“Not before noon.”
He closed the phone and stuck it in his pocket. Maintaining a brisk stride, he headed west past the tennis courts, still keeping to the jogging path. What made him feel he was being followed this time? He hadn’t heard or seen anything…or had he? Long ago, he’d learned to trust his instincts—and they’d saved his ass again just that morning.
He realized that, by following the jogging path, he was making it easy for his follower—if there was one. Better turn back to the north, get off the paths, and cut through the wooded area around the courts. The pursuer would have to stay closer. And then Gideon could figure out a way to double around and come up behind.
He cut off the path and entered the woods below the courts. There were dead leaves underfoot that rustled as he walked. He continued for a moment, then stopped abruptly, pretending to have dropped something—and heard the crunch of leaves behind him cease abruptly as well.
Now he knew he was being followed, and his stupidity began to dawn on him. He didn’t have a weapon, he was in the middle of the empty park—how had he allowed this to happen? He’d been upset about Orchid, who’d turned out to have feelings as tender as a damn teenager’s. He’d been worrying about Glinn and his medical folder. And as a result he’d let down his guard.
He started up again, walking fast. He couldn’t let them know that he knew. But he had to get out of the park as soon as possible, get among people. He swung around the tennis courts and took a sharp left, walked along the court fence and then, in a bushy area, briefly reversed direction and made a quick ninety-degree dogleg, angling back toward the reservoir.
That would, he hoped, confuse the bastard.
“Move and you’re dead,” spoke a voice from the darkness, and a figure with a gun stepped out in front of him.
28
Gideon halted, tensed to spring, but held his ground. It had been a woman’s voice.
“Don’t be stupid. Raise your hands. Slowly.”
Gideon raised his hands, and the figure took another step forward. She had a Glock trained on him with both hands, and he could see from her stance that she was thoroughly trained in its use. Slender, athletic, her mahogany hair was pulled back in a heavy, loose ponytail, and she wore a dark leather jacket over a crisp white blouse and blue slacks.
“Put your hands against that tree and lean out, legs apart.”
Jesus, thought Gideon. He did as he was told and the woman hooked one foot inside his and patted him down. She stepped back.
“Turn around, keeping your hands raised.”
He complied.
“Name is Mindy Jackson, Central Intelligence Agency. I’d show you my ID but my hands are full at the moment.”
“Right,” said Gideon. “Now, look, Ms. Jackson—”
“Shut up. I’ll do the talking. Now, I’d like you to tell me who you’re working for and what the hell you think you’re doing.”
Gideon tried to relax. “Couldn’t we discuss this—”
“You don’t follow directions well, do you? Talk.”
“Or what? You’re going to shoot me here in Central Park?”
“Lots of people get shot in Central Park.”
“You fire that gun and in five minutes this place will be swarming with cops. Just think of the paperwork.”
“Answer my questions.”
“Maybe.”
There was a tense silence. “Maybe?” she said, finally.
“You want me to talk? Fine. Not at gunpoint and not here. All right? If you’re really CIA, we’re on the same side.”
He could see her thinking. She relaxed, holstered the gun under her thin jacket. “That would work.”
“Ginza’s over on Amsterdam has a nice bar, if it’s still around.”
“It’s still around.”
“So you’re a New Yorker?”
“Let’s dispense with the chitchat, shall we?”
29
Sitting at the bar, Gideon ordered sake, Mindy Jackson a Sapporo. They said nothing while waiting for the drinks to arrive. In the light, with the coat off, he was able to see her better: full lips, a small nose, just a hint of freckles, thick brown hair, green eyes. Thirty, maybe thirty-two. Smart. But maybe too nice for her line of work—although, he reminded himself, you never could tell. The important thing was, even though he had no idea what it might be, she had information he needed—he was sure of that. And to get it, he’d have to give.
The drinks arrived and Jackson took a sip, then turned to him, a hostile look on her face. “All right. Now who are you and why are you interested in Wu?”
“Just as I’m sure you can’t tell me all the details of your assignment, I can’t tell you mine.” The walk over had given Gideon time to work up a story; but he had always felt that the best lie was the one closest to the truth. “I don’t even have a badge, as you do. Oh, by the way, as a professional courtesy I’d like to see yours.”
“We don’t have badges. We have IDs.” She brought hers out and quickly flashed it at him under the bar. “So. Who do you work for?”
“I know this is going to frustrate you, Mindy, but I work for a private contractor with the DHS. They wanted me to get the plans for the weapon from Wu.”
She stared at him and he could see she was pissed. “DHS? What the hell are they doing meddling in our affairs? With a private contractor?”
He shrugged.
“What do you know?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. Wu spoke to you right after the accident. He said something to you. I want to know what it was.”
“He told me to tell his wife he loved her.”
“That’s not even a decent lie. He doesn’t have a wife. He gave you some numbers. I want to know what those numbers are.”
Gideon gazed into her face. “Um, what makes you think that he gave me numbers?”
“Witnesses. Said they saw you writing down numbers. Look,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You said it yourself. We’re on the same side. We should be working together, pooling our resources.”
