78
GIDEON ASKED THE cabdriver to let him off at Washington Square Park. He felt like walking the last mile or so to the EES offices on Little West 12th Street—but before doing so, he wanted to hang out in the park for a bit and enjoy the summer day.
Three weeks had passed since the funeral. Immediately afterward, Gideon had fled to his cabin in the Jemez Mountains and turned off his cell phone, landline, and computers. And then he had spent three weeks fishing. On the fifth day he finally caught that wily old cutthroat trout with a barbless hook, intending to release it. What a gorgeous fish it was: fat, glossy, with the deep blood-orange coloring below the gills that gave the cutthroat its name. Certainly this was a fish noble enough to be worth releasing, as was his policy. But then, strangely, he hadn’t. Instead, he’d taken it back to the cabin, cleaned it, and served himself up an exquisitely simple truite amandine, accompanied by a bottle of flinty Puligny-Montrachet. All without guilt. And as he enjoyed the simple meal, all by himself, an odd thing happened. He felt happy. Not only happy, but also at peace. He examined his feelings with a sense of surprise and curiosity, and he realized they had something to do with the certainty of things. The certainty of his medical condition, and the conviction that he would never see Alida again.
Oddly, that certitude seemed to liberate him. He knew now what he faced, and what he could never have. It gave him the freedom to follow the doctor’s parting advice: to focus on doing things that mattered to him, and help others. Releasing the trout would have been a fine gesture; but, he had to admit, eating it had been an even rarer pleasure. Eating it had mattered to him. In the midst of life we are in death… It was a wise thought, true for trout and human alike.
Over those three weeks, he had done a number of other small things that mattered to him. One had been to arrange for an indefinite medical leave from Los Alamos. And when his little fishing vacation was over, when he had turned his phones back on and collected his messages at last, he found one from Glinn. The engineer had another assignment, if Gideon were inclined to take it; one of “considerable importance.” Gideon was about to dismiss it out of hand, but then stopped himself. Why not? It seemed he was good at that sort of thing. If he wanted to help others, maybe that is what he should be doing.
Even his anger at Glinn for abandoning him in the field had abated. Gideon had begun to understand that Glinn’s method of operation—though difficult to take in the heat of the moment—had proven remarkably effective. In this case, they had refused to help because they clearly felt that Gideon, on his own, had the best chance of success.
And so here he was, back in New York City, ready to start the next chapter in his short life. He took a deep breath and looked around. It was a beautiful weekend afternoon, and Washington Square Park was overflowing with activity. He lingered, enchanted by the bustle—the Dominican drummers whose joyful rhythms filled the air; a group of awkward in-line-skating kids in helmets and padded knees, their mothers sitting in a worried knot; a pair of men in expensive suits smoking cigars; an old hippie strumming a guitar and collecting coins; a mime trailing people, aping their way of walking to their great annoyance; a three-card-monte player shuffling his cards and keeping an eye out for the cops; a bum sound asleep on a bench. The park contained a full vertical slice of humanity, top to bottom, in all its complexity and richness and splendor. But on this day the joy, the richness seemed particularly acute. New York felt a lot different from the last time he’d been here and had his cab stolen by a loutish, half-drunk businessman. The terrorist scare that had half emptied the city was over, and people seemed to have returned changed. They were more connected, tolerant, more in the moment, happier.
The city had changed; and he had, as well. We all need reminding what’s really important in life, thought Gideon. These people had been reminded. Just as he had.
It was all over; the country had returned to normal. His own troubles had been resolved: the videotapes at USAMRIID, Blaine’s laptop, and Dart, confessing all from his hospital bed, had filled in the gaps and told the full story. Novak had been arrested, along with other conspirators at Los Alamos and in the defense and intelligence communities. The frame job had been exposed, Chalker revealed as an innocent victim. Glinn had stepped in to make sure Gideon’s own true role in the drama remained a deep secret. This was critically important to Gideon. It would ruin the rest of his short life if he became famous, hailed as a hero, his face plastered on the front pages everywhere. What a nightmare.
Then there was Alida. She was gone forever. That part of his heart he was still wrapping up and packing away. Nothing more to be done about that.
He took a turn around the fountain, and paused in front of the Dominican drummers. They were pounding away, huge smiles on their faces, bliss in their eyes, beating out the most complicated syncopations imaginable: not just two against three but five against three and what even sounded like seven against four. It was like the beating of the human heart, he thought; that first sensation we all experienced at the beginning of life, multiplied a thousandfold, and turned into something delirious, wild.
As he listened to the music, he felt peace. Real peace. It was an amazing feeling, one he was still unused to. Was this what most people experienced every day? He had never known what he’d been missing. The AVM, and the good doctor, had given him that gift, finally, after so many years of anxiety, fear, sorrow, angst, hatred, and revenge. It was a huge, even inexplicable irony. The AVM was going to kill him—but first, it had set him free.
Gideon glanced at his watch. He was going to be late, but that was all right. The drumming was what was important right now. He listened for almost an hour; and then, with a feeling of peace still in his heart, he headed west down Waverly Place to Greenwich Avenue, toward the old Meatpacking District.
