“The numbers could be something else, a passcode, bank account or safe-deposit, directions to a hiding place, the encoded name and address of a contact…or, for all I know, a recipe for chop suey.”

O’Brien grunted. Over the years, he had gotten used to his friend’s vanishings and reappearances, his black moods, his secretive doings and quasi-criminal habits. But this really took the cake. He stared at the numbers, then a smile cracked his face. “These numbers are anything but random,” he said.

“How do you know?”

O’Brien grunted. “Just looking at ’em. I doubt this is a code at all.”

“What is it, then?”

O’Brien shrugged, laid the paper down. “What other goodies you got in that case?”

Gideon reached in and pulled out a passport and credit card. O’Brien took them; both were Chinese. He stared. “Is all this…legal?”

“It’s necessary — for our country.”

“Since when did you become a patriot?”

“What’s wrong with patriotism — especially when it pays?”

“Patriotism, my dear chap, is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”

“Spare me your left-wing twaddle. I don’t see you packing your bags and moving to Russia.”

“All right, all right, stop hyperventilating. So what do you want me to do with the passport and credit card?”

“Both have magnetic stripes containing data. I want you to download that data and parse it, see if anything unusual is hidden in it.”

“Piece of cake. Next?”

Gideon reached back into the case and removed, with enormous gravitas, a ziplock bag containing a cell phone. He laid it in O’Brien’s palm. “This is really important. This phone belonged to a Chinese physicist. I need you to extract all the information this phone contains. I’ve already gotten its list of recent calls and contacts, but that’s suspiciously short — there might be more that have been hidden or deleted. If he’s used it for web browsing, I want the entire history. If there are photos I want those, too. And finally — and most important — I think there’s a very good chance the plans for the weapon are hidden in that phone.”

“Lucky for you I read and write Mandarin.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” said Gideon. “It isn’t because I miss your ugly mug. You are a gentleman of singular and diverse endowments.”

“And not just in the intellectual department.” O’Brien laid the cell phone on a table. “Any money in it for me?”

Gideon extracted from his pocket a massive, sodden roll of banknotes.

“That’s a charming Kansas City roll you got there.”

Gideon peeled off ten limp bills. “A thousand dollars. I’ll give you another thousand when you’re done. And I need it, like, done yesterday.”

O’Brien collected the wet money and lovingly spread it out on his windowsill to dry. “This is a challenge. I like challenges.”

Gideon seemed to hesitate. “One other thing.” His voice was suddenly different.

O’Brien looked over. Gideon was removing a manila envelope. “I’ve got some X-rays and CT scans here. Friend of mine. The guy doesn’t feel right, wants a doctor to look these over.”

O’Brien frowned. “Why doesn’t he ask his own doctor? I don’t know shit about medicine. Or take it to your doctor, for Chrissakes.”

“I’m busy. Look, he just wants a second opinion. Surely you know some good doctors around here.”

“Well, sure, we got a few at the medical school.” He opened the file, picked up an X-ray. “Name’s been cut out.”

“The guy values his privacy.”

“Is there anything you do that isn’t shady? Doctors are expensive.”

Gideon laid two more C notes on the table. “Just take care of it, okay?”

“Right, fine, no need to get snippy.” He was taken aback by Gideon’s sudden short tone of voice. “It’s gonna take time. These guys are busy.”

“Be careful and for God’s sake keep your big mouth shut. No kidding. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Please,” groaned O’Brien, “not before noon.”

The hourly rate hotel room was about as sordid as they came, like something out of a 1950s noir film: the blinking neon light outside the window, elephant stains on the walls, pressed-tin ceiling coated with fifty layers of paint, sagging bed, and smell of frying hamburger in the passageway outside. Gideon Crew dumped his shopping bags on the bed and began unloading them.

“How are we gonna do it if the bed’s covered with stuff?” asked the prostitute, standing in the door, pouting.

“Sorry,” said Gideon, “we’re not doing it.”

“Oh yeah? Are you one of those guys who just wants to talk?”

“Not really.” He laid out everything on the bed and stared at it, looking for inspiration, his eye roving over the fake paunches, the cheek inserts, the noses and wigs and beards, latex, prostheses, tattoos, pads. Next to this assortment, he spread out some of the clothing he had bought. While he had shaken off his pursuer, it hadn’t been easy and the man was a serious professional. He had two places to visit, and it was likely the man, or possibly a compatriot, would be lurking at one or both of them. It would take more than a disguise to pull this off; it would take creating a new role, and for that the woman was essential. Gideon straightened up and looked at the prostitute. She was nice looking, not drugged out, with a bright-eyed, wiseass attitude. Dyed black hair, pale skin, dark lipstick, slender figure, small sharp nose—​he liked the Goth look of her. He sorted through the clothes, picked out a black T-shirt, and laid it aside. Camo pants and black leather boots with thick soles completed the wardrobe.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked, tapping a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it up. She took a deep drag. Gideon strolled over and slipped the cigarette out of her hand, took a drag himself, handed it back.

“So what’s all this?” she said, gesturing at the bed with her cigarette.

“I’m going to rob a bank.”

“Right.” She blew out a stream of smoke.

Gideon resisted the urge to bum a cigarette from her. Instead, he took another drag from hers.

“Hey,” she said, looking at his right hand. “What happened to your finger?”

“Too much nail biting.”

“Cute. So what you need me for?”

“You were a good way for me to get this, ah, inexpensive hotel room without attracting attention or having to show ID. I need a place to plan the heist.”

“You’re not really going to rob a bank,” she said, but there was a note of concern in her voice.

He laughed. “Not really. I’m actually in the film business. Actor and producer. Creighton McFallon’s the name. Perhaps you’ve heard it.”

“Sounds familiar. You got any work for me?”

“Why do you think you’re here? You’re going to play my girlfriend for a while. To help me immerse myself in a role. It’s called Method acting — know about that?”

“Hey, I’m an actress, too. Name’s Marilyn.”

“Marilyn what?”

“Marilyn’s enough. I was an extra in an episode of Mad Men.”

“I knew it! I’m going to change my looks, but you can be just who you are. In fact, you’re perfect.”

The woman gave him a quick smile and he saw, briefly, the real person underneath.

“You know, I gotta get paid for something like this.”

“Naturally. What would your rate be for, say, six hours?”

“Doing what?”

“Walking around town with me.”

“Well, I’d normally make at least a grand for six hours of work, but seeing as how this is the film business, make it two. And I’ll throw in a little special something, just for you…’cause you’re cute.” She smiled and touched her lower lip with a finger.

He took a small bundle of bills out of his pocket and handed them to her. “There’s five hundred. You’ll get the rest at the end.”

She took it a little doubtfully. “I should get half up front.”

“All right.” He gave her another bundle. “You’re going to need a new name. Shall we call you Orchid?”