Текст книги "Gideon's Corpse"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“I’ll never give you the smallpox,” said Gideon, raising his own weapon and pointing it at Blaine. They stood there, weapons aimed at each other, as the soldiers approached. Gideon sensed that Blaine would not shoot him—any shot had the possibility of unleashing the smallpox. Which meant all he had to do was pull the trigger on Blaine.

And yet—even as his grip tightened on the weapon—he realized he could not do it. No matter what the stakes, even at the cost of his own life, he couldn’t bring himself to shoot Alida’s father. Especially since it was now futile.

“ Drop your weapons!” came the shout from the group of soldiers. “Disarm! Now! Get down on the ground!”

Gideon braced himself. It was all over.

There was a brief burst of gunfire; Gideon flinched, anticipating the impact—and yet the burst did not strike him. Quite abruptly, Blaine pitched face-forward onto the grass, where he lay unmoving, still clutching the Peacemaker.

“Drop your weapon!” came the shouted command.

Gideon held his arms out, letting the sidearm fall from his hand as the soldiers approached, warily, keeping him covered. One began to search him; he found the smallpox puck and gently removed it.

A lieutenant from the chopper crew came striding over. “Gideon Crew?”

Gideon nodded.

The officer turned to the troops. “He’s all right. He’s Fordyce’s partner.” He turned to Gideon. “Where is Agent Fordyce? In the Stryker?”

“They killed him,” said Gideon, dazed. He began to realize that, in addition to notifying Dart, Fordyce—with his belt-and-suspenders FBI mentality—must have notified others as well. These weren’t more conspirators—this was the cavalry, coming to the rescue a little late.

To his great shock, Gideon heard Blaine cough, then saw the old man rise to his hands and knees. Grunting and gasping, he started crawling toward them. “The…smallpox…,” he breathed. Blood suddenly gushed from his mouth, stopping his speech, but still he crawled.

One of the soldiers raised his rifle.

“No,” said Gideon. “For God’s sake, don’t.”

Blaine managed to raise himself a little higher, feebly trying to raise the Peacemaker, while they stared back in horror.

“Fools,” he gargled, then he pitched forward and lay still.

Sickened, Gideon turned his head.

76

The neurologist’s waiting room was done up in blond wood wainscoting, neat as a pin, with a rack of the day’s newspapers, a box of politically correct wooden toys, copies of Highlightsand Architectural Digest, and comfortable leather sofas and chairs complementing one another at the proper angles. A row of windows, with translucent curtains, allowed in a pleasingly diffuse natural light. A large Persian rug, dominating the floor, completed the picture of a prosperous and successful practice.

Despite the overactive air-conditioning, Gideon felt a stickiness in his palms as he nervously opened and closed his hands. He walked up to the receptionist’s window and gave his name.

“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.

“No,” said Gideon.

The woman examined her computer screen and said, “I’m sorry, but Dr. Metcalfe doesn’t have any openings today.”

Gideon remained standing. “But I need to see him. Please.”

For the first time the woman turned and looked at him. “What’s it about?”

“I want to get the results…of an MRI I had done recently. I tried calling, but you wouldn’t give them to me over the phone.”

“That’s right,” she said. “We don’t give any results over the phone—positive or negative. It doesn’t necessarily mean there’s a problem.” She perused the computer screen. “I see you missed an appointment… We could schedule you for tomorrow morning, how’s that?”

“Please help me to see the doctor now.”

She leveled a not unsympathetic gaze at him. “Let me see what I can do.” She rose and disappeared into an inner warren of offices. A moment later she came out. “Through the door, a right, and a left. Examination Room Two.”

Gideon followed the instructions and entered the room. A nurse appeared with a clipboard and a cheerful good morning, seated him on the exam table, took his blood pressure and pulse. As she was finishing up, a large figure in a white lab coat appeared in the doorway. The nurse bustled along, handed the figure the clipboard, and vanished.

