Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

“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.”

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.”

“Right. 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.”

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.

With a warm, fake smile, Tatsuda approached the gentleman and gave a little bow. “May I trouble you to see your boarding pass, sir?”