Gideon’s Sword

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

  “This is it?” Viv asks. “It looks like a broom closet.”

  “Really?” I ask, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a set of keys. “How many broom closets do you know that have a double set of deadbolts?”

  Stabbing the keys into their respective locks, I give the doorknob a sharp twist. The door is heavier than it looks—I have to put my entire shoulder against it to get it open. As it gives way, I jab the light switch with my fist and finally give Viv a good look at what’s inside.

  The first thing she notices is the ceiling. Unlike the air-duct limbo stick they force you under in the hall, the ceiling inside rises up at least twenty feet over the long, spacious room. Against the warm burgundy walls, there’s a chocolate brown leather couch, flanked by matching Empire mahogany dressers. Above the couch, a collection of antique toy sailboats is mounted to the wall. Adding to the men’s-club feel, there’s also a twelve-foot fish—I’m guessing a marlin—up on the left-hand wall, a bag of golf clubs just inside the door, and on the right side of the room, an enormous 1898 nautical map of the Atlantic Coast from the Chesapeake Bay to the Jupiter Inlet.

  Viv looks at the room for a total of thirty seconds. “Hideaway?” she asks.

  I nod and grin.

  Some people say there are no more secrets in Washington. It’s a nice, quotable statement. But it clearly comes from someone who doesn’t have a hideaway.

  On the stepladders of power, some Members of Congress have great committee assignments. Others have great office space for their staff. A few get preferential parking right outside the Capitol. And a very few get personal drivers to make them look extra important. Then, there are those who have hideaways.

  They’re the best-kept secret in the Capitol—private sanctuaries for a Senator to get away from staff, lobbyists, and the dreaded tour groups who want just-one-quick-photo-please-we-came-all-this-way. How private are they? Even the architect of the Capitol, who manages the entire building, doesn’t have a full list of who’s in each one. Most aren’t even on the floor plan, which is just how the Senators like it.

  “So what does Stevens use this for?” Viv asks.

  “Let me put it to you like this…” Over her shoulder, I point to the round light switch on the wall.

  “A dimmer switch?” Viv asks, already disgusted. “Had it installed his first week in here. Apparently, it’s a popular option—right after power windows and power brakes.”

  She can tell I’m trying to keep things calm. It only makes her more nervous.

  “So how do you know the Senator won’t come down here any minute?”

  “He doesn’t use this one anymore—not since he got the one with the fireplace.”

  “Wait… he has more than one hideaway?”

  “C’mon, you really think they keep this stuff fair? When LBJ was majority leader, he had seven. This is just a spare these days. There’s no way he’d—”

  My eyes stop on the hand-carved coffee table. A set of keys with a familiar key ring sits on top.

  There’s a loud flush of a toilet. Viv and I spin left, back by the bathroom. The light’s on under the door. Then it goes black. Before either of us can run, the bathroom door swings open.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Lowell says, stepping out into the room. “Now do you want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into or not?”

  72

  WHAT’RE YOU DOING?” I ask, my voice already booming through the small room.

  “Take it easy,” Viv says.

  “Listen to her,” Lowell says, trying to sound concerned. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  He nods at Viv, trying to make it look like she’s taking his side. He’s been Deputy Attorney General too long. All he’s got now are old tricks. He taught me that one the first year I worked for him in the Senator’s office.

  “How’d you get in here?” I ask.

  “Same as you. When I was chief of staff, they gave me a key.”

  “You’re supposed to give it back when you leave.”

  “Only if they ask for it,” Lowell says, pretending to be playful. Strike two. He may’ve been a great friend, but that disappeared the moment he sent me running out of that restaurant.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Harris—but you don’t understand the position I was in. He threatened my family… came to my daughter’s playground… even smashed my head when I tipped you off that night,” he says, showing me the Band-Aid on the back of his head.

  Now he’s going for sympathy. Strike three and he’s out. “Fuck you, Lowell! You understand me? Fuck you! The only reason Janos was there that night was because you told him! You set it up!”