The doctor entered, a grave smile on his kindly face, his halo of curly hair highlighted from behind by the bright morning sun that streamed in the window. It made him look curiously like a large, jolly angel.

“Good morning, Gideon.” He grasped his hand, giving it a warm, brief shake. “Have a seat.”

Gideon, who had stood up when the doctor entered, sat down again. The doctor remained standing.

“I have here the results of the cranial MRI we performed seven days ago.”

From the tone in the neurologist’s voice, Gideon knew immediately what the man was going to say. He felt himself in the grip of a fight-or-flight reaction, his heart pounding, his blood racing, his muscles tensing up. He struggled to calm his body.

Dr. Metcalfe paused, then eased himself down onto a corner of the table. “The results of the test show a growth of blood vessels in the brain we call an AVM, or arteriovenous malformation—”

Gideon rose abruptly. “That’s it. That’s all I needed to know. Thank you.” He started for the door but was arrested by the doctor, who placed a gentle hand on Gideon’s arm to steady him.

“I gather, then, that I’m your second opinion and you already knew about this?”

“Yes,” said Gideon. He wanted nothing more than to head for the door.

“Very well. I believe, however, you could benefit from hearing what I have to say, if you’re willing to listen.”

Gideon remained standing. With effort, he overcame his impulse to run. “Just say it then. Don’t dress it up. And spare me the expressions of sympathy.”

“Very well. Your AVM involves the great cerebral vein of Galen and it is both congenital and inoperable. This type of malformation tends to grow with time, and the indications are that yours is growing. An abnormal, direct connection between the high-pressure artery and the low-pressure vein is causing the steady dilation of the vein and enlargement of the AVM in general. In addition, part of the AVM involves a venous anomaly downstream, which appears to be constricting blood flow, leading to further dilation of the vein.”

He paused. “Are my descriptions too technical?”

“No,” said Gideon. In a way, the technical terminology removed some of the horror. Even so, the idea that this was going on in his brain made him sick.

“The prognosis is not good. I would estimate you have six months to two years to live—with the most probable mortality rate being somewhere around a year or slightly less. On the other hand, the annals of medical history are sprinkled with miracles. No one can say for sure what the future will bring.”

“But the survival rate after, say, five years is…what?”

“Vanishingly small. But not zero.” The doctor hesitated. “There is a way for us to know more.”

“I’m not sure I want to know more.”

“Understandable. But there’s a procedure known as a cerebral angiography, which would tell us a great deal more about your situation. We insert a catheter into the femoral artery in the groin area and thread it up to the carotid artery in the neck. There we release a dye, or blocking agent. As it spreads through the brain, we take a series of radiographs. This allows us to map the AVM. It would tell us more accurately how much time you have…and, perhaps, show us how we might ameliorate it.”

“Ameliorate it? How?”

“Through surgery. We can’t take out the AVM, but there are other surgical options. One can work around the edges, so to speak.”

“Which would do what?”

“Possibly prolong your life.”

“By how much?”

“It depends on how fast the vein is dilating. A few months, perhaps a year.”

This led to a long silence.

“These procedures,” Gideon said at last. “Are there risks?”

“Significant risks. Particularly neurological. Operations like this have a ten to fifteen percent mortality rate, and an additional forty percent possibility of causing damage to the brain.”

Gideon looked the doctor in the eye. “Would you take those risks in my position?”

“No,” the doctor said without hesitation. “I wouldn’t want to live if my brain were compromised. I am not a gambler, and fifty-fifty odds are not attractive to me.” The neurologist returned Gideon’s gaze, his large brown eyes full of compassion. Gideon realized he was in the presence of a wise man, one of the few he had met in his short and relatively unhappy life.

“I don’t think the angiogram will be necessary,” Gideon said.

“I understand.”

“Is there anything I have to do in the meantime, any way I should alter my life?”

“Nothing. You can live a normal, active life. The end, when it comes, will probably be abrupt.” The doctor paused. “This isn’t really medical advice. But if I were you, I’d do the things that are really important to you. If it involves helping others, so much the better.”

