Текст книги "Gideon’s Sword"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

Соавторы: Douglas Preston
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

23

Gideon Crew walked east on 49th Street, still slightly damp from his misadventure of the previous night. It was eight o’clock in the morning and the sidewalks were in the full flow of the morning’s rush hour, commuters pouring out of the surrounding apartment buildings and heading for taxis or public transportation. Gideon was not normally given to paranoid thinking, but ever since he’d sneaked out of the hotel he’d had the uncanny feeling he was being followed. Nothing he could put his finger on – just a feeling. No doubt it had something to do with lingering worries from the previous evening’s shootout. The one thing he couldn’t do was allow whoever it was—​if there was indeed someone—​to follow him to Tom O’Brien’s place up at Columbia University. Tom O’Brien was to be his secret weapon in this and nobody– nobody—​could know.

He slowed his pace until most of the pedestrians—​swift-​walking New Yorkers, all—​were flowing past him. Then he casually paused to look at himself in a window while turning his attention behind. It was as he thought: an Asian man in a tracksuit, face half-​hidden by a baseball cap, was a hundred yards back, also slowing down, apparently keeping pace.

Gideon swore under his breath. While it might still be in his imagination, he could take no chances. Even if it wasn’t that particular fellow, with all these crowds it could be anyone. He had to assume he was being followed and act accordingly.

He crossed Broadway and entered the subway station, going to the downtown platform. The station was packed, and it was impossible to know if the man in the tracksuit had followed him down. But it didn’t matter – there was one surefire way to lose the son of a bitch. Gideon had done it before. It was fun and dangerous and foolproof. He felt his heart quicken in anticipation.

He waited until he heard a faint rumble from the uptown tracks across the way. As he leaned out, he could see the headlights of a local coming up the tunnel, closing in fast on the platform.

Waiting for just the right moment, and making sure no other trains were coming, he leapt down onto the tracks. There was a gratifying chorus of screams, shouts, and loud admonishments from the waiting crowd. Ignoring them, he hopped over the third rail, crossed the uptown local tracks just ahead of the arriving train, and scrambled onto the platform. More screaming, shouts, hollering– people are so excitable,he thought. But the platform was unbelievably crowded, no one could move, and as the local pulled in he forced his way inside, mingling with the crush of commuters and instantly rendering himself anonymous.

As the train pulled out he saw, through the grimy window, across the rails, the Asian man in a tracksuit still standing on the downtown platform, staring in his direction.

Screw you, too,thought Gideon, settling in to read the Postover the shoulder of the person standing next to him.

24

Like the whining of a mosquito, the persistent sound of a buzzer intruded into the exceedingly pleasant dream of Tom O’Brien. He sat up with a groan and looked at his clock. Nine thirty in the morning. Who could possibly be disturbing him at this ungodly hour?

The buzzer sounded again, three short blasts. O’Brien muttered, throwing off the covers, pushing the cat to the floor, and picking his way through the strewn apartment to the door. He pushed the intercom button. “Go fuck yourself.”

“It’s me. Gideon. Let me up.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Just let me up, you can bitch later.”

O’Brien thumbed the door-lock button, unlatched his front door, and wandered back to his bed, sitting down and rubbing his face.

A minute later Gideon came in, carrying a bulky Pelican case. O’Brien stared at him. “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. When did you blow into town?”

Ignoring this, Gideon set down the case, went to the window, and, standing next to it, opened the curtain with a finger and peered out.

“Cops after you? You still boosting shit out of museums?”

“You know I gave that up a long time ago.”

“You look like yesterday’s feces.”

“You’re always so affirmative, that’s one of the things I like about you. Where’s the coffee?”

O’Brien pointed a finger toward the Pullman kitchen at the back of the studio apartment. Avoiding the moldy dishes in the sink, Gideon rattled around and soon emerged with a coffeepot and mugs.

“Man, you’re ripe,” said O’Brien, helping himself to a cup. “And your duds are revolting. What the hell you been doing?”

