The Gates of Winter (12 page)

You see, there's still one class of encounter we haven't had yet. . . .

Deirdre sank back into the chair, staring at the computer screen. It was the first thing every Seeker learned upon joining the order: the classification of otherworldly encounters. Class Three Encounters were common—rumors and stories of otherworldly nature. Class Two Encounters were rarer, but well represented in the history of the Seekers—encounters with objects and locations that bore residual traces of otherworldly forces. And Class One Encounters were the rarest—direct interaction with otherworldly beings and travelers.

But Farr was right. There was one more class of encounter, one that had never been recorded in all the five centuries of the Seekers' existence. A Class Zero Encounter. Translocation to another world oneself.

Deirdre clenched her hands into fists. “What are you doing, Hadrian? By all the gods, what are you doing?”

The only answer was the ceaseless hum of the computer.

14.

Deirdre fumbled with her sunglasses as she climbed the stairs of the Blackfriars tube station and stepped onto the bustling sidewalk.

Never before had she believed it possible for the sun to be too bright in London. After all, she had lived most of her life in the cloudless American West; the sun in England was a sixty-watt bulb compared to the brilliant floodlight that hung above Colorado three hundred-plus days a year. However, after staring all night at the phosphorescent screen of the computer the Seekers had sent her, even the weak morning light (which, frankly, was as much haze as sun) seemed to jab at her eyes.

She started down the sidewalk and immediately stepped in gum. Leaning against a lamppost, she lifted her foot. Gooey strings stretched from the cement to the sole of her boot. She tried to pull off the wad of chewed gum, but it only stuck to her fingers.

“That doesn't look at all sanitary,” volunteered an elderly woman in a cheerful voice. She took a tissue from her purse and held it out.

Deirdre gave her a wan smile, took the tissue, and wiped her hand as the woman strolled away. The gum didn't come off, but bits of tissue adhered to it, reducing the stickiness.

Twenty minutes later she stepped from a mahogany-paneled elevator into the main office below the Charterhouse.

“You're late,” Sasha said. “Nakamura was expecting you ten minutes ago.”

Deirdre raised an eyebrow. Maybe Farr was on to something; Sasha did have a propensity for springing on people. Today she wore a clingy white sweater and black slacks. A saffron scarf was draped around her neck with a carefree air so perfect the thing could only have been pinned in place.

“I had a problem at the gate,” Deirdre said. “The card reader wouldn't take my new ID card.”

She had inserted the card into the reader a half dozen times. However, each time the light flashed red, and the last time a sickly buzzing noise had emanated from the reader. At that point a security guard had rushed out of a side gate, eager to clap her in irons, but a fingerprint scan had confirmed her identity, and he had grudgingly escorted her in.

Sasha raised a dark hand to her chin. “That's right. I forgot about your new card. Are you having any fun with it yet?”

Deirdre tried not to look shocked. Did Sasha know about her new clearance for Echelon 7? Deirdre would have imagined that was restricted knowledge.

“Why does the assistant director want to see me?” she said.

“Because you're a wicked girl and already plotting mischief, and Nakamura means to nip it in the bud. All right, that's just speculation. All the same, you'd better get moving.” Sasha prowled away like a runway model, then paused to glance over her shoulder. “By the way, where's Sir Mopesalot today?”

Deirdre did her best to keep her voice neutral. “I honestly have no idea where Farr is.”

Sasha nodded, as if Deirdre had confirmed something she already knew. The elevator doors opened and shut, and she was gone. Deirdre headed for the front desk, behind which a receptionist typed at Mach speed. She was middle-aged, with tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a sensible haircut. Deirdre didn't recognize her; the nameplate atop the counter read
Madeleine
.

“Excuse me,” Deirdre said when the receptionist did not look up from her work.

“You're a Seeker, Miss Falling Hawk. I'm absolutely certain you're capable of reading.” The receptionist didn't miss a key as she typed.