“Thank you.”

The doctor gave his shoulder a squeeze and dropped his voice. “The only difference between you and the rest of us is that, while life is short for everyone, for you it’s just a bit shorter.”

77

Gideon turned off North Guadalupe Street, driving the Suburban through the ancient Spanish gate and onto the groomed white gravel entryway of the Santa Fe National Cemetery. A dozen or so cars were parked before the Administration Building and he pulled in beside them, then exited the vehicle and glanced around. It was a warm summer morning, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains dark green against a porcelain sky. The orderly rows of small white tombstones stretched ahead of him, running from the shade into brilliant light.

He walked east, his shoes crunching on the gravel. This was the older part of the cemetery—originally built for the Union soldiers who died in the Battle of Glorieta Pass—but he could see, through the pines and cedars, the distant newer section, climbing the low flanks of the nearby ridge, where the desert had been newly covered with turf and transformed into Technicolor green. Partway up the hill, he could make out a small group of people gathering around an open grave.

He gazed over the neatly ordered files of white crosses and stars of David. Before long, I’ll be in a place like this, and people will be gathering around my grave.This unexpected and unwanted thought was quickly followed by another, dreadful yet irresistible: Who will come to mourn me?

He turned up the path that led toward the group of mourners.

The details of Simon Blaine’s involvement in the terrorist plot had been kept out of the papers. Gideon had expected to see a much larger crowd at his burial. He had been, after all, a well-known and well-regarded novelist. But as Gideon made his way through the severe white rows, he realized there were no more than two dozen people circled around the open grave. As he approached, he could make out the voice of the priest, intoning the older, formal Episcopal version of the Burial of the Dead:

Give rest, O Christ, to thy servant with thy saints,

where sorrow and pain are no more,

neither sighing, but life everlasting.

He moved forward, stepping out of the shade of the trees and into brilliant sunlight. His eyes searched the crowd and found Alida. She was dressed in a simple black dress, with a veiled hat and white elbow-length gloves. He took an unobtrusive place at the back fringe of the group and surreptitiously studied her face across the grave. The veil was pinned back across the hat. As she stared down at the coffin, her eyes were dry but her face looked ravaged and utterly desolate. His own eyes remained on her face, unable to look away. Suddenly her gaze flickered up and met his for one terrible second. Then she looked back down, into the grave.

What was that look? He tried to parse it. Was there any feeling there? It had been too quick, and now she resolutely refused to raise her head again.

Into thy hands, O merciful Savior, we commend thy servant Simon…

In the week following Fort Detrick, Gideon had tried repeatedly to contact Alida. He had wanted—needed—to explain: to tell her how desperately sorry he was; to say how terrible he’d felt about deceiving her, to express his condolences about what had happened to her father. He hadto help her understand he’d simply had no choice. That her father had done it to himself, something she must of course realize.

Each time he’d tried calling, she had hung up. The last time he called he found she had switched to an unlisted number.

Then he’d tried waiting outside the gate to her father’s house, hoping that, by seeing him, she would stop just long enough for him to explain… But she had driven past, twice, without a look or acknowledgment.

And so he had come to the burial, willing to endure any humiliation to see her, talk, explain. He didn’t expect that their relationship could continue, but at least he would be able to reach out to her one last time. Because the idea of leaving it like this, raw and unresolved, full of bitterness and hatred, was something he simply couldn’t imagine. He had so little time left—he knew that now.

Again and again he had replayed in his head their time together: their horseback escape; Alida’s initial fury at him; the slow morphing of her feelings into something else, culminating into love—his first real love, thanks to the incredible generosity of her heart and spirit.

In the midst of life we are in death;

of whom may we seek for succor,

but of thee, O Lord,

who for our sins art justly displeased?

Gideon began to feel like an intruder, blundering in on something private and personal. He turned away and walked back down the slope of the hill, past grave after grave after grave, until he reached the older section of the cemetery. There, in the cool shade of a cypress tree, he waited on the white gravel path, where she would have to pass by on her way back to her car.

