Gideon’s Sword gc-1

by Douglas Preston

  “Of course.”

  She produced a map — an excellent topographic one, with the trails clearly marked. Dajkovic took it back to his car and climbed in. The Sawmill trailhead was down the road, and the map showed it to be a winding path going up the ridge of the mountain, apparently following an old fire road.

  It was entirely possible Crew had left the directions so his contact could find him. Yet it seemed unlikely. No one involved in espionage would be so ham-handed as to leave such a trail. Yes, it seemed more likely that this was a trap. Not a trap for him, specifically, but for anyone who might be pursuing Crew. And if so, then Crew would be on the mountain — waiting along the Sawmill Trail to ambush anyone coming up behind him.

  He examined the map. A much quicker, more direct way to the summit led straight up the main ski lift cut, on the back side of the mountain.

  Driving through the resort and past the golf course, Dajkovic came to the parking lot for the ski area. He got out and opened the trunk, removing a gun case. Back inside the car, he unlocked the case and removed an M1911 Colt and a shoulder holster, donned the holster, tucked the loaded weapon into it, and pulled on a windbreaker. A fixed-blade knife went into his belt and a smaller one into his boot, and a Beretta .22 was slipped in his trouser pocket. Into a small backpack he threw some extra ammunition, binoculars, and two bottles of water.

  Once again he examined the map. If Crew was planning an ambush, there were a couple of obvious places for it where the Sawmill Trail passed through an area of exposed knobs.

  As he stared at the map, he became convinced this was where the ambush would take place.

  9

  Dajkovic started up the ski lift cut, moving fast. It was half a mile to the top, and unrelievedly steep, but he was in peak physical condition and could make it in ten minutes; then, cresting the mountain, he would head down the Sawmill Trail, bushwhack to the summit of a secondary peak he’d identified on the map, an ideal place from which to surveil the area of exposed knobs, locate the ambusher — and then ambush him.

  Five minutes later, halfway up the slope, a maintenance hut for the ski lift, shuttered for the summer, came into view. Dajkovic churned up the slope, detouring around it. As he moved past the hut he heard a tremendous boom! and suddenly felt a violent blow to his upper back — which, with his upward momentum, pitched him forward onto the slope and knocked the wind from him.

  As he struggled for his .45, fighting the pain in his back and gasping for breath, he felt a boot press down on his neck and the warm snout of a weapon touch his head.

  “Hands spread-eagled, please.”

  He stopped, his mind racing, trying to think through the pain. Slowly he spread his hands.

  “I knocked you down with a load of rubber,” came the voice, “but the rest are double-ought buck.”

  The barrel remained on the back of his head while the person — he had no doubt it was Crew — searched him, removing the .45 and the .22 and the knife in his belt. He did not find the knife in Dajkovic’s boot.

  “Roll over, keeping your hands in sight.”

  With a wince, Dajkovic rolled over onto the dirt of the trail. He found himself facing a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties, with straight black hair, a long nose, and intense, brilliant blue eyes. He was gripping a Remington 12-gauge with a practiced hand.

  “Fine afternoon for a walk, isn’t it, Sergeant? Name’s Gideon Crew.”

  Dajkovic stared.

  “That’s right. I know a fair amount about you, Dajkovic. What sort of story did Tucker tell you to get you out here, looking for me?”

  Dajkovic said nothing, his mind still working furiously. He was mortified the man had gotten the drop on him. But all was not lost — he still had the knife. And though Crew was a good fifteen years younger than he was, the fellow looked thin, weak — not a good physical specimen.

  Crew gave him a smile. “Actually, I can probably guess what the good general told you.”

  Dajkovic didn’t answer.

  “It must have been quite a story, to turn you into a hired assassin like this. You’re not normally the kind of person to shoot someone in the back. He probably told you I was a traitor. In league with al-Qaeda, maybe — that would be the treason du jour, I guess. No doubt I’m abusing my position at Los Alamos, betraying my country. That would push all your buttons.”

  Dajkovic stared at him. How the hell did he know that?