  “Harris, please…”

  “So what’s the next dart you’ll jab in my neck? Did you tell him I’d be hiding here, too, or is that what you’re saving for dessert?”

  “I swear to you, Harris—I’m not working with him.”

  “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe you now?”

  “Harris, let’s just go,” Viv says, grabbing my arm. “Do you even realize how stupid it was to come here?” I ask. “You think Janos didn’t follow your every step?”

  “If he did, he’d be standing here right now,” Lowell points out. It’s a fair point. “Now can’t you just listen for a second?” he begs.

  “Whattya mean, like trust you? Sorry, Lowell, we’re all sold out of that this week!”

  Realizing he’s getting nowhere, he studies Viv and sees his new target. “Young lady, can you…?”

  “Don’t talk to her, Lowell!”

  “Harris, I’m fine,” Viv says.

  “Stay away from her, Lowell! She’s not part of—” I cut myself off, fighting to stay in control. Don’t lose it, I tell myself. I bite the inside of my cheek just to kill the rage. We’re running out of time. I open the door and point Lowell toward it. “Good-bye, Lowell.”

  “Can’t you just—?”

  “Good-bye.”

  “But I—”

  “Get out, Lowell. Now!”

  “Harris, I know who they are,” he finally blurts.

  Watching him carefully, I check the pitch of his eyebrows and the anxious tilt of his neck. I’ve known Lowell Nash most of my professional life. No one’s that good a liar. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

  “I know about the Wendell Group… or whatever they call themselves. I had them put through the system. At first glance, they’re as solid as Sears—registered in Delaware, doing a furniture-importing business—but when you dig a little deeper, you see they’re a subsidiary of a corporation in Idaho, which has a partnership in Montana, which is part of a holding company that’s registered back in Antigua… The list kept going, layer upon layer, but the whole thing’s a front.”

  “For the government, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You could see it in the lab. Only a government would have that kind of cash.”

  “What lab?” Lowell asks.

  “In the mine.” From the look on his face, this is all brand-new. “In South Dakota… they’ve got an entire lab hidden in an old gold mine,” I explain. “You could tell from the machinery that the experiments—”

  “They were building something?”

  “That’s why we—”

  “Tell me what they were building.”

  “This is gonna sound nuts…”

  “Just say it, Harris. What were they making?”

  I look at Viv. She knows we don’t have a choice. If Lowell were in on it, he wouldn’t be asking the question.

  “Plutonium,” I say. “We think they’re creating plutonium… from the atomic level up.”

  Lowell stands there, frozen. His face goes pale. I’ve seen him nervous before, but never like this.

  “We have to call someone…” he stutters. His arm flies into his jacket pocket, reaching for his cell phone.

  “You can’t get a signal down here.”

  Seeing I’m right, he scans the office. “Is there a…?�
��

  “On the dresser,” I say, pointing to the phone. Lowell’s fingers pound across the digits, dialing his assistant. “William, it’s me… Yeah,” he says, pausing a moment. “Just listen. I need you to call the AG. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He again stops. “I don’t care. Pull him out of it.”

  Lowell slams down the phone and races for the door. “It still doesn’t make sense,” Viv calls out. “Why would the U.S. government build plutonium when we already have plenty? All it can do is get in the wrong hands…”

  Lowell stops and turns. “What’d you say?”

  “I-It doesn’t make—”

  “After that.”

  “Why would the U.S. government—?”

  “What makes you think it’s our government?” Lowell asks.

  “Pardon?” I ask.

  Viv’s just as confused. “I thought you said…”

  “You have no idea who owns Wendell, do you?” Lowell asks.

  The room’s so silent, I hear the blood flowing through my ears. “Lowell, what the hell is going on?” I ask.

  “We traced it back, Harris. It was well hidden: Idaho, Montana—all the states that make it harder to do a good corporate records search. Whoever set it up knew all the magic tricks. After Antigua, it bounced to a fake board of directors in Turks and Caicos—which was no help, of course—but they also listed a registered agent with a local address in Belize. Naturally, the address was fake, but the name… it went to the owner of a government-owned concrete company in, of all places, Sana’a.”

