Текст книги "Eye for an Eye"

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

48

BEIJING

Bhang and Ming-huá stared at the screen in anticipation, trying to control their excitement as they awaited the arrival of the kill team.

Ming-huá had punched the picture up for better viewing, and the view of the dark bedroom in Borchardt’s mansion occupied the entire screen, like a movie.

For several tense minutes, they watched in silence, both men standing, both smoking. The audio had been shut down by the lead agent, only adding to a sense of unease.

Then it started.

A furious spray of red, orange, yellow, and silver abruptly appeared, like firecrackers at night, as the muzzles of the machine guns erupted in a fusillade of sparks.

The screen suddenly exploded in bright yellow light, as if a light switch had been turned on.

The view was grainy, a fish-eye lens that provided a wide picture of the entire suite.

Four men, clad in black, stood front and center; three at the foot of the bed, weapons trained at the bed, night optics on, and a fourth commando just behind them, near the door.

As the light went on, the agents appeared frantic, swinging their weapons around.

Bhang lurched for the screen, pointing at the corner of the live video feed.

“Watch out!” he screamed, to no one, pointing at a large figure in the corner of the room, who Bhang realized was Andreas.

Bhang and Ming-huá watched in silence and horror as Dewey stepped forward, toward the unsuspecting commando at the door, and the muzzle of his machine gun sparked black and silver. The agent at the door was kicked by bullets. The American swung the weapon right, slashing a hail of lead across the three agents at the foot of the bed, all of them collapsing to the ground.

Bhang and Ming-huá watched, transfixed, as Dewey ran to the door, then disappeared around the corner.

Bhang’s face turned beet red, but he remained calm. For a long time, he stared at the picture. He even lit another cigarette. The scene was grisly. The light-colored carpet was quickly overtaken in dark as the four dead agents bled out.

When Bhang completed the cigarette, he dropped it to the ground and stepped on it with his shoe, then stepped to the plasma screen. He placed his hands on the top edge of the screen and yanked. The screen came tumbling to the ground and smashed.

Bhang looked at Ming-huá.

“Could Borchardt have betrayed us?” Ming-huá asked quietly.

“No,” snapped Bhang.

“There is no other explanation, Minister.”

“Yes, there is,” said Bhang, storming toward the door. “Andreas is smarter than we anticipated. I want leadership in my office immediately.”

In his office, Bhang removed his coat and tossed it on his desk. He went to the credenza and opened the doors. Inside was a whiteboard. He picked up a marker and removed the cap.

Ming-huá trailed Bhang, taking a seat at the table. Several other members of the ministry’s senior leadership team arrived soon thereafter.

Bhang wrote three things on the whiteboard:

1. SANITIZE LONDON: XIAO

2. FIND BORCHARDT: MING-HUÁ

3. WARN: DHENG

“Is this clear?” asked Bhang, looking at the table. “Top priority is cleaning up London. Xiao, coordinate with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We want to get those bodies out of there or, failing that, cut off any connection these men had to the ministry.”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Second, find Borchardt,” said Bhang, pointing at Ming-huá. “Find out if he’s dead. If not, track him down. Planes, cars, homes, credit cards—everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Third, Dheng, get a warning out to all personnel in the UK, Europe, and Russia. Include a photo. He could be going for more of our people. They need to be warned.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bhang scanned the table.

“Go,” he barked, “except you.” Bhang pointed at Ming-huá.

After the others left, he looked at Ming-huá.

“I want a security detail on Bo,” said Bhang. “Two men. Good men.”

“Yes, Minister. It will be done immediately.”

49

LONDON

Dewey and Borchardt arrived at Heathrow just after midnight. They climbed aboard the plane and were greeted by Borchardt’s two copilots. Dewey still held the MP7, which he kept trained on Borchardt as they passed the men, who were seated in the cockpit with the door open.

Both pilots were ex–Israeli Air Force, and they knew their boss and the rough world he ran in. They were paid many times more than any typical pilot, in exchange for their silence and discretion and, of course, their loyalty. Still, a look of stunned shock hit their faces when they saw Borchardt at gunpoint, walking up the airstairs.

“It’s okay,” said Borchardt as they climbed aboard, smiling at the two men. “This is Dewey. Do what he says.”

Borchardt’s Boeing 757 was a flying fortress of luxury. There was no other way to describe the customized jet. It had cost Borchardt next to nothing, except for the three million dollars he’d spent on the cosmetic aspects of the jet, including removing more than a dozen different murals of Saddam Hussein, painted on the ceiling and on various walls throughout the plane.

