Gideon’s Sword

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

  “Hey, I’m an actress, too. Name’s Marilyn.”

  “Marilyn what?”

  “Marilyn’s enough. I was an extra in an episode of Mad Men.”

  “I knew it! I’m going to change my looks, but you can be just who you are. In fact, you’re perfect.”

  The woman gave him a quick smile and he saw, briefly, the real person underneath.

  “You know, I gotta get paid for something like this.”

  “Naturally. What would your rate be for, say, six hours?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Walking around town with me.”

  “Well, I’d normally make at least a grand for six hours of work, but seeing as how this is the film business, make it two. And I’ll throw in a little special something, just for you…’cause you’re cute.” She smiled and touched her lower lip with a finger.

  He took a small bundle of bills out of his pocket and handed them to her. “There’s five hundred. You’ll get the rest at the end.”

  She took it a little doubtfully. “I should get half up front.”

  “All right.” He gave her another bundle. “You’re going to need a new name. Shall we call you Orchid?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. For the next six hours, we’re going to be in character at all times. That’s how Method acting works. But right now I have a few things I have to do, preparation and so forth, so you go ahead and relax.”

  Gideon sorted through the supplies as he visualized the sort of person he wanted to be. Then he began to create it. When he was done with the makeup, a false nose, cheek inserts, receding hairline, paunch—​with the aging-pseudo-rocker clothing to go with it—​he turned to Orchid, who had been watching the process with interest, smoking nonstop.

  “Wow. That’s sad. I liked how you looked before a lot better.”

  “That’s acting,” said Gideon. “Now give me a few minutes here, Orchid, and then we’ll step out and get into the role.”

  He took out the list of contacts he had copied from Wu’s phone, unfolded his laptop, and booted it up. Thank God for free Wi-Fi, he thought, now available even in hourly hotels. He connected to the internet and did a quick bit of research. There was only one phone on the contact list in the United States, and it was labeled “Fa.” A quick bit of research indicated that Fa was a Chinese character meaning “to commence.” It was also a mah-jongg tile called “the Green Dragon.” A reverse phone number search indicated the “Fa” phone number belonged to a certain Roger Marion on Mott Street in Chinatown.

  Roger. The name the Chinese the scientist had called him.

  He began packing away his stuff. With his disguise and Orchid on his arm, he felt pretty sure that nobody, not even his mother, would guess who he was. Whoever was after him was on the lookout for him alone: they wouldn’t be interested in an aging rocker with a bimbo in tow.

  “What now?”

  “We’re going to see an old pal in Chinatown, and then we’re going to visit a sick friend in the hospital.”

  “Got time for that little extra I mentioned? You know, to help you get into the role?” Her eyes twinkled as she stubbed out her cigarette.

  No, no, no, thought Gideon, but as he looked at her upturned nose, jet-black hair, and fresh, creamy skin, he heard himself say, “Sure, what the hell. I think we can manage it, time-wise.”

  26

  The address, 426 Mott, was in the heart of Chinatown, between Grand and Hester. Gideon Crew stood on the opposite sidewalk, giving it a once-over. The Hong Li Meat Market occupied the ground floor, and the upper stories were a typical Chinatown brown-brick tenement, festooned with fire escapes.

  “What now?” asked Orchid, lighting up yet another cigarette.

  Gideon plucked the cigarette out of her fingers and took a drag.

  “Why don’t you get your own?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  She laughed. “Maybe we can get some dim sum around here. I love dim sum.”

  “I’ve got to see a fellow first. You mind waiting here?”

  “What, on the street?”

  He suppressed an ironic comment. He slipped out a banknote. God, he thought, it was nice having money. “Why don’t you wait for me in that tea shop? I doubt this is going to take more than five minutes.”

  “All right.” She took the bill and sauntered off, derriere twitching, turning heads.