Deirdre stared, then noticed the small sign resting next to a clipboard.
Please sign in before proceeding.

“I'm sorry.” Deirdre groped for the pen attached to the clipboard. “We didn't use to have to sign in.”

“I have every confidence you'll make the adjustment.”

Deirdre didn't know how to interpret that, so she scribbled her name and headed down a hallway to the assistant director's office. Nakamura stood and smiled when she entered, and some of her fear that she was going to be scolded faded a bit.

“Close the door, will you, Agent Falling Hawk? And please, take a seat.”

She pulled the door shut and perched on the edge of a leather chair as the assistant director sat once more behind his desk.

Richard Nakamura was, as far as Deirdre knew, the highest-ranking American in the entire order of the Seekers. He was a short, compactly built man with white hair and an oval face that was surprisingly smooth given his seventy years. He had been born in San Francisco to Japanese immigrants, and as a child during World War II he and his family had been forced to spend time in Amache, an internment camp in eastern Colorado. Deirdre didn't know if it was ironic or fitting that Nakamura was one of the most patriotic men she knew. A U.S. flag stood in one corner of the room, opposite the Union Jack, and a picture of the American president decorated the mahogany wall, along with Roman death masks, medieval tapestries, and samurai swords.

Nakamura had entered the Seekers as a young man in the late 1950s, and if his rise was not meteoric, like Hadrian Farr's, it had certainly been steady. He had made solid progress in his laboratory research over the decades, especially in the area of detecting and classifying trace energy signatures. Five years ago, he had been promoted to the assistant director level.

That made Nakamura one of the dozen most powerful men and women in the Seekers—apart from the Philosophers. The assistant directors answered only to the directors of Research, Operations, and Security. And the directors answered only to the Philosophers themselves.

Deirdre fidgeted on the edge of her chair, knew she should stop, and couldn't. Why did Nakamura want to see her? Did he want to question her further about what happened in Colorado? He folded his hands on the desk and said nothing.

Deirdre couldn't stand it any longer. “Farr is gone,” she said.

Nakamura's placid expression didn't change. “Yes, we know. He couriered a letter to us just before his departure. I'm sure you did your best to convince him to stay.”

Deirdre's throat ached. “I don't know where he is.”

“Of course you don't, Miss Falling Hawk. No one does. Agent Farr's talents are such that we won't find him until he wishes to be found.”

The pace of Deirdre's heart slowed, and belatedly she realized Nakamura's silence had been deliberate. He had wanted her to speak first, to see what she would say. But she didn't care if he knew what was on her mind. She had nothing to hide.

And don't you? What about Glinda? What about the forest you saw when you kissed her?

She folded her hands in her lap, covering the silver circle on her right ring finger. “What will happen to him?” she said.

Nakamura's brown eyes were serious, and perhaps sad. “I suppose in the end that's up to Mr. Farr.”

Deirdre nodded, though she wasn't certain she agreed. Once you opened a door, could you really control what came through? Maybe Farr was the last person who could decide what would happen to him.

“I read everything,” she said. “All of the files about Hadrian and me. The reports, the assessments, the observations. Everything that was written about us. My new ID card . . .”

“Gave you access.” Nakamura nodded. “Yes, of course you read the files. We imagined you would do so immediately once you were granted Echelon 7. Would you care for some tea?”

Deirdre licked her lips. “No, thank you.”

“I'll have Lucas bring a second cup just in case you change your mind.” He touched a button on the telephone. “Lucas, two cups of tea, please. With honey and lemon. And some of those shortbread biscuits—you know, the ones Abby says will give me another heart attack. Thank you.”

Light spilled through the window, illuminating Nakamura's white hair. He seemed kind and grandfatherly, but Deirdre dismissed that image. One did not rise so high in the Seekers by doling out cookies and tea. All of the orders about how to handle her and Farr in Denver had come from this desk.

“You were using us,” she said.

