Gideon’s Sword

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

  “Yes, but her grandson Jie will be in my son’s class—”

  “You will come with us.”

  As they started moving away, Gideon noticed that he was being taken, not to his car, but toward a small metal door in the side of the mansion. An unpleasant memory flashed through his head: waking up in a Hong Kong hotel, his bed surrounded by Chinese agents.

  “Hey, wait a second—” He struggled, dug his heels into the ground. The two men stopped, tightened their grip, then began dragging him toward the door.

  A voice sounded from the small house. The two stopped. Gideon turned to see an elderly Chinese woman on the steps of the gatehouse, gesturing at the guards with a withered hand. She said something in Mandarin.

  After a moment, the guards reluctantly loosened their grasp. First one took a step away, then the other.

  “Come in,” said the old woman, gesturing. “Come in, now.”

  Gideon glanced from the guards to the woman, and wasted no time in complying. She ushered him inside, leading him into the parlor.

  “Please. Sit down. Tea?”

  “Yes, please,” said Gideon, rubbing his arms where the guards had held him.

  A servant appeared in the door. Madame Chung spoke to him briefly, and he withdrew once again.

  “Forgive my guardians,” she said. “Life is rather dangerous for me right now.”

  “Why is that?” Gideon asked.

  The woman merely smiled in reply.

  The servant returned with a small, cast-iron teapot and two diminutive round china cups. As she poured out the tea, Gideon took the opportunity to scrutinize her. She was indeed the old woman in the security video—he felt a kind of awe in her presence, thinking of the long and strange journey of discovery that had brought him to this place. And yet, in person, she seemed very different. There was a kind of life energy that the grainy airport video had been unable to capture. He didn’t think he had ever met a livelier or more vigorous elderly person in his life. She was like a bright-eyed bird, alert, quick, joyful.

  She handed him one of the cups, then—settling in the chair opposite him—she folded her hands on her knees and looked at him so intently, he almost blushed. “I see you have something you want to ask me,” she said.

  Gideon didn’t answer right away. His mind started to race. He had worked up several stories, of course, several possible phony scenarios, for extracting the information from her. But sitting opposite Madame Chung like this, now, face-to-face, he realized that she was not one to be taken in. By anything. All his careful constructs, his machinations, his ploys and stratagems and cons were—​quite suddenly—​emasculated. He was strangely afraid; he didn’t know what to say. He frantically cast about for a better story, a better concatenation of lies and half-truths to tell her, realizing even as he did so that it was a hopeless effort.

  “Just tell me the truth,” she said, with a smile, as if reading his mind.

  “I…” He couldn’t go on. If he told her the truth, all would be lost. And now he did blush, coloring in confusion.

  “Let me ask you some questions, then.”

  “Yes, thank you,” he said with enormous relief.

  “Your name?”

  “Gideon Crew.”

  “Where are you from and what do you do?”

  He hesitated, again casting about for a suitable lie, but for perhaps the first time in his life he came up blank. “I live in New Mexico and work at Los Alamos National Lab.”

  “Your place of birth?”

  “Claremont, California.”

  “And your parents?”

  “Melvin and Doris Crew. Both gone.”

  “And your reason for being here?”

  “My son Tyler will be in Jie’s class at Throckmorton this fall—”

  She folded her hands. “I’m sorry,” she gently interrupted, peering at him with her bright black eyes. “I think you’re a professional liar,” she said. “And you’ve just run out of lies. That’s what I think.”

  He had no answer.

  “So, as I said before, why not try the truth for a change? You might just get what you want.”

  He felt like he’d been backed into a corner by this old woman. There was no way to turn, he was unable to escape. How had this happened?

  She waited, hands folded, smiling.

  What the hell. “I’m a…a sort of special operative,” he said.

  Her carefully painted eyebrows went up.

  He took a deep, shuddering breath. He could latch on to nothing save the truth, and in an odd way he felt relieved. “My assignment is to find out what Mark Wu was bringing into this country and to get it.”

