Текст книги "Gideon’s Sword"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

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.

He approached the door as nonchalantly as possible, but even before he reached it two Asian men in dark tracksuits appeared from nowhere.

“May we help you?” one asked as they stepped in front of him. The tone was polite, but they were careful to block his way.

Gideon didn’t even know the name of the grandmother. “I’m here to see the mother of Biyu Liang.”

“I’m sorry – is Madame Chung expecting you?”

He was gratified to see, at least, that he’d picked the right house. “No, but I’m the father of a boy starting at Throckmorton Academy this fall—”

They didn’t even let him finish. In the politest way possible, but without any ambiguity, they approached him and, taking him by the arms, began to escort him away. “Come with us.”

“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 rulethe 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 hadplaced 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.