He peered over a pair of bifocals. “Certainly, Miss Falling Hawk. We gained a great deal of knowledge from observing your actions in Colorado. I know you were placed in some degree of peril. However, you and Farr were willing participants in the experiment, were you not?”

Deirdre didn't know what to say. She hadn't expected this level of honesty. Maybe her new rank had brought her more than just Echelon 7 access.

“I believe you gained a valuable experience,” Nakamura went on. “It's useful for the observer to know what it feels like to be the subject. I know it changed my own perspective. Good, here's Lucas with our tea.”

A white-haired man shuffled into the room carrying a silver tray. It was said Lucas had served the Seekers since the time of the Great Depression. He certainly looked old enough for the story to be true; he was stoop-shouldered and hawk-nosed, and he seemed lost inside a dusty black suit that had obviously been worn by a much larger man years ago.

Lucas set the tray down on Nakamura's desk, porcelain teacups rattling. Deirdre hardly noticed as, with a trembling, white-gloved hand, he set a steaming cup of tea before her. What had Nakamura just told her?

I know it changed my own perspective. . . .

Had Nakamura once been the subject of observation by the Seekers, just as she and Farr had been in Denver?

“Thank you, Lucas,” Nakamura said with a smile.

The old man bowed stiffly, remaining bent over for such a long time Deirdre grew alarmed he was having a stroke. However, he finally straightened again, shuffled from the room, and shut the door.

“I'm sure you're curious about your new assignment, Miss Falling Hawk, so I won't keep you in the dark any longer. While it's not quite as glamorous as your most recent assignments, I think you'll agree it's important work.”

Nakamura handed her a manila folder. Deirdre opened it and scanned the directive clipped to a slim bundle of papers, then shut the folder.

She had guessed as much. It looked to be an exercise in cross-database cataloging. It was just the kind of work she had been doing two years ago when she discovered the link between the Graystone and Beckett cases. Important? Yes. Dull? Yes again. It was just as Sasha had said. The Seekers wanted to make sure she stayed out of trouble.

Only it doesn't make sense, Deirdre. Why give you a promotion and Echelon 7 clearance if all they intend for you to do is a safe and boring desk job?

Then again, with Echelon 7, there was a whole new world of files and information open to her. Maybe it wouldn't be so tedious after all.

“Thank you,” Deirdre said, holding the folder on her lap. “I'm sure it will be interesting work.”

Nakamura sighed. “Well, I suppose I shouldn't have expected an outburst of excitement.” He sipped his tea, then regarded her over the cup. “This isn't a punishment, you know. You're very important to the Seekers, and I don't mean as a subject with otherworldly connections. You have a gift for seeing pattern, symbol, and meaning others can't. You're one of our finest agents—now more than ever.”

Deirdre's heart ached. It would be so easy to let herself think Nakamura didn't mean what he said, that it was nothing more than a cynical ploy intended to engender her loyalty to the organization. Except somehow she couldn't make herself believe that.

“You can let yourself out, Miss Falling Hawk.”

Only as he spoke did she realize she had been staring. “Of course,” she said, clutching the folder and standing. She hurried to the door.

“By Hermes himself, I nearly forgot.” Nakamura removed his glasses. “It will take him a day or two to wrap up his previous assignment, but he'll be contacting you very soon.”

Deirdre shook her head. “What?”

Nakamura picked up his teacup. “It's simply our standard procedure. We really prefer Seekers to work in tandem. And don't worry—he isn't your superior. In fact, with your promotion, you'll be the senior agent this time.”

Deirdre's mind buzzed; this was important, she was sure of it, but she couldn't quite grasp why. “I don't understand. Who are you talking about?”

“Your new partner, of course.”

Deirdre's jaw dropped open.

“Good day, Miss Falling Hawk,” Nakamura said as he took another sip of tea.

15.

It quickly became evident Deirdre wasn't going to get any work done that day.