  “Sana’a?”

  “Capital city of Yemen.”

  “Yemen? You’re telling me Wendell Mining is a front for Yemen?” I ask, my voice cracking.

  “That’s where the records run—and do you have any idea what happens if they start making plutonium and selling it to whoever’s got the fattest money clip? Know how many lunatics would line up for that?”

  “All of them.”

  “All of them,” Lowell repeats. “And if even one of them gets close… we’ve gone to war for far less than that.”

  “I-It’s impossible… they gave money… they were on the wish list… all the names…”

  “Believe me, I’ve been looking for a single Arabic name on the list. These guys usually only hire their own, but the way they’re hidden… I’m guessing they brought in someone over here to put on a public face and grease the right pockets—some CEO-type so it all looks clean. We’re looking at this guy Andre Saulson, whose name is on one of Wendell’s bank accounts. The name’s probably fake, but one of our boys noticed the address matches an old listing we had for someone named Sauls. It’ll take some time to confirm, but he fits the mold. London School of Economics… Sophia University in Tokyo. We looked at him a few years back for art fraud—he was supposedly trying to move the Vase of Warka when it was snatched from Iraq’s National Museum, which is probably how the Yemenis found him. Very high-end scams. Yemen brings him in for credibility, then Sauls hires Janos to flatten out the speed bumps, and maybe even another guy to help them maneuver through the system…”

  “Pasternak… That’s how they got into the game.”

  “Exactly. They bring in Pasternak—he may not even know who they really are—and now they’ve got one of the best players in town. All they have to do is get their gold mine. You have to give them credit. Why risk the wrath of inspectors in the Middle East when you can build your bomb right in our own backyard without anyone thinking twice? Set it up right, and Congress will even give you the land for free.”

  My stomach plummets. I can barely stand up.

  “W-What do we do now?” Viv asks, her whole face already shiny with sweat.

  We’re not just out of our league—we don’t even know what sport they’re playing.

  Running back toward the hallway, Lowell’s already in rescue mode. “Lock the doors behind me—both bolts. Time to ring the king.”

  I’ve heard the term before. Once he gets to the Attorney General, they’re calling in the White House.

  As Lowell disappears from the room, Viv notices his keys on the coffee table. “Lowell, wait…!” she calls out, grabbing the key ring and following him outside.

  “Viv, don’t!” I shout. Too late. She dashes into the hallway.

  As I run for the door, I hear Viv scream. I step out into the hall just as she backs into me. Up the hallway, barely around the corner, Janos presses his forearm against Lowell’s neck, pinning him to the wall. Before I can even react, Janos pulls his black box from Lowell’s chest. Lowell’s body convulses slightly, then drops life-lessly to the floor. His body hits with two dull thuds—first his knees, then his forehead—echoing through the empty hallway. It’s a sound that’ll never leave me. I look down at my friend. His eyes are still open, staring blankly at us.

  Janos doesn’t say a word. He just lunges forward.

  73

  RUN!” I shout to Viv, yanking her by the shoulder and pushing her further up the hallway, away from Janos.

  As Janos barrels toward me, he lets out a smirk, trying to intimidate. He expects me to run. That’s why I stay put. This lunatic’s killed three of my friends. He’s not getting a fourth.

  “Keep going!” I call to Viv, making sure she has enough of a lead.

  From the angle Janos is coming from, he can’t see what I’m looking at: Just inside the door of the hideaway, the Senator’s leather golf bag leans against the wall. I reach for the clubs, but Janos is moving too fast.

  Just as my hand grabs a shiny nine iron, he plows into me, slamming me backward into the threshold of the doorway. My back lets out a loud crack, but I still don’t let go of the club. Pinning me like Lowell, he stabs the black box at my chest; I knock his arm aside with the tip of the club. Before he realizes what’s happening, I ram my head forward, head-butting him as hard as I can in the nose. Same place I hit the scientist in the mine. The sweet spot, my uncle called it. Sure enough, a trickle of blood runs down from Janos’s left nostril, across the top of his lip. His hound-dog eyes widen the slightest bit. He’s actually surprised. Time to take advantage.

