Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

“What for?” the man responded.

“Well, it seems the lady here”—he indicated the woman standing behind him—“has a seat assignment for the seat you are sitting in, and that is why I wanted to check your boarding pass.”

“I’m in the right seat,” the man said.

“I am not at all questioning that, sir, it could very well be a problem with the booking system, but I need to check nevertheless.” He bestowed another broad smile on the scowling ape.

With a frown, the man searched his pockets and finally extracted a crumpled boarding pass. “There it is, if you’re so interested in it.”

“Thank you so very much.” Tatsuda saw immediately the man was in the wrong seat; the wrong section, even. “You are Mr. Gideon Crew?”

“That’s what it says, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed it does. Now, Mr. Crew, according to this boarding pass”—another expansive smile—“you are actually booked in our business-class section, up front.”

“Business? I’m not traveling on business. I’m visiting my son.”

This man, Tatsuda thought, was almost miraculously stupid. The pugnacious expression on the man’s face, the protruding lips, furrowed brow and tilted chin, only confirmed it. “Mr. Crew, business class is not just for business travelers. There’s more room up there and a higher quality of service.” He waved the boarding pass. “You’re supposed to be in a much more expensive seat.”

Crew frowned. “My son bought the ticket, I don’t know anything about that, but I’m settled in right here, thank you.”

Tatsuda had never quite dealt with a situation like this before. He glanced back at the woman whose seat Crew occupied. Being Japanese, she had understood nothing of the exchange. He turned back to the man. “Sir, do you mean to say you would prefer to remain here for the duration of the flight? Your seat in business class will be much more comfortable.”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? I don’t like businesspeople. Bunch of crooks. I want to be right here, in the middle of the plane where I’m safe, not up front in the death zone. That’s what I told my son, and that’s what I want.”

Another bow. Tatsuda turned to the woman and switched to Japanese. “The gentleman,” he said, “would like to exchange your seat here in economy class with his business-class seat at the front of the aircraft. Does this meet with your approval?”

It met with her approval.

With a passenger such as Gideon Crew, Tatsuda knew that the ordeal was only beginning, and the next challenge came as soon as the captain turned off the seat belt sign. As Tatsuda passed down the aisle taking drink orders, he found Crew on his feet, hunched over his seat. He had pulled up his cushion and was feeling all along the seams and in the spaces behind the seat.

“May I be of assistance, Mr. Crew?”

“I lost my damn contact lens.”

“Allow me to help.”

He squinted at Tatsuda with one eye. “Help? How’re you going to do that when I can hardly turn around in here?”

Tatsuda could see the passenger next to Crew rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“If you do need help, please let me know. In the meantime, may I have your drink order, Mr. Crew?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Yes, sir.” Tatsuda withdrew, but he kept an eye on Crew from the galley. The man had finished searching and palpating the seat cushion and was now fumbling about in the seat compartment. He could see that the man’s rough handling had actually caused one of the seams in the cushion to come apart, and the seat covering as well seemed to be falling loose. He would have to carefully monitor the man’s alcoholic intake, as he looked exactly like the type who used a long plane journey as an excuse to get drunk.

But Crew did not order a second drink, and after an endless and obsessive search that even involved several overhead compartments, as if his contact lens might have somehow fallen upward, the man fell back in his seat and went soundly to sleep. And, to Tatsuda’s great relief, the difficult passenger proceeded to sleep like a baby all the way to Tokyo.

Gideon Crew stepped into the vast interior of the Tai Tam Hotel in Hong Kong. He stood still for a moment, looking around while buttoning his suit, taking in the acres of white and black marble, the cold opulence of gold and glass. There did not seem to be anything untoward about his arrival; he had gotten through customs without a hitch and everything had gone smoothly. He was fairly sure he had shaken Nodding Crane and any potential henchmen from his trail long before he left America. Who would imagine a person, being chased by a Chinese agent, getting on a plane and flying to China? The unexpected way was often the safer way.

He approached the desk, gave his name, picked up his room card, and rode an elevator to the twenty-second floor. He had booked an expensive room with a view of Hong Kong’s harbor, a necessary part of his cover, and he’d had to spend a considerable amount on some really sharp clothing. The twenty thousand Glinn had given him was almost gone, and he could only hope another infusion of cash would miraculously appear. Otherwise he would be in deep shit.

He threw the stupid hat in the trash, along with the plastic carry-on bag, took a shower, and changed into fresh, crisp clothes. Forty Benjamins’ worth, not counting the thousand-​dollar shoes.

“A man could get used to this,” he said aloud, examining himself in the mirror. He wondered if he should cut his hair, decided against it: the modish length made him look dot-com.

He glanced at his watch. Four in the afternoon — of the next day. After thoroughly searching Wu’s plane seat and making sure nothing had been left behind, he’d slept so well he’d be good for another two days. And now he had work to do.

Taking the elevator down to the lobby, he went into the Kowloon Bar, taking a seat and ordering a Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist. The bar’s purple light gave his skin a cadaverous look. He drank it down, paid in cash, and made his way back to the lobby. The concierge desk stood to one side; Gideon waited until a few people there drifted away, and then went over. There were two concierges, and he picked the younger one.

“May I help you, sir?” the man said. He was a perfect specimen of neutrality, discretion, and professionalism.

Gideon walked him over to the far end of the desk and leaned forward, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice. “I’m a businessman, traveling alone.”

A faint nod of understanding.

“I’m interested in engaging an escort for the evening. Are you the man I should speak to about that?”

The concierge said, equally quietly but his voice betraying nothing, “We have a gentleman who handles these requests. May I ask you to come with me?”

Gideon followed the man across the lobby and through a door into a suite of small offices. The concierge ushered him into one. Another man, of identical discretion and almost identical appearance, rose from behind the desk. “Please sit down.”

Gideon took a seat while the concierge left, shutting the door behind him. The gentleman reseated himself at the desk, on which sat several phones and computers. “What kind of escort service are you interested in?” he asked.

“Well.” Gideon gave a nervous chuckle, making sure to breathe out plenty of martini fumes. “A man traveling, away from his family, gets kind of lonely, you know what I mean?”

“Certainly,” the man said, and waited, his hands clasped.

“Well, um…” He cleared his throat. “I want a Caucasian. Blond. Athletic. Over six feet. Young but not too young. You know, late twenties.”

A nod.