“I haven’t noticed you pooling with me.”
“You give me the numbers and I’ll pool with you.”
“That sounds exciting.”
“Don’t be an ass. Give me the numbers.”
“What do the numbers signify?”
She hesitated, and he sensed that maybe she didn’t know. But numbers were always stimulating to a CIA agent.
“I’ve got a question for you,” he continued, pushing just a little harder. “What is CIA doing working domestically? Isn’t that FBI turf?”
“Wu was coming from overseas. You know that as well as I do.”
“That’s not answering my question.”
“I can’t answer your question,” she said, looking increasingly irritated. “It’s not my place to do so, and it sure as hell isn’t any of your business.”
“If you want to know anything more, you’re going to have to answer it. You can’t force me to talk. I haven’t broken any laws. Talking to an injured man, inquiring about his condition, isn’t illegal.” He wondered where Mindy had been during the firefight at the police vehicle yard. Cutting somebody’s head off, perhaps?
“If it’s in the interests of national security, I can damn well make you talk.”
“What, are you going to waterboard me right here at the bar?”
He saw her smile despite herself. She sighed. “This was too sensitive to hand off to the FBI. Wu was our honey pot. We set it up.”
“You set up the honey trap?”
She hesitated. “Wu went to a scientific conference in Hong Kong, and we learned he had the plans with him. We set it up.”
“Tell me about it.”
She hesitated again, seemed to come to a private decision. “Okay. But if you’d like a behind-the-scenes tour of Guantánamo, just try telling somebody—anybody—what I’m telling you now. We hired a local call girl to have a ch
ance encounter with Wu in the bar at the conference hotel. She brought him up to her room and satisfied his every fantasy—and we got the goods on him, video and audio and stills.”
“And that actually worked? You said the guy wasn’t married. What’s he afraid of?”
“It works in China. The Chinese are prudish. It wasn’t the sex, it was the perversion that, ah, would have destroyed his career.”
He laughed. “Perversion? What was it?”
“Dominatrix. Athletic, over six feet, and blond. We had reason to believe he liked that stuff but we had a hell of a time finding one. She whipped his ass good and we got it all on video.”
“Ouch. So then what happened to your blackmail scheme?”
“We approached him with the goods. Said we’d trade the pictures for the plans. But he freaked out. Said he needed half an hour to think about it. Instead he took off, got on the first plane here.”
“You miscalculated.”
She frowned.
“Why here?” he asked.
“We don’t know.”
“Was he defecting?”
“We have no idea what his intentions were. All we know is, he had the plans when he got on the plane.”
“Hidden where?”
“No idea.”
“And the car that ran him off the road? Who was that?”
“The Chinese are after him hammer and tongs. They sent an operative over to deal with Wu, immediately and with extreme prejudice. We believe he’s a man known as Nodding Crane.”
“Nodding Crane?”
“After a certain kung fu stance. We don’t know his real name. He was sent to kill Wu and retrieve the plans. He did the first, but since he’s still here, we figure the Chinese haven’t gotten the plans. They’re still floating around out there somewhere.” She looked at him pointedly. “Unless you’ve got them.”
“No,” he said. “You know I don’t. Why would I still be running around like this?”
She nodded. “Now: the numbers, please?”
He racked his brains, thinking how he could appear to be reciprocating without actually giving her anything. Could he tell her about the cell phone? But then he’d have to explain where he got it…bad idea. Giving her fake numbers would be an even worse idea. But, he sensed, so would be giving her the real numbers. She’d have no more need of him. And he believed Mindy Jackson could prove an invaluable asset.
“The honest-to-God truth is,” he said, “I don’t have the numbers with me.”
The hostile expression returned immediately, this time with more than a hint of dubiousness. “Where are they?”
“I passed them on to my handlers. They’re being analyzed.”
“You didn’t keep a copy?”
“For security reasons, no. That fellow—what’s his name, Nodding Crane—seems to be after me.”
“That is really unfortunate for you. You didn’t memorize them?”
“It was a long string of numbers. Besides, I figured some things are better not known.”
She stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged. “Look, when I next meet up with my handlers, I’ll find a way to get you the numbers. And then I’ll share them with you. Deal?” He gave her a big smile.
Her hostile expression softened just a little. “Why did you visit the hospital?”
“I was hoping Wu might have said something before he died.”
“I guess you found out he didn’t.”
He nodded.
“Who was that Goth woman you were with?”
“A hooker I hired to help me go undercover, to sidetrack that assassin.”
“It was a good disguise. That theatrical stuff you’re wearing fooled me for a while. You are one ugly mother.”
“Thank you.”
“And now what are you doing?”
“Just what you’re doing. Trying to figure out what Wu did with the plans. Retracing his steps, looking for contacts, people he might have encountered on the way. So far, nothing.” He spread his hands. “Look, Mindy, I appreciate you sharing with me, I really do.” He tried to sound sincere. “Let’s keep sharing. I promise I’ll get you those numbers as soon as possible, and anything else I find I’ll let you know. Fair enough?” He gave her another big honest grin.
