand left the computer keyboard, touched a control lever in the chair’s arm rest, and it swiveled around toward the open door.

They were looking at a young man with a severe muscular disease. He had a slack face and drooping eyelids, and his long tangled hair touched his shoulders. His entire body was a contorted S-curve-the legs going one way, the stomach and chest going another way, while the head struggled to stay in one position.

“Do I know you?” he asked. Every word was an effort.

Gabriel was right behind her and he closed the door to the hallway. “Are you the Nighthawk?” he asked.

“Nighthawks?” The young man tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace. “You mean the birds? They’re members of nightjar family in the subfamily… let me think… chordeilinae.”

“Our friend Sebastian told us to come here and talk to someone called the Nighthawk.”

“I see. You’re from the so-called ‘Resistance.’ Well, I’m not impressed.”

“We need to set up a safe way to communicate through the Internet. Without that, it’s impossible to create a world-wide movement.”

“Can you help us?” Maya asked.

The young man shifted the chair back and forth as if he was fidgeting. “Sebastian gave you the right information. You have the privilege of meeting the legendary Nighthawk, the Demon of the Internet.”

“Right now, our enemies can read our coded messages,” Gabriel explained. “They’ve got a working version of a quantum computer.”