Gideon’s Sword gc-1

by Douglas Preston

  Gideon was about to make a sarcastic quip, but the look in Glinn’s eye deterred him.

  “For two years,” Glinn went on, “US intelligence has been aware of a mysterious project going on in an underground compound inside the Lop Nor nuclear testing zone in far western China. Staggering amounts of money and scientific talent have been devoted to this effort. The CIA believes they’re developing a new weapon, a kind of Chinese Manhattan Project, something that would change the balance of power completely.”

  Gideon stared. “More destructive than the H-Bomb?”

  “Yes, that’s the information we have. But now, one of the project’s chief scientists seems to have stolen the plans and is on his way to the United States. Why? We don’t know. We hope he might be defecting to the US with the plans for that weapon, but we can’t be sure.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Apparently, he was the victim of a successful honey trap at a scientific convention in Hong Kong.”

  “Honey trap?”

  “Surely you’ve heard the term. An attractive woman is employed to get the target in a compromising position, pictures are taken, pressure is then applied…But this honey trap went awry and triggered the man’s panicked flight from China.”

  “Right. I get it. So when is this scientist supposed to arrive?”

  “He’s on his way now. The man’s on a Japan Airlines flight to New York from Hong Kong. He changed planes in Tokyo nine hours ago and will land at JFK at eleven ten PM — that’s in four hours.”

  “Jesus. Okay.”

  “Your assignment is simple: tail the man from the airport and, as soon as possible, take those plans away from him and bring them here.”

  “How?”

  “That’s for you to figure out.”

  “In four hours?”

  Glinn nodded. “We don’t know what format the plans are in or where they’re hidden. They could be computer code in his laptop, hidden in a steganographic image, on a flash drive in his suitcase, or on an old-fashioned roll of film, for all we know.”

  “This is a crazy assignment. Nobody could pull this off.”

  “It is true that few could do this. That’s why we’ve reached out to you, Dr. Crew.”

  “You’re kidding — right? I’ve never done anything like this before. My work at Los Alamos is in HE. No doubt you’ve got dozens of better-qualified people downstairs.”

  “As it happens, you are uniquely suited to this assignment. For two reasons. First is your former career.”

  “What career would that be?”

  “As a thief. Robbing art museums.”

  There was a sudden, freezing silence.

  “Not the bigger museums, of course. The small private ones, generally, with less sophisticated intrusion-​detection systems and lower-profile artwork.”

  “I think you need to up your medication,” Gideon said in a low voice. “I’m no art thief. I don’t have even the slightest criminal record.”

  “Which shows just how good you were. Such skills can be very valuable. Of course, you dropped this profession when a new and overriding interest came into your life. And with that we get to the second reason. You see, we followed with great interest your deft little operation against General Chamblee S. Tucker.”

  Gideon tried to recover from this second surprise. He mustered up his most puzzled look. “Operation? Tucker went nuts and attacked me and one of his employees in his house.”

  “So everyone thinks. I know better. I know that you spent the last ten years improving yourself, finishing college and getting your doctorate at MIT, all the while looking for a way to bring Tucker down and vindicate your father. I know how you managed to ‘liberate’ that top-secret document from the Directorate of Information Management, and how you used it to get at Tucker. He was a powerful man, and he had protected himself well. You showed enormous and varied skills setting up that operation, and then great self-possession in the aftermath of the shooting. You spun the business just right. Nobody doubted for a moment your narrative, even as you vindicated your father.”

  Gideon felt sick. So this was what it was all about: blackmail. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come, come. Your secret is safe with me regardless. We ourselves were looking for the best way to bring Tucker down. For a special client of ours, naturally. You saved us the trouble. And that’s how you came to our attention.”

  Gideon could think of nothing to say.

  “Earlier you asked me: why you? The fact is, we know everything about you, Dr. Crew. And not just your burglary skills or run-in with General Tucker. We know about your difficult childhood. About your work at Los Alamos. About your proclivity for gourmet cooking. Your fondness for Hawaiian shirts and cashmere sweaters. Your taste in jazz. Your weakness for alcohol. And — when under the influence — women. The only thing we haven’t been able to learn is how you lost the top joint of your right ring finger.” He raised the brow of his good eye quizzically.

  Gideon flushed with anger, took a few deep breaths, and got himself under control.

  “If you won’t answer that, perhaps you’ll answer something else: did you plan to turn Dajkovic from the beginning?”

  Again Gideon said nothing. It was unbelievable, incredible.

  “You have my word whatever you say will stay within these walls. We are, as you might imagine, rather good at keeping secrets.”

  Gideon hesitated. The truth was, Glinn had him by the short hairs. But he sensed, behind the hard, blank façade, that the man was truthful. “All right,” he finally said. “The whole thing was planned from beginning to end. I set up the ambush knowing Tucker wouldn’t come himself—​the man was a coward. I’d studied his company and the people who worked for him. I figured he’d send Dajkovic, who was fundamentally a decent guy. I knew I could catch him and hoped I could turn him. It worked. We finished the…operation together.”

  Glinn nodded. “As I thought. A masterpiece of social engineering on many levels. But you made one mistake. What was it?”

