Gideon’s Sword

Epilogue

Gideon Crew followed Garza into the confines of the EES building on Little West 12th Street. Garza had said nothing, but Gideon could feel anger emanating from the man as if from a heat lamp.

The interior of EES looked unchanged: the same rows of tables covered with exotic models and scientific equipment; the same technicians and lab workers shuttling busily from here to there. Once again, Gideon wondered whom he was really working for. His phone call to DHS had confirmed, beyond doubt, that Glinn and his outfit were legit. But it nevertheless seemed surpassing strange.

They entered the spare conference room on the fourth floor. Glinn sat again at the head of the table, his one good eye as gray as a London sky.

Nobody said anything. Gideon took a seat without being asked, and Garza did the same.

“Well,” said Glinn, his one eye making a slow blink that seemed to give Garza permission to speak.

“Eli,” said Garza, his voice quiet but tense, “before we start I wish to protest in the most vigorous terms the way Crew here conducted himself on this assignment. Almost from the beginning he ignored our instructions. In every meeting he lied to me, repeatedly, and in the end he went rogue. He lied about where the confrontation was taking place, took an enormous risk, and created a huge potential problem for us on Hart Island.”

Another slow blink. “Tell me about the Hart Island problem.”

“Fortunately,” said Garza, “we were able to pinch it off.” He slapped that morning’s copy of the Post on the table. The headline screamed VANDALS STRIKE POTTER’S FIELD, TWO DEAD.

“Summarize.”

“The article says that Hart Island was struck by vandals last night. They stole a boat from City Island, tore up a bunch of graves, desecrated human remains, and vandalized some equipment. And then one of the vandals took it upon himself to climb the smokestack, which fell in the storm, killing him. He hasn’t yet been identified. Another one, a woman, was shot and killed by persons unknown. The others escaped and are being sought by police.”

“Excellent,” said Glinn. “Mr. Garza, once again you have proven your usefulness to this organization.”

“No thanks to Crew over there. It’s a damn miracle he pulled it off.”

“A miracle, Mr. Garza?”

“What would you call it? From my perspective, it was a cluster-fuck from beginning to end.”

Gideon saw a smile play briefly over Glinn’s colorless lips. “I would beg to differ.”

“Yeah?”

“As you know, here at EES we have many proprietary software algorithms that quantify human behavior and analyze elaborate game-theory simulations.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”

“Apparently I do. Haven’t you asked yourself why we didn’t send a kill-team after Wu? Why we didn’t assemble formal, six-on-six surveillance teams to monitor Dr. Crew, here? Why we didn’t furnish him with additional information or weaponry? Why we didn’t engage police or FBI backup for him? We have ample resources to do all those things, and more.” He sat forward slowly. “Did you ever wonder why we didn’t attempt to kill Nodding Crane ourselves?”

Garza was silent.

“Mr. Garza, you know the computing power we have here. I ran all those scenarios — and many more. The reason we didn’t go those routes was because they all ended in failure. If Nodding Crane had been killed, the Chinese would have reacted — on a colossal scale. That prematurity was the event we had to avoid. The arc of the lone operator offered the highest probability of success. The arc in which Dr. Crew operated on his own, with no support; in which Nodding Crane remained alive to the very end, reporting back positive, reassuring news to his handlers.”

“You know that I think some of your programs are a lot of horsefeathers,” said Garza.

Glinn smiled. “I do. You’re a straight engineer — the best I’ve got. I’d be concerned if you weren’t suspicious of my psychoengineering methods.”

He turned toward Gideon. “Dr. Crew, here, has unique talents. And he labors under the most liberating psychological environment a human being can have: he knows when and how he’ll die. The Native Americans understood the power of this knowledge. The greatest vision a warrior could receive was to see his own death.”

Gideon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He wondered if Glinn would be so smug and self-satisfied when he learned the final outcome of the op.

The gray eye turned on him, examining him with unblinking intensity. A crippled hand rose from the wheelchair, cupped, ready to receive. “The wire, Dr. Crew?”

Here it came. “I don’t have it.”

The room settled into a strange, listening stasis. All was silent.

“And why not?”

“I gave it to Falun Gong. Along with the numbers. I completed Wu’s mission. Soon the technology will be available to the entire world — free.”

For a moment, the self-assured mask left Eli Glinn’s face and something unreadable — some strong emotion — passed across it. “I am afraid our client will be most dissatisfied to hear that.”

“I did it because—”

As soon as it had come, the mysterious expression vanished and the faint smile returned. “Say no more, please. I know perfectly well why you did it.”

There was a brief silence.

“Highest probability of success!” Garza exploded. “Was this part of your computer simulation? I told you from the very beginning not to trust this guy. What are we going to tell our client?”

Glinn looked from one to the other, not speaking. There was something not entirely dissatisfied in his expression.

The silence stretched on until, finally, Gideon rose. “If we’re finished here,” he said, “I’m going back to New Mexico to sleep for a week. Then I’m going fishing.”

Glinn shifted in his wheelchair and sighed. The withered hand reappeared from under the blanket shrouding his knees. It contained a brown-paper package. “Your payment.”

Gideon hesitated. “I figured you weren’t going to pay me. After what I did.”

“The fact is, based on what you’ve told me, our payment structure has changed.” Glinn opened the package envelope, counted out several banded bricks of hundreds. “Here is half of the hundred thousand.”

Gideon took it. Better than nothing, he thought.

Then, to his surprise, Glinn handed him the other half. “And here’s the rest. Not as payment for services rendered, however. More in the way of, shall we say, an advance.”

Gideon stuffed the money into his jacket pockets. “I don’t understand.”

“Before you go,” Glinn said, “I thought you might like to drop in on an old friend of yours who’s in town.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a date with a cutthroat trout in Chihuahueños Creek.”

“Ah, but I was so hoping you’d have time to see your friend.”

“I don’t have any friends,” Gideon replied drily. “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in ‘dropping in’ on them right now. As you pointed out, I’m living on borrowed time.”

“Reed Chalker is his name. I believe you worked with him?”

“We worked in the same Tech Area — that’s not the same as working with him. I haven’t seen the guy around Los Alamos in months.”

“Well, you’re about to see him now. The authorities are hoping you could have a little chat with him.”

“The authorities? A chat? What the hell’s this about?”

“At this moment Chalker’s got a hostage. Four of them, actually. A family in Queens. Held at gunpoint.”

Gideon felt this sink in. “Jesus. You sure it’s Chalker? The guy I knew was a typical Los Alamos geek, straight as an arrow, wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“He’s raving. Paranoid. Out of his mind. You’re the only person nearby who knows him. The police are hoping you can calm him down, get him to release those hostages.”

Gideon didn’t reply.

“So I’m sorry to tell you, Dr. Crew, but that cutthroat trout is going to be enjoying life just a little bit longer. And now we really do need to go. That family can’t wait.”