“Just remember one thing,” Maya said. “We’re working together, but I still don’t trust you.”

“All right. You don’t trust me. So what’s the first thing we have to do?”

“Grab the top of the fence and jump.”

THOMAS WALKS THE ground had given Maya a Plymouth delivery van. It had no side windows, so she could sleep in the back if necessary. When Vicki got into the van, Maya told her to take off all her clothes.

“Why should I do that?”

“Have you and your mother stayed in the house for the last two days?”

“Not all the time. We went to see Reverend Morganfield.”

“The Tabula entered your house and searched it. They probably put tracer beads in your clothes and luggage. Once you leave the area, a satellite will track you down.”

Feeling a little embarrassed, Vicki got in the back and removed her shoes, blouse, and slacks. A stiletto appeared in Maya’s hand and she used the weapon to probe every hem and seam. “Did you get these shoes repaired recently?” she asked.

“No. Never.”

“Someone’s used a hammer on this.” Maya thrust the point of the knife beneath the heel and pried it off. A little pocket was carved into the heel. She turned the shoe upside down and a white tracer bead fell into the palm of her hand.

“Wonderful. Now they know you’ve left the house.”

Maya tossed the bead out the window and drove to a Korean neighborhood on Western Avenue. They bought a new pair of shoes for Vicki, then dropped by a Seventh-day Adventist church and picked up a dozen religious pamphlets. Pretending to be an Adventist missionary, Vicki visited Gabriel’s house near the freeway and knocked on the door. No one was home, but she felt like she was being watched.

The two women drove to the parking lot of a warehouse store and sat in the back of the van. While Vicki watched, Maya attached a laptop computer to a satellite phone and typed in a phone number.

“What are you doing?”

“Going on the Internet. It’s dangerous because of Carnivore.”

“What’s that?”

“The name of an Internet surveillance program developed by your FBI. The National Security Agency has developed even more powerful tools, but my father and his Harlequin friends kept using the word ‘Carnivore.’ The old name reminded them to be careful when using the Internet. Carnivore is a packet sniffer program that looks at everything that comes through a particular network. It’s aimed at specific Web sites and e-mail addresses, but it also detects certain trigger words and phrases.”

“And the Tabula know about this program?”

“They have unauthorized access through their Internet monitoring operation.” Maya began to type on her computer. “You can get around Carnivore by using soft language that avoids trigger words.”

Vicki sat in the front seat of the van and looked out at the parking lot while Maya searched for another Harlequin. Citizens came out of the warehouse store with extra-large shopping baskets piled high with food, clothing, and electronic equipment. The baskets were heavy with all these things, and the citizens had to lean forward to push them to their cars. Vicki remembered reading in high school about Sisyphus, the Greek king doomed forever to push a stone up a mountain.

After searching through several Web sites and typing in different code words, Maya found Linden. Vicki looked over Maya’s shoulder as she sent instant messages using soft language. The traitor Harlequin, Shepherd, became “the grandson of a good man” who “joined a competing firm” and destroyed “our possible business venture.”

“You healthy?” Linden asked.

“Yes.”

“Problems with the negotiation?”

“Cold meat times two,” Maya typed.

“Enough tools?”

“Adequate.”

“Physical condition?”

“Tired, but no damage.”

“Have assistance?”

“One local employee from Jones and Company. Hiring a professional today.”

“Good. Funds available.”

The screen was blank for a second, then Linden typed. “Last heard from my friend forty-eight hours ago. Suggest you look…”

Linden’s informant inside the Evergreen Foundation had provided him with six addresses for finding Michael and Gabriel Corrigan. There were short notes such as: “Plays golf with M.” or “Friend of G.”

“Thanks.”

“Will try for more data. Good luck.”

Maya wrote down the addresses and shut off the computer. “We have some more locations to check out,” she told Vicki. “But I need to hire a mercenary-someone who can back me up.”

“I know one person.”

“Is he in a tribe?”

“What does that mean?”

“Some of the people who reject the Vast Machine come together in groups that live in various levels of the underground. Some tribes reject Machine-grown food. Some reject Machine music and clothing styles. Some tribes try to live by faith. They reject the Machine’s fear and bigotry.”

Vicki laughed. “Then the Church of Isaac T. Jones is a tribe.”

“That’s right.” Maya started the van and began to drive out of the enormous parking lot. “A fighting tribe is a group that can defend itself, physically, from the Machine. Harlequins use them as mercenaries.”

“Hollis Wilson isn’t part of any group. But he definitely knows how to fight.”

As they drove to South Los Angeles, Vicki explained that the Divine Church realized that their young followers might be tempted by the flashy materialism of New Babylon. Teenagers were encouraged to be church missionaries in South Africa or the Caribbean. It was seen as a good way to channel youthful energy.

Hollis Wilson was part of a well-known church family, but he refused to become a missionary and began to hang out with the gang members in his neighborhood. His parents prayed for him and locked him in his room. Once he came home at two in the morning and found a Jonesie minister waiting to exorcise the demon in the young man’s heart. When Hollis was arrested in the vicinity of a stolen car, Mr. Wilson took his son to a karate class at the local Police Athletic League. He thought the karate teacher might be able to add some structure to Hollis’s scattered life.

The disciplined world of martial arts was the true power that pulled Hollis away from the church. After receiving a fourth-degree black belt in karate, Hollis followed one of his teachers to South America. He ended up in Rio de Janeiro and lived there for six years, becoming an expert in a Brazilian style of martial arts called capoeira.

“Then he came back to Los Angeles,” Vicki said. “I met him at his sister’s wedding. He started a martial arts school in South Central.”

“Describe him to me. What’s he look like? Big? Small?”

“Broad shoulders, but slender. Nappy hair, like a Rastafarian.”

“And what’s his personality?”

“Confident, and vain. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

Hollis Wilson’s martial arts school was on Florence Avenue, wedged between a liquor store and a video rental outlet. Someone had painted words on the sidewalk window in garish reds and yellows. DEFEND YOURSELF! KARATE, KICKBOXING, AND BRAZILIAN CAPOEIRA. NO CONTRACTS. BEGINNERS WELCOME.

They heard drumming as they approached the school and the sound got louder when they opened the front door. Hollis had taken sheets of plywood and built a reception area with a desk and folding chairs. Pinned to a bulletin board was a class schedule and posters advertising local karate tournaments. Maya and Vicki walked past two small dressing rooms with old bedspreads hung in place of doors and looked into a long windowless room.

An old man was playing a conga drum in one corner and the sound bounced off the concrete walls. Wearing T-shirts and white cotton pants, the capoeiristas stood in a circle. They clapped their hands in rhythm with the drum and watched two people fighting. One of the fighters was a short Latino man wearing a Think Critically! T-shirt. He was trying to defend himself against a black man in his twenties who was giving instructions between the kicks. The black man glanced at the visitors and Vicki touched Maya’s arm. Hollis Wilson had long legs and muscular arms. His braided dreadlocks came down to his shoulders. After watching for a few minutes, Maya turned and whispered to Vicki, “That’s Hollis Wilson?”