After her conversation with Nakamura, she stopped by her office—the same one she had shared with Farr for the last three years. It was a dank space, with only a single iron-barred window looking out at sidewalk level. However, it was huge, which was the reason they had chosen it. Bookshelves and filing cabinets lurked in countless alcoves, and in between the two gunmetal gray desks was a battered claw-footed table which Deirdre had often used for spreading out maps, facsimiles of manuscripts, and other documents.

When she stepped through the office door, she found a workman in blue overalls just folding up a stepladder.

“I've replaced all the lightbulbs for you, Miss Falling Hawk. They were beginning to flicker. And I used natural light fluorescents. That should help make it a bit less like a dungeon in here.” A grin showed through his curly red beard. “Unless you're into that sort of thing, in which case I could switch them back.”

She smiled. “No, the lights are wonderful. Thank you, Fergus.”

Whistling, he carried his stepladder out the door. Deirdre walked around the office, exploring, and soon realized the lightbulbs weren't all that had been changed. The filing cabinets and bookshelves were empty. So were the drawers in each of the desks. All of the books, papers, notes, and drawings she and Farr had accumulated over the years were gone. But why had the Seekers taken their files?

To pick them apart, Deirdre. To analyze them and see if there was anything in them about your otherworldly connections which you hadn't mentioned.

A crushing weight filled her. It had taken years to accumulate, index, and cross-reference all of the information in those files. Now she was going to have to start over completely from scratch.

Or was she? Deirdre reached into her pocket and pulled out her new ID card, turning it over. The crimson number 7 shone like wet blood. Maybe everything she had had before was right here in her hand—everything and more.

She slipped the card back into her pocket and moved to one of the desks. There was a working phone, a stapler, a pencil holder filled with sharpened pencils, and a box of paper clips. That was all. She had left her new computer at her flat. There was nothing she could do here; she might as well go home.

On her way out she looked for Sasha, but Madeleine the receptionist said she was in a meeting. Deirdre didn't really know what Sasha did for the Seekers. She didn't conduct research or perform investigations. All Deirdre knew was that Sasha was some sort of attaché to the director of Operations. Whatever her job description was, she always seemed to know far more about what went on around here than Deirdre did. Deirdre had hoped Sasha could tell her what happened to Deirdre and Farr's files. It could wait.

“Will we see you tomorrow, Miss Falling Hawk?” Madeleine asked, glancing up from her computer.

Deirdre stepped into the elevator, then turned around. “I'll be in by nine,” she said, and the silver doors whooshed shut.

As she walked through the gate in front of the Charterhouse, she noticed a pair of technicians in white shirts huddled over the security card reader. The front of the card reader was open, and the men picked at its innards with needle-nosed pliers. The technicians spoke in annoyed voices, and Deirdre caught the words
gum
and
tissue
. She stuck her hands in her pockets and quickened her pace.

She walked along the iron fence that surrounded the Seeker complex and in her mind went over her conversation with Nakamura. Why had they assigned her a new partner? She didn't buy the line that it was simply standard procedure.

Stop it, Deirdre. Farr was the one obsessed with conspiracy theories. Nakamura said you're the senior partner, so it's probably just some neophyte they want you to train, that's all.

A rough croak sounded above her, and Deirdre looked up. A raven perched on top of the fence, staring down at her with eyes like onyx beads. A breeze ruffled black feathers as it opened its beak, letting out another raucous call.

Deirdre halted on the sidewalk. In many Native American myths, Raven was a trickster—often a troublemaker, but sometimes a creator and even occasionally a hero. In one story, it was Raven who rescued the Sun when it was stolen, and who restored its light to the world.

Ravens were also important in Norse mythology, in which they were symbols of battle and wisdom. It was said two ravens named Hugin and Munin—Thought and Memory—sat on the god Odin's shoulders. They flew out over Midgard each day, searching for fallen warriors worthy enough to be brought back to Odin's great hall, Valhalla.