  “I forgot to check his boot for that damn knife.”

  Finally Glinn smiled, and for the first time his face seemed to be almost human. “Excellent. But the operation ended rather messily. Dajkovic got shot. How did that happen?”

  “Tucker was no dummy. He realized Dajkovic was lying.”

  “How?”

  “Dajkovic failed to share a drink with him. We think that’s what tipped Tucker off.”

  “Then that was Dajkovic’s mistake, not yours. I proved my point. You made only one mistake in that whole operation. I’ve never seen anything quite like what you did. You’re definitely the man for this job.”

  “I had ten years to figure out how to take down Tucker. You’re giving me four hours for this one.”

  “This is a far simpler problem.”

  “And if I fail?”

  “You won’t fail.”

  A silence. “Another thing: what are you going to do with this Chinese weapon? I’m not going to do anything to harm my country.”

  “The United States of America is, in fact, my client.”

  “Come on, they’d be using the FBI for a job like this — not hiring a firm like yours, no matter how specialized.”

  Glinn reached into his pocket and removed a card. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward Gideon with his finger.

  He peered at the card, emblazoned with a government logo. “The Director of National Intelligence?”

  “I would be dismayed if you believed anything I’m telling you. You can check it out for yourself. Call the Department of Homeland Security and ask to speak to this gentleman. He’ll confirm that we’re a DHS subcontractor doing legitimate and patriotic work for our country.”

  “I’d never get through to a guy like that.”

  “Use my name and you’ll be put through directly.”

  Gideon did not pick up the card. He gazed at Glinn, and a silence built in the office. A hundred thousand
dollars. The money was nice but this job looked fraught with difficulties. Danger. And Glinn’s confidence in him was sadly misplaced.

  He shook his head. “Mr. Glinn, until a month ago my entire life was on hold. I had something I had to do. All my energy went into that one thing. Now I’m free. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I want to make friends, settle down, find someone, get married, have kids. I want to teach my son how to cast a dry fly. I’ve got all the time in the world now. This job of yours — well, it sounds dangerous as hell to me. I’ve taken enough risks for one lifetime. You understand? I’m not interested in your assignment.”

  An even longer silence enveloped the room.

  “Is that final?” Glinn asked.

  “Yes.”

  Glinn glanced at Garza and gave him a short nod. Garza reached into his briefcase, removed a file, and laid it on the table. It was a medical file, labeled with a red tab. Glinn opened it up to reveal a stack of X-rays, CT scans, and dense lab reports.

  “What’s this?” said Gideon. “Whose X-rays are those?”

  “Yours,” said Glinn, sorrowfully.

  14

  With a feeling of trepidation, Gideon reached over and took the file. The names had been cut out of the X-rays and scans, blacked out in the reports.

  “What the hell is this? Where did you get these?”

  “They came from the hospital where you were treated for your knife wound.”

  “What’s this supposed to mean?”

  “In the course of diagnosing and treating your injury, the usual tests were done: X-rays, MRIs, and blood work. Since you were suffering from a concussion, among other things, some of this work focused on your head. And the doctors made what is known as an incidental finding. They diagnosed you with an arteriovenous malformation — specifically, a condition known as a ‘vein of Galen aneurysmal malformation.’”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “It’s an abnormal tangle of arteries and veins in the brain involving the great cerebral vein of Galen. It’s usually congenital, and usually asymptomatic until the age of twenty or so. And then it, ah, makes its presence known.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  “Very.”

  “What’s the treatment?”

  “In your case, the AVM is in the Circle of Willis, deep in the brain. It’s inoperable. And invariably fatal.”

  “Fatal? How? When?”

  “In your case, the best estimate is that you have about a year.”

  “A year?” Gideon’s head spun. “A year?” He choked trying to get the next question out, and swallowed. Bile rose in his throat.

  Glinn continued matter-of-factly, his voice neutral. “To speak in more precise statistical terms, your chances of survival twelve months from now are about fifty percent; eighteen months, thirty percent; two years, less than five percent. The end typically comes very fast, with little or no warning. There’s typically no impairment or symptoms until that time, nor does the condition require any sort of physical or dietary restriction. In other words, you will live a normal life for about a year — and then you will die very, very quickly. The condition is incurable and in your case, as I said, there is no treatment whatsoever. It’s just one of those terrible finalities.”

  Gideon stared at Glinn. This was monstrous. He felt a rage take hold, almost ungovernable. He leapt to his feet. “What is this, blackmail? If you sons of bitches think that’s the way to get me to do your bidding, you’re brainless.” He stared at the file. “It’s bullshit. Some sort of scam. If all that was true, they would’ve told me in the hospital. I don’t even know if these X-rays belong to me.”

  Still speaking mildly, Glinn said, “We asked the hospital not to tell you; that it was a matter of national security. We wanted to get a second opinion. We passed the file along to Dr. Morton Stall at Mass General in Boston. He’s the world’s expert on AVMs. He confirmed both the diagnosis and the prognosis. Believe me, we were almost as shocked and dismayed to learn this as you are. We had big plans for you.”

  “What’s the point of telling me this now?”

