official questions all answered, he and his family’s name cleared. Gideon looked pointedly at his watch. “Cocktail hour is at six in my cabin. I’m sure you know where that is. See you then. I’m busy fishing.”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Crew, but, like I said, it can’t wait.”
“It? What’s it ?”
“A job.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a job. Up at Los Alamos. You know—the place where they design all the nice nuclear bombs?”
“Frankly, this job is more exciting and it pays a great deal more. A hundred thousand dollars for a week’s work. A job for which you are uniquely suited, which will benefit our country—and God knows you need the money. All those credit card debts…” Garza shook his head.
“Hey, who doesn’t have maxed-out credit cards? This is the land of the free, right?” Gideon hesitated. That was a lot of money. He needed money—bad. “So what’ll I be doing in this job of yours?”
“Again, I can’t tell you—yet. The helicopter is waiting up top—to take you to the Albuquerque airport, and from there by private jet to your assignment.”
“You came to get me in a chopper ? Sink me.” Gideon vaguely remembered hearing the chopper. He’d ignored it; the Jemez Mountains, being remote, were often used for flight training from Kirtland AFB.
“We’re in a hurry.”
“I’ll say. Who do you represent?”
“Can’t tell you that, either.” Another smile and a gesture with his arm, palm extended, toward the pack trail to the top of the mesa. “Shall we?”
“My mother told me never to take chopper rides with strangers.”
“Dr. Crew, I’ll repeat what I said earlier: you will find this job to be interesting, challenging, and remunerative. Won’t you at least come with me to our company headquarters to hear the details?”
“Where?”
“In New York City.”
Gideon stared at him, then shook his head and snorted. A hundred thousand would get him well started on the many plans and ideas he’d been working up for his new life.
“Does it involve any illegality?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What the hell. I haven’t been to the Big Apple in a while. All right, lead the way, Manuel.”
13
S ix hours later, the sun was setting over the Hudson River as the limousine pulled into Little West 12th Street, in the old Meatpacking District of Manhattan. The area had changed dramatically from what Gideon remembered during his graduate school days, when he’d come down from Boston for some occasional R&R: the old brick warehouses and covered walkways, with their chains and meat hooks, had been transformed into ultra-hip clothing stores and restaurants, slick high-rise condos and trendy hotels, the streets crowded with people too cool to be real.
The limousine bumped down the refurbished street—bone-jarring nineteenth-century cobblestones re-exposed—and came to a halt at a nondescript building, one of the few unrenovated structures within view.
“We’re here,” said Garza.
They stepped onto the sidewalk. It was much warmer in New York than in New Mexico. Gideon stared suspiciously at the building’s only entrance, a set of metal double doors on a loading dock plastered with old posters and graffiti. The building was large and imposing, some twelve stories tall. Near the top of the façade, he could just make out a painted legend: PRICE & PRICE PORK PACKING INC. Above it, the grimy brickwork gave way to glass and chrome; he wondered if a modern penthouse had been built atop the old structure.
He followed Garza up a set of concrete steps on one side of the dock. As they approached, the loading doors slid open on well-oiled hinges. Gideon followed Garza down a dim corridor to another set of doors, much newer, of stainless steel. Security keypads and a retinal scanner were set into the wall beside them. Garza put his briefcase on the floor and leaned his face into the scanner; the steel doors parted noiselessly.
“Where’s Maxwell Smart?” said Gideon, in full
“I’m sorry, Dr. Crew, but, like I said, it can’t wait.”
“It? What’s it ?”
“A job.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a job. Up at Los Alamos. You know—the place where they design all the nice nuclear bombs?”
“Frankly, this job is more exciting and it pays a great deal more. A hundred thousand dollars for a week’s work. A job for which you are uniquely suited, which will benefit our country—and God knows you need the money. All those credit card debts…” Garza shook his head.
“Hey, who doesn’t have maxed-out credit cards? This is the land of the free, right?” Gideon hesitated. That was a lot of money. He needed money—bad. “So what’ll I be doing in this job of yours?”
“Again, I can’t tell you—yet. The helicopter is waiting up top—to take you to the Albuquerque airport, and from there by private jet to your assignment.”
“You came to get me in a chopper ? Sink me.” Gideon vaguely remembered hearing the chopper. He’d ignored it; the Jemez Mountains, being remote, were often used for flight training from Kirtland AFB.
“We’re in a hurry.”
“I’ll say. Who do you represent?”
“Can’t tell you that, either.” Another smile and a gesture with his arm, palm extended, toward the pack trail to the top of the mesa. “Shall we?”
“My mother told me never to take chopper rides with strangers.”
“Dr. Crew, I’ll repeat what I said earlier: you will find this job to be interesting, challenging, and remunerative. Won’t you at least come with me to our company headquarters to hear the details?”
“Where?”
“In New York City.”
Gideon stared at him, then shook his head and snorted. A hundred thousand would get him well started on the many plans and ideas he’d been working up for his new life.
“Does it involve any illegality?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What the hell. I haven’t been to the Big Apple in a while. All right, lead the way, Manuel.”
13
S ix hours later, the sun was setting over the Hudson River as the limousine pulled into Little West 12th Street, in the old Meatpacking District of Manhattan. The area had changed dramatically from what Gideon remembered during his graduate school days, when he’d come down from Boston for some occasional R&R: the old brick warehouses and covered walkways, with their chains and meat hooks, had been transformed into ultra-hip clothing stores and restaurants, slick high-rise condos and trendy hotels, the streets crowded with people too cool to be real.
The limousine bumped down the refurbished street—bone-jarring nineteenth-century cobblestones re-exposed—and came to a halt at a nondescript building, one of the few unrenovated structures within view.
“We’re here,” said Garza.
They stepped onto the sidewalk. It was much warmer in New York than in New Mexico. Gideon stared suspiciously at the building’s only entrance, a set of metal double doors on a loading dock plastered with old posters and graffiti. The building was large and imposing, some twelve stories tall. Near the top of the façade, he could just make out a painted legend: PRICE & PRICE PORK PACKING INC. Above it, the grimy brickwork gave way to glass and chrome; he wondered if a modern penthouse had been built atop the old structure.
He followed Garza up a set of concrete steps on one side of the dock. As they approached, the loading doors slid open on well-oiled hinges. Gideon followed Garza down a dim corridor to another set of doors, much newer, of stainless steel. Security keypads and a retinal scanner were set into the wall beside them. Garza put his briefcase on the floor and leaned his face into the scanner; the steel doors parted noiselessly.
“Where’s Maxwell Smart?” said Gideon, in full
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