Gideon’s Sword

“What’s this?” said Gideon. “Whose X-rays are those?”

“Yours,” said Glinn, sorrowfully.

14

With 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 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 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.