The Traveler

At the Los Angeles airport, Maya picked up her clothing bag, camera case, and tripod, then passed through immigration with her German passport. The contact lenses and finger shields worked perfectly.

“Welcome to the United States,” said the man in the uniform, and Maya smiled politely. She followed the green sign for passengers with nothing to declare and walked up a long ramp to the reception area.

Hundreds of people were pushed against a steel railing, waiting for arriving passengers. A limousine driver held a cardboard sign for someone named J. Kaufman. A young woman wearing a tight skirt and clattery high heels ran forward and embraced an American soldier. The woman was laughing and weeping like a fool for her scrawny boyfriend, but Maya felt a twinge of jealousy. Love made you vulnerable; if you gave your heart to another, they could leave you or die. And yet visions of love surrounded her. People hugged each other near the doorway and waved homemade signs. WE LOVE YOU, DAVID! WELCOME HOME!

She had no idea how she was supposed to find the Jonesie. Acting like she was looking for a friend, Maya strolled through the terminal. Damn Shepherd, she thought. His grandfather was a Latvian who had saved hundreds of lives during World War II. The grandson had assumed this honored Harlequin name, but he had always been a fool.

Maya reached the exit, turned around, and headed back to the security barrier. Maybe she should leave and try to find the backup contact that Linden had given her: a man named Thomas who lived south of the airport. Her father had spent a lifetime doing this, going to strange countries where he hired mercenaries and searched for Travelers. Now she was on her own, feeling unsure of herself and a little scared.

She gave herself a five-minute deadline, and then noticed a young black woman wearing a white dress standing by the information booth. The woman held a small bouquet of roses as a welcome gift. Three glittery cardboard diamonds-a Harlequin sign-were mixed with the flowers. As Maya approached the booth, she saw that the young woman had a small photograph of a solemn-looking black man pinned to the bodice of her dress. It was the only picture ever taken of Isaac T. Jones.

15

Holding the roses, Victory From Sin Fraser stood in the middle of the terminal. Like most of the members of her church, she had met Shepherd during his occasional trips to Los Angeles. The man seemed so conventional, with his genial smile and stylish clothes, that Vicki found it difficult to believe that he was a Harlequin. In her fantasy, the Harlequins were exotic warriors who could walk up walls and catch bullets in their teeth. Whenever she saw someone acting cruelly she wanted a Harlequin to smash through a window or jump down from a roof to deliver instant justice.

Vicki turned away from the booth and saw a woman approaching her. The woman carried a canvas travel bag, a black tube with a shoulder strap, a video camera, and a tripod. She wore dark sunglasses and had short brown hair. Although the woman’s body was slender, her face was puffy and unattractive. As she got closer, Vicki realized that there was something fierce and dangerous about this person, a barely controlled intensity.

The woman stopped in front of Vicki and gave her an appraising look. “Are you looking for me?” She spoke with a slight British accent.

“I’m Vicki Fraser. I’m waiting here for someone who knows a friend of our church.”

“That must be Mr. Shepherd.”

Vicki nodded. “He told me to take care of you until he finds a safe meeting place. Right now, people are watching him.”

“All right. Let’s get out of here.”

They left the international terminal in a crowd and crossed a narrow road to a four-level parking structure. The woman refused to let Vicki carry her luggage. She kept glancing over her shoulder as if she expected to be followed. As they climbed the concrete stairs, she grabbed Vicki’s arm and twisted her around.

“Where are we going?”

“I-I parked on the second floor.”

“Go back downstairs with me.”

They returned to the ground level. A Latino family chattering in Spanish pushed past them and went up the staircase. The Harlequin turned quickly, looking in every direction. Nothing.

They went back upstairs and Vicki walked over to a Chevrolet sedan with a bumper sticker in the rear window: “Learn the Truth! Isaac T. Jones Died for YOU!”

“Where’s my shotgun?” the woman asked.

“What shotgun?”

“You were supposed to supply me with weapons, money, and American identification. That’s standard procedure.”

“I’m sorry Miss-Miss Harlequin. Shepherd didn’t say anything about that. He just told me to carry a diamond shape and meet you at the terminal. My mother didn’t want me to do this, but I came anyway.”

“Open the boot-the trunk-whatever you call it.”

Vicki fumbled with her keys and opened the trunk. It was filled with aluminum cans and plastic bottles that she was taking to a recycling station. She felt embarrassed that the Harlequin had seen them.