  Gideon went back to contemplating the problem at hand. He didn’t have enough information about Roger Marion to come up with a believable line. But even a brief encounter might prove useful. And the sooner, the better.

  He looked carefully both ways, then crossed Mott and went to the metal door at street level. There was a row of buzzers, all labeled with Chinese characters. No English at all.

  Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he stepped back and stopped a Chinese man. “Excuse me?”

  The man stopped. “Yes?”

  “I don’t read Chinese, and I’m trying to figure out which one of these apartments belongs to my friend.”

  “What is your friend’s name?”

  “Roger Marion. But he goes by the nickname Fa—you know, the mah-jongg character they call the Green Dragon?”

  The man smiled, pointed to a character beside the label 4C. “That is Fa.”

  “Thank you.” The man walked on and Gideon stared at the character, memorizing it. Then he pressed the button.

  “Yes?” came the voice almost immediately, in unaccented English.

  He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial hiss. “Roger? I’m a friend of Mark’s. Let me in right away.”

  “Who? What’s your name?”

  “No time to explain. I’m being followed. Let me in, please!”

  The buzzer sounded and he pushed in, climbing a dingy set of stairs to the fourth floor. He knocked on the apartment door.

  “Who is it?”

  He could see the man’s eye in the peephole. “Like I said, I’m a friend of Mark Wu’s. The name’s Franklin Van Dorn.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got the numbers.”

  The bolt shot open and the door opened to reveal a small, intense Caucasian man in his mid-forties: shaved head, very fit and alert, thin and whippet-muscular, wearing a tight T-shirt and baggy pajama-type pants.

  Gideon ducked in. “Roger Marion?”

  A sharp nod. “Mark gave you the numbers? Give them to me.”

  “I can’t do that until you tell me what this is all about.”

  The features immediately creased with suspicion. “You don’t need to know. If you were really a friend of Mark’s, you wouldn’t ask.”

  “I must know.”

  Marion looked at him intently. “Why?”

  Gideon stood his ground, saying nothing. Meanwhile, he took in the small, crowded, but neat apartment. There were Chinese block prints on the walls, scrolls covered with ideograms, and a curious, colorful tapestry showing a reverse swastika surrounded by yin–yang symbols and spinning designs. There were also various placards and awards that—when he looked more closely—turned out to be for kung fu competitions.

  Gideon returned his attention to Marion. The man was looking back at him as if making up his mind. He did not appear in the least bit nervous. There was something about his manner that told Gideon he was not one to push his weight around, but that—if the need arose—he could be violent.

  Quite abruptly, the man spoke. “Out,” he said. “Get out now.” He moved toward Gideon menacingly.

  “But I have the numbers—”

  “I don’t trust you. You’re a liar. Get out now.”

  Gideon placed a light hand on the man’s advancing shoulder. “How do you know—”

  With frightening speed, the man grabbed the hand and twisted it sharply, spinning him around. “Shit!” Gideon cried out, pain lancing through his shoulder and down his arm.

  “Out.” He ejected Gideon out the door and slammed it, the bolts shooting back.

  Standing in t
he hall, Gideon rubbed his hurt shoulder thoughtfully. He wasn’t used to being smoked out, and it was not a pleasant feeling. He’d assumed making up a story would be worse than nothing—but maybe he’d assumed incorrectly. He hoped he wasn’t losing his touch.

  He found Orchid in the tea shop, chowing down a plate heaped with pressed duck and white rice. “They didn’t have dim sum but this is pretty good,” she said, grease dripping down her chin.

  “We’ve got to go.”

  Overriding her protests, he hustled her out and they walked over to Grand, where they grabbed a cab.

  “Mount Sinai Hospital,” he told the driver.

  “To see your friend?” Orchid asked.

  Gideon nodded.

  “Is he sick?”

  “Very.”

  “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  “Car accident.”

