Maya stood up and walked to the front of the theater. “I killed someone in Prague, but that was just the beginning of the nightmare. When I returned to my father’s flat, I found him lying on the bedroom floor. I could barely recognize him-just those old knife scars on his hands. Some kind of animal had mutilated his body.”

“A Tabula research team is creating genetically altered animals. The scientists call them ‘splicers’ because different strands of DNA are cut apart and spliced together. Perhaps they used one of these animals to attack your father.” Linden’s massive hands became fists as if he was confronting his enemies. “The Tabula have gained this power without thought of consequences. The only way we can defeat them is to find Michael and Gabriel Corrigan.”

“I don’t give a damn about the Travelers. I still remember my father telling me that most Travelers don’t even like us. They’re floating off to other realms and we’re trapped in this world-forever.”

“You’re Thorn’s daughter, Maya. How can you refuse his last request?”

“No,” she said. “No.” But her voice betrayed her.

Lawrence Takawa sat at his desk watching Dr. Richardson on the screen of his computer monitor. Four surveillance cameras were hidden in the guest suite. They had photographed Richardson for the last twelve hours as he read about Travelers, slept, and took a shower.

A security guard had just entered the suite to remove the breakfast tray. Lawrence moved his cursor to the top of the screen. He pressed a “plus” sign and camera two zoomed in on the neurologist’s face.

“When am I going to meet with the foundation staff?” Richardson asked.

The security guard was a large man from Ecuador named Immanuel. He wore a navy blue blazer, gray slacks, and a red necktie. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Is it going to be this morning?”

“No one told me anything.”

Holding the tray with one hand, Immanuel opened the door to the outer hallway.

“Don’t lock the door,” Richardson said. “It’s not necessary.”

“We’re not locking you in, sir. We’re locking you out. You don’t have the security clearance necessary to walk around this building.”

When the lock clicked shut, Richardson swore loudly. He jumped up as if he was going to do something decisive, then began to pace around the room. It was easy to look at Richardson’s face and know what he was thinking. He appeared to alternate between two principal emotions: anger and fear.

LAWRENCE TAKAWA HAD learned how to conceal his emotions when he was a sophomore at Duke University. Although he was born in Japan, his mother had brought him to America when he was six months old. Lawrence hated sushi and samurai movies. Then a touring group of Noh actors arrived at the university and he saw a day of performances that changed his life.

At first, Noh drama seemed exotic and difficult to understand. Lawrence was fascinated by the stylized motions of the actors on the stage, the men playing women, and the eerie sound of the nohkan flute and three drums. But the Noh masks were the true revelation. Carved wooden masks were worn by the principal characters, the women characters, and the old people. Ghosts, demons, and crazy people had garish masks that showed one strong emotion, but most actors wore a mask with a deliberately neutral expression. Even the middle-aged men acting without masks tried not to move their faces. Each gesture on the stage, each statement and reaction was a conscious choice.

Lawrence had just joined a fraternity that had drinking parties and elaborate hazing rituals. Whenever he glanced at his reflection, he saw insecurity and confusion: a young man who wasn’t going to fit in. A living mask solved the problem. Standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, he practiced masks of happiness, admiration, and enthusiasm. By his senior year of college he was voted president of his fraternity and his professors gave him strong recommendations for graduate school.

THE PHONE ON his desk buzzed softly and Lawrence turned away from the computer screen. “How’s our new guest reacting?” Boone asked.

“He seems agitated and somewhat frightened.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Boone said. “General Nash just arrived. Get Richardson and put him in the Truth Room.”

Lawrence took the elevator down to the third floor. Like Boone, he had a Protective Link inserted beneath his skin. He waved his hand at the door sensor. The lock clicked open and he walked into the suite.

Dr. Richardson spun around and approached Lawrence. He jabbed at the air with his index finger. “This is outrageous! Mr. Boone said that I was going to meet with your staff. Instead, I’ve been kept locked in here like a prisoner.”

“I apologize for the delay,” Lawrence said. “General Nash just arrived and he’s eager to talk to you.”

“You mean Kennard Nash? Your executive director?”

“That’s right. I’m sure you’ve seen him on television.”

“Not for several years.” Richardson lowered his voice and relaxed slightly. “But I remember when he was a presidential adviser.”

“The general has always been involved in public service. So it was a natural transition for him to join the Evergreen Foundation.” Lawrence reached into his suit-coat pocket and took out a hand-held metal detector-the sort of thing that security guards use in airports. “For security reasons, we’d like you to leave all metal objects in the room. That includes your wristwatch, coins, and belt. It’s standard procedure at our research facility.”

If Lawrence had given him a direct order, Richardson might have refused. Instead, he had to deal with the bland assumption that taking off his wristwatch was the normal thing to do when meeting an important person. He placed his possessions on the table and then Lawrence passed the detector over the neurologist’s body. The men left the room and walked down the hallway to the elevator.

“Did you read all the materials last night?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you found them interesting.”

“It’s incredible. Why haven’t these recent studies been published? I’ve never read anything about the Travelers.”

“At this time, the Evergreen Foundation wants to keep this information secret.”

“That’s not how science works, Mr. Takawa. Major discoveries occur because scientists all over the world have access to the same data.”

They took the elevator to the basement and walked down a corridor to a white door without handles or knobs. When Lawrence waved his hand, the door glided open. He motioned Dr. Richardson forward and the scientist entered a windowless room where there was no furniture except for a wooden table and two wooden chairs.

“This is a special security room,” Lawrence explained. “Everything said here is confidential.”

“So where’s General Nash?”

“Don’t worry. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

LAWRENCE WAVED HIS right hand and the door closed, locking Richardson inside the Truth Room. For the last six years, the Evergreen Foundation had funded a secret research effort to find out when someone was lying. This wasn’t done with a voice analyzer or a polygraph machine that recorded a person’s breathing rate and blood pressure. Fear could distort the results of such tests and a good actor could suppress these secondhand signs of deceit.

Ignoring outward physical changes, the Evergreen Foundation scientists looked directly inside the brain using magnetic resonance imaging. The Truth Room was simply a large MRI chamber in which a person could talk, eat, and move about. The man or woman being questioned didn’t have to know what was going on, which allowed for a wider range of reactions.