Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

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.

Gideon 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.

The Navigator made the turn with a howl of rubber and Gideon followed, the limo going into an awkward four-wheel power slide. Heart pounding, he accelerated after them. The Navigator’s driver wasn’t trying to force the cab to pull over; he was trying to kill its occupants by causing an accident.