  At the reception desk, Gideon gave his real name, making sure nobody but the duty nurse heard him speak. Even though he looked very different from the Gideon Crew who had come in after the accident, he was confident he wouldn’t run into anyone who had seen him before in the huge city hospital. When he’d called earlier in the day, he’d also learned Wu had been transferred from the ER to the intensive care unit. Even better, he’d been told Wu was coming out of the coma. He wasn’t yet lucid, but they felt he might be soon.

  Soon would be now.

  Gideon had come prepared with a beautifully wrought plan of social engineering. He’d talk to Wu, posing as Roger Marion, and get everything out of the scientist—the location of the plans, the meaning of the numbers, everything. He had gone over his plan in detail and felt at least ninety percent certain it would work. He very much doubted Wu had ever met or seen “Roger,” only talked to him on the phone, and Gideon, after his visit, at least had an idea of how the man talked and sounded. Wu would be disoriented, off his guard. The man would have been too devastated at the accident scene to have taken note of his features. He could pull this off. Despite being shot at, despite his dunking in the river, it would be by far the easiest hundred thousand he’d ever earned.

  The busy duty nurse didn’t even bother to check his ID against his face, just directed them both to a large and comfortable waiting area. Gideon glanced around but saw no one he recognized. Yet he was certain the one who had chased him would not be far behind.

  “The doctor will be down to see you in a moment,” the nurse told him.

  “We can’t just go visit Mark?”

  “No.”

  “But they said he was much better.”

  “You’ll have to wait for the doctor,” said the nurse firmly.

  The doctor arrived a few minutes later, a portly man with woolly white hair and a sad, friendly look on his face. “Mr. Crew?”

  Gideon leapt up. “Yes, Doctor, that’s me. How is he?”

  “And the lady is—?”

  “A friend. She’s here to support me.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Please come with me.”

  They followed the doctor into another, smaller waiting room, more like an office, empty of people. The doctor closed the door behind them.

  “Mr. Crew, I’m very, very sorry to tell you that Mr. Wu passed away about half an hour ago.”

  Gideon stood thunderstruck.

  “I’m very, very sorry.”

  “You didn’t call me—to be there at the end.”

  “We tried to reach you at the number you gave us.”

  Damn, thought Gideon; his cell phone had not survived the swim.

  “Mr. Wu gave signs of stabilizing, and we had hopes for a while. But he was severely injured, and sepsis set in. This is not uncommon with severe injuries. We took every possible measure and did the best we could, but it wasn’t nearly enough.”

  Gideon swallowed. He felt Orchid’s comforting hand on his shoulder.

  “I have here some paperwork, unfortunately necessary, which you as next of kin will need to fill out regarding the disposition of the remains and some other details.” He proffered a manila packet to Gideon. “You don’t need to do this right away, but we would like to know as soon as possible. In three days, Mr. Wu’s remains will be moved to the city morgue to await your instructions. Would you like me to arrange for you to see the body?”

  “Um, no, no, that won’t be necessary.” Gideon took the folder. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for all your help.”

  The doctor nodded.

  “By any chance…did Mark say anything before he passed? When I talked to the nurse this morning, she said she thought he was becoming lucid. If he said anything, anything at all, even if it seemed nonsensical, I’d like to know.”

  “He showed signs of regaining lucidity, but it never actually rose to the level of consciousness. He said nothing. And then the sepsis set in.” He looked at Gideon. “I’m terribly sorry. For what it’s worth, he didn’t suffer at all.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  The doctor nodded and left.

  Gideon threw himself into a chair. Orchid sat down next to him, her face creased with concern. He reached into his pocket, removed a sheaf of bills, and handed them to her. “This is for you. When we leave the hospital, we’ll get in a cab together, but after a while I’ll get out of the cab while you continue on to wherever you want to go.”

  She didn’t take the money.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said. “I really appreciated it.”

  “Creighton, or Crew, or whatever your name is, I can guess this isn’t really about some Method acting gig. You’re a nice guy, and it’s been a long time since I met any nice guys. Whatever you’re doing, I want to help.” She pressed his hand.

