Gideon’s Sword

from any man Nodding Crane had ever seen, and he spoke Mongolian haltingly, with a strange accent. The man said he was from America—?Nodding Crane had vaguely heard of that place. He said he was a missionary, traveling from village to village, but to Nodding Crane he looked more like a beggar than a holy man. In exchange for a meal, he would pray with them and teach the word of God.

His mother invited the man in to share their supper. The man accepted. While they ate, he talked of faraway places, of his strange religion. He was a little clumsy with chopsticks and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and he kept taking quick drinks from a flask. Nodding Crane did not like the way he kept staring at his mother with wet eyes. Now and again he broke into song: a dolorous, mournful kind of music that was new to Nodding Crane. After dinner, as they were drinking tea, the man began pawing at Nodding Crane’s mother. When she pulled away, he knocked her to the floor. Nodding Crane threw himself on the man and was shoved violently away. When the man began to rape his mother, again he tried to defend her. But the man was powerful and beat him senseless with a brick. When he woke, he found his mother strangled.

A few days later, Shaolin monks took him away to live in their temple. Other than the kung fu training, however, monastic life ultimately proved not to his liking, and when he had mastered all they could teach he ran away, traveling first to Hohhot and then to Changchun, where he lived on the street and became a master thief. That was before the state police picked him up and, seeing his talent, sent him to the 810 Office for special training.

Every day, without fail, Nodding Crane performed this bitter reflection while gazing upon the faded photograph of his distant home. It was his meditation. He stood up, went through a lengthy series of breathing exercises and limbering drills. Then — in perfect silence — he performed the twenty-nine ritual steps of the “flying guillotine” kata. Breathing a little harder, he sat down again on the rice-paper mat.

Gideon Crew had almost reached his goal. Nodding Crane was now certain he would lead him to what he sought. As Crew closed in on his goal, he would be excited, rushed. It was the correct time for the feint, the unexpected jab at the flank. The girl would serve that purpose well.

Give your enemy no rest, Sun Tzu had written. Attack where he is unprepared, appear where you are unexpected.

Since that night on the Pamir Plateau many years ago, Nodding Crane had never smiled. Nevertheless he felt a warm glow inside himself now: a satisfied glow of violence performed, an expectant glow of more violence to follow.

Slipping his hand into a tear in the seam of the futon, he pulled out a small carrying case made of hard, ballistic plastic, hidden in a cavity excavated from the stuffing. He disarmed the explosive device protecting the case, then unlatched it. Inside were six cell phones; Chinese, Swiss, British, and American passports; many thousands of dollars in a variety of currencies; a Glock 19 with a silencer; and a single handkerchief, pale silk with complex embroidery.

Carefully, lovingly, he drew out the handkerchief. It had been his mother’s. Draping it over his knees, he reached his other hand into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out his set of picks: four fingerpicks and a thumbpick. They were coated with blood and matter and had lost their characteristic gleam.

He took one of the bottles of springwater, cracked it open, and dampened a paper towel with it. Then he arranged the picks before him, one by one. Long ago he had given them names, calling them after mythological deities, and now as he cleaned each one in turn he pondered its name and the individual personality of that pick. Pinkie: Ao Guang, dragon king of the east sea, who had once unleashed chaos onto the sinful world. Ring: Fei Lian, Flying Curtain, god of the wind. Middle: Zhu Rong, god of fire. Index: Ji Yushyu Xuan, god of the endless outer darkness. And master of them all, the thumbpick, Lei Gong, “duke of thunder,” tasked with punishing mortals who strayed from the true path.

Nodding Crane used the thumbpick to anchor the windpipe of his victims as the others did their slicing work; this last pick was particularly dirty and required a second application of water to clean satisfactorily.

At last the picks shone brilliantly again, their peace and equilibrium restored through loving attention. They would rest now, in preparation for fresh exercise to come. And Nodding Crane would follow their lead.

He carefully wrapped the picks in his mother’s handkerchief and placed them in a small wooden box. Then, stretching out on the futon, he quickly fell asleep amid the fitful night sounds of the Ant Farm.

56

Where are the legs?” Gideon rarely lost it, but he lost it now. He was beside himself, absolutely furious.

The aide came running in. “Hey, man, take it easy—”

“No one told me! No one asked my permission!”

“Look, stop shouting—”

“Fuck you! I won’t stop shouting!” His voice echoed and re-echoed down the stark corridors. There was the sound of running feet.

“You can’t shout in here,” said the aide. “I’m going to call security if you don’t calm down.”

“Go ahead! Call security! Ask them who stole the — my lover’s legs!” Even in his fury, he had to remain in character.

Another aide burst through the double doors, followed by a security guard. Gideon turned on them. “I want to know where Mark’s legs are!”

“Excuse me,” said a man, pushing his way in through the stupefied group. He had the air of authority, of calmness in the face of panic. “I’m a med tech. Sir, you’ve got to calm down.” He turned to the aide. “Go get the deceased’s medical records.”

“I don’t need the medical records, I need the legs!”

“The medical records will tell what happened to the legs,” the man said. He laid a steadying hand on Gideon’s arm. “You understand? We’re going to find out what happened to them. I suspect—” He hesitated, then went on. “—they may have been amputated.”

The word amputated hung in the air like a bad smell.

“But…” Gideon stopped. He realized immediately this was what must have happened. The legs had been crushed, ruined, beyond medical repair. They would have been amputated as part of the effort to save Wu’s life. He should’ve realized it the moment he first saw the X-rays.

The aide returned, followed by the blond receptionist, holding a freshly printed sheet of paper. The med tech took it, scanned it, handed it to Gideon.

It confirmed that the legs had been amputated a few hours after the accident, no doubt shortly after the X- rays were taken. Gideon scanned the sheet again. That had been almost a week ago. Now they were gone forever. He swallowed. The disappointment was so crushing that he was temporarily unable to speak.

“I think we’ve got everything under control here,” said the med tech. The others began to disperse.

Gideon recovered his voice. “What…what happened to them?”

The med tech continued to steady Gideon with a kindly arm. “They would have entered the medical-waste stream. Been disposed of.”

“Medical-waste stream? And what happens to that, goes into a landfill or something?”

“No. Medical waste is disposed of by burning.”

“Oh.” Gideon swallowed. “And…and how long does it take for it to be burned?”

“They don’t let it sit around, obviously. Look, I’m really sorry, but the legs are gone. I know it must’ve been a shock, but…well, your friend is dead.” He waved down at the body. “What you see here is just a discarded shell. Your friend has gone somewhere else, and where he is now he won’t be missing his legs. At least that’s what I believe, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“No. No, I don’t mind. It’s just that…” Gideon fell silent. He couldn’t believe it was over. He had failed.

“I’m very sorry,” the man said.

Gideon nodded.

“Can I help you with anything else?”