Gideon's Sword (9 page)

“I need a drink. Scotch.”

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

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

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

Gideon drained the glass.

“Another?” Garza asked.

Gideon waved his hand in a no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Why?”

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

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

15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Name’s Gorski,” came the reply.

“Ah,” said Gideon. “You remind me of Costello.”

“Don’t know anyone by that name,” said Gorski.

“There
is
no Officer Costello,” said the thin one. “We’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You’re not supposed to stop here.”

“I’m here to meet the VIP arrival…You know all about it…right?” Gideon winked and slid a pack of gum from his pocket. He peeled off the wrapper, eased out a stick, offered the pack around.

The fat one took a stick.

“Let’s see your hack license,” said the thin one, waving away the gum and shooting an annoyed glance at his partner.

Gideon slipped out the license he had “rented” along with the limo—at significant expense—and handed it over. The thin cop snatched it, stared, passed it to the other. The fat one pursed his lips, looking it over intently. Gideon folded the stick of gum into his mouth, chewed meditatively.

“You know you can’t stop here,” said the thin cop, his voice high. “I’m giving you a ticket, and then you better get over to where you belong.” He flipped open the book and began to write.

“Don’t do that,” said Gideon. “Tickets make me break out in hives.”

The officer scoffed.

“Guess you didn’t get the message,” said Gideon, with a shrug.

“Message?”

He smirked. “About who I’m meeting.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass who you’re meeting. You can’t stop here. No exceptions.” But the pen had halted. The fat one was still perusing the hack license, wet lips pursed in concentration.

Gideon waited.

“So who
are
you meeting?” the thin one finally asked.

Gideon’s grin broadened. “You know I can’t tell you that.” He checked his watch. “His plane’s arriving now. From the Far East. He’ll get the VIP treatment at customs, breeze right through and be expecting me.
Inside.
Not out here, on the curb, arguing with a couple of flat—I mean, security officers.”

Gorski handed him back the license. “License and stickers seem to be in order,” he said to no one in particular.

“We never got a Security or VIP arrival notice,” said the thin one. His tone was now several notches less confrontational. “I’m sorry, but the rules are the rules.”

Gideon rolled his eyes. “Nice. So you guys know nothing. No skin off my back. On second thought, go ahead and write the ticket. I’ll need it for my memo.” He shook his head sadly and started to get back in the limo.

The thin cop stared at Gideon, eyes narrowed. “If this is a security VIP arrival, we should’ve been told. Who is he, some politician?”

Gideon paused at the open door. “Let’s just say he’s one of your own. The Jefe. A man known to be just a
tad
irritable when there’s a fuckup.”

The two cops looked at each other. “You talking about the commissioner?”

“You didn’t hear it from me.”

“We should’ve gotten a VIP notification,” said Gorski, now in full whine.

Gideon decided it was time to get tough. He let the good-humored look fall from his face and glanced at his watch. “I guess I need to spell it out for you. It’s a simple story, easy to follow. If I don’t meet the Man at the bottom of the escalators in one fucking minute, the loose diarrhea is gonna hit the fan. And you know what I’m going to do about that? I’m going to write a memo that says I got shortstopped by two dumbass TSA cops who forgot to check their inbox for a VIP notification.” He pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket. “How do you spell your name, Gorski?”

“Um…” Gorski looked over at the other cop, unsure what to do.

Gideon turned to the thin one. “How about you? You want to be in the memo, too? What’s your name? Abbott?”

He gave them both a withering stare, first one, then the other.

They caved immediately. “We’ll keep an eye on your limo,” said the thin cop, nervously smoothing the front of his uniform. “You go ahead and meet him.”

“Right,” said Gorski. “No problem. We’ll be right here.”

“Good move. Why don’t you practice the ‘Who’s on First’ routine while you wait? I love that one.” Gideon brushed past them and walked briskly through the doors into the vast baggage claim area. Luggage carousels rumbled and creaked on both sides. In front stretched a double pair of escalators, people streaming down. Gideon joined the small group of fellow limo drivers waiting at the bottom of the escalators, each holding up a small sign with a name.

