Gideon’s Sword

“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

49

Nodding Crane sat at the little table, sipping green tea and listening to the woman talk. This opportunity had been dropped right in his lap, and he knew exactly how to exploit it, to flush Crew out, to destabilize him, to throw him back on the defensive.

A marvelous opportunity, actually.

“You went by earlier today,” he said. “I noticed you immediately.”

“Oh well, yes, I did.”

“You were with a man — your husband?”

She laughed. “He’s just a friend.” She leaned forward. “And you. You’re no street person — am I right?”

Nodding Crane remained very still.

“You don’t fool me.” She winked. “Although, I must say, it’s a pretty good act.”

He sipped his tea as if nothing had happened. Inside, he was deeply perturbed. “A friend? Your boyfriend?”

“Well, not really. He’s kind of a weird guy, actually.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Said he was an actor, a producer. He gets dressed up in wild costumes, goes out and pretends to be someone else, drags me along. Totally crazy. He said he was a Method actor but I think he’s in some kind of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I wish I knew! I’d like to help him, but he won’t let me. He dragged me up to Riverdale to this really tony private school. We pretended to be parents of some genius kid and he stole some papers from the school — God only knows why. And we did this crazy room switch at the Waldorf in the middle of the night.”

“How strange.”

“Yeah, and then we went to visit this friend of his in the hospital and it turned out the guy had died.”

Nodding Crane sipped his tea. “Sounds to me like he might be involved in some sort of illegal activity.”

“I don’t know. He seems pretty honest. I just can’t figure it out.”

“Where’s he now?”

The girl shrugged. “He, like, abandoned me on the subway, just jumped out, said he’d call me later. He’ll be back. All our stuff is in the room.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. He carries around a suitcase full of disguises. And one of those hard cases, all locked up. No idea what’s in that one, he guards it pretty carefully.”

“A hard case? In the room?”

“Hard molded plastic. He keeps it locked up in the Waldorf’s baggage room.”

She chattered on, oblivious. When Nodding Crane had gotten out of her all the important information he needed, he brought the subject back to himself. “You implied you thought I was in disguise. What did you mean?”

“Come on. Look at you.” She laughed, teasing him. “I know who you really are.”

He rose and checked his watch. “It’s almost time for vespers at Saint Bart’s.”

“What? You’re going to church?”

“I go to hear the music — I love the Gregorian chants.”

“Oh.”

“Would you care to come with me?”

Orchid hesitated. “Well…sure. But don’t think this is a date.”

“Of course not. I would enjoy your company. As a friend.”

“All right, why not?”

A moment later they had entered the church. The doors were unlocked but the sanctuary was empty and, in the gathering twilight outside, it was dark.

“Where’s the music?” she asked. “Nobody’s here.”

“We’re a little early,” said Nodding Crane. He took her arm and gently led her down the aisle into the darkest of the choir stalls near the front. “We can get a good seat here.”

“Okay.” There was a doubtful sound in her voice.

Nodding Crane had kept his right hand buried in his coat pocket. The picks were still on his fingers. As they entered the shadowy chancel, he slipped his hand from the pocket.

“I can hear your fingerpicks clicking away,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m always hearing music. I’m always hearing the Blues.” He raised his hand, his fingers waving before her face, the picks gleaming faintly in the dim light, and began to sing ever so softly.

In my time of dyin’

Don’t want nobody to mourn

All I want for you to do

Is to take my body home

50

Gideon left the center, but instead of returning to his car he strolled across the campus lawn toward the gatehouse of the old estate, now clearly a small private residence. Some sixth sense told him it was the house of an orderly old woman — with its neat brick walkway, the tiny flower beds flanking the door, the lace curtains and unusual ornaments visible through the windows.

He approached the door as nonchalantly as possible, but even before he reached it two Asian men in dark tracksuits appeared from nowhere.

“May we help you?” one asked as they stepped in front of him. The tone was polite, but they were careful to block his way.

Gideon didn’t even know the name of the grandmother. “I’m here to see the mother of Biyu Liang.”

“I’m sorry — is Madame Chung expecting you?”

He was gratified to see, at least, that he’d picked the right house. “No, but I’m the father of a boy starting at Throckmorton Academy this fall—”

They didn’t even let him finish. In the politest way possible, but without any ambiguity, they approached him and, taking him by the arms, began to escort him away. “Come with us.”

“Yes, but her grandson Jie will be in my son’s class—”

“You will come with us.”

As they started moving away, Gideon noticed that he was being taken, not to his car, but toward a small metal door in the side of the mansion. An unpleasant memory flashed through his head: waking up in a Hong Kong hotel, his bed surrounded by Chinese agents.

“Hey, wait a second—” He struggled, dug his heels into the ground. The two men stopped, tightened their grip, then began dragging him toward the door.

A voice sounded from the small house. The two stopped. Gideon turned to see an elderly Chinese woman on the steps of the gatehouse, gesturing at the guards with a withered hand. She said something in Mandarin.

After a moment, the guards reluctantly loosened their grasp. First one took a step away, then the other.

“Come in,” said the old woman, gesturing. “Come in, now.”

Gideon glanced from the guards to the woman, and wasted no time in complying. She ushered him inside, leading him into the parlor.

“Please. Sit down. Tea?”

“Yes, please,” said Gideon, rubbing his arms where the guards had held him.

A servant appeared in the door. Madame Chung spoke to him briefly, and he withdrew once again.

“Forgive my guardians,” she said. “Life is rather dangerous for me right now.”

“Why is that?” Gideon asked.

The woman merely smiled in reply.

The servant returned with a small, cast-iron teapot and two diminutive round china cups. As she poured out the tea, Gideon took the opportunity to scrutinize her. She was indeed the old woman in the security video — he felt a kind of awe in her presence, thinking of the long and strange journey of discovery that had brought him to this place. And yet, in person, she seemed very different. There was a kind of life energy that the grainy airport video had been unable to capture. He didn’t think he had ever met a livelier or more vigorous elderly person in his life. She was like a bright-eyed bird, alert, quick, joyful.

She handed him one of the cups, then — settling in the chair opposite him — she folded her hands on her knees and looked at him so intently, he almost blushed. “I see you have something you want to ask me,” she said.

Gideon didn’t answer right away. His mind started to race. He had worked up several stories, of course, several possible phony scenarios, for extracting the information from her. But sitting opposite Madame Chung like this, now, face-to-face, he realized that she was not one to be taken in. By anything. All his careful constructs, his machinations, his ploys and stratagems and cons were—​quite suddenly—​emasculated. He was strangely afraid; he didn’t know what to say. He frantically cast about for a better story, a better concatenation of lies and half-truths to tell her, realizing even as he did so that it was a hopeless effort.