Gideon’s Sword gc-1

by Douglas Preston

  “I promise I’ll call you!” he cried, but it was too late and the train was gone.

  47

  Gideon drove moodily through the midafternoon Jersey traffic. He’d crossed over through the Holland Tunnel, then pointed the rented Chevy northward through the old, tired urban tangle, one town blending seamlessly with another: Kearny, North Arlington, Rutherford, Lodi. The streets all looked the same—​narrow, busy, dense with three- and four-story brick buildings, their shopfronts dingy, heavy clusters of telephone wires hanging claustrophobically overhead. Now and then, through the urban accretion, he could catch glimpses of what had once been a downtown: the marquee of a movie theater, now disused; the plate-glass window of an erstwhile soda joint. Fifty or sixty years ago, these places had been separate little towns, bright and sparkling, full of bobby soxers and guys with derbies and ducktails. Now they were just ghostly pentimentos beneath an endless procession of salumerias, mercados, discount stores, and cell phone shops.

  He crossed into Bergen County, passing through another half a dozen sad-looking towns. There were much faster ways to reach his destination, of course, but Gideon wanted to lose himself for a while in a mindless act such as driving. He was full of uncomfortable and unwelcome emotions: agitation at discovering Nodding Crane, shame and embarrassment at his treatment of Orchid. He told himself it was for her own good, for her protection; that she was better off not getting involved with a man who had a year to live. It didn’t make him feel any better. He had used her, used her cynically.

  As he drove farther north, toward the New York State line, the cramped streets grew broader and leafier, and the traffic eased. Residences became grander and farther apart. He glanced down at the sheet of paper he’d placed on the passenger seat. Biyu Liang, Bergen Dafa Center, Old Tappan, he’d scrawled on it. With the attendance records unwittingly supplied by Van Rensselaer, it had been a trivial undertaking to single out the Asian boy who’d been at JFK — Jie Liang — and from there to learn the identity of his mother. He didn’t know what a Dafa Center was, but that was the woman’s place of employment — and his destination.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into what to his surprise appeared to be an old estate: not huge, but well manicured, a large puddingstone mansion, a separate garage, and an adjoining gatehouse, the whole now converted into a small campus of sorts. A sign set back from the road read BERGEN DAFA CENTER.

  Gideon parked his car in the lot beside the main building and trotted up the steps to the twin doors, decorated with wrought-iron filigree. He stepped through into an ornate front hall that had been converted into a reception area. A tasteful sign on one wall read: FALUN GONG EXERCISES 3–5 WEEKDAYS, TEACHINGS WEEKNIGHTS 7–10. It was flanked by other signs covered with symbols and Chinese ideographs.

  A young Asian woman was seated behind a desk. She smiled as he approached.

  “May I help you?” she asked in unaccented English.

  Gideon smiled back. “I’d like to speak with Biyu Liang, please.”

  “She’s conducting a session at the moment,” the woman said, extending her hand toward an open door through which Gideon could hear a mixture of music and speech.

  “Thank you, I’ll wait for her to finish.”

  “Feel free to observe.”

  Gideon stepped past her and into a spacious room of Zen-like simplicity. A woman was leading a group of people in a series of slow exercises, all of them moving gently in unison to the hypnotic sound of five-tone music, tinkling bells, and percussion. The woman was apparently giving instructions in melodious Mandarin. He looked at her carefully. She was younger than the woman in the airport had been, but resembled her enough that he concluded the woman in the video had probably been the child’s grandmother.

  Gideon waited for the session to end. As he did so, he was increasingly struck by what he was seeing; there was something ineffable in the movements, something beautiful, almost universal. Falun Gong, he mused. He had heard of it, vaguely, and recalled it was some form of Buddhist practice from China. Clearly, he needed to learn more.

  The session continued for another ten minutes. As the group dispersed, chatting quietly, Gideon remained standing at the entrance, waiting. The woman who had been leading the session noticed him and came over. She was small with what could only be described as a round, shining face.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Gideon gave her a big smile. “My name’s Gideon Crew, and my son, Tyler, is entering Throckmorton Academy in the fall — we’ve just moved here from New Mexico. He’s going to be in your son Jie’s class.”

  “How nice,” she said, smiling. “Welcome.” They shook hands and she introduced herself.

  “He’s adopted,” Gideon continued, “from Korea. We just wanted to make sure he’d feel at home — he’s still having some difficulty with English — which is why my wife and I were pleased to learn there would be other Asian children in the class. It’s hard to come into a new school in a new place. That’s why I was hoping to meet you and a few of the other parents.”

  “I’ll talk to Jie about your boy. Jie’s very kind and I know he’ll make a special effort to be friends with your son right away.”

  Gideon felt embarrassed. “Thank you, I know that will make a real difference.” He moved to leave but then, as if on impulse, he turned back. “I’m sorry if this is a bother. I couldn’t help but watch what was going on here while I was waiting to speak with you. I was struck by it, the music, the movements. What is it, exactly?”

  Her face lit up. “We are practitioners of Falun Gong — or, more properly, Falun Dafa.”