  “Mark Wu. Yes, that makes sense. Who do you work for?”

  “I work for the United States. Indirectly.”

  “And where do I fit in?” the old woman asked.

  “You gave something to Mark Wu at the airport, just before he got into a car and was chased down and killed. I want to know what you gave him. Beyond that, I’d like to know if he really was carrying plans for a new weapon, what that weapon is, and where those plans are now.”

  She nodded very slowly. She took a sip of tea, replaced the cup. “Are you left-handed or right-handed?”

  Gideon frowned. “Left-handed.”

  She nodded again, as if this explained quite a bit. “Please extend your left hand.”

  After a moment, Gideon complied. The woman took it gently with her right. For a moment, Gideon was aware only of the feel of her dry, withered skin against his. Then he almost cried out in surprise and dismay. Her hand seemed to be burning his own.

  He jerked in his chair, and she released her grip.

  “I will try to answer all your questions,” she said, hands once again folded on her knees. “Even though you are a professional liar, that is evidently part of your job. I see—I sense—that you are at heart a good person. And I think that by helping you, we can help ourselves.”

  She took another sip of tea.

  “Mark Wu was a scientist working on a secret project in China. He was also a devotee of Falun Dafa.” She nodded slowly, several times, letting the silence build. “As you may or may not know, Falun Dafa has been brutally suppressed in China. For this reason, Dafa has had to go underground in China. Deep underground.”

  “Why have the Chinese done this?”

  “Because we pose a threat to their monopoly on power. China has a long history of empires being brought down by charismatic spiritual movements. They are right to be afraid. Because Dafa not only challenges their assumptions about communism and totalitarian rule—but also challenges their new notions about the value of materialism and unbridled capitalism.”

  “I see.” And Gideon did in fact see: here would be a prime motive for Wu’s defection. But then, what of the CIA honey trap?

  “Because of the persecution, Dafa adherents in China must practice underground, in secret. But we remain linked with our Chinese brethren. We are all in touch with one another. Dafa requires a communal spirit. The government tried to block our websites and silence us—but they failed.”

  “Is this why you said you’re in danger?”

  “It is part of the reason.” She smiled. “You’re not drinking your tea.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Gideon raised the cup, took a gulp.

  “Many Dafa adherents are scientists and computer engineers. We developed a powerful software program called Freegate. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

  “It rings a bell.”

  “We distributed it worldwide. It enables internet users from mainland China—and other countries—to view websites blocked by their governments. And it allows users to penetrate those firewalls certain governments use to block websites and social networking sites.”

  Listening, Gideon took a more careful sip, found it excellent.

  “Freegate servers disguise true IP addresses, so people can roam freely online. Right here at the Bergen Dafa Center, we have a massive Freegate server cluster. There are
other locations across the world.”

  Gideon finished his tea. “What does this have to do with Mark Wu?”

  “Everything. You see, Mark Wu was bringing us a secret from China. A huge, huge secret.”

  “Us? You mean, Falun Gong?”

  She nodded. “It was all in place. He was going to pass it to us, and we were going to put it on our Freegate servers. We were going to broadcast this secret to the entire world.”

  Gideon swallowed. “So. What is this huge secret?”

  She smiled again. “We don’t know.”

  “What do you mean? How could you not know? I don’t believe you.” The words tumbled out before he could stop himself.

  Madame Chung let this pass. “Wu couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell us. Our job was to disseminate the information. That’s all.”

  “And it was a super-weapon?”

  “Perhaps. But I doubt it.”

  Gideon stared at her. “Why?”

  “Because that isn’t quite how Wu described it. He said it was a new technology that would allow China to conquer the world—to rule the world, I think he said. But we didn’t get the impression it was necessarily dangerous. Besides, I doubt he would have wanted the plans for a new weapon to be broadcast everywhere—that would put the information into the hands of terrorists.” She paused. “How unfortunate they murdered him first.”