The escalators continued to pour down their river of human cargo. Gideon scrutinized each Asian face. He had memorized the two photos Glinn had given him of Wu, but there was always the danger that he was one of those people who photographed differently from how he looked.

But no—there he was. A small, intense-looking man with a high domed forehead, a fringe of hair, wearing old-fashioned black-framed glasses and a professorial tweed jacket. He descended the escalator, eyes cast down, shoulders slumped, looking as timid and inconspicuous as possible. He wasn’t even holding a carry-on bag or laptop.

Wu hit the bottom of the escalators, but instead of going to baggage claim he went straight ahead, walking fast, passing Gideon and heading out the doors toward the taxi stand.

Taken by surprise, Gideon hustled after him. There was no line at the taxi queue. Wu ducked under the waiting-line stanchions, grabbed a ticket from the dispatcher, and slipped in the first cab, a Ford Escape.

Gideon sprinted back to his limo.

“Hey! What’s up?” cried the thin guard.

“Wrong terminal!” Gideon shouted. “I made a mistake! Man, I’m really fucked now!” He snatched out a fifty-dollar bill he had tucked in his front suit coat pocket for emergencies and tossed it at them, leaping into the limo.

They scrambled for the bill as a summer breeze tumbled it along the sidewalk, and Gideon tore away from the curb and went after the rapidly vanishing cab.

16

G
ideon sped down the terminal exit road, finally catching up to the cab as it looped onto the Van Wyck Expressway. He slowed down and continued at a measured pace, keeping the cab half a dozen car lengths ahead in the moderate late-night traffic. From time to time he switched lanes, dropping back and then moving forward, in case Wu was suspicious.

It was almost routine. Neither the cabdriver nor the scientist seemed to be aware they were being followed, despite the conspicuous stretch limo he was driving. Following the standard route into Upper Manhattan, the taxi merged onto the Grand Central Parkway and passed Citi Field, then La Guardia Airport. As they passed the RFK Bridge, the skyline of Midtown Manhattan came into view like a tapestry of glittering gems, shimmering over the dark waters of the East River. Entering Manhattan via the Third Avenue Bridge, the taxi bypassed FDR Drive, instead heading along 125th Street in East Harlem, until finally turning downtown at Park Avenue.

Wu probably has an Upper East Side destination,
Gideon mused. Mentally he once again rehearsed his plan. He’d follow the taxi to its destination, then park nearby and…

Suddenly he noticed a black Lincoln Navigator with smoked windows approaching from behind, speeding down the slow lane and rapidly closing in.

The Navigator narrowed the gap until it was aggressively tailgating the taxi, although it could have easily passed. Gideon hung back. Despite the obviously new condition of the vehicle, the license plate light of the Navigator was burned out, the plate itself dark and unreadable.

Moving into the left lane, Gideon accelerated briefly to get a view inside the SUV through the windshield, but this late at night it was hopeless and he eased back, dropping behind once again, his sense of apprehension increasing.

The taxi, tailgated by the Navigator, accelerated, but the Navigator kept pace; the taxi then braked slightly and slowed, but the Navigator did the same, still refusing to pass.

This was not good.

The Navigator now crept forward until its massive chrome bumper touched the rear bumper of the cab—and then it accelerated with a roar, shoving the cab forward and sideways. With a terrific squeal of rubber the cab swerved, then recovered, fishtailing as it veered into the left lane. The Navigator swung in behind it and accelerated again, trying to ram it.

To avoid being hit, the taxi swerved back into the right lane and tried to slow down, but the Navigator, in a deft maneuver, swung in behind and rammed it again, this time with real force, and again the taxi driver had to accelerate to correct the deflection. The sound of his horn wailed across the wide avenue.

The Navigator jumped forward to ram the taxi again, but the cabbie swung into the left lane and then slewed around the corner onto East 116th Street, heading east. Here, in one of the main commercial districts of Spanish Harlem, there was suddenly more activity, the broad boulevard lit up and thronged with people despite the hour, the bars and restaurants open.