  “I’m very curious, and…well, I thought it was quite beautiful. What’s it for? Physical conditioning?”

  “That’s only a small part. It’s a total system of mind and body cultivation, a way to recapture your original, true self.”

  “Is it a religion?”

  “Oh no. It’s a new form of science. Although it does involve Buddhist and Taoist principles. You might call it a spiritual and mental path, as opposed to a religion.”

  “I’d like to learn more.”

  She responded warmly, with a well-rehearsed description. “Dafa practitioners are guided by universal principles: truthfulness, compassion, and restraint. We strive continuously to harmonize ourselves with these, through a series of five simple exercises and meditation. Over time, the exercises will transform your body and mind and connect you to the deepest and most profound truths of the universe — and in this way you eventually find the path of return to your true self.”

  This was clearly a topic dear to her heart. But in an odd way, Gideon found himself genuinely impressed. There might actually be something to this; he had felt it just listening and watching the movements. “Is it open to anyone?”

  “Of course. We welcome everyone. As you saw, we have all kinds of practitioners, from every walk of life and background — in fact, here most of our practitioners are Westerners. Would you like to join a session?”

  “I would. Is it expensive?”

  She laughed. “You can come, listen, do the exercises as long as you like. Most of our English-language sessions are in the evenings. If in the future you feel it is helping you, then of course we would welcome support for the center. But there are no fees.”

  “Does it originate in China?”

  At this, the woman hesitated “It’s connected to ancient Chinese traditions and beliefs. But it’s been suppressed in China.”

  This would be an extremely interesting thread to follow up on. But right now he had to find the older woman—​the grandmother. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” he said. “I’ll certainly join a session. Now, getting back to the school: they mentioned Jie had a grandmother he’s very close to.”

  “That might be my mother. She’s the founder of the Bergen Dafa Center.”

  “Ah. May I meet her?”

  Even as he asked it, he realized he had pushed a little too far. Her face lost a bit
of its openness. “I’m sorry, she’s working on other Dafa business and is no longer involved on a daily basis with the center.” She paused. “If I may ask, why would you want to meet her?”

  Gideon smiled. “Since they’re so close…and she takes him to school…well, I just thought it would be good to meet. But of course it’s not at all necessary…”

  Now he realized he had made another mistake. The woman’s expression grew a little chilly. “She never takes him to Throckmorton. I’m surprised the school even knows of her.” A pause. “I wonder how you know of her?”

  Sink me, Gideon thought ruefully. He should have shut up while he was ahead. “They mentioned her at the school…Perhaps Jie’s talked about her?”

  Her face softened just a bit. “Yes. I imagine he would.”

  “I don’t want to take up your time any longer,” said Gideon, backing off and giving her an innocent smile. “You’ve been most kind.”

  Mollified, she fetched him a brochure. “Here’s the schedule of introductory sessions. I hope to see you soon. And I’ll tell Jie about your son Tyler. Maybe we can have him over for a playdate before school begins in the fall.”

  “That would be most kind,” said Gideon, with a final farewell smile.

  48

  Orchid stepped out of the 51st Street deli and marched quickly down the sidewalk toward Park Avenue, opening the pack of cigarettes she’d just purchased and tossing the wrapper into the trash. Instead of going back to her apartment, she’d just walked the streets, her mind whirling. She was furious and determined. Gideon was just awful, a real bastard, but at the same time he was in desperate trouble. She realized that now. He needed help — and she would help him. She would save him from whatever was chasing him, tormenting him, driving him to do all these bizarre things.

  But how? How could she help?

  Swinging around the corner, she charged up Park Avenue. The uniformed doorman at the Waldorf opened the door for her as she swept in. She paused in the stupendous lobby, breathing hard. Finally getting herself under control, she went up to the reception desk and used the fake names they had registered under. “Has Mr. Tell returned? I’m Mrs. Tell.”

  “I’ll ring the room.” The receptionist placed the call, but no one answered.

  “I’ll wait in the lobby for him,” she said. He’d have to be back sometime — all his stuff was still here. She opened the pack of cigarettes and shook one out, stuck it between her lips.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tell, we don’t allow smoking in the lobby.”

  “I know, I know, I’m going outside.” She lit the cigarette on the way out, just to spite them. On the sidewalk in front of the hotel she paced back and forth, smoking furiously. When the cigarette was done she threw the butt on the sidewalk in front of the doorman, fished another out of her purse, and lit it. She could hear the faint sound of guitar music from that bum in front of Saint Bart’s. To kill time, she crossed the street to listen.

  The man, dressed in a thin shapeless trench coat, strummed on his guitar and sang. He was sitting cross-legged, plucking the strings with his fingerpicks. His case lay open beside him, and a number of crumpled bills lay within it.

  Meet me Jesus meet me

  Meet me in the middle of the air

  If these wings should fail me Lord

  Won’t you meet me with another pair

  This guy was pretty damn good. She couldn’t see his face — it was bowed over his old guitar and he wore a brown fedora — but she could hear his voice, kind of gravelly, full of sorrow and the hard life. She could identify with that. It made her feel sad and happy at the same time. On impulse, she reached into her bag, pulled out a dollar bill, dropped it in the case.