  “If he had the plans with him, where are they now?”

  “We don’t know that, either. He was very secretive.”

  “Surely he must have indicated to you where and when he’d pass you the plans.”

  “We took the precaution of choosing which person should take possession. One of our technical contacts, Roger Marion, was to pick them up at a hotel room. We passed him Roger’s name when he arrived at the airport.” She paused, as if recollecting. “During the negotiation process, Wu did say something odd. He said he would need a few moments in his room to extract the information.”

  “Extract? I don’t understand.”

  “He used the Chinese phrase cai jian, which means ‘to extract or cut out.’ I had the impression the information was buried in something and that it had to be removed.”

  Immediately Gideon thought back to the dirty X-rays. Maybe Wu had placed the information inside his body. “Wu also had a list of numbers that he’d memorized. What were those?”

  She looked at him. “How do you know about the list of numbers?”

  For a moment, Gideon held his breath. “Because I followed him from the airport. I saw his cab get rammed by the SUV. I dragged him free. He thought I was Roger Marion, he told me the numbers. I tried to save him. I failed.”

  There was a lengthy silence. Finally, the old woman spoke again.

  “We don’t know what the numbers mean, either. All he told us was the numbers had to be combined with the thing he was bringing to us. The two had to be put together for the secret to be complete. One without the other wouldn’t work—both were necessary. It was his way of protecting the secret. He was to give them both to Roger.”

  “And you did all this for Wu—just on the basis of his assurances, without knowing what it was?

  “Dr. Wu was a very advanced Dafa practitioner. His judgment was completely sound.”

  He was close—very close, maddeningly close. “How did he describe this secret information? Was it a set of plans, a microchip—what?”

  “He referred to it as an object. A thing.”

  “Thing?”

  “He used the word wù, which means ‘thing, object, solid matter.’ It’s also the Chinese word for ‘physics.’ Not the same word as his name, by the way. It’s pronounced wù, with the lower tone.”

  Again Gideon’s thoughts returned to the X-rays of Wu’s lower body. They showed his crushed legs full of bits and pieces of metal and plastic from the accident. He had looked carefully over all those specks and marks—but could he have missed something? Could one of those irregular spots have been the object? He’d been looking for a set of plans, a microchip, a micro-canister. But it might have been something else entirely. Maybe it was a piece of metal.

  A piece of metal…

  O’Brien had said his physicist friend, Epstein, told him the numbers looked like a metallurgical formula. That was it. That was it.

  “You have to understand,” said Madame Chung. “Dr. Wu wasn’t planning to defect to the United States or anything like that. He’s a loyal and faithful citizen of China. But as a scientist, he felt in this case he had a moral imperative. His intention was for us to broadcast this great secret to the entire world, through our servers, in such a way that it could never be hidden again. It was to be a gift, you see—a gift to the world. From us.”

  So Mindy was wrong about his motives, Gideon thought. But he had more important concerns at the moment. His mind was racing. Wu’s legs were full of metal, and his body was still in the morgue. Waiting for him, as next of kin, to claim. Good God, all he had to do was go down there and cut it out.

  But first he had to get the X-rays and figure which piece of metal to cut out. He needed to visit Tom O’Brien first, and his friend the physicist.

  He found Madame Chung staring at him. “Mr. Crew,” she said. “You realize that when you retrieve whatever it is Dr. Wu was bringing us, you’ll have to bring it back to me.”

  He stared back at her.

  “You do realize that, don’t you? It is an obligation you cannot escape.” And her musical voice cheerfully emphasized these final words as she gave him another bright smile.

  51

  Gideon Crew arrived back at the Waldorf around eleven in the evening, slipping in via the staff entrance and avoiding Saint Bart’s, where he feared Nodding Crane might still be waiting with his guitar. Thinking about it on his drive back from New Jersey, he realized that, from the steps of Saint Bart’s, Nodding Crane had a clear view of the windows of both his rooms, as well as both the main hotel entrance and the 51st Street entrance. Gideon couldn’t be sure the man knew of both rooms—but he had to assume he did. Nodding Crane had picked his location well.