“I’ve been swimming in the Harlem River and being chased across subway tracks.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Want to take a shower?”

“Love to. And also – got any clothes I can borrow?”

O’Brien went into his closet and sorted through a huge pile of suspiciously dirty clothing sitting on the floor, picking out a few items and tossing them toward Gideon.

Ten minutes later, he was cleaned up and dressed in reasonably fresh clothes. They felt a little loose on him—​O’Brien hadn’t stayed quite as skinny as Gideon—​and they were covered with satanic designs and logos of the death metal band Cannibal Corpse.

“You look marvelous,” O’Brien said. “But you’ve got the pants pulled up too high.” He reached over and tugged them so they were hanging halfway down Gideon’s ass. “That’s how it’s supposed to look.”

“Your taste in music and clothing is atrocious.” Gideon hiked them back up. “Look, I need your help. I’ve got a few problems for you to solve.”

O’Brien shrugged, sipped his coffee.

Gideon unlocked the Pelican case and removed a piece of paper. “I’m working on an assignment, undercover. I can’t tell you much about it – except that I’m looking for a set of plans.”

“Plans? What sort of plans?”

“To a weapon.”

“Cloak and dagger, man. What kind of weapon?”

“I don’t know. And that’s really all I can safely tell you.” He handed him the piece of paper. “There is a bunch of numbers here. I have no idea what they mean. I want you to tell me.”

“Is it some kind of code?”

“All I know is it has something to do with weapon plans.”

O’Brien eyeballed the sheet. “I can tell you right off that there’s a theoretical upper limit to the amount of information that could be contained in these numbers, and it isn’t even enough to detail the plans for a pop-gun.”

“The numbers could be something else, a passcode, bank account or safe-deposit, directions to a hiding place, the encoded name and address of a contact…or, for all I know, a recipe for chop suey.”

O’Brien grunted. Over the years, he had gotten used to his friend’s vanishings and reappearances, his black moods, his secretive doings and quasi-criminal habits. But this really took the cake. He stared at the numbers, then a smile cracked his face. “These numbers are anything but random,” he said.

“How do you know?”

O’Brien grunted. “Just looking at ’em. I doubt this is a code at all.”

“What is it, then?”

O’Brien shrugged, laid the paper down. “What other goodies you got in that case?”

Gideon reached in and pulled out a passport and credit card. O’Brien took them; both were Chinese. He stared. “Is all this…legal?”

“It’s necessary – for our country.”

“Since when did you become a patriot?”

“What’s wrong with patriotism – especially when it pays?”

“Patriotism, my dear chap, is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”

“Spare me your left-wing twaddle. I don’t see you packing your bags and moving to Russia.”

“All right, all right, stop hyperventilating. So what do you want me to do with the passport and credit card?”

“Both have magnetic stripes containing data. I want you to download that data and parse it, see if anything unusual is hidden in it.”

“Piece of cake. Next?”

Gideon reached back into the case and removed, with enormous gravitas, a ziplock bag containing a cell phone. He laid it in O’Brien’s palm. “This is really important. This phone belonged to a Chinese physicist. I need you to extract all the information this phone contains. I’ve already gotten its list of recent calls and contacts, but that’s suspiciously short – there might be more that have been hidden or deleted. If he’s used it for web browsing, I want the entire history. If there are photos I want those, too. And finally – and most important – I think there’s a very good chance the plans for the weapon are hidden in that phone.”

“Lucky for you I read and write Mandarin.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” said Gideon. “It isn’t because I miss your ugly mug. You are a gentleman of singular and diverse endowments.”

“And not just in the intellectual department.” O’Brien laid the cell phone on a table. “Any money in it for me?”

Gideon extracted from his pocket a massive, sodden roll of banknotes.

“That’s a charming Kansas City roll you got there.”

Gideon peeled off ten limp bills. “A thousand dollars. I’ll give you another thousand when you’re done. And I need it, like, done yesterday.”