  “He probably told you about my traitor father, what he did getting those agents killed.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Maybe he said traitorousness was a family tradition.”

  Dajkovic’s mind was clearing. He had fucked up, but all he had to do was get his hands — one hand — on that knife in his boot and Crew was a dead man, even if he did manage to get off a shotgun blast.

  “May I sit up?” Dajkovic asked.

  “Slow and easy.”

  Dajkovic sat up. The pain was mostly gone. Broken ribs were like that. Stopped hurting for a while and then the pain came back, twice as bad. He flushed at the thought of this weenie knocking him down with a load of rubber.

  “I’ve got a question for you,” Crew said. “How do you know old man Tucker told you the truth?”

  Dajkovic didn’t answer. He noticed for the first time that Crew’s right hand was missing the last joint of the ring finger.

  “I was pretty sure Tucker would send an underling after me, because he’s not the kind to put himself on the front lines. I knew it would be someone he trusted, who’d served under him. I looked over his employees and figured you’d be the one. You led a marine SOF team in the Grenada invasion, securing the American medical school in advance of the main landing. Did a good job, too — not one student was hurt.”

  Dajkovic remained poker-faced, waiting his opportunity.

  “So: is your mind made up about me? Or are you willing to open your ears to a few facts that might not quite jibe with what General Tucker told you?”

  He didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to give the scumbag an inch of satisfaction.

  “Since I’m the one with the loaded shotgun, I guess you’re going to have to listen anyway. You like fairy tales, Sergeant? Here’s one for you, only nobody lives happily ever after. Once upon a time, back in August of 1988, there was a twelve-year-old boy…”

  Dajkovic listened to the story. He knew it was bullshit, but he paid attention because a good soldier knew the value of information — even false information.

  It only took five minutes. It was a pretty good story, well told. These types of people were always amazing liars.

  When he was done, Crew pulled an envelope out of his pocket and tossed it at Dajkovic’s feet. “There’s the memo my father wrote Tucker. The reason why he was murdered.”

  Dajkovic didn’t bother to pick it up. For a moment, the two just remained where they were, staring at each other.

  “Well,” said Crew at last, shaking his head. “I guess I was naive to think I could convince an old soldier like you that his beloved commanding officer is a liar, coward, and murderer.” He thought for a moment. “I want you to bring Tucker a message. From me.”

  Dajkovic remained grim-jawed.

  “Tell him I’m going to destroy him like he destroyed my father. It’s going to be nice and slow. The memo I’ve released to the press will trigger an investigation. No doubt a news organization will put in a FOIA request to confirm the document is genuine. As the truth comes out, bit by bit, Tucker’s integrity will be impeached. In his line of work, even though everyone is corrupt, the appearance of integrity is pure gold. He’ll see his business dry up. Poor Tucker: did you know he’s leveraged up the wazoo? The mortgage on his McLean McMansion is swimming with the fishes. He owes a shitload on that tacky Pocono golf-club condo, the apartment in New York, and the yacht on the Jersey Shore.” Crew shook his head sadly. “Know what he calls that yacht? Urgent Fury. Funny, isn’t it? Tucker’s one weak-ass moment of glory. The Poconos, McLean, the Jersey Shore…the general can’t be accus
ed of good taste, can he? Of course, the Upper East Side girlfriend was a step in the right direction, but she’s a hungry little bird, her beak open day and night. He hasn’t saved his money like a good boy should. But bankruptcy will only be the beginning, because the investigation will eventually show everything I just told you: that he framed my father and was himself responsible for the death of those twenty-six agents. He’s going to end up in prison.”

  Dajkovic found Crew staring at him. Again, he said nothing. He could see Crew was getting frustrated at his lack of reaction.

  “Let me ask you another question,” Crew said finally.

  Dajkovic waited. His chance was coming — he felt it in his bones.

  “Did you actually see Tucker under fire? What do you know of the guy as a soldier? I’ll bet Tucker didn’t set foot on land until the beachhead was totally secure.”

  Dajkovic couldn’t help but remember how disappointed he’d been that Tucker seemed to be the very last soldier onto Grenada. But he was a general, one of the top commanders, and that was army protocol.