  Cursing his stupidity, Gideon punched the button for one of the service elevators and rode it up to the floor of his backup room. Once there, he carefully slipped in, not turning on the light in case Nodding Crane was still watching from below. Then again, maybe the man was waiting for him in the room. Gideon paused, listening. For the first time, he wished he hadn’t lost his handgun in the river or, at least, had asked Garza for another.

  What unnerved him most about Nodding Crane wasn’t that the man had been tailing him so successfully. No—it was how damn good the man was on Blues guitar. Despite what Jackson had told him, he’d assumed Nodding Crane was a sort of Chinese contract killer, a caricature out of a kung fu movie, an expert in martial arts but unfamiliar with American culture, hobbled by his foreignness and lack of familiarity with the city. Now he realized these assumptions were false.

  Gideon shivered. The room was silent, the air still. At last, he moved toward the bed and pulled out the Pelican case from underneath. In the reflected light from the window it looked undisturbed. He dialed the combination and opened it, slid out the manila folder containing Wu’s X-rays and medical report, then closed and locked it again. He removed his coat, slid the folders under his shirt, put his coat back on.

  He momentarily thought of his own X-rays and CT scans, then forced the thought away. He would surely fail if he lost his focus now.

  A growing hubbub of sirens sounded on the street out front. Gideon sidled up to the window and peered out. Something was going on at Saint Bart’s. Several ambulances and a slew of cop cars had pulled up, blocking the northbound lanes of Park Avenue, and a crowd was growing. The cops were setting up barricades and pushing the crowd back. Nodding Crane and his guitar were nowhere to be seen, and it was likely that, with all the activity, he’d moved off. But he would still be around, watching—Gideon was certain of that.

  He slipped out of the room, easing the door shu
t behind him. The brightly lit hallway was quiet. He had to get up to see Tom O’Brien, and he had to do it in such a way as to make absolutely sure he wasn’t followed. The subway trick was a pretty good one, but Nodding Crane might be ready for it a second time. And he was pretty sure Nodding Crane was wise to his disguises by now.

  He gave it some thought. The Waldorf had four exits, one on Park, one on Lex, and two on 51st Street. Nodding Crane could be watching any one of them. He might even have seen Gideon enter the hotel.

  Damn. How was he going to get up to Columbia?

  He had an idea. The crowd in front of Saint Bart’s just might, ironically enough, be a good place in which to lose a pursuer. He would find his opportunity in the crowd.

  He took the elevator downstairs, walked through the lobby, and exited through the main door.

  52

  Gideon walked briskly toward the crowd, which was now spilling into Park Avenue, blocking traffic. Amazing how in New York a crowd could develop at any time of the day or night. He glanced about again, but Nodding Crane was nowhere in sight—at least, not in any way that he recognized. He wasn’t surprised; he knew now he was dealing with an exceptionally clever adversary.

  He merged into the fringes of the crowd and began forcing his way through. If he could get to the other side fast enough, his pursuer—if there was one—would be forced to do the same. And that would render him visible.

  As he reached the middle of the crowd, there was a collective gasp. EMTs had appeared in the door of the church with a stretcher, wheeling it down the handicapped ramp. A body bag lay on it. Somebody had evidently died—and, given the large police presence, it would appear that somebody had been murdered.

  The crowd pressed forward with murmurs of excitement. Wheeling the body, the EMTs passed through the church park and down a temporary corridor through the crowd that had been cleared by barricades, making for a waiting ambulance. A perfect setup. Gideon pushed up to the barricades, vaulted them, sprinted across the open area, and ducked under the barricades on the far side, back into the crowd. A cop shouted at him, but the officials had more important things on their mind and let it go.