Yet Deirdre knew that in many myths and cultures of old, ravens were not such noble creatures. Instead they were seen as carrion eaters—harbingers of death and decay, followers of strife and destruction. For some reason it was these myths and stories that came to her as she gazed up at the bird. It cocked its head, watching her.

“Go away,” she whispered.

With a loud croak, the bird spread its wings and swooped down to a patch of scarlet-stained fur in the middle of the street. It was a dead squirrel, or perhaps even a cat; it was too flattened for Deirdre to tell. The bird hopped toward the dead thing and picked at it.

A shrill sound pierced the air, and Deirdre stumbled back a step. A van as black as the raven's feathers sped down the street. The shadowy driver behind the windshield honked again. The bird spread its wings and sprang off the pavement.

It was too slow. The van struck the raven. There was a wet thud, and black feathers flew in all directions. Without slowing, the van cruised past Deirdre. On its side was painted a capital letter D merging with a white crescent moon.

Duratek. It seemed as if they were everywhere. They were constantly in the news, and a dozen times a day Deirdre saw the ghostly crescent emblazoned on cars, T-shirts, cell phones, computer screens, and store windows. Every time she turned on the TV, one of their commercials was blaring—a pageant of surreal landscapes, perfect houses, and blankly smiling people that advertised nothing and everything at once.

The van rounded a corner and was gone. In the street lay a small black heap. Feathers fluttered in the wind, but otherwise the thing was motionless. Deirdre forced her eyes away from the dead raven and continued on.

When she reached the Blackfriars tube station, she didn't descend the steps. It was a good three miles back to her flat on the south side of Hyde Park, but what reason did she have to hurry? She kept walking, her boots scuffing out a steady rhythm on the sidewalk. Near Charing Cross, a cozy-looking coffee shop caught her eye, and she stopped in for some late breakfast. To her chagrin, the shop turned out to be a chain restaurant. It only annoyed her further that the coffee was rich and perfectly bitter, and the pancakes set before her were flavored with just a touch of real vanilla and melted in her mouth.

That was the danger of big corporate chains. Not that they were often so horrible—but rather that sometimes they were disturbingly good.

That's how Duratek will win in the end. Even those of us who know better will be seduced. We'll drink their perfect coffee, drive their luxurious cars, and wear their fashionable clothes, and in our satisfaction we'll forget to think about the people—the whole worlds—that were exploited to bring those things to us.

She cleaned her plate, emptied her cup, and left a large tip for the khaki-clad waiter. On her way out she passed a newspaper box, and the headline caught her eye. The U.S. stock market was continuing to crash, dragging the world economy with it. However, a subheading noted, one stock was defying the trend and continuing to surge upward: Duratek. Deirdre turned and walked on.

Something more than an hour later, she stepped through the door of her flat and saw the light blinking on the answering machine. Even as she punched the
PLAY
button, she knew it would be Hadrian Farr's accentless voice that would emanate from the machine.

“I'm sorry I missed you, Deirdre. I suppose you're at the Charterhouse, being a good little Seeker just as they want. Do me a favor, however, and don't be too good. Somebody has to keep giving the Philosophers conniptions, and I think you're up to the job. You have to be your own Philosopher, Deirdre. You're the only one you can trust now.”

Deirdre pressed her hand to her heart and leaned her head against the wall. She tried to imagine where he was. New York? Madrid? Istanbul?

“I'm not anywhere you might think I'd be,” Farr's voice continued as if to answer her question. “So don't try to find me. My journey has begun more quickly than I could ever have guessed. I'm not sure when I might be able to contact you again, or if I'll have time, but I'll do my best. I owe you that much and—”

A click sounded in the background.

“Well, I believe that's my signal to go. Even if I could tell you more, I'm afraid there isn't time. According to my watch, in seven more seconds the Seekers will know exactly where I am. Good-bye, Deirdre.”

The synthesized voice of the answering machine spoke, informing her there were no more messages. Deirdre hesitated, then picked up the phone, listening to the steady sound of the dial tone. Then she caught it: a clicking noise, just like the one she had heard while Farr was talking.

