Gideon’s Sword

“I forgot to check his boot for that damn knife.”

Finally Gli

“Tucker was no dummy. He realized Dajkovic was lying.”

“How?”

“Dajkovic failed to share a drink with him. We think that’s what tipped Tucker off.”

“Then that was Dajkovic’s mistake, not yours. I proved my point. You made only one mistake in that whole operation. I’ve never seen anything quite like what you did. You’re definitely the man for this job.”

“I had ten years to figure out how to take down Tucker. You’re giving me four hours for this one.”

“This is a far simpler problem.”

“And if I fail?”

“You won’t fail.”

A silence. “Another thing: what are you going to do with this Chinese weapon? I’m not going to do anything to harm my country.”

“The United States of America is, in fact, my client.”

“Come on, they’d be using the FBI for a job like this — not hiring a firm like yours, no matter how specialized.”

Gli

He peered at the card, emblazoned with a government logo. “The Director of National Intelligence?”

“I would be dismayed if you believed anything I’m telling you. You can check it out for yourself. Call the Department of Homeland Security and ask to speak to this gentleman. He’ll confirm that we’re a DHS subcontractor doing legitimate and patriotic work for our country.”

“I’d never get through to a guy like that.”

“Use my name and you’ll be put through directly.”

Gideon did not pick up the card. He gazed at Gli

He shook his head. “Mr. Gli

An even longer silence enveloped the room.

“Is that final?” Gli

“Yes.”

Gli

“What’s this?” said Gideon. “Whose X-rays are those?”

“Yours,” said Gli

14

With a feeling of trepidation, Gideon reached over and took the file. The names had been cut out of the X-rays and scans, blacked out in the reports.

“What the hell is this? Where did you get these?”

“They came from the hospital where you were treated for your knife wound.”

“What’s this supposed to mean?”

“In the course of diagnosing and treating your injury, the usual tests were done: X-rays, MRIs, and blood work. Since you were suffering from a concussion, among other things, some of this work focused on your head. And the doctors made what is known as an incidental finding. They diagnosed you with an arteriovenous malformation — specifically, a condition known as a ‘vein of Galen aneurysmal malformation.’”

“What the hell’s that?”

“It’s an abnormal tangle of arteries and veins in the brain involving the great cerebral vein of Galen. It’s usually congenital, and usually asymptomatic until the age of twenty or so. And then it, ah, makes its presence known.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Very.”

“What’s the treatment?”

“In your case, the AVM is in the Circle of Willis, deep in the brain. It’s inoperable. And invariably fatal.”

“Fatal? How? When?”

“In your case, the best estimate is that you have about a year.”

“A year?” Gideon’s head spun. “A year?” He choked trying to get the next question out, and swallowed. Bile rose in his throat.

Gli

Gideon stared at Gli

Still speaking mildly, Gli

“What’s the point of telling me this now?”

“Dr. Crew,” said Gli

Gideon stared at him, breathing hard. It was some ploy, or a mistake. “I just don’t believe it.”

“We looked into your condition with all the means at our disposal. We had been pla

Gideon passed a shaking hand over his forehead. “Your timing really sucks.”

“The timing is never right for a terminal illness.”

All his anger seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it had come. The horror of it made him sick. All the time he’d wasted…

“In the end, we had no choice. This is an emergency. We don’t know precisely what Wu is up to. We can’t miss this opportunity. If you decline, the FBI will jump in with their own op, which they’ve been eagerly pushing, and I can tell you it will be a disaster. You’ve got to decide, Gideon, in the next ten minutes, and I hope to God you will say yes.”

“This is fucked up. I can’t believe it.”

Silence. Gideon rose, walked to the frosted window. He turned. “I resent this. I resent the way you dragged me here, laid all this shit on me — and then have the gall to ask me to work for you.”

“This is not the way I would have wished it.”

“One year?” he asked. “That’s it? One fucking year?”

“In the file is a survival graph of the illness. It’s a matter of cold probabilities. It could be six months, a year, two on the outside.”

“And there are no treatments at all?”

“None.”

“I need a drink. Scotch.”

Garza pressed a button, and a wood panel slid to one side. A moment later a drink was laid on the table in front of Gideon.