  “Get… off!” I shout, seizing the moment and shoving him backward. Before he can get his balance, I hold up the golf club like a baseball bat and rush straight at him. Sometimes the best chess is played fast. As I swing the club, he protects the black box, cradling it close to his chest. He thinks I’m going high. That’s why I go low, arcing the club downward and smashing him as hard as I can in the side of his knee.

  It’s like hitting a boulder. There’s a loud crack, and the club vibrates in my hands. I still don’t let go. At the last second, he rolls with the impact, but it’s enough to send his leg buckling beneath him. Like before, he barely lets out a grunt. I’m not impressed. Feeling good, I move in closer for another swing. That’s my mistake. As he falls to the ground, he never takes his eyes off my club. Before I can even wind up again, he yanks the nine iron from my hands. He’s so fast, I barely see it happen. It’s a quick reminder I can’t beat him head-on. Still, I got what I wanted. Behind me, Viv’s turned the corner. Now we’ve got a head start.

  Janos slams against the concrete floor. I turn and sprint as hard as I can up the hallway. As I turn the corner, I practically plow into Viv.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask, sidestepping around her. She falls in step right behind me. “I said to run.”

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” She’s trying to sound strong. It’s not working.

  Behind us, the golf club scrapes against the concrete floor. Janos is getting up. As he starts running, the echoes of his footsteps are off beat. He’s definitely limping—but the beat’s getting quicker. He’s shaking it off.

  Frantically scrambling past the stacks of old furniture scattered on each side of us, I search the hallway for help. Down here, most of the doors are locked and unmarked.

  “What about that one?” Viv asks, pointing to a door that’s marked Sergeant At Arms. I lunge for the doorknob.
It doesn’t twist. Damn. Locked.

  “This one, too,” Viv says, trying a closed door on our right. I hear her panting over my shoulder. We’re running out of hallway, and unlike last time, the Capitol police are too far away. We have a short lead, but it’s not enough—not unless we do something quick.

  Up ahead, on our left, there’s a loud mechanical hum. It’s the only door that’s open. The sign on it reads:

  Danger

  Mechanical Equipment Space

  Authorized Personnel Only

  I look over my shoulder to see how we’re doing. Down the hallway, Janos tears around the corner like a wounded tiger. He’s got the golf club in one hand and the black box in the other. Even with the limp, he’s already charging fast.

  “Move…” I say, tugging Viv toward the open door. Anything to get us out of his line of vision.

  Inside, the concrete room is narrow but deep—I can’t even see the end of it—filled with row after row of buzzing ten-foot-tall industrial air-handlers, exhaust fans, and air compressors, all of them interconnected by a crisscrossing jungle of spiral ductwork that snakes out in every direction like the tendrils of a 1950s robot. Overhead, gas lines, copper tubing, and electrical work combine with the various pipes and ducts as they weave their way across the ceiling and block what little fluorescent lighting the room already has.

  By the door, there’s a wall full of circular glass pressure gauges that haven’t been used in years, as well as two rolling garbage cans, an empty box of air filters, and an empty, filthy mop bucket with a few random tools stored inside. Behind the garbage cans, a dark green army blanket sits crumpled on the floor, barely covering a row of six metal propane tanks.

  “Hurry… C’mere…” I whisper to Viv, clutching her shoulder and tugging her toward the tanks.

  “What’re you—?”

  “Shhhh. Just duck.” Shoving her downward, I grab the blanket and drape it over her head.

  “Harris, this isn’t—”

  “Listen to me.”

  “But I—”

  “Dammit, Viv—for once, listen,” I scold. She doesn’t like the tone. But right now, she needs it. “Wait till he runs past,” I tell her. “When he’s gone, go get help.”