Douglas Preston - Gideon’s Sword

“How?”

Gideon let the silence build. “I have an idea…it might be a really good one. What was that port number again?”

“Six one five one. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’ll check some things, call you back at home tonight. In the meantime, don’t say anything about this to anybody, just sit tight, do your job, keep your head down. Don’t call me back — they’re no doubt logging your calls. We’ll talk when you get home.”

“I can’t believe this. Listen, thanks, Kenny. Really.”

Gideon coughed again. “Hey, what are friends for?”

Hanging up the phone, Gideon Crew began flinging off his clothes. He slid open the closet door and laid a garment bag on the bed. From it he removed a fragrant, custom-cut Turnbull & Asser shirt, shifted his lanky frame into it, and buttoned it up. Next came a blue Thomas Mahon bespoke suit. He pulled on the pants, belted them, whipped on a Spitalfield flower tie (where did the English get those names?), tied it with a crisp tug, shrugged on the jacket. He massaged some hair gel between his palms and used it to slick back his floppy hair. As a final touch, he combed a smidgen of gray into his sideburns, which added an instant five years to his age.

He turned to look at himself in the mirror. Thirty-two hundred dollars for the new persona — shirt, suit, shoes, belt, tie, haircut — twenty-nine hundred for travel, motel, car, and driver. All on four brand-new credit cards obtained and maxed out for just this purpose, with virtually no hope of being paid off.

Welcome to America.

The car was already waiting for him in front of the motel, a black Lincoln Navigator; he slipped into the back and handed the driver the address. Gideon settled himself into the soft kid leather as the car pulled away, arranging his face, composing himself, and trying not to think of the three-hundred-dollar-an-hour price tag. Or, for that matter, the much higher price tag attached to the scam he was about to perpetrate, if he were to get caught…

Traffic was light and thirty minutes later the car pulled into the entrance to Fort Belvoir, which housed INSCOM’s Directorate of Information Management: a low, 1960s-modern building of exceptional hideousness set amid locust trees and surrounded by a huge parking lot.

Somewhere inside the building sat Lamoine Hopkins, no doubt sweating bullets. And somewhere else inside the building was the classified memo written by Gideon’s own father.

“Pull up to the front and wait for me,” said Gideon. He realized his voice was squeaky with nervousness, and he swallowed, trying to relax his neck muscles.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it says No Standing. ”

He cleared his throat, producing a smooth, low, confident voice. “If anyone asks, say Congressman Wilcyzek is meeting with General Moorehead. But if they insist, don’t make a scene, just go ahead and move. I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gideon exited the vehicle and headed down the walkway; he pushed through the doors and headed for the reception/information desks. The broad lobby was full of military personnel and self-important civilians briskly coming and going. God, he hated Washington.

With a cold smile, Gideon went up to the woman at the desk. She had carefully coiffed blue hair, neat as a pin, clearly a stickler for procedure — someone who took her work seriously. Couldn’t ask for better. Those who followed the rules were the most predictable.

He smiled and​—​​speaking into the air just a few inches above her head​—​​said, “Congressman Wilcyzek here to see Deputy Commander General Thomas Moorehead. I’m…” He glanced at his watch. “…three minutes early.”

She straightened up like a shot. “Of course, Congressman. Just a moment.” She lifted a phone, pressed a button, spoke for a moment. She glanced at Gideon. “Excuse me, Congressman, can you spell your name, please?”

With a sigh of irritation he spelled it out, making it abundantly clear that she should have known the spelling already—​​indeed, he was careful to cultivate an air of someone who expected to be recognized, who had only contempt for the ignorance of those who did not.

She pursed her lips, got back on the phone. A short conversation followed, and then she hung up. “Congressman, I’m terribly sorry, but the general is out for the day and his secretary has no record of the appointment. Are you sure…?” She faltered when Gideon fixed her with a severe look.

“Am I sure ?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Her lips were now fully pursed, her blue hair beginning to quiver with suppressed offense.

He looked at his watch, looked up at her. “Mrs.…?”

“Wilson,” she said.

He slipped a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. “You can check for yourself.”

It was an e-mail he had concocted, allegedly from the general’s secretary, confirming the appointment with the general he’d already known would be out. She read it and returned it to him. “I’m very sorry, he doesn’t seem to be in. Shall I call his secretary again?”

Gideon continued to glare at her, fixing her with a subzero stare. “I should like to speak to his secretary myself .”

She faltered, removed the phone from its cradle, and handed it to him, but not before dialing the number.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Wilson, but this is a classified matter. Do you mind?”

Her face, which had gradually darkened, now flushed rose. She stood up silently and took a step away from her desk. He put the receiver to his ear. The phone was ringing, but turning to block her view, he depressed the button and, almost imperceptibly, dialed another extension — this time, the secretary to General Shorthouse, the director himself.

Only, like, the top three in the organization get the passphrase​—​director, deputy director, and security director…

“Director’s office,” came the secretary’s voice.

Speaking quietly and rapidly, and summoning the voice of the man who’d confronted him at the trash cans the night before, he said: “This is Lamoine Hopkins in IT returning the general’s call. It’s urgent — a security breach.”

“Just a moment.”

He waited. After a minute, General Shorthouse came on. “Yes? What’s the problem? I didn’t call you.”

“I’m sorry, General,” said Gideon, speaking like Hopkins but now in a low, unctuous tone, “about the lousy day you must be having.”

“What are you talking about, Hopkins?”

“Your system being down, sir, and the backup not kicking in.”

“It’s not down.”

“General? We’re showing your whole grid as down. It’s a security violation, sir — and you know what that means.”

“That’s preposterous. My computer’s on right now and working perfectly. And why are you calling me from reception?”

“General, that’s part of the problem. The telephony matrix is tied into the computer network and it’s giving false readings. Log off and log back on, please, while I trace.” Gideon glanced over at the receptionist, who was still standing to one side, making a conscientious effort not to overhear.

He heard the tapping of keys. “Done.”

“Funny, I’m not reading any packet activity from your network address. Try signing off again.”

More tapping of keys.

“Nothing, General. Looks like your ID might have been compromised. This is bad — it’s going to require a report, an investigation. And it would be your system. I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Hopkins. I’m sure we can fix it.”

“Well…we can give it a shot. But I’ll have to try resetting, and then accessing your account from down here. I’m going to need your ID and passphrase, please.”