  “Fuck it,” said Crew, taking a step backward. “It was a mistake to expect you might actually be capable of thinking. You got the message: go deliver it.”

  “May I get up?”

  “By all means, get your sorry ass up and out of here.”

  The moment had arrived. Dajkovic placed his hands on the ground and began to rise to his feet; as his hands passed his boots he slipped out the knife and in one smooth motion threw it, aiming at Crew’s heart.

  10

  Gideon Crew saw the quick movement, the flash of steel; he threw himself sideways but it was too late. The knife slammed into his shoulder, burying itself almost to the hilt. As he fell back, trying to bring the shotgun up, Dajkovic leapt for him, ramming him backward with immense power and wrenching the shotgun from his hands. He heard a crack as his own head caromed off a stone.

  For a moment, all went black. Then the world came back to him. Gideon was sprawled on the ground, staring into the barrel of his own shotgun. He could feel the knife in his shoulder, searing hot, the blood seeping out. He reached to pull it out.

  “No.” Dajkovic stepped back. “Keep your hands away from your body. And say your prayers.”

  “Don’t do this,” Gideon said.

  Dajkovic racked a shell into the chamber.

  He fought to think straight, to clear the fogginess from his head. “What do you know about me besides what Tucker said? Christ, can’t you think for yourself?”

  Dajkovic raised the gun and looked him in the eye. Gideon felt desperation take hold: if he died, his father would never be vindicated, and Tucker would never get his comeuppance.

  “You’re not a killer,” he said.

  “For you, I’m going to make an exception.” Dajkovic’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  “If you kill me, at least do me this one favor: take that envelope. Look into the story I told you. Follow the evidence. And then do what you think is right.”

  Dajkovic paused.

  “Find someone who was there in 1988. You’ll see. My father was shot down in cold blood — with his hands up. And that memo — it’s real. You’ll discover that, too, eventually. Because if you take my life you’ll also have to take on the responsibility of finding the truth.”

  He found Dajkovic peering at him with a strange intensity. He wasn’t pulling the trigger — yet.

  “Does it sound likely to you? Not that a guy with a top-secret security clearance at Los Alamos would be passing secrets to al-Qaeda — that’s possible. No — that General Tucker would know about it? And ask you to take care of it? Does that really make sense?”

  “You have powerful friends.”

  “Powerful friends? Like who?”

  Slowly, Dajkovic lowered the shotgun. His face was slick with sweat, and he was pale. He looked almost sick. Then — kneeling abruptly — he reached for the knife in Gideon’s shoulder.

  Gideon turned away. He’d failed. Dajkovic would cut his throat and leave his body in the dirt.

  Grasping the knife, Dajkovic pulled it from the wound.

  Gideon cried out. It felt as if his flesh had just been seared by a hot iron.

  But Dajkovic didn’t raise the knife to strike again. Instead, he removed his own shirt and used the knife to cut it into strips. Gideon, head swimming in mingled pain and surprise, watched as the man used the strips to bind his shoulder.

  “Hold that down,” Dajkovic said.

  Gideon pressed the strips against the wound.

  “We’d better get you to a hospital.”

  Gideon nodded, breathing hard, gripping the bandaged shoulder. He could feel the blood soaking through already. He tried to overcome the searing pain, worse now that the knife was gone.

  Dajkovic helped Gideon to his feet. “Can you walk?”

  “It’s all downhill from here,” Gideon gasped.

  Dajkovic half carried, half dragged him down the steep slope. In fifteen minutes, they were back at Dajkovic’s car. He helped Gideon into the passenger seat, blood smearing over the leather.

  “Is this a rental?” Gideon asked, looking at the car. “You’re going to lose your deposit.”

  The old soldier shut the door, came around and got in the driver’s seat, started the car. His face was pale, set, grim.

  “So you believe me?” Gideon asked.

