The GoldenCity

Squires raised his hands like someone trying to stop a runaway shopping cart. “Ryan doesn’t mean to offend, Mr. Boone. He’s just the curious type.”

“What if your neighbor owned a vicious dog?” Boone asked. “And what if he let his dog wander freely around the neighborhood? Don’t you think that would be irresponsible?”

“You bet it would,” Horsley said. “I’d take a shovel and kill the brute.”

“We don’t want to kill Mr. Doyle. But we want to show him that negative actions have negative consequences.”

“I get the picture,” Squire said and turned to his younger friend. “This is just like what they taught us back in church school. We want this bastard to feel the wrath of a righteous god.”

Boone’s handheld computer began to beep, so he walked around the tree and leaned against the trunk. His staff in London had sent him an urgent message: HSC Columba. Images attached.

Three months earlier, Boone and Michael had left Skillig Columba with Matthew Corrigan’s body. Before the helicopter returned to the mainland, Boone sent one of his men down to the island’s dock to install a HSC-a hidden surveillance camera. The device was battery-powered and had a solar chip for recharging. It would only send images if a motion detector triggered the shutter.

A red flower petal landed on Boone’s shoulder. He glanced up at the branch above him, and two little girls giggled at his reaction. The tree was filled with children, and more children were squatting on the dirt in front of him. Boone tried to ignore them as he studied the eighteen images attached to the email. In the first few photographs, an old man arrived on the island in a fishing boat and began unloading supply containers. In the sixth photo, a group of nuns was standing on the dock. It must have been windy that day; their cloaks and veils were flapping wildly. The nuns looked like giant black birds about to fly off into the clouds.

In the fourteenth image, a new person appeared in the camera frame: an Asian girl wearing jeans and a quilt jacket. Boone placed a grid over the girl’s face and made the image larger. Yes, he knew her. It was the child he had encountered in the classroom building at New Harmony. She had disappeared into the New York subway tunnels with Maya and ended up on the island.

The girl in the quilt jacket was a threat to the Brethren’s security. If her story appeared on the Internet it would challenge the carefully prepared explanation of what had happened at New Harmony. According to the Arizona State Police, a dangerous cult had destroyed itself-no one in the media had challenged that theory.

The solution to the problem was clear, but Boone didn’t feel like giving the order. This was all Martin Doyle’s fault; he was a blister that wouldn’t go away. For six years, Boone had tried to establish the Brethren’s vision. The electronic Panopticon was supposed to usher in a new kind of society where people like Doyle would be tracked, identified and destroyed. But now a demon was being set free, and Boone was the man unlocking the prison door.

The handheld computer beeped again as if it was demanding a response. Boone switched on his satellite phone and called Gerry Westcott, the head of operations in London.

“I saw the images from the island.”

“Did you recognize the Asian girl?” Westcott asked. “She’s also in the surveillance photos taken in the New York subway.”

“I don’t want a termination,” Boone said. “We need an acquisition so that I can question her.”

“That might be difficult.”

“You have ten or twelve hours to get it organized. If they’re going to London, they’ll take the ferry from Dublin to Holyhead.”

“That’s probably right. It’s too risky to take the plane.”

“Give me updates every three hours. Thank you.”

As Boone switched off the phone, a flower pedal fluttered down and landed on the top of his head. All the children giggled loudly as Boone flicked the petal away.

“Excuse me, sir.” Squires stood in front of him. “I think Mr. Doyle is coming out of the prison…”

Boone took out his binoculars and circled the trunk of the banyan tree. Captain Tansiri had just escorted Doyle from the administration building, and the big American climbed into the delivery van.

“That him?” Horsley looked like a boy about to go hunting.

Boone nodded. “Let’s get ready.”

The three foreigners put on the motorcycle helmets, grabbed the lances, and climbed onto the motorcycles behind the Thai riders. Seconds later, they were following the van as it headed toward the Bangkok airport. Nothing happened for the first few miles. The van moved slowly down a two-lane road past thatch-roofed houses and vegetable gardens. Boone’s helmet didn’t have any vents, and sweat trickled down his neck.

“This bird’s not going to fly,” Horsley said into his radio headset. “Maybe he sees us with these pig stickers.”

“Stay on the bike,” Boone said. “We’re following him all the way to the airport.”