  He nodded, not interrupting his music.

  Jesus gonna make up

  Jesus gonna make up

  Jesus gonna make up my dyin’ bed

  The last mournful chord sounded and the song was over. He laid the guitar aside and raised his head.

  She was surprised to see he was Asian, and young, quite handsome, his face lacking the usual signs of alcoholism or drug addiction, his eyes clear and deep. In fact, despite the shabby outfit, her own street instincts told her he wasn’t a street person at all — probably a serious musician. The raggedy clothes and filthy old fedora were for show.

  “Hey, you’re pretty good, you know that?” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Where’d you learn to play like that?”

  “I’m a disciple of the Blues,” he said. “I live the Blues.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes I feel that way myself.”

  He gazed at her until she began to flush. He then began to collect the pile of money from his guitar case, stuffed it in his pocket, and put away his guitar. “Done for the day,” he said. “I’m going to grab a cup of tea at the Starbucks around the corner. Would you care to accompany me?”

  Would you care to accompany me? This guy was a student at Juilliard, probably, out here paying his dues, living the life. Yes, that had to be it. His formal way of asking pleased her, and she liked his semi-undercover shtick. Part of her was still mad at Gideon. She hoped he would see them together; that would teach him a lesson.

  “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

  49

  Nodding Crane sat at the little table, sipping green tea and listening to the woman talk. This opportunity had been dropped right in his lap, and he knew exactly how to exploit it, to flush Crew out, to destabilize him, to throw him back on the defensive.

  A marvelous opportunity, actually.

  “You went by earlier today,” he said. “I noticed you immediately.”

  “Oh well, yes, I did.”

  “You were with a man — your husband?”

  She laughed. “He’s just a friend.” She leaned forward. “And you. You’re no street person — am I right?”

  Nodding Crane remained very still.

  “You don’t fool me.” She winked. “Although, I must say, it’s a pretty good act.”

  He sipped his tea as if nothing had happened. Inside, he was deeply perturbed. “A friend? Your boyfriend?”

  “Well, not really. He’s kind of a weird guy, actually.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Said he was an actor, a producer. He gets dressed up in wild costumes, goes out and pretends to be someone else, drags me along. Totally crazy. He said he was a Method actor but I think he’s in some kind of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I wish I knew! I’d like to help him, but he won’t let me. He dragged me up to Riverdale to this really tony private school. We pretended to be parents of some genius kid and he stole some papers from the school — God only knows why. And we did this crazy room switch at the Waldorf in the middle of the night.”

  “How strange.”

  “Yeah, and then we went to visit this friend of his in the hospital and it turned out the guy had died.”

  Nodding Crane sipped his tea. “Sounds to me like he might be involved in some sort of illegal activity.”

  “I don’t know. He seems pretty honest. I just can’t figure it out.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  The girl shrugged. “He, like, abandoned me on the subway, just jumped out, said he’d call me later. He’ll be back. All our stuff is in the room.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Yeah. He carries around a suitcase full of disguises. And one of those hard cases, all locked up. No idea what’s in that one, he guards it pretty carefully.”

  “A hard case? In the room?”

  “Hard molded plastic. He keeps it locked up in the Waldorf’s baggage room.”

  She chattered on, oblivious. When Nodding Crane had gotten out of her all the important information he needed, he brought the subject back to himself. “You implied you thought I was in disguise. What did you mean?”

  “Come on. Look at you.” She laughed, teasing him. “I know who you really are.”

  He rose and checked his
watch. “It’s almost time for vespers at Saint Bart’s.”

  “What? You’re going to church?”

  “I go to hear the music — I love the Gregorian chants.”

  “Oh.”

  “Would you care to come with me?”

  Orchid hesitated. “Well…sure. But don’t think this is a date.”

  “Of course not. I would enjoy your company. As a friend.”

  “All right, why not?”

  A moment later they had entered the church. The doors were unlocked but the sanctuary was empty and, in the gathering twilight outside, it was dark.

  “Where’s the music?” she asked. “Nobody’s here.”

  “We’re a little early,” said Nodding Crane. He took her arm and gently led her down the aisle into the darkest of the choir stalls near the front. “We can get a good seat here.”

  “Okay.” There was a doubtful sound in her voice.

  Nodding Crane had kept his right hand buried in his coat pocket. The picks were still on his fingers. As they entered the shadowy chancel, he slipped his hand from the pocket.

  “I can hear your fingerpicks clicking away,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m always hearing music. I’m always hearing the Blues.” He raised his hand, his fingers waving before her face, the picks gleaming faintly in the dim light, and began to sing ever so softly.

  In my time of dyin’

  Don’t want nobody to mourn

  All I want for you to do

  Is to take my body home

  50

  Gideon left the center, but instead of returning to his car he strolled across the campus lawn toward the gatehouse of the old estate, now clearly a small private residence. Some sixth sense told him it was the house of an orderly old woman — with its neat brick walkway, the tiny flower beds flanking the door, the lace curtains and unusual ornaments visible through the windows.