Even if you only have a year, let’s make that year count. Together. You and me. We’ll roll up a lifetime of love in one year.Her words. He found himself haunted by the image of her, naked in the doorway of her ranch house, beautiful as a Botticelli maiden—that day he’d driven away in her car, hell-bent on ruining her father’s life.

…Why was it so important for him to speak with her? Was it because he still hoped, against all hope, that he could make her see things his way, understand the awful bind he had been in, and—ultimately, with the boundlessness of her big heart—forgive him? Or did part of him already guess that was impossible? Maybe he needed to explain simply for his own peace of mind—because, though perhaps he could never again hope Alida might love him, at least he could help her understand.

He watched the service from afar. The shifting breeze brought the priest’s faint voice to his ears from time to time, a distant murmur. The coffin was lowered. And then it was over. The tightly clustered group around the grave loosened and began to disperse.

He waited in the shade as they made the long, slow, straggling procession down the hill, his eye fixed on her, her alone, as people offered her their condolences, hugged Alida, took her hand. It all took an excruciatingly long time. First came the cemetery workers; next a knot of women of a certain age, talking animatedly among themselves in low tones; next, various young people and couples; and then came the priest and a few of his assistants. He gave Gideon a professional smile and nod as he passed.

Last came Alida. He had assumed she would be accompanied by others, but she had drifted back from them and was the last to leave, all alone. She approached him, bowed by her loss but still walking proud, her head erect and staring straight ahead, moving slowly along the long, narrow pathway among the graves. She didn’t seem to see him. As she drew closer, Gideon felt a strange hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Now she was almost upon him. He wasn’t sure what to do—whether to speak, step in front of her, reach out—and as she drew alongside he parted his lips to speak but no sound came. He watched, struck mute, as she passed by, walking the same slow walk, her eyes straight ahead, without the faintest flicker, the faintest change of expression, to acknowledge his existence.

He followed her with his eyes as she continued down the path, her back to him now, never deviating in her deliberate, icy stride. He continued watching her dwindling black figure for several minutes more, until she had disappeared around the distant edge of the building. He waited until she was long gone, until all the cars were gone, and then waited some more. Finally, with a deep, unsteady breath, he made his own way out along the narrow pathways between the gravestones, down the graveled path, to his car.

78

Gideon asked the cabdriver to let him off at Washington Square Park. He felt like walking the last mile or so to the EES offices on Little West 12th Street—but before doing so, he wanted to hang out in the park for a bit and enjoy the summer day.

Three weeks had passed since the funeral. Immediately afterward, Gideon had fled to his cabin in the Jemez Mountains and turned off his cell phone, landline, and computers. And then he had spent three weeks fishing. On the fifth day he finally caught that wily old cutthroat trout with a barbless hook, intending to release it. What a gorgeous fish it was: fat, glossy, with the deep blood-orange coloring below the gills that gave the cutthroat its name. Certainly this was a fish noble enough to be worth releasing, as was his policy. But then, strangely, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d taken it back to the cabin, cleaned it, and served himself up an exquisitely simple truite amandine, accompanied by a bottle of flinty Puligny-Montrachet. All without guilt. And as he enjoyed the simple meal, all by himself, an odd thing happened. He felt happy. Not only happy, but also at peace. He examined his feelings with a sense of surprise and curiosity, and he realized they had something to do with the certainty of things. The certainty of his medical condition, and the conviction that he would never see Alida again.

Oddly, that certitude seemed to liberate him. He knew now what he faced, and what he could never have. It gave him the freedom to follow the doctor’s parting advice: to focus on doing things that mattered to him, and help others. Releasing the trout would have been a fine gesture; but, he had to admit, eating it had been an even rarer pleasure. Eating it had mattered to him. In the midst of life we are in death…It was a wise thought, true for trout and human alike.