“Who's there?” she said.

Another click. She slammed down the phone and moved away. So her line was tapped. Nakamura had lied—they were still watching her.

No, Deirdre. It's not you they're watching. It's Hadrian. They knew he was likely to call here. You can't blame them, can you? You would have done the same.

Her outrage cooled. Wherever he was, Farr had his quest, and so did she. Deirdre sat at the table and turned on the computer. She pulled her ID card from her pocket, wiped it off, and inserted it. The screen flickered, then glowing green words appeared.

Welcome to Echelon 7.
What do you want to do?
>

Deirdre's fingers hovered above the keyboard. What did she want to do? Search for something—but what? There was no point in doing another search on the words Child Samanda had spoken. The only file that query returned had been deleted the moment she found it.

She still wondered what that file had contained. It had to be important—so important the watcher would do anything, even risk drawing notice, to keep the file's contents from being discovered. However, right now there was something else that weighed on her mind.

She gazed at the ring on her right hand—the ring Glinda had given her at Surrender Dorothy, just before the fire. Deirdre had never been able to decipher the writing engraved inside the band. She thought for a moment, then began to type.

Identify all cases that include samples of nonhuman DNA. Cross-reference with cases that contain instances of written inscriptions of unknown language affinity. Display linked files.
[Enter]

The computer emitted a chime as a dozen session windows sprang into being. Deirdre leaned closer as a single word pulsed at the top of the screen.
Seeking . . .

It was only when she realized the glow of the computer was the brightest thing in the room that the passage of time finally impinged upon her. She leaned back from the table and stretched, causing her spine to emit a distinct
crunch
. Outside the flat's windows, dusk had fallen. Dead leaves swirled by the glass, causing the lights of the city to flicker like stars. Her stomach growled; the pancakes had been a long time ago.

She stood and switched on the lamp by the sofa, bathing the room in amber light, then glanced again at the computer screen. She still wasn't certain exactly what it was she had found, only that all of her instincts as an investigator told her it was important.

In one of the open session windows, a chromosome map scrolled by. The map was from a mitochondrial DNA sequence, its banded series of genes delineated in blues, oranges, and purples. In another window was the scanned photo of a marble keystone, removed from an arched doorway. An inscription was engraved on the keystone; however, the stone was chipped and battered, its surface stained with soot and some other dark substance, so that the inscription was almost completely illegible.

Almost. The writing on the stone was too incomplete to have been transcribed into the Seekers' language files. That was why no match had come up months ago, when Deirdre first performed a search on the writing on Glinda's ring. However, once she magnified and enhanced the image, the similarities were apparent to her eye despite the fragmentary nature of the inscription. The writing on Glinda's ring and the keystone were exactly the same—the same symbols written in the same order.

That wasn't the only similarity. Just like the inscription on the keystone, the DNA sequence was fragmentary. It was taken from a sample that had been collected nearly two centuries ago, at the same London location from which the keystone was removed. The sample had been analyzed only recently, as part of an ongoing effort to sequence all biological matter—hair, blood, bone—contained in the Seeker vaults before time took its toll and any hope of doing so was lost.

Despite the poor quality of the sample, computer analysis determined there was significant similarity between the partial DNA sequence and the sequence Deirdre had performed on the sample of Glinda's blood she had collected. The case to which the keystone and the partial DNA sequence were related had been closed in 1816. Now, once again, Deirdre had found a connection between a long-forgotten case and a modern investigation. Without doubt, the 1816 case was linked to Glinda. But how?

“Maybe it's simpler than you think.” She sat at the computer and quickly typed a query.

Identify the location where the biological sample and keystone from the case 1816-11a were collected. Superimpose result on a map of present-day London.
[Enter]

The computer chimed, and a new window opened, covering the others. It showed a map of London. A red star blinked in the center of the map. Deirdre leaned closer, reading the word on the map just below the star: Brixton.