NATHAN BOONE SAT in the grounded helicopter with Mitchell and Krause. Rain kept falling on the concrete landing zone. Both detectives looked annoyed when Boone told them not to smoke. He ignored them, closed his eyes, and listened to the voices coming from his headset.

The Brethren’s Internet team had accessed the surveillance cameras of twelve different government and commercial organizations. As people hurried down New York sidewalks and subway corridors, as they paused on street corners and stepped onto buses, the nodal points of their faces were being reduced to an equation of numbers. Almost instantly, these equations were matched against the particular algorithm that personified Lawrence Takawa.

Boone enjoyed this vision of constant information flowing like dark, cold water through cables and computer networks. It’s just numbers, he thought. That’s all we really are-numbers. He opened his eyes when Simon Leutner began talking.

“Okay. We just accessed the security system for Citibank. There’s an ATM on Canal Street with a surveillance camera. The target just went past the camera, heading toward the Manhattan Bridge.” It sounded like Leutner was smiling. “Guess he didn’t notice the ATM camera. They’ve become part of the landscape.”

A pause.

“Okay. Now the target is on the pedestrian walkway of the bridge. We’ve already accessed the Port Authority security system. The cameras are up on the light towers, out of direct sight. We can track him all the way across.”

“Where’s he going?” Boone asked.

“Brooklyn. The target is moving quickly, carrying some kind of pole or stick in his right hand.”

A pause.

“Reaching the end of the bridge.”

A pause.

“The target is walking toward Flatbush Avenue. No. Wait. He’s waving to the driver of a livery cab with a luggage rack welded to the top of the vehicle.”

Boone reached up and clicked the intercom switch to the helicopter pilot. “We’ve got him,” he said. “I’ll tell you where to go.”

THE DRIVER OF the gypsy cab was an older Haitian man who wore a plastic raincoat and a Yankees baseball cap. The roof of the car kept leaking and the backseat was damp. Lawrence felt the wet coldness touch his legs.

“Where you want to go?”

“Newark, New Jersey. Take the Verrazano. I’ll pay the toll.”

The old man looked skeptical about the idea. “Too many miles and no fare back. Nobody in Newark want to go to Fort Greene.”

“What’s it cost one way?”

“Forty-five dollar.”

“I’ll pay you a hundred dollars. Let’s go.”

Pleased with the deal, the old man shifted into drive and the battered Chevrolet chugged down the street. The driver began mumbling a song in Creole while his fingers tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

“Ti chéri. Ti chéri…”

A roaring sound came down on them and Lawrence watched as an intense wind flung raindrops against the cars. The old man slammed on the brakes, amazed at the vision in front of him: a helicopter slowly landing at the intersection of Flatbush and Tillary Street.

Lawrence grabbed the sword and kicked the door open.

BOONE SPRINTED THROUGH the rain. When he glanced over his shoulder, he could see that the two detectives were already gasping for air and flailing their arms. Takawa was about two hundred yards ahead of them, running down Myrtle Avenue and turning onto St. Edwards. Boone passed a cash-checking store with barred windows, a dentist’s office, and a small boutique with a lurid pink-and-purple sign.

The towers of the Fort Greene housing project dominated the skyline like a broken wall. When the people on the sidewalk saw three white men chasing a young Asian man, they instinctively pulled back into the doorways or hurried across the streets. Drug bust, they thought. Cops. Don’t get involved.

Boone reached St. Edwards and looked down the block. Raindrops hit the sidewalk and the parked cars. Water flowed down the gutter and pooled at the intersection. Someone moving. No. Just an old woman with an umbrella. Takawa had disappeared.

Instead of waiting for the detectives, Boone kept running. He went past two rundown apartment houses, then looked down an alley and saw Takawa slip through a hole in the wall. Stepping around plastic bags of garbage and a discarded mattress, Boone reached the hole and discovered a sheet of galvanized steel that once sealed off a doorway. Someone, probably the local drug addicts, had bent the sheet back, and now Takawa was inside.

Mitchell and Krause reached the mouth of the alleyway. “Cover the exits!” Boone shouted. “I’ll go in and find him!”

Cautiously he pushed through the metal sheet and entered a long room with a concrete floor and a high ceiling. Trash everywhere. Broken chairs. Many years ago, the building had been used as a garage. There was a tool bench along one wall and a repair bay in the floor where the mechanics once stood to work on cars. The rectangular bay was filled with oily water, and in the dim light it looked as if it could lead to a distant cavern. Boone stopped near a concrete staircase and listened. He heard water dripping on the floor and then a scraping noise coming from upstairs.

“Lawrence! This is Nathan Boone! I know you’re up there!”

LAWRENCE STOOD ALONE on the second floor. His raincoat was sodden with water, heavy with the thousands of dollars concealed in the lining. Quickly he pulled the coat off and threw it away. Rainwater splattered on his shoulders, but that was nothing. He felt as if an immense burden had been taken from his body.

“Come downstairs!” Boone shouted. “If you come down immediately, you won’t get hurt!”

Lawrence stripped the wrapping paper off the scabbard of his father’s sword, drew the weapon, and examined the shimmery cloud on the blade. The gold sword. A Jittetsu sword. Forged in fire and offered to the gods. A drop of water trickled down his face. Gone. All gone. Discarded. He had thrown everything away. His job and position. His future. The only two things he truly possessed were this sword and his own bravery.

Lawrence laid the scabbard on the wet floor, then walked to the staircase carrying the bare sword. “You stay there!” he shouted. “I’m coming!”

He climbed down the littered staircase. With each step, he lost more of his heaviness, the illusions that had burdened his heart. Finally he understood the loneliness revealed in his father’s photograph. To become a Harlequin was both a liberation and an acknowledgment of one’s death.

He reached the ground floor. Boone was standing in the middle of the trash-filled room with an automatic pistol in his hand. “Drop your weapon!” Boone shouted. “Throw it on the ground!”

After a lifetime of masks, the final mask was removed. Holding the gold sword, Sparrow’s son ran toward the enemy. He felt free, released from doubt and hesitation, as Boone raised his gun slowly and fired at Lawrence’s heart.