O’Brien collected the wet money and lovingly spread it out on his windowsill to dry. “This is a challenge. I like challenges.”

Gideon seemed to hesitate. “One other thing.” His voice was suddenly different.

O’Brien looked over. Gideon was removing a manila envelope. “I’ve got some X-rays and CT scans here. Friend of mine. The guy doesn’t feel right, wants a doctor to look these over.”

O’Brien frowned. “Why doesn’t he ask his own doctor? I don’t know shit about medicine. Or take it to your doctor, for Chrissakes.”

“I’m busy. Look, he just wants a second opinion. Surely you know some good doctors around here.”

“Well, sure, we got a few at the medical school.” He opened the file, picked up an X-ray. “Name’s been cut out.”

“The guy values his privacy.”

“Is there anythingyou do that isn’t shady? Doctors are expensive.”

Gideon laid two more C notes on the table. “Just take care of it, okay?”

“Right, fine, no need to get snippy.” He was taken aback by Gideon’s sudden short tone of voice. “It’s gonna take time. These guys are busy.”

“Be careful and for God’s sake keep your big mouth shut. No kidding. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Please,” groaned O’Brien, “not before noon.”

25

The hourly rate hotel room was about as sordid as they came, like something out of a 1950s noir film: the blinking neon light outside the window, elephant stains on the walls, pressed-tin ceiling coated with fifty layers of paint, sagging bed, and smell of frying hamburger in the passageway outside. Gideon Crew dumped his shopping bags on the bed and began unloading them.

“How are we gonna do it if the bed’s covered with stuff?” asked the prostitute, standing in the door, pouting.

“Sorry,” said Gideon, “we’re not doing it.”

“Oh yeah? Are you one of those guys who just wants to talk?”

“Not really.” He laid out everything on the bed and stared at it, looking for inspiration, his eye roving over the fake paunches, the cheek inserts, the noses and wigs and beards, latex, prostheses, tattoos, pads. Next to this assortment, he spread out some of the clothing he had bought. While he had shaken off his pursuer, it hadn’t been easy and the man was a serious professional. He had two places to visit, and it was likely the man, or possibly a compatriot, would be lurking at one or both of them. It would take more than a disguise to pull this off; it would take creating a new role, and for that the woman was essential. Gideon straightened up and looked at the prostitute. She was nice looking, not drugged out, with a bright-eyed, wiseass attitude. Dyed black hair, pale skin, dark lipstick, slender figure, small sharp nose—​he liked the Goth look of her. He sorted through the clothes, picked out a black T-shirt, and laid it aside. Camo pants and black leather boots with thick soles completed the wardrobe.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked, tapping a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it up. She took a deep drag. Gideon strolled over and slipped the cigarette out of her hand, took a drag himself, handed it back.

“So what’s all this?” she said, gesturing at the bed with her cigarette.

“I’m going to rob a bank.”

“Right.” She blew out a stream of smoke.

Gideon resisted the urge to bum a cigarette from her. Instead, he took another drag from hers.

“Hey,” she said, looking at his right hand. “What happened to your finger?”

“Too much nail biting.”

“Cute. So what you need me for?”

“You were a good way for me to get this, ah, inexpensivehotel room without attracting attention or having to show ID. I need a place to plan the heist.”

“You’re not really going to rob a bank,” she said, but there was a note of concern in her voice.

He laughed. “Not really. I’m actually in the film business. Actor and producer. Creighton McFallon’s the name. Perhaps you’ve heard it.”

“Sounds familiar. You got any work for me?”

“Why do you think you’re here? You’re going to play my girlfriend for a while. To help me immerse myself in a role. It’s called Method acting – know about that?”

“Hey, I’m an actress, too. Name’s Marilyn.”

“Marilyn what?”

“Marilyn’s enough. I was an extra in an episode of Mad Men.”

“I knew it! I’m going to change my looks, but you can be just who you are. In fact, you’re perfect.”

The woman gave him a quick smile and he saw, briefly, the real person underneath.