She stared at him suspiciously. Then she scribbled a number on a napkin. “Here’s my cell. Call me anytime, day or night. I hope for your sake you’re not bullshitting me.” She rose to go, dropping the napkin and a twenty on the bar.
“Thanks for pooling with me,” Gideon said, with a smirk.
“You wish.”
30
Tom O’Brien ate the last of the Chicken McNuggets—cold and stiff—chewing noisily as he perused the latest printout. He washed it down with a swig of kombucha. His tiny office was brilliantly lit by incandescent light—fluorescence left him depressed—and it was packed with papers, books, journals, coffee mugs, plates, and food trash. The lone barred window looked into an airshaft during the day, but at night it turned into a disconcerting mirror of the activity within. Someday, O’Brien thought, he would have to get blinds.
He paused, hearing a squeak, which he instantly recognized as the sticky knob of his office door. He froze as he saw the handle slowly turn. Whipping out his pocketknife, he moved behind the door, heart pounding.
The handle stopped turning, the door began to open. He stood, knife raised, poised to strike.
“Tom?” came the whispered voice.
“Jesus.” O’Brien dropped his arm as Gideon Crew entered. But when he saw the person, it wasn’t Crew at all. He yelled, jumped back, brandishing the knife. “Who the hell—?”
“Hey. It’s me.”
“Christ, you look awful. What the hell do you mean sneaking up on me like this? And how did you get in? The building’s locked up for the night. Oh, wait, don’t tell me—old skills die hard, right?”
Gideon stepped inside, shut and locked the door behind him, swept some books off a chair, and collapsed. “Sorry about the subterfuge. It’s for your own protection, actually.”
O’Brien grunted. “You could have called ahead.”
“I’m concerned the CIA might be involved,” said Gideon. “Might be wiretapping my phone.”
“I thought you were working for the government.”
“In my Father’s house are many mansions.”
O’Brien folded up the knife and stuck it in his pocket. “You scared the crap out of me.” He looked Gideon up and down. “Man, looks like you’ve been scarfing down corn dogs and shakes twenty-four seven.”
“Amazing what they can do with prosthetics. How’s the work going?”
“So-so.” O’Brien went over to his table, piled with paper, sorted through a stack, and pulled out some sheets. “Take a look at this.”
Gideon took the papers.
“Those numbers, they’re nothing more than a list.” He dropped another piece of paper in front of Gideon. “Here are the numbers, just as you gave them to me. Except I broke them up into three-digit groups. And when I did that, a remarkable pattern emerged. Take a look.”
871 050 033 022 014 010
478 364 156 002
211 205 197 150 135 101 001
750 250
336 299 242 114 009
917 052 009 008 007 004 003
500 278 100 065 057
616 384
370 325 300 005
844 092 060 001 001 001 001
“Whaddya think?” said O’Brien, grinning at Gideon with amusement. The man didn’t see the pattern. Some people were just thick when it came to numbers.
“Ah, yeah?” Gideon said.
“Look. Ten groups of three-digit numbers. Look at ’em. The pattern should be obvious to any idiot.”
“Each group of numbers is in descending order?”
“Yes, but that’s not the big thing. Look at each group—add ’em up.”
A long silence. “Oh my God.”
“Ri
ght. Each group adds up to a thousand.”
“Which means…?”
“I’d guess they’re lists of percentages, each one adding up to a thousand—or one hundred percent with one significant digit to the right of the decimal point. This is a formula of some kind: ten formulations set out with the ratios of their various components adding up to one hundred percent.”
“One hundred percent of what?”
“It might be some kind of high-explosives formulation, an exotic metallurgy formula, a chemical or isotope formulation. I’m not a chemist or a condensed matter physicist—I’d need to bring in an expert.”
“You have someone in mind?”
“Sadie Epstein. She’s a professor in the Physics Department, an expert in metastable quasicrystal analysis.”
“Is she discreet?”
“Very. But I’m not going to tell her much.”
“Give it to her with a false cover story. Dream something up. Say it’s a contest of some kind. You could win a trip to Oxford for the Isaac Newton Maths Conference in September.”
“Can’t you not lie? You make up a story even when there’s no need.”
“I take no pleasure in lying.”
“You’re the Holy Roman Emperor of liars. And since when are you so flush? Usually it’s the poor mouth with you. Where are you staying?”
“I’ve been moving around town—spent last night at a twenty-dollar-an-hour motel in Canarsie. Tonight I’ll crash at the Waldorf. Got a morning flight to Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong? How long are you going to be away?”
“No more than a day. I’ll drop in when I return, see what you’ve found. Don’t call me. And for God’s sake, make sure this Sadie Epstein keeps her trap shut.”
31
Norio Tatsuda had been a flight attendant on Japan Airline’s Tokyo–New York run for almost six years, and when he first saw the man sitting in the wrong seat, he instantly recognized the type: one of those inexperienced and combative travelers who were sure they were going to get disrespected and taken advantage of at every turn. The man was wearing an expensive suit and a silly, floppy American hat, and he clutched a plastic carry-on as if it might be snatched away at any moment by one of the many obvious thugs and criminals roaming about the cabin.
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