  Gideon cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I’ve got to do this alone.” He knew how lame that sounded even as he said it.

  “But…will I see you again? I don’t care about the money.”

  Gideon glanced at her and was shocked at the look he saw on her face.

  He thought about lying, but decided the truth was ultimately less painful. “No. I’m not going to call you. Look, the money’s yours. You earned it.” He gave the bills an impatient shake.

  “I don’t want it,” she said. “I want you to call me.”

  “Look,” said Gideon as coldly as he could. “This was a business arrangement, and you did your job well. Just take the money and go.”

  She reached out, snatched the money. “You’re an asshole.” She turned to leave and he tried not to notice she was crying.

  “Good-bye,” he said, cringing inwardly.

  “Good-bye, jerk-off.”

  27

  Gideon Crew strolled up Fifth Avenue and entered Central Park at the 102nd Street gate. He felt absolutely awful. It was early evening, and the joggers were out in force. He couldn’t get Orchid’s lovesick look out of his head. And now that Wu was dead—and his assignment had crashed and burned—he found himself replaying Glinn again and again in his mind, pulling out the medical file with a sorrowful look on his face. Arteriovenous malformation. The more he thought about it, the less probable it seemed: this mysterious illness that would just happen to strike him dead in a year with no warning, no treatment, no symptoms, nothing. It smelled phony, smacking of psychological manipulation. Glinn seemed the type to tell any kind of fantastic story if it got him what he wanted. Gideon walked aimlessly, not knowing where he was going, cutting across the baseball diamonds, heading west.

  This is crazy, he thought, just forget about Orchid and the file and move on. Focus on the problem. But he couldn’t forget. He pulled out a new cell phone he’d bought—​a cheapie with preloaded minutes—​and called Tom O’Brien as he walked.

  “Yo” came the abrasive voice after an inordinate number of rings.

  “Gideon here. What news?”

  “Jeez, you told me I’d have twenty-four hours.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, the credit card and passport are just that. No hidden data. The cell phone’s the same. It’s a brand-new SIM card
phone, probably just purchased.”

  “Damn.”

  “All that’s left on it are the contacts you already got, a few recent calls—and that’s it. No other hidden data, no secret microchips, nothing.”

  “What about the string of numbers I gave you?”

  “Those are a lot more interesting. I’m still working on them.”

  Gideon turned south. It was now dusk, and the park was emptying.

  “Interesting why?”

  “Like I told you before, lot of patterns in here.”

  “Such as?”

  “Repeated numbers, rows of decreasing numbers, stuff like that. Right now it’s hard to say what they mean. I just started in on them. It’s definitely not code.”

  Central Park Reservoir loomed ahead, and he stepped onto the jogging path. The water lay dark and still. Far to the south, over the tops of the trees, Gideon could see the skyline of Midtown, the lights in the buildings glowing against the fading sky.

  “How do you know?”

  “Any decent code yields a string of numbers that look random. They aren’t, of course, but all the mathematical tests for randomness will show that they are. In this case, even the simplest test shows they’re not random.”

  “Test? Such as?”

  “Tallying up the digits. A truly random string has roughly ten percent zeros, ten percent ones, et cetera. This one is way heavy on the zeros and ones.”

  There was a silence. Gideon took a deep breath and tried to speak casually. “And the CT scans I gave you?”

  “Oh yeah. I passed them along to a doctor like you asked.”

  “And?”

  “I was supposed to call him this afternoon. I forgot.”

  “Right,” said Gideon.

  “I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

  “You do that,” said Gideon. “Thanks.” He wiped his brow. He felt like shit.

  And then all of a sudden—for the second time that day—he had the distinct impression he was being followed. He looked around. It was almost dark, and he was in the middle of the park.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” asked O’Brien.

  Gideon realized he hadn’t hung up. “Yeah. Listen, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow.”