Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

“Um, is it possible to get special services with the escort?”

“Yes,” said the man simply.

“Well, in that case…” He hesitated and then said it all at once: “I’d like a dominatrix. You know what that is?”

“That can be arranged,” said the man.

“I want the best. The most experienced.”

A slow nod. “The escort services here require cash payment up front. Do you need to visit our private banking facilities before I make the arrangements?”

“No, I’m in the green already,” he said, with another nervous laugh, tapping the wallet in his suit coat. Christ, this might use up the last of his money.

The man rose. “And when would you need the escort?”

“Soon as possible. I’d like her for drinks, dinner, then the evening, till, say, midnight.”

“Very well. She will contact your room by phone when she arrives.”

Gideon entered the bar and saw her sitting at the end, drink in hand. He was surprised at how attractive she was, tall and willowy, not the muscled roller-derby type he had expected. He, for his part, had shed his suit and changed into tight black jeans, a T-shirt, and Chuck Taylors. He approached her and sat down.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she said, in an Australian accent.

“I’m the man you’re waiting for. Gideon Crew, at your service.” The bartender came over. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

“That would be a Pellegrino.”

“Yikes! Get rid of that and bring us a brace of double martinis.”

He found her staring at him, and he fancied he saw a look of pleasant surprise in her face.

“I thought I was meeting some fat old suit,” she said.

“Nope. I’m a thin, young non-suit. And your name is?”

A smile crept across her face. “Gerta. How old are you?”

“About your age. Where are you from? Coomooroo? Goomalling?”

She giggled. “You’re a daft one. You been to Australia?”

He looked at his watch. “Let’s take these drinks into the restaurant and get something to eat. I’m famished.”

In the hotel restaurant, after plying her with Château Pétrus and sweetbreads, Gideon unburdened himself. He did it slowly, reluctantly, and only under gentle urging. He told Gerta about how he had made a fortune selling his company, how he’d worked so hard he’d hardly ever seen his little son, how his wife divorced him and then they were both killed in a car crash, how he hardly recognized his son’s little body in the casket at the wake because it had been so long since he’d last seen him…And now, here he was, a billionaire and so lonely he would trade all of it—​all of it—​for one hour with his son. One hour of the countless many he had thrown away making all that money while his son waited for him to come home every night, sometimes waiting up with a flashlight under the covers so he wouldn’t be asleep when Daddy came home. But he always was asleep, lying there, flashlight still on. Gideon removed a photograph of an adorable blond boy from his wallet and shed a solitary tear over it, and declared himself the loneliest, saddest billionaire on the planet.

He was rewarded with a corresponding tear from Gerta.

Back in the room, Gerta started to bring out her kit with what he noted was a certain reluctance, but as she was unzipping the duffel Gideon told her he’d never met anyone like her before and he wanted her to be his friend and wanted to talk a little more, she was so funny and interesting, and he couldn’t imagine now going through that stuff with her — the stuff that helped him forget, just the smallest bit — because he now respected her far too much.

Gideon asked about some of her more interesting experiences and she, reluctantly at first but then more eagerly — stimulated by his fascination — began to tell him about her work. They sat side by side on the bed, Gerta talking. After five or six of her war stories, she finally got to it. It had happened, she said, about two weeks ago. She’d been hired by this fellow from an Australian firm for a special job. Apparently the Chinese had ripped off this firm’s technology — did Gideon know China had been stealing from Australian companies for some time? — and they wanted her to get one of the Chinese executives in a compromising position in order to get the technology back. Ten thousand dollars for an evening’s work.

“I was expecting some Chinese gangster type,” she said, “but he was small and nervous. No bigger than a mozzie. Took him forever to get out what he wanted me to do.” She giggled. “But when he got going…here, look out!”

Gideon laughed along with her and went to open a split of Veuve from the minibar. He poured out two glasses.

“Yeah, it was pretty funny. He was like an eager teenager.”

“What kind of work did he do?” Gideon asked.

“He made it seem all deep and dark sounding, something to do with electricity. Never even mentioned his real business was ripping off Australia.”

“Electricity?” Gideon popped a second split.

“Well, I think that’s what he said, electricity or maybe electrons or something like that. Hinted around that it was going to change everything, China was going take over the world. He got pretty drunk, wasn’t making a lot of sense.”

“Were the Australians who hired you happy with the information?”

“They were more interested in getting it all on videotape. They were going to force him to give back their technology.”

“What kind of technology?”

Gerta took a deep swig of champagne. “They wouldn’t tell me. Secret.”

“This all took place in his room?”

“Oh yeah. I never engage my own room.”

“Did you notice if he had a laptop with him? Or a portable hard drive?”

She paused and looked at him. “No. Why?”

Gideon realized he might be pushing it too far. “Just curious. You said he was a scientist — I was thinking maybe the stolen technology might have been in the room.”

“Maybe. I didn’t notice. The room was very neat, everything put away.”

He decided to push it once more. “Did he say anything about a secret weapon?”

“Secret weapon? No, just a lot of talk about China dominating the world, the usual bragging. I get that a lot from Chinese businessmen. They all think in ten, twenty years China’s gonna bury the rest of us.”

“What else did he say?”

“Not much. Once it was over, he suddenly got really paranoid, looked around the room for bugs, was afraid for me to leave. He sobered up real quick. It was kind of scary, actually, how freaked out he got.”

“And they paid you ten thousand?”

“Five up front, five afterward.”

“Australians, you said?”

“Right. And from Sydney, where I’m from. It was nice to meet some mates from Oz.”

Gideon nodded. The CIA was cleverer than he thought.

“And then,” she went on, with a laugh, spilling a bit of champagne, “there was the guy a couple of years ago wanted to bring his pet monkey. Ugh. Monkeys are nasty beasts, and I mean nasty ! You won’t believe what he wanted…”

She eventually fell asleep on top of the covers, snoring softly. Gideon carefully tucked her in on one side, then climbed in the other, his own head whirling from the martinis, wine, and champagne.

34

They arrived about eight in the morning, dressed in blue suits like a group of Hong Kong real estate developers, unlocking the door with their own key and filing into the room. They stood around politely as their leader spoke.

“Mr. Gideon Crew?”

Gideon sat up in bed, his head pounding. “Um, yes?” This was not good.

“Please come with us.”

He stared. The girl, Gerta, was still sleeping soundly next to him. “No, thanks.”