Free Gideon's Sword by Douglas Preston

percent; two years, less than five percent. The end typically comes very fast, with little or no warning. There’s typically no impairment or symptoms until that time, nor does the condition require any sort of physical or dietary restriction. In other words, you will live a normal life for about a year—and then you will die very, very quickly. The condition is incurable and in your case, as I said, there is no treatment whatsoever. It’s just one of those terrible finalities.”
    Gideon stared at Glinn. This was monstrous. He felt a rage take hold, almost ungovernable. He leapt to his feet. “What is this, blackmail? If you sons of bitches think that’s the way to get me to do your bidding, you’re brainless.” He stared at the file. “It’s bullshit. Some sort of scam. If all that was true, they would’ve told me in the hospital. I don’t even know if these X-rays belong to me.”
    Still speaking mildly, Glinn said, “We asked the hospital not to tell you; that it was a matter of national security. We wanted to get a second opinion. We passed the file along to Dr. Morton Stall at Mass General in Boston. He’s the world’s expert on AVMs. He confirmed both the diagnosis and the prognosis. Believe me, we were almost as shocked and dismayed to learn this as you are. We had big plans for you.”
    “What’s the point of telling me this now?”
    “Dr. Crew,” said Glinn, a kindly note in his voice, “trust me when I say that our sympathies are very much with you.”
    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 planning to hire you, offer you a permanent position here. This horrible diagnosis put us in a bind, and we were debating what to do. Then the news came in about Wu. This is a national security emergency of the highest order. You’re the only one we know who could pull this off, especially on such short notice. That’s why we’re laying this on you now, all at once—and for that I am truly sorry.”
    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.
    He reached down, grasped it, took a slug, then another. He waited, feeling the numbing creep in his system. It didn’t help.
    Glinn spoke quietly. “You could spend your last year amusing yourself, living life to the fullest, cramming it in till the end. Or you could spend it in another way—working for your country. All I can do is offer you the choice.”
    Gideon drained the glass.
    “Another?” Garza asked.
    Gideon waved his hand in a no.
    “You could do this one job for us,” said Glinn. “One week. Then decide. You’ll at