Back in the living room, the blood had ceased to flow. The carpet had absorbed a great deal of it, keeping the bloodstain from spreading. Stepping around it again, he poured himself a cup of tea and tasted it with pleasure. The steeping time had been perfect. He sipped it down and poured another, bringing to mind a particularly appropriate thought from his vast storehouse of Confucian philosophy: When punishments are not properly awarded, the people do not know how to move hand or foot.
38
Gideon Crew strolled around the baggage carousel, as if awaiting luggage. He had no luggage coming in, of course, but he wanted to check out who else was there. Mindy Jackson’s parting words rang in his ears. “Nodding Crane is remarkable only in that he is unremarkable. Except for flat eyes and a perfect physique.” There were, of course, many Asians at the carousel, including a number who fit Mindy’s rather unhelpful description.
Don’t get paranoid,he told himself. Focus on the next step.
He extracted his wallet, riffled through the money he had left. About a thousand. Not for the first time, he felt a stab of annoyance at how Glinn and company seemed to have abandoned him.
But when you return to the States, he’ll be waiting. I doubt you’ll survive.
His next step was obvious. If Wu hadn’t passed off the plans after exiting customs, and they weren’t on his person, he might have passed them off to someone beforeclearing customs. Conveniently, Gideon was now inside the customs security zone. Even as he pondered his approach, the endless looped warning rang out again on the PA system: Please report suspicious persons or unattended luggage to the appropriate authority.
Carpe diem.
He looked about, spied a TSA guard. “Excuse me,” he said, “I believe I’ve seen something suspicious and wish to report it to the appropriate authority.”
“I can take the report,” said the guard.
“No,” said Gideon primly. “I have to report it to appropriate authority. It’s very important.”
“As I said, I’ll take the report.”
“But the announcement said appropriate authority,” Gideon said, more loudly. “No offense intended, but you’re a guard. I want to speak to someone in authority—just as the announcement directs. There’s no time to waste. I’ve seen something very startling, and I need to report it immediately.” He compressed his lips and put on a truculent expression.
The guard’s eyes flickered. “All right, follow me.”
He led Gideon through a back door and past a warren of windowless cubicles and passageways to a shut door. The guard knocked, and a voice called them in.
“Thank you,” said Gideon, entering, turning, and shutting the door in the guard’s face.
He turned back and saw a soft, dough-like man seated behind a large desk completely covered with paper. “What’s this?”
The guard tried to enter but Gideon, standing at the door, blocked it with his foot. He tossed his passport on the desk and said, “CIA. Send the guard away.”
The man lifted the passport to examine it. The guard knocked again. “Open up.”
“Thank you,” the man called to the guard. “That will be all. Return to duty.”
He turned his attention back to the passport and scowled at the diplomatic stamps. “Doesn’t say anything about CIA. Got a badge?”
“Of course not!” Gideon said sharply. “We don’t carry ID when we work under diplomatic cover.”
The man put down the passport. “Okay, what’s up?”
Gideon gave the man a long, hostile stare. “Captain Longbaugh?”
“That’s what the badge says. Now you better tell me what’s on your mind, sir, because as you can see I’m pretty busy.” What he could see was that Longbaugh was used to dealing with petty bureaucrats and officials. He was going to be a tough nut to crack.
Gideon pulled a notebook from his pocket, consulted it. “On June seventh, at twelve twenty-three AM, a Japan Airlines flight arrived with a passenger on board, Mark Wu. He was followed as he left JFK, and his taxi was forced off the street in Spanish Harlem. Perhaps you read about that accident. Eight people were killed, including Mr. Wu.”
“I did.”
“We need a copy of the security tapes that captured his movements from the point of debarkation to where he hired the taxi.”
Longbaugh stared at him. “I’ll need to see some sort of paperwork on this.”
Gideon took a step forward. “We’ve got an ongoing terrorist situation here and you want to ‘see paperwork’? Is this where we still are, after 9/11 and two wars?”
“Sir, we have procedures in place…”
Gideon leaned in and screamed into Longbaugh’s face like a drill sergeant, hitting him with spittle. “Procedures? Paperwork?When people’s lives are at stake?”
It was, he realized, a high-risk/high-reward approach. If it didn’t work, he was screwed.
But it did. “No need to scream,” said Longbaugh, leaning back, suddenly and thoroughly intimidated. “I’m sure we can work it out.”
“Then work it out! Now!”
The man was sweating bullets, clearly in a panic about making the wrong decision. Gideon suddenly took a much softer, kinder tone. “Look, Captain, I know you’re concerned about doing the right thing. I respect that. I’ll put in a good word up the line about you when this is over. But you’ve got to understand, paperwork takes time. And we just don’t havetime.” He leaned in. “I’m going to share something with you. I’m not supposed to, but I can see you’re a trustworthy individual. We’ve got a flight midway across the Pacific with a known terrorist on board — they let the son of a bitch on in Lagos. We have reason to believe he is planning a terrorist action here.”
“Oh my God.”
“Oh my God is right. We’re way behind the curve on this one, trying to catch up. We’re flooding the terminal with undercover people as we speak, but I’ve got to see those tapes. There appears to be a vital link.”
“I understand.”
“Can we do this really, reallyquietly?” Gideon pleaded. “If we spook this guy or his accomplices…” He let his voice trail off.
Now he had Longbaugh one hundred percent on his side.
“I’m on it.” The man rose. “Come with me.”
The central security operations room lay in the bowels of the airport, and it was very impressive, walls of video screens and consoles with all the latest gear. The room was dim and hushed, dozens of people staring at monitors, not just of airport locations, but also feeds from bag scanners and X-ray machines and cams observing the taxiways and hangars.
Their efficiency was astounding. Twenty minutes later Gideon was exiting customs with a fresh, piping-hot DVD.
39
Got a movie for us tonight,” Gideon said, sliding into the white leather banquette in the Essex House lounge, bestowing a smile on Mindy Jackson. He turned to the waiter. “Bring me what she’s having, wet and dirty, two olives.”
“What movie?” asked Jackson.
“The Mark Wu show.” He laid down the DVD. “Shows him from the time he exited the plane to the taxi stand.”
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’ve already seen that show. It sucks — nothing on it. Nada.”
Gideon felt his face turn red. “You’ve seen it?”