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Authors: Douglas Preston
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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.”
Glinn reached into his pocket and removed a card. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward Gideon with his finger.
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 Glinn, and a silence built in the office. A hundred thousand dollars. The money was nice but this job looked fraught with difficulties. Danger. And Glinn’s confidence in him was sadly misplaced.
He shook his head. “Mr. Glinn, until a month ago my entire life was on hold. I had something I had to do. All my energy went into that one thing. Now I’m free. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I want to make friends, settle down, find someone, get married, have kids. I want to teach my son how to cast a dry fly. I’ve got all the time in the world now. This job of yours—well, it sounds dangerous as hell to me. I’ve taken enough risks for one lifetime. You understand? I’m not interested in your assignment.”
An even longer silence enveloped the room.
“Is that final?” Glinn asked.
“Yes.”
Glinn glanced at Garza and gave him a short nod. Garza reached into his briefcase, removed a file, and laid it on the table. It was a medical file, labeled with a red tab. Glinn opened it up to reveal a stack of X-rays, CT scans, and dense lab reports.
“What’s this?” said Gideon. “Whose X-rays are those?”
“Yours,” said Glinn, sorrowfully.
14
W ith 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.
Glinn continued matter-of-factly, his voice neutral. “To speak in more precise statistical terms, your chances of survival twelve months from now are about fifty percent; eighteen months, thirty
“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.”
Glinn reached into his pocket and removed a card. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward Gideon with his finger.
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 Glinn, and a silence built in the office. A hundred thousand dollars. The money was nice but this job looked fraught with difficulties. Danger. And Glinn’s confidence in him was sadly misplaced.
He shook his head. “Mr. Glinn, until a month ago my entire life was on hold. I had something I had to do. All my energy went into that one thing. Now I’m free. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I want to make friends, settle down, find someone, get married, have kids. I want to teach my son how to cast a dry fly. I’ve got all the time in the world now. This job of yours—well, it sounds dangerous as hell to me. I’ve taken enough risks for one lifetime. You understand? I’m not interested in your assignment.”
An even longer silence enveloped the room.
“Is that final?” Glinn asked.
“Yes.”
Glinn glanced at Garza and gave him a short nod. Garza reached into his briefcase, removed a file, and laid it on the table. It was a medical file, labeled with a red tab. Glinn opened it up to reveal a stack of X-rays, CT scans, and dense lab reports.
“What’s this?” said Gideon. “Whose X-rays are those?”
“Yours,” said Glinn, sorrowfully.
14
W ith 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.
Glinn continued matter-of-factly, his voice neutral. “To speak in more precise statistical terms, your chances of survival twelve months from now are about fifty percent; eighteen months, thirty
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