Gideon’s Sword

minutes.”

“Oh yes,” said the lady at the front desk in response to his query. “Gideon Crew checked in this morning.” She clicked away at a keyboard. “Left word for you he was climbing Stormtower Mountain—”

“For me?”

“Well,” she said, “the message he left says a man would be coming to meet with him, and we were to tell him where he’d gone.”

“I see.”

“It says here he’s climbing Stormtower by the Sawmill Trail, expects to be back by six.”

“How long is the climb?”

“About two hours each way.” She looked at him with a smile, her eyes running up and down his physique. “For you, probably less.”

Dajkovic checked the time. Two o’clock. “He must have just left.”

“Yes. The message was left at the front desk…just twenty minutes ago.”

“Do you have a map of the mountain?”

“Of course.”

She produced a map — an excellent topographic one, with the trails clearly marked. Dajkovic took it back to his car and climbed in. The Sawmill trailhead was down the road, and the map showed it to be a winding path going up the ridge of the mountain, apparently following an old fire road.

It was entirely possible Crew had left the directions so his contact could find him. Yet it seemed unlikely. No one involved in espionage would be so ham-handed as to leave such a trail. Yes, it seemed more likely that this was a trap. Not a trap for him, specifically, but for anyone who might be pursuing Crew. And if so, then Crew would be on the mountain — waiting along the Sawmill Trail to ambush anyone coming up behind him.

He examined the map. A much quicker, more direct way to the summit led straight up the main ski lift cut, on the back side of the mountain.

Driving through the resort and past the golf course, Dajkovic came to the parking lot for the ski area. He got out and opened the trunk, removing a gun case. Back inside the car, he unlocked the case and removed an M1911 Colt and a shoulder holster, donned the holster, tucked the loaded weapon into it, and pulled on a windbreaker. A fixed-blade knife went into his belt and a smaller one into his boot, and a Beretta .22 was slipped in his trouser pocket. Into a small backpack he threw some extra ammunition, binoculars, and two bottles of water.

Once again he examined the map. If Crew was planning an ambush, there were a couple of obvious places for it where the Sawmill Trail passed through an area of exposed knobs.

As he stared at the map, he became convinced this was where the ambush would take place.

9

Dajkovic started up the ski lift cut, moving fast. It was half a mile to the top, and unrelievedly steep, but he was in peak physical condition and could make it in ten minutes; then, cresting the mountain, he would head down the Sawmill Trail, bushwhack to the summit of a secondary peak he’d identified on the map, an ideal place from which to surveil the area of exposed knobs, locate the ambusher — and then ambush him.

Five minutes later, halfway up the slope, a maintenance hut for the ski lift, shuttered for the summer, came into view. Dajkovic churned up the slope, detouring around it. As he moved past the hut he heard a tremendous boom! and suddenly felt a violent blow to his upper back — which, with his upward momentum, pitched him forward onto the slope and knocked the wind from him.

As he struggled for his .45, fighting the pain in his back and gasping for breath, he felt a boot press down on his neck and the warm snout of a weapon touch his head.

“Hands spread-eagled, please.”

He stopped, his mind racing, trying to think through the pain. Slowly he spread his hands.

“I knocked you down with a load of rubber,” came the voice, “but the rest are double-ought buck.”

The barrel remained on the back of his head while the person — he had no doubt it was Crew — searched him, removing the .45 and the .22 and the knife in his belt. He did not find the knife in Dajkovic’s boot.

“Roll over, keeping your hands in sight.”

With a wince, Dajkovic rolled over onto the dirt of the trail. He found himself facing a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties, with straight black hair, a long nose, and intense, brilliant blue eyes. He was gripping a Remington 12- gauge with a practiced hand.

“Fine afternoon for a walk, isn’t it, Sergeant? Name’s Gideon Crew.”

Dajkovic stared.

“That’s right. I know a fair amount about you, Dajkovic. What sort of story did Tucker tell you to get you out here, looking for me?”

Dajkovic said nothing, his mind still working furiously. He was mortified the man had gotten the drop on him. But all was not lost — he still had the knife. And though Crew was a good fifteen years younger than he was, the fellow looked thin, weak — not a good physical specimen.

Crew gave him a smile. “Actually, I can probably guess what the good general told you.”

Dajkovic didn’t answer.

“It must have been quite a story, to turn you into a hired assassin like this. You’re not normally the kind of person to shoot someone in the back. He probably told you I was a traitor. In league with al-Qaeda, maybe — that would be the treason du jour, I guess. No doubt I’m abusing my position at Los Alamos, betraying my country. That would push all your buttons.”

Dajkovic stared at him. How the hell did he know that?

“He probably told you about my traitor father, what he did getting those agents killed.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Maybe he said traitorousness was a family tradition.”

Dajkovic’s mind was clearing. He had fucked up, but all he had to do was get his hands — one hand — on that knife in his boot and Crew was a dead man, even if he did manage to get off a shotgun blast.

“May I sit up?” Dajkovic asked.

“Slow and easy.”

Dajkovic sat up. The pain was mostly gone. Broken ribs were like that. Stopped hurting for a while and then the pain came back, twice as bad. He flushed at the thought of this weenie knocking him down with a load of rubber.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Crew said. “How do you know old man Tucker told you the truth?”

Dajkovic didn’t answer. He noticed for the first time that Crew’s right hand was missing the last joint of the ring finger.

“I was pretty sure Tucker would send an underling after me, because he’s not the kind to put himself on the front lines. I knew it would be someone he trusted, who’d served under him. I looked over his employees and figured you’d be the one. You led a marine SOF team in the Grenada invasion, securing the American medical school in advance of the main landing. Did a good job, too — not one student was hurt.”

Dajkovic remained poker-faced, waiting his opportunity.

“So: is your mind made up about me? Or are you willing to open your ears to a few facts that might not quite jibe with what General Tucker told you?”

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to give the scumbag an inch of satisfaction.

“Since I’m the one with the loaded shotgun, I guess you’re going to have to listen anyway. You like fairy tales, Sergeant? Here’s one for you, only nobody lives happily ever after. Once upon a time, back in August of 1988, there was a twelve-year-old boy…”

Dajkovic listened to the story. He knew it was bullshit, but he paid attention because a good soldier knew the value of information — even false information.

It only took five minutes. It was a pretty good story, well told. These types of people were always amazing liars.

When he was done, Crew pulled an envelope out of his pocket and tossed it at Dajkovic’s feet. “There’s the memo my father wrote Tucker. The reason why he was murdered.”