Free Gideon's Sword by Douglas Preston Page A

least be able to walk away with enough money to live out your time in relative comfort.”
    There was a pause. Gideon looked from the file, to Glinn, then back to the file.
    “All right, Christ, I’ll take the assignment.” Gideon swept up the medical file. Then he looked once more at Glinn. “Just one thing. I’m going to take this with me and have it checked out. If it’s bullshit, I’m coming after you, personally.”
    “Very well,” said Glinn, sliding a second folder toward him. “Here is information about your assignment. In there, you’ll find background information on and photographs of your target. His name is Wu Longwei, but he also calls himself Mark Wu. The adoption of a Western name is a common practice among Chinese professionals.” He leaned back. “Manuel?”
    Garza stepped forward and laid a heavy brick of hundred-dollar bills on the table with one hand, and a Colt Python with the other.
    “The money will cover your incidental expenses,” said Glinn. “You know how to use that firearm?”
    Gideon scooped up the money and hefted the Python. “I would have preferred the satin stainless finish.”
    “You will find the royal blue is better for night work,” said Glinn drily. “You must not, under any circumstances or for any reason whatsoever, try to make contact with us during the operation. If contact is necessary, we will find you. Understood?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “An inquiring mind is an admirable quality,” said Glinn. “Mr. Garza, please show Dr. Crew out the back way. There’s no time to waste.”
    As they headed toward the door, Glinn added: “Thank you, Gideon. Thank you very much.”

15
    G ideon eased the stretch limo into an illegal space behind the taxi queue at the Terminal 1 arrivals level. He was still thinking about his call to the Department of Homeland Security, which he’d made from a pay phone as soon as he’d left EES. Avoiding the number on the business card, he’d called the general number, got some lowly operator, dropped Glinn’s name—and was immediately put through on a secure line to the director himself. Ten astonishing minutes later, he hung up, still wondering how in the world, out of everyone, they had picked him for this crazy assignment. The director would only repeat: We have complete faith and trust in Mr. Glinn. He has never failed us.
    He shook off these thoughts, and then tried—less successfully—to shake off the far darker ones related to his health. There would be time for that later. Right now, he had to stay focused on one thing: the immediate problem at hand.
    It was almost midnight, but Kennedy airport was frantically busy with the last wave of flights arriving from the Far East. As he idled at the curb, he saw two TSA officers staring at him. They strode over, scowls on their self-important faces.
    He climbed out of the limo, his dark suit itchy in the sticky summer night, and favored them with an arrogant smirk.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” said the first cop, small, thin, and aggressive as a ferret. He whipped out his ticket book. “The limo waiting area’s over there!” He gestured sharply, the leaves of the ticket book trembling with his irritation.
    The second cop arrived huffing, and he was a big one. Big and slow. “What’s going on?” he asked, already apparently confused.
    Gideon folded his long arms, propped a foot up on the fender, and gave the big one an easy smile. “Officer Costello, I presume?”
    “Name’s Gorski,” came the reply.
    “Ah,” said Gideon. “You remind me of Costello.”
    “Don’t know anyone by that name,” said Gorski.
    “There is no Officer Costello,” said the thin one. “We’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You’re not supposed to stop here.”
    “I’m here to meet the VIP arrival…You know all about it…right?” Gideon winked and slid a pack of gum from his pocket. He peeled off the wrapper, eased out a stick, offered the pack around.
    The fat one