  “Dr. Crew,” said Glinn, a kindly note in his voice, “trust me when I say that our sympathies are very much with you.”

  Gideon stared at him, breathing hard. It was some ploy, or a mistake. “I just don’t believe it.”

  “We looked into your condition with all the means at our disposal. We had been planning to hire you, offer you a permanent position here. This horrible diagnosis put us in a bind, and we were debating what to do. Then the news came in about Wu. This is a national security emergency of the highest order. You’re the only one we know who could pull this off, especially on such short notice. That’s why we’re laying this on you now, all at once — and for that I am truly sorry.”

  Gideon passed a shaking hand over his forehead. “Your timing really sucks.”

  “The timing is never right for a terminal illness.”

  All his anger seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it had come. The horror of it made him sick. All the time he’d wasted…

  “In the end, we had no choice. This is an emergency. We don’t know precisely what Wu is up to. We can’t miss this opportunity. If you decline, the FBI will jump in with their own op, which they’ve been eagerly pushing, and I can tell you it will be a disaster. You’ve got to decide, Gideon, in the next ten minutes, and I hope to God you will say yes.”

  “This is fucked up. I can’t believe it.”

  Silence. Gideon rose, walked to the frosted window. He turned. “I resent this. I resent the way you dragged me here, laid all this shit on me — and then have the gall to ask me to work for you.”

  “This is not the way I would have wished it.”

  “One year?” he asked. “That’s it? One fucking year?”

  “In the file is a survival graph of the illness. It’s a matter of cold probabilities. It could be six months, a year, two on the outside.”

  “And there are no treatments at all?”

  “None.”

  “I need a drink. Scotch.”

  Garza pressed a button, and a wood panel slid to one side. A moment later a drink was laid on the table in front of Gideon.

  He reached down, grasped it, took a slug, then another. He waited, feeling the numbing creep in his system. It didn’t help.

  Glinn spoke quietly. “You could spend your last year amusing yourself, living life to the fullest, cramming it in till the end. Or you could spend it in another way — working for your country. All I can do is offer you the choice.”

  Gideon drained the glass.

  “Another?” Garza asked.

  Gideon waved his hand in a no.

  “You could do this one job for us,” said Glinn. “One week. Then decide. You’ll at least be able to walk away with enough money to live out your time in relative comfort.”

  There was a pause. Gideon looked from the file, to Glinn, then back to the file.

  “All right, Christ, I’ll take the assignment.” Gideon swept up the medical file. Then he looked once more at Glinn. “Just one thing. I’m going to take this with me and have it checked out. If it’s bullshit, I’m coming after you, personally.”

  “Very well,” said Glinn, sliding a second folder toward him. “Here is information about your assignment. In there, you’ll find background information on and photographs of your target. His name is Wu Longwei, but he also calls himself Mark Wu. The adoption of a Western name is a common practice among Chinese professionals.” He leaned back. “Manuel?”

  Garza stepped forward and laid a heavy brick of hundred-​dollar bills on the table with one hand, and a Colt Python with the other.

  “The money will cover your incidental expenses,” said Glinn. “You know how to use that firearm?”

  Gideon scooped up the money and hefted the Python. “I would have preferred the satin stainless finish.”

  “You will find the royal blue is better for night work,” said Glinn drily. “You must not, u
nder any circumstances or for any reason whatsoever, try to make contact with us during the operation. If contact is necessary, we will find you. Understood?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “An inquiring mind is an admirable quality,” said Glinn. “Mr. Garza, please show Dr. Crew out the back way. There’s no time to waste.”

  As they headed toward the door, Glinn added: “Thank you, Gideon. Thank you very much.”

  15

  Gideon eased the stretch limo into an illegal space behind the taxi queue at the Terminal 1 arrivals level. He was still thinking about his call to the Department of Homeland Security, which he’d made from a pay phone as soon as he’d left EES. Avoiding the number on the business card, he’d called the general number, got some lowly operator, dropped Glinn’s name — and was immediately put through on a secure line to the director himself. Ten astonishing minutes later, he hung up, still wondering how in the world, out of everyone, they had picked him for this crazy assignment. The director would only repeat: We have complete faith and trust in Mr. Glinn. He has never failed us.

  He shook off these thoughts, and then tried — less successfully — to shake off the far darker ones related to his health. There would be time for that later. Right now, he had to stay focused on one thing: the immediate problem at hand.

  It was almost midnight, but Kennedy airport was frantically busy with the last wave of flights arriving from the Far East. As he idled at the curb, he saw two TSA officers staring at him. They strode over, scowls on their self-important faces.

  He climbed out of the limo, his dark suit itchy in the sticky summer night, and favored them with an arrogant smirk.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” said the first cop, small, thin, and aggressive as a ferret. He whipped out his ticket book. “The limo waiting area’s over there!” He gestured sharply, the leaves of the ticket book trembling with his irritation.

  The second cop arrived huffing, and he was a big one. Big and slow. “What’s going on?” he asked, already apparently confused.

  Gideon folded his long arms, propped a foot up on the fender, and gave the big one an easy smile. “Officer Costello, I presume?”