Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

Screw you, too, thought Gideon, settling in to read the Post over the shoulder of the person standing next to him.

Like the whining of a mosquito, the persistent sound of a buzzer intruded into the exceedingly pleasant dream of Tom O’Brien. He sat up with a groan and looked at his clock. Nine thirty in the morning. Who could possibly be disturbing him at this ungodly hour?

The buzzer sounded again, three short blasts. O’Brien muttered, throwing off the covers, pushing the cat to the floor, and picking his way through the strewn apartment to the door. He pushed the intercom button. “Go fuck yourself.”

“It’s me. Gideon. Let me up.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Just let me up, you can bitch later.”

O’Brien thumbed the door-lock button, unlatched his front door, and wandered back to his bed, sitting down and rubbing his face.

A minute later Gideon came in, carrying a bulky Pelican case. O’Brien stared at him. “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. When did you blow into town?”

Ignoring this, Gideon set down the case, went to the window, and, standing next to it, opened the curtain with a finger and peered out.

“Cops after you? You still boosting shit out of museums?”

“You know I gave that up a long time ago.”

“You look like yesterday’s feces.”

“You’re always so affirmative, that’s one of the things I like about you. Where’s the coffee?”

O’Brien pointed a finger toward the Pullman kitchen at the back of the studio apartment. Avoiding the moldy dishes in the sink, Gideon rattled around and soon emerged with a coffeepot and mugs.

“Man, you’re ripe,” said O’Brien, helping himself to a cup. “And your duds are revolting. What the hell you been doing?”

“I’ve been swimming in the Harlem River and being chased across subway tracks.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Want to take a shower?”

“Love to. And also — got any clothes I can borrow?”

O’Brien went into his closet and sorted through a huge pile of suspiciously dirty clothing sitting on the floor, picking out a few items and tossing them toward Gideon.

Ten minutes later, he was cleaned up and dressed in reasonably fresh clothes. They felt a little loose on him—​O’Brien hadn’t stayed quite as skinny as Gideon—​and they were covered with satanic designs and logos of the death metal band Cannibal Corpse.

“You look marvelous,” O’Brien said. “But you’ve got the pants pulled up too high.” He reached over and tugged them so they were hanging halfway down Gideon’s ass. “That’s how it’s supposed to look.”

“Your taste in music and clothing is atrocious.” Gideon hiked them back up. “Look, I need your help. I’ve got a few problems for you to solve.”

O’Brien shrugged, sipped his coffee.

Gideon unlocked the Pelican case and removed a piece of paper. “I’m working on an assignment, undercover. I can’t tell you much about it — except that I’m looking for a set of plans.”

“Plans? What sort of plans?”

“To a weapon.”

“Cloak and dagger, man. What kind of weapon?”

“I don’t know. And that’s really all I can safely tell you.” He handed him the piece of paper. “There is a bunch of numbers here. I have no idea what they mean. I want you to tell me.”

“Is it some kind of code?”

“All I know is it has something to do with weapon plans.”

O’Brien eyeballed the sheet. “I can tell you right off that there’s a theoretical upper limit to the amount of information that could be contained in these numbers, and it isn’t even enough to detail the plans for a pop-gun.”

“The numbers could be something else, a passcode, bank account or safe-deposit, directions to a hiding place, the encoded name and address of a contact…or, for all I know, a recipe for chop suey.”

O’Brien grunted. Over the years, he had gotten used to his friend’s vanishings and reappearances, his black moods, his secretive doings and quasi-criminal habits. But this really took the cake. He stared at the numbers, then a smile cracked his face. “These numbers are anything but random,” he said.

“How do you know?”

O’Brien grunted. “Just looking at ’em. I doubt this is a code at all.”

“What is it, then?”

O’Brien shrugged, laid the paper down. “What other goodies you got in that case?”

Gideon reached in and pulled out a passport and credit card. O’Brien took them; both were Chinese. He stared. “Is all this…legal?”

“It’s necessary — for our country.”

“Since when did you become a patriot?”

“What’s wrong with patriotism — especially when it pays?”

“Patriotism, my dear chap, is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”

“Spare me your left-wing twaddle. I don’t see you packing your bags and moving to Russia.”

“All right, all right, stop hyperventilating. So what do you want me to do with the passport and credit card?”

“Both have magnetic stripes containing data. I want you to download that data and parse it, see if anything unusual is hidden in it.”

“Piece of cake. Next?”

Gideon reached back into the case and removed, with enormous gravitas, a ziplock bag containing a cell phone. He laid it in O’Brien’s palm. “This is really important. This phone belonged to a Chinese physicist. I need you to extract all the information this phone contains. I’ve already gotten its list of recent calls and contacts, but that’s suspiciously short — there might be more that have been hidden or deleted. If he’s used it for web browsing, I want the entire history. If there are photos I want those, too. And finally — and most important — I think there’s a very good chance the plans for the weapon are hidden in that phone.”

“Lucky for you I read and write Mandarin.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” said Gideon. “It isn’t because I miss your ugly mug. You are a gentleman of singular and diverse endowments.”

“And not just in the intellectual department.” O’Brien laid the cell phone on a table. “Any money in it for me?”

Gideon extracted from his pocket a massive, sodden roll of banknotes.

“That’s a charming Kansas City roll you got there.”

Gideon peeled off ten limp bills. “A thousand dollars. I’ll give you another thousand when you’re done. And I need it, like, done yesterday.”

O’Brien collected the wet money and lovingly spread it out on his windowsill to dry. “This is a challenge. I like challenges.”

Gideon seemed to hesitate. “One other thing.” His voice was suddenly different.

O’Brien looked over. Gideon was removing a manila envelope. “I’ve got some X-rays and CT scans here. Friend of mine. The guy doesn’t feel right, wants a doctor to look these over.”

O’Brien frowned. “Why doesn’t he ask his own doctor? I don’t know shit about medicine. Or take it to your doctor, for Chrissakes.”

“I’m busy. Look, he just wants a second opinion. Surely you know some good doctors around here.”

“Well, sure, we got a few at the medical school.” He opened the file, picked up an X-ray. “Name’s been cut out.”

“The guy values his privacy.”

“Is there anything you do that isn’t shady? Doctors are expensive.”

Gideon laid two more C notes on the table. “Just take care of it, okay?”

“Right, fine, no need to get snippy.” He was taken aback by Gideon’s sudden short tone of voice. “It’s gonna take time. These guys are busy.”

“Be careful and for God’s sake keep your big mouth shut. No kidding. I’ll be back tomorrow.”