  “You might say that.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Easy,” Dajkovic said, backing out of the parking spot. He threw the car into gear. “When a man realizes he’s going to die, everything is stripped down to essentials. Purified. No more bullshit. I’ve seen it in battle. And I saw it in your eyes, when you believed I was going to kill you. I saw your hatred, your desperation — and your sincerity. I knew then you were telling the truth. Which means…” He hesitated, gunned the engine, the rubber squealing on the macadam, the car shooting forward.

  “Which means,” he resumed, “Tucker lied to me. And that makes me angry.”

  11

  What the hell’s this?”

  Tucker rose quickly as Dajkovic pushed Gideon into the study, hands cuffed. The general stepped around from behind his desk, pulling a .45 and training it on Gideon.

  For the first time, Gideon came face-to-face with his nemesis. In person, Chamblee Tucker looked even more well fed and well watered than in the dozens of pictures he had studied over the years. His neck bulged slightly over a starched collar; his cheeks were so closely shaved that they shone; his hair was trimmed to crew-cut perfection. His skin bore a spiderweb of veins marking the face of a drinking man. His outfit was pure Washington: power tie, blue suit, four-hundred-dollar shoes. The soulless study was of a piece with the man — wood paneling, interior-​decorator antiques, Persian rugs, power wall plastered with photos and citations.

  “Are you crazy?” Tucker said. “I didn’t tell you to bring him here. My God, Dajkovic, I thought you could handle this on your own!”

  “I brought him here,” Dajkovic replied, “because he told me something completely different from what you said. And damned if it didn’t sound plausible.”

  Tucker stared hard at Dajkovic. “You’d believe this scumbag over me?”

  “General, I just want to know what’s going on. I’ve covered your back for years. I’ve done your work, clean and dirty, and I’ll continue to do it. But a funny thing happened on the side of that mountain — I began to believe this guy.”

  “What the hell are you trying to tell me?”

  “I’m beginning to have doubts, and the minute that happens, I’m no longer an effective soldier. You want me to get rid of this man? No problem. I’ll follow your orders. But I need to know what’s going on before I put a bullet into his head.”

  Tucker stared at him for a long time, then broke eye contact and passed a hand over his bristly scalp. He stepped over to a well-polished cabinet, slid open a drawer, pulled out a glass and a bottle of Paddy, slammed them on the maho
gany, and poured himself a few fingers. He swallowed it in one gulp. Then he glanced back at Dajkovic.

  “Anyone see you come in?”

  “No, sir.”

  Tucker looked from Dajkovic to Gideon and back again. “What did he tell you, exactly?”

  “That his father wasn’t a traitor. And that he isn’t a terrorist, or in league with them.”

  Tucker carefully set down his glass. “All right. Truth is, I did tell you a bit of a story. His father didn’t pass secrets to the Soviets.”

  “What did he do?”

  “You got to remember, Dajkovic, we were in a war, a Cold War. In war, ugly things happen. You get collateral damage. We had a problem: an error was made. We rolled out a flawed code and some operatives died as a result. If that had come out, it would have taken down the entire cryptology section at a time when we desperately needed a new set of codes. His father had to be sacrificed for the greater good. You remember what it was like: them or us.”

  Dajkovic nodded. “Yes, sir. I remember.”

  “So now this fellow here, Gideon, more than twenty years later, is threatening me. Blackmailing me. Trying to tear down everything we’ve built, to destroy not only my reputation but the reputation of an entire group of dedicated, patriotic Americans. That’s why he has to be eliminated. You understand?”

  “I get it,” said Dajkovic, with a slow smile. “You don’t have to work around the facts to get me to do something for you. I’m with you one hundred percent, whatever you need.”

  “Are we clear what needs to be done?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Gideon said nothing and waited.

  Tucker glanced down at the bottle and glass. “Drink on it?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Tucker poured himself another, slugged it back. “Trust me that this is for the best. You’re earning my eternal gratitude. Take him out through the garage and make sure no one sees you.”

  Dajkovic nodded and gave Gideon a little push. “Let’s go.”

  Gideon turned and headed toward the door, Dajkovic following. They passed into the front hall and headed toward the kitchen, walked to the back where a door evidently led out into the garage.