Over those three weeks, he had done a number of other small things that mattered to him. One had been to arrange for an indefinite medical leave from Los Alamos. And when his little fishing vacation was over, when he had turned his phones back on and collected his messages at last, he found one from Glinn. The engineer had another assignment, if Gideon were inclined to take it; one of “considerable importance.” Gideon was about to dismiss it out of hand, but then stopped himself. Why not? It seemed he was good at that sort of thing. If he wanted to help others, maybe that is what he should be doing.

Even his anger at Glinn for abandoning him in the field had abated. Gideon had begun to understand that Glinn’s method of operation—though difficult to take in the heat of the moment—had proven remarkably effective. In this case, they had refused to help because they clearly felt that Gideon, on his own, had the best chance of success.

And so here he was, back in New York City, ready to start the next chapter in his short life. He took a deep breath and looked around. It was a beautiful weekend afternoon, and Washington Square Park was overflowing with activity. He lingered, enchanted by the bustle—the Dominican drummers whose joyful rhythms filled the air; a group of awkward in-line-skating kids in helmets and padded knees, their mothers sitting in a worried knot; a pair of men in expensive suits smoking cigars; an old hippie strumming a guitar and collecting coins; a mime trailing people, aping their way of walking to their great annoyance; a three-card-monte player shuffling his cards and keeping an eye out for the cops; a bum sound asleep on a bench. The park contained a full vertical slice of humanity, top to bottom, in all its complexity and richness and splendor. But on this day the joy, the richness seemed particularly acute. New York felt a lot different from the last time he’d been here and had his cab stolen by a loutish, half-drunk businessman. The terrorist scare that had half emptied the city was over, and people seemed to have returned changed. They were more connected, tolerant, more in the moment, happier.

The city had changed; and he had, as well. We all need reminding what’s really important in life, thought Gideon. These people had been reminded. Just as he had.

It was all over; the country had returned to normal. His own troubles had been resolved: the videotapes at USAMRIID, Blaine’s laptop, and Dart, confessing all from his hospital bed, had filled in the gaps and told the full story. Novak had been arrested, along with other conspirators at Los Alamos and in the defense and intelligence communities. The frame job had been exposed, Chalker revealed as an innocent victim. Glinn had stepped in to make sure Gideon’s own true role in the drama remained a deep secret. This was critically important to Gideon. It would ruin the rest of his short life if he became famous, hailed as a hero, his face plastered on the front pages everywhere. What a nightmare.

Then there was Alida. She was gone forever. That part of his heart he was still wrapping up and packing away. Nothing more to be done about that.

He took a turn around the fountain, and paused in front of the Dominican drummers. They were pounding away, huge smiles on their faces, bliss in their eyes, beating out the most complicated syncopations imaginable: not just two against three but five against three and what even sounded like seven against four. It was like the beating of the human heart, he thought; that first sensation we all experienced at the beginning of life, multiplied a thousandfold, and turned into something delirious, wild.

As he listened to the music, he felt peace. Real peace. It was an amazing feeling, one he was still unused to. Was this what most people experienced every day? He had never known what he’d been missing. The AVM, and the good doctor, had given him that gift, finally, after so many years of anxiety, fear, sorrow, angst, hatred, and revenge. It was a huge, even inexplicable irony. The AVM was going to kill him—but first, it had set him free.

Gideon glanced at his watch. He was going to be late, but that was all right. The drumming was what was important right now. He listened for almost an hour; and then, with a feeling of peace still in his heart, he headed west down Waverly Place to Greenwich Avenue, toward the old Meatpacking District.

EES seemed as empty as always. He was buzzed in without even an acknowledgment. No one was there to meet him or escort him through the cavernous laboratory spaces to the elevator. The elevator creaked up, and up, the doors finally opening again. He walked down the hall to the conference room. The door was closed; all was silent as a tomb.

He knocked, and he heard Glinn’s voice, a terse “Come in.”