“You know, I gotta get paid for something like this.”

“Naturally. What would your rate be for, say, six hours?”

“Doing what?”

“Walking around town with me.”

“Well, I’d normally make at least a grand for six hours of work, but seeing as how this is the film business, make it two. And I’ll throw in a little special something, just for you…’cause you’re cute.” She smiled and touched her lower lip with a finger.

He took a small bundle of bills out of his pocket and handed them to her. “There’s five hundred. You’ll get the rest at the end.”

She took it a little doubtfully. “I should get half up front.”

“All right.” He gave her another bundle. “You’re going to need a new name. Shall we call you Orchid?”

“Okay.”

“Good. For the next six hours, we’re going to be in character at all times. That’s how Method acting works. But right now I have a few things I have to do, preparation and so forth, so you go ahead and relax.”

Gideon sorted through the supplies as he visualized the sort of person he wanted to be. Then he began to create it. When he was done with the makeup, a false nose, cheek inserts, receding hairline, paunch—​with the aging-pseudo-rocker clothing to go with it—​he turned to Orchid, who had been watching the process with interest, smoking nonstop.

“Wow. That’s sad. I liked how you looked before a lot better.”

“That’s acting,” said Gideon. “Now give me a few minutes here, Orchid, and then we’ll step out and get into the role.”

He took out the list of contacts he had copied from Wu’s phone, unfolded his laptop, and booted it up. Thank God for free Wi-Fi,he thought, now available even in hourly hotels. He connected to the internet and did a quick bit of research. There was only one phone on the contact list in the United States, and it was labeled “Fa.” A quick bit of research indicated that Fawas a Chinese character meaning “to commence.” It was also a mah-jongg tile called “the Green Dragon.” A reverse phone number search indicated the “Fa” phone number belonged to a certain Roger Marion on Mott Street in Chinatown.

Roger.The name the Chinese the scientist had called him.

He began packing away his stuff. With his disguise and Orchid on his arm, he felt pretty sure that nobody, not even his mother, would guess who he was. Whoever was after him was on the lookout for him alone: they wouldn’t be interested in an aging rocker with a bimbo in tow.

“What now?”

“We’re going to see an old pal in Chinatown, and then we’re going to visit a sick friend in the hospital.”

“Got time for that little extra I mentioned? You know, to help you get into the role?” Her eyes twinkled as she stubbed out her cigarette.

No, no, no,thought Gideon, but as he looked at her upturned nose, jet-black hair, and fresh, creamy skin, he heard himself say, “Sure, what the hell. I think we can manage it, time-wise.”

26

The address, 426 Mott, was in the heart of Chinatown, between Grand and Hester. Gideon Crew stood on the opposite sidewalk, giving it a once-over. The Hong Li Meat Market occupied the ground floor, and the upper stories were a typical Chinatown brown-brick tenement, festooned with fire escapes.

“What now?” asked Orchid, lighting up yet another cigarette.

Gideon plucked the cigarette out of her fingers and took a drag.

“Why don’t you get your own?”

“I don’t smoke.”

She laughed. “Maybe we can get some dim sum around here. I love dim sum.”

“I’ve got to see a fellow first. You mind waiting here?”

“What, on the street?”

He suppressed an ironic comment. He slipped out a banknote. God, he thought, it was nice having money. “Why don’t you wait for me in that tea shop? I doubt this is going to take more than five minutes.”

“All right.” She took the bill and sauntered off, derriere twitching, turning heads.

Gideon went back to contemplating the problem at hand. He didn’t have enough information about Roger Marion to come up with a believable line. But even a brief encounter might prove useful. And the sooner, the better.

He looked carefully both ways, then crossed Mott and went to the metal door at street level. There was a row of buzzers, all labeled with Chinese characters. No English at all.

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he stepped back and stopped a Chinese man. “Excuse me?”

The man stopped. “Yes?”

“I don’t read Chinese, and I’m trying to figure out which one of these apartments belongs to my friend.”

