Mother Blessing ordered the driver to let them off at a bus stop, then led Hollis down a cobblestone street to an Arabic bookshop. The storeowner accepted an envelope of cash without saying a word and handed Mother Blessing a key. She went out the back door of the shop and used the key to unlock the padlock holding a steel garage door. Inside the garage was a late-model Mercedes-Benz. Every detail had been handled. There was fuel in the gas tank, water bottles in the cup holders, and a key in the ignition.

“What about the car’s registration?”

“It’s owned by a shell corporation with an address in Zurich.”

“And weapons?”

“They should be in the back.”

Mother Blessing opened the trunk and took out a cardboard shipping box that contained her Harlequin sword and a black canvas bag. She placed her laptop computer in the bag and Hollis saw that it held bolt cutters, lock picks, and a small canister of liquid nitrogen for disabling infrared motion detectors. Two aluminum suitcases had also been left in the trunk. They contained a Belgian-made submachine gun and two 9mm automatics with holsters.

“Where did you get this stuff?”

“Weapons are always available. It’s like a cattle auction in Kerry. You find a seller and haggle over the price.”

Mother Blessing went to the bathroom and returned wearing black wool pants and a sweater. She opened the equipment bag and took out an electric-powered screwdriver. “I’m going to disable the car’s black box. It’s connected to the air bag.”

“Why? Isn’t that supposed to record information about accidents?”

“That was the original intention.” The Harlequin opened the driver’s front door and lay down on the seat. She began to unscrew the plastic panel beneath the car’s steering wheel. “At first, Event Data Recorders were just for accidents, and then car rental companies began to use electronic monitoring to identify drivers who were speeding. These days, all new vehicles have attached the black box to the GPS device. Not only do they know the location of your car, but they can tell if you’re accelerating, using the brakes, or wearing your seat belt.”

“How did they get away with this?”

Mother Blessing pried off the panel, exposing the car’s air bag system. “If privacy had a gravestone it might read: ‘Don’t Worry. This Was for Your Own Good.’”

THEY TURNED ONTO the A2 highway and drove across the French border into Belgium. While Mother Blessing concentrated on the road, Hollis attached a satellite phone to the computer and contacted Jugger in London. Jugger had received another message from some Free Runners in Berlin. Once Hollis and Mother Blessing reached the city, they were supposed to meet these people at an apartment building on Auguststrasse.

“Did he give us any names?” Mother Blessing asked.

“Two Free Runners named Tristan and Kröte.”

Mother Blessing smiled. “Kröte is the German word for toad.”

“It’s just his nickname. That’s all. I mean-come on-you’re called Mother Blessing.”

“That wasn’t my choice. I grew up in a family of six children. My uncle was a Harlequin and my family picked me to carry on the tradition. My brothers and sisters became citizens with jobs and families. I learned how to kill people.”

“Are you angry about that?”

“Sometimes you talk like a psychologist, Mr. Wilson. Is that an American affectation? If I were you, I wouldn’t waste time worrying about childhood. We’re living in the present, stumbling toward the future.”

WHEN THEY CROSSED into Germany, Hollis took the steering wheel. He was startled to discover that there was no speed limit on the Autobahn. The Mercedes was going 160 kilometers an hour and other cars raced past them. After hours of driving, signs appeared for Dortmund, Bielefeld, Magdeburg, and finally-Berlin. Hollis took exit seven to Kaiserdamm, and a few minutes later they were cruising down Sophie-Charlotten-Strasse. It was close to midnight. Glass and steel skyscrapers glowed with light, but very few people were out.

They parked the car on a side street and took their weapons out of the trunk. Both of them concealed a 9mm automatic beneath their clothing. Mother Blessing slid her Harlequin sword into a metal tube with a shoulder strap while Hollis unloaded the submachine gun and placed it in the equipment bag.

Hollis wondered if he was going to die tonight. He felt empty inside, detached from his own life. Perhaps that was what Mother Blessing had seen in him; he was cold enough to become a Harlequin. It was a chance to defend the future, but Harlequins were always going to be hunted. No friends. No lovers. No wonder Maya’s eyes had shown such loneliness and pain.

The address on Auguststrasse turned out to be a shabby five-story building. On the ground floor was Ballhaus Mitte, a working-class dance hall now taken over by a restaurant and nightclub. There was a line of young Germans waiting to get inside. They smoked cigarettes and watched as one couple kissed passionately. When the door was opened everyone was hit with a sound wave of harsh electronic music.

“We’re going to 4B,” Mother Blessing said.

Hollis checked his watch. “We’re an hour early.”

“It’s always best to be early. If you don’t know your contact, never show up when you promised.”

Hollis followed her into the building and up a staircase. Apparently, the wiring was being replaced throughout the building, because the walls were ripped open and plaster dust covered the floor. The music coming from the nightclub began to fade and then it disappeared.

When they reached the fourth floor, Mother Blessing motioned with the palm of her hand. Be quiet. Get ready. Hollis touched the doorknob for apartment 4B and realized that it wasn’t locked. He glanced over his shoulder. Mother Blessing had drawn her automatic and was holding it close to her chest. When he opened the door, the Harlequin charged into an empty room.

The apartment was filled with cast-off furniture. There was a couch with no legs, two old mattresses, and some mismatched tables and chairs. Every wall in the apartment was decorated with printed photographs of Free Runners performing cartwheels in the air, backward somersaults, and running cat leaps from one building to another. It looked as if the young men and women in the photographs were free of the laws of gravity.

“Now what?” Hollis asked.

“Now we wait.” Mother Blessing slid the gun back into her shoulder holster and sat down on a kitchen chair.

At exactly one o’clock in the morning, someone climbed down the façade of the Ballhaus. Hollis saw two legs dangling in the air just outside the window, and then the climber’s left foot found an ornamental cornice. He reached the ledge outside, pulled up the window, and jumped into the room. The climber was about seventeen years old. He wore torn jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. His long black hair was braided to resemble dreadlocks, and he had geometric tattoos on the backs of his hands.

A few seconds later, another pair of legs dangled above the window frame. The second Free Runner was a boy about eleven or twelve years old. He had a mass of curly brown hair that made him look like a feral child raised in the forest. A digital recording device was clipped to his belt, and earphones covered each ear.

After the boy entered the room, his older friend bowed. There was a certain exaggerated quality in his movements; he was like an actor who was always conscious of his audience.

“Guten Abend. Welcome to Berlin.”

“I’m not impressed with your climbing,” Mother Blessing said. “Next time you can use the stairs.”

“I thought this was a quick way to show-what is the English word-our ‘credentials.’ We are from the Spandau crew of Free Runners. I’m Tristan and this is my cousin, Kröte.”