Gideon opened the door and was greeted with a room full of people, and a sudden outpouring of applause and cheering. Glinn was there, in front, and he wheeled himself forward, holding out his withered arm, and kissed Gideon on both cheeks, European-style. Garza followed with a fierce handshake and a thunderous slap on the back, and then the others: what had to be close to a hundred people, young and old, male and female, of every imaginable race, some in lab coats, others in suits, others in kimonos and saris, along with a handful of what appeared to be other EES operatives with their appraising and appreciative gazes, all shaking his hand, congratulating him, an overwhelming and irresistible torrent of enthusiasm and warmth.

And then they fell silent. Gideon realized they were expecting him to speak. He stood there, flummoxed. Then he cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said. “Um, who are all you people?”

This was greeted with a laugh.

Glinn spoke up. “Gideon, these are all the people at EES you haven’t met. Most of whom work behind the scenes, who keep our little operation going. You may not know them, but they all know you. And all of them wanted to be here to say to you: thank you.”

An eruption of applause.

“There is nothing we can say or do, and nothing we can give you, that would properly express our gratitude for what you did. So I’m not even going to try.”

Gideon was moved. They wanted to hear him say more. What would he say? It suddenly occurred to him that he was so good at being phony, at spinning falsehoods, that he’d almost forgotten how to be sincere.

“I’m just glad I was able to do something good in this crazy world.” He cleared his throat again. “But I couldn’t have done it without my partner, Stone Fordyce. Who gave his life. He’s the hero. All I gave was a few teeth.”

A more restrained round of applause.

“I want to thank you all, too. I can’t begin to know what you all do, or have done, but it’s nice to see your faces. So many times out there, I felt like I was on my own, alone. I realize that’s part of the job—part of your system, I suppose—but seeing you all here makes me realize that I wasn’t really alone, after all. I guess, in a way, EES is my home now. Even my family.”

Nods, murmured agreements.

A silence and Glinn asked, “How was your vacation?”

“I ate a trout.”

More laughter and applause. Gideon stilled it with the raise of a hand. “Over the past few days I’ve realized something. This is what I should be doing. I want to continue to work for you, for EES. I think I can do some real good here. Finally…” He paused, glanced around. “I really don’t have anything else in my life worth a damn. You’re it. Sad, I know, but that’s how it is.”

This was met by another silence. After a moment, a faint smile appeared on Glinn’s face. He glanced around the room. “Thank you all for your time,” he said.

At this tactful but obvious dismissal, the room emptied. Glinn waited until only himself, Gideon, and Garza remained. Then he motioned Gideon to a chair at the conference table.

“Are you certain about this, Gideon?” he asked in a low voice. “After all, you’ve had quite an ordeal. Not just the physical manhunt, but the emotional toll as well.”

Gideon had long since ceased to be amazed at Glinn’s ability to learn everything about him. “I was never more sure of anything in my life,” he replied.

Glinn looked at him carefully for a moment—a long, searching look. Then he nodded. “Excellent. Glad to hear you’ll be with us. It’s a very interesting time to be in New York. In fact, next week there’s a special exhibition at the Morgan Library—an exhibition of the Book of Kells, on loan from the Irish government. You’ve heard of the Book of Kells, of course?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ll come have a look at it with me?” Glinn asked. “I’m a great fancier of illuminated manuscripts. They’ll be turning a new page every day. Very exciting.”

Gideon hesitated. “Well, illuminated manuscripts are not exactly an interest of mine.”

“Ah, but I was so hoping you’d accompany me to the exhibition,” said Glinn. “You’ll love the Book of Kells. Not only is it Ireland’s greatest national treasure, but it’s the finest illuminated manuscript in existence. It’s only been out of Ireland once before, and it’s only here for a week. A shame to miss it. We’ll go Monday morning.”

Gideon started to laugh. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less about the damn Book of Kells.”

“Ah, but you will.”

Hearing the edge in Glinn’s voice, Gideon stopped despite himself. “Why?”

“Because your next assignment will be to steal it.”