“What is your friend’s name?”

“Roger Marion. But he goes by the nickname Fa – you know, the mah-jongg character they call the Green Dragon?”

The man smiled, pointed to a character beside the label 4C. “That is Fa.”

“Thank you.” The man walked on and Gideon stared at the character, memorizing it. Then he pressed the button.

“Yes?” came the voice almost immediately, in unaccented English.

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial hiss. “Roger? I’m a friend of Mark’s. Let me in right away.”

“Who? What’s your name?”

“No time to explain. I’m being followed. Let me in, please!”

The buzzer sounded and he pushed in, climbing a dingy set of stairs to the fourth floor. He knocked on the apartment door.

“Who is it?”

He could see the man’s eye in the peephole. “Like I said, I’m a friend of Mark Wu’s. The name’s Franklin Van Dorn.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ve got the numbers.”

The bolt shot open and the door opened to reveal a small, intense Caucasian man in his mid-forties: shaved head, very fit and alert, thin and whippet-muscular, wearing a tight T-shirt and baggy pajama-type pants.

Gideon ducked in. “Roger Marion?”

A sharp nod. “Mark gave you the numbers? Give them to me.”

“I can’t do that until you tell me what this is all about.”

The features immediately creased with suspicion. “You don’t need to know. If you were really a friend of Mark’s, you wouldn’t ask.”

“I must know.”

Marion looked at him intently. “Why?”

Gideon stood his ground, saying nothing. Meanwhile, he took in the small, crowded, but neat apartment. There were Chinese block prints on the walls, scrolls covered with ideograms, and a curious, colorful tapestry showing a reverse swastika surrounded by yin – yang symbols and spinning designs. There were also various placards and awards that – when he looked more closely – turned out to be for kung fu competitions.

Gideon returned his attention to Marion. The man was looking back at him as if making up his mind. He did not appear in the least bit nervous. There was something about his manner that told Gideon he was not one to push his weight around, but that – if the need arose – he could be violent.

Quite abruptly, the man spoke. “Out,” he said. “Get out now.” He moved toward Gideon menacingly.

“But I have the numbers—”

“I don’t trust you. You’re a liar. Get out now.”

Gideon placed a light hand on the man’s advancing shoulder. “How do you know—”

With frightening speed, the man grabbed the hand and twisted it sharply, spinning him around. “Shit!” Gideon cried out, pain lancing through his shoulder and down his arm.

“Out.”He ejected Gideon out the door and slammed it, the bolts shooting back.

Standing in the hall, Gideon rubbed his hurt shoulder thoughtfully. He wasn’t used to being smoked out, and it was not a pleasant feeling. He’d assumed making up a story would be worse than nothing – but maybe he’d assumed incorrectly. He hoped he wasn’t losing his touch.

He found Orchid in the tea shop, chowing down a plate heaped with pressed duck and white rice. “They didn’t have dim sum but this is pretty good,” she said, grease dripping down her chin.

“We’ve got to go.”

Overriding her protests, he hustled her out and they walked over to Grand, where they grabbed a cab.

“Mount Sinai Hospital,” he told the driver.

“To see your friend?” Orchid asked.

Gideon nodded.

“Is he sick?”

“Very.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Car accident.”

At the reception desk, Gideon gave his real name, making sure nobody but the duty nurse heard him speak. Even though he looked very different from the Gideon Crew who had come in after the accident, he was confident he wouldn’t run into anyone who had seen him before in the huge city hospital. When he’d called earlier in the day, he’d also learned Wu had been transferred from the ER to the intensive care unit. Even better, he’d been told Wu was coming out of the coma. He wasn’t yet lucid, but they felt he might be soon.

Soon would be now.