EES seemed as empty as always. He was buzzed in without even an acknowledgment. No one was there to meet him or escort him through the cavernous laboratory spaces to the elevator. The elevator creaked up, and up, the doors finally opening again. He walked down the hall to the conference room. The door was closed; all was silent as a tomb.
He knocked, and he heard Glinn’s voice, a terse “Come in.”
Gideon opened the door and was greeted with a room full of people, and a sudden outpouring of applause and cheering. Glinn was there, in front, and he wheeled himself forward, holding out his withered arm, and kissed Gideon on both cheeks, European-style. Garza followed with a fierce handshake and a thunderous slap on the back, and then the others: what had to be close to a hundred people, young and old, male and female, of every imaginable race, some in lab coats, others in suits, others in kimonos and saris, along with a handful of what appeared to be other EES operatives with their appraising and appreciative gazes, all shaking his hand, congratulating him, an overwhelming and irresistible torrent of enthusiasm and warmth.
And then they fell silent. Gideon realized they were expecting him to speak. He stood there, flummoxed. Then he cleared his throat. “Thank you,” he said. “Um, who are all you people?”
This was greeted with a laugh.
Glinn spoke up. “Gideon, these are all the people at EES you haven’t met. Most of whom work behind the scenes, who keep our little operation going. You may not know them, but they all know you. And all of them wanted to be here to say to you: thank you.”
An eruption of applause.
“There is nothing we can say or do, and nothing we can give you, that would properly express our gratitude for what you did. So I’m not even going to try.”
Gideon was moved. They wanted to hear him say more. What would he say? It suddenly occurred to him that he was so good at being phony, at spinning falsehoods, that he’d almost forgotten how to be sincere.
“I’m just glad I was able to do something good in this crazy world.” He cleared his throat again. “But I couldn’t have done it without my partner, Stone Fordyce. Who gave his life. He’s the hero. All I gave was a few teeth.”
A more restrained round of applause.
“I want to thank you all, too. I can’t begin to know what you all do, or have done, but it’s nice to see your faces. So many times out there, I felt like I was on my own, alone. I realize that’s part of the job—part of your system, I suppose—but seeing you all here makes me realize that I wasn’t really alone, after all. I guess, in a way, EES is my home now. Even my family.”
Nods, murmured agreements.
A silence and Glinn asked, “How was your vacation?”
“I ate a trout.”
More laughter and applause. Gideon stilled it with the raise of a hand. “Over the past few days I’ve realized something. This is what I should be doing. I want to continue to work for you, for EES. I think I can do some real good here. Finally…” He paused, glanced around. “I really don’t have anything else in my life worth a damn. You’re it. Sad, I know, but that’s how it is.”
This was met by another silence. After a moment, a faint smile appeared on Glinn’s face. He glanced around the room. “Thank you all for your time,” he said.
At this tactful but obvious dismissal, the room emptied. Glinn waited until only himself, Gideon, and Garza remained. Then he motioned Gideon to a chair at the conference table.
“Are you certain about this, Gideon?” he asked in a low voice. “After all, you’ve had quite an ordeal. Not just the physical manhunt, but the emotional toll as well.”
Gideon had long since ceased to be amazed at Glinn’s ability to learn everything about him. “I was never more sure of anything in my life,” he replied.
Glinn looked at him carefully for a moment—a long, searching look. Then he nodded. “Excellent. Glad to hear you’ll be with us. It’s a very interesting time to be in New York. In fact, next week there’s a special exhibition at the Morgan Library—an exhibition of the Book of Kells, on loan from the Irish government. You’ve heard of the Book of Kells, of course?”
“Of course.”
“Then you’ll come have a look at it with me?” Glinn asked. “I’m a great fancier of illuminated manuscripts. They’ll be turning a new page every day. Very exciting.”
Gideon hesitated. “Well, illuminated manuscripts are not exactly an interest of mine.”
“Ah, but I was so hoping you’d accompany me to the exhibition,” said Glinn. “You’ll love the Book of Kells. Not only is it Ireland’s greatest national treasure, but it’s the finest illuminated manuscript in existence. It’s only been out of Ireland once before, and it’s only here for a week. A shame to miss it. We’ll go Monday morning.”
Gideon started to laugh. “Honestly, I couldn’t care less about the damn Book of Kells.”
“Ah, but you will.”
Hearing the edge in Glinn’s voice, Gideon stopped despite himself. “Why?”
“Because your next assignment will be to steal it.”
About the Authors
The thrillers of DOUGLAS PRESTON and LINCOLN CHILD “stand head and shoulders above their rivals” (Publisher’s Weekly). Coauthors of the famed Pendergast series, their books Relic and The Cabinet of Curiosities were chosen by readers in a National Public Radio poll as being among the 100 greatest thrillers ever written, and Relic was made into a number one box office hit movie. They are also the authors of Fever Dream, Cold Vengeance, and Gideon’s Sword. Preston’s acclaimed nonfiction book, The Monster of Florence, is being made into a movie starring George Clooney. His interests include horses, scuba diving, skiing, mountain climbing, and exploring the Maine coast in an old lobster boat. Lincoln Child is a former book editor who has published four novels of his own, including the huge bestseller Deep Storm. He is passionate about motorcycles, sports cars, exotic parrots, and nineteenth-century English literature. The authors welcome e-mail from their readers; you can visit their website at www.prestonchild.com.