Gideon had come prepared with a beautifully wrought plan of social engineering. He’d talk to Wu, posing as Roger Marion, and get everything out of the scientist – the location of the plans, the meaning of the numbers, everything. He had gone over his plan in detail and felt at least ninety percent certain it would work. He very much doubted Wu had ever met or seen “Roger,” only talked to him on the phone, and Gideon, after his visit, at least had an idea of how the man talked and sounded. Wu would be disoriented, off his guard. The man would have been too devastated at the accident scene to have taken note of his features. He could pull this off. Despite being shot at, despite his dunking in the river, it would be by far the easiest hundred thousand he’d ever earned.

The busy duty nurse didn’t even bother to check his ID against his face, just directed them both to a large and comfortable waiting area. Gideon glanced around but saw no one he recognized. Yet he was certain the one who had chased him would not be far behind.

“The doctor will be down to see you in a moment,” the nurse told him.

“We can’t just go visit Mark?”

“No.”

“But they said he was much better.”

“You’ll have to wait for the doctor,” said the nurse firmly.

The doctor arrived a few minutes later, a portly man with woolly white hair and a sad, friendly look on his face. “Mr. Crew?”

Gideon leapt up. “Yes, Doctor, that’s me. How is he?”

“And the lady is—?”

“A friend. She’s here to support me.”

“Very well,” he said. “Please come with me.”

They followed the doctor into another, smaller waiting room, more like an office, empty of people. The doctor closed the door behind them.

“Mr. Crew, I’m very, very sorry to tell you that Mr. Wu passed away about half an hour ago.”

Gideon stood thunderstruck.

“I’m very, very sorry.”

“You didn’t call me – to be there at the end.”

“We tried to reach you at the number you gave us.”

Damn,thought Gideon; his cell phone had not survived the swim.

“Mr. Wu gave signs of stabilizing, and we had hopes for a while. But he was severely injured, and sepsis set in. This is not uncommon with severe injuries. We took every possible measure and did the best we could, but it wasn’t nearly enough.”

Gideon swallowed. He felt Orchid’s comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I have here some paperwork, unfortunately necessary, which you as next of kin will need to fill out regarding the disposition of the remains and some other details.” He proffered a manila packet to Gideon. “You don’t need to do this right away, but we would like to know as soon as possible. In three days, Mr. Wu’s remains will be moved to the city morgue to await your instructions. Would you like me to arrange for you to see the body?”

“Um, no, no, that won’t be necessary.” Gideon took the folder. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for all your help.”

The doctor nodded.

“By any chance…did Mark say anything before he passed? When I talked to the nurse this morning, she said she thought he was becoming lucid. If he said anything, anything at all, even if it seemed nonsensical, I’d like to know.”

“He showed signs of regaining lucidity, but it never actually rose to the level of consciousness. He said nothing. And then the sepsis set in.” He looked at Gideon. “I’m terribly sorry. For what it’s worth, he didn’t suffer at all.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

The doctor nodded and left.

Gideon threw himself into a chair. Orchid sat down next to him, her face creased with concern. He reached into his pocket, removed a sheaf of bills, and handed them to her. “This is for you. When we leave the hospital, we’ll get in a cab together, but after a while I’ll get out of the cab while you continue on to wherever you want to go.”

She didn’t take the money.

“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I really appreciated it.”

“Creighton, or Crew, or whatever your name is, I can guess this isn’t really about some Method acting gig. You’re a nice guy, and it’s been a long time since I met any nice guys. Whatever you’re doing, I want to help.” She pressed his hand.

Gideon cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I’ve got to do this alone.” He knew how lame that sounded even as he said it.

“But…will I see you again? I don’t care about the money.”

Gideon glanced at her and was shocked at the look he saw on her face.

He thought about lying, but decided the truth was ultimately less painful. “No. I’m not going to call you. Look, the money’s yours. You earned it.” He gave the bills an impatient shake.

“I don’t want it,” she said. “I want you to call me.”

“Look,” said Gideon as coldly as he could. “This was a business arrangement, and you did your job well. Just take the money and go.”

She reached out, snatched the money. “You’re an asshole.” She turned to leave and he tried not to notice she was crying.

“Good-bye,” he said, cringing inwardly.

“Good-bye, jerk-off.”