It was no secret to anyone that Borchardt had sold many things to Hussein over the years, including centrifuges and more than a half ton of low-grade enriched uranium; both of which had gone relatively unused and had ultimately been sold by Hussein—through Borchardt—to Iran. Hussein’s appetite, Borchardt always said, was bigger than his bite. While he liked many people in Iraq, including one of Hussein’s sons, Borchardt privately believed the Iraqis were too undisciplined and unfocused to develop nuclear weapons. He was more than willing to profit from their ambitions, however.

When the United States invaded Iraq the second time, the government of Iraq owed Borchardt fifty-five million dollars. Borchardt knew that when Hussein went on the lam, as the Americans got close to capturing him, he’d lost any chance of collecting on his debt. So instead, Borchardt had simply appropriated one of Hussein’s many planes.

The plane had two staterooms, which looked like suites at a Four Seasons Hotel, including marble-tiled bathrooms with showers and bathtubs. There was a state-of-the-art media room with several large plasma screens built into the walls. The plane had a small but luxurious general seating area, similar to the first-class section of a normal airliner, with spacious black leather captain’s chairs and a large wet bar. The galley kitchen was small but adequate.

The cargo area below was used for weapons. Hussein stocked it with enough firepower for a small war—with dozens of machine guns, carbines, shoulder-fired missiles, grenade launchers, handguns, stores of ammunition, explosives, first-aid equipment, in-theater communications gear, parachutes, even a small portable field surgical unit, with basic life-monitoring systems, oxygen, and a retinue of surgical equipment for basic battle-theater fixes and repairs.

Borchardt had left it all alone. As with many of Hussein’s weapons, the cache aboard the jet was shiny and unused, like a spoiled child’s toys.

Dewey pushed Borchardt into the passenger section, then tethered him to one of the leather seats, flex-cuffing his skinny wrists and ankles to the seat. He started to wrap tape around his mouth to gag him, but Borchardt protested.

“That’s not necessary,” said Borchardt. “Please. I can understand the cuffs, but do you really need to gag me? I won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”

Dewey wrapped the tape around his mouth anyway.

“I’m not doing it to shut you up, Rolf,” said Dewey. “I’m doing it to make you uncomfortable.”

When he finished a couple of turns of the tape, Dewey walked back to the cockpit.

“Hi, guys,” he said, leaning into the cockpit.

The pilots shared a glance, then looked at Dewey.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” said Dewey. “Borchardt either. Just get this thing in the air and aim for China.”

“Why China?” asked one of the men.

Dewey didn’t respond.

“I know you guys are ex-IDF. I was part of the team that got Kohl Meir out of Iran.”

The pilots nodded, saying nothing.

“I’m not telling you this because I expect you to betray your boss,” continued Dewey. “I don’t. I expect Borchardt to do what I say and you guys to just do your jobs. Got it?”

“Yes,” said the pilot on the left.

“I know you guys are smart, ex-military, all that. I know you could make things difficult for me. You need to understand that if you do that, I will kill Borchardt and then I will kill you. Capiche?”

“Yeah,” said the pilot on the right.

“Got it,” said the other.

“We’ll need to file a flight plan,” said the pilot on the right.

“No you don’t,” said Dewey.

“Yes, we do. You want to pop this thing on an INTERPOL screen, the best way to do that is for us to leave Heathrow without filing a flight plan.”

“Fine, file a flight plan.”

“Where to?”

Dewey thought for a moment.

“Moscow,” said Dewey.

“What’s the final destination?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” said Dewey. “One more thing. Don’t close the door. Don’t lock the door. Trust me, you don’t want to be on that side of the door if I have to break it down.”

The two pilots nodded; the one on the right grinned.

“Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

50

LONDON

It was three in the morning London time when Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma landed at Heathrow.

A black Range Rover waited on the tarmac, its parking lights on and engine running.

The back door of the SUV opened as they crossed the blacktop. A tall man in a blue suit, no tie, with longish, slightly unruly blond hair moved toward the three Americans. This was Derek Chalmers, director of Britain’s MI6, England’s foreign intelligence service.

“Hector,” he said, reaching his hand out toward Calibrisi as they met under the wan yellow lights of the Gulfstream. “Good to see you.”

“Hi, Derek,” said Calibrisi, shaking Chalmers’s hand. “You remember Katie and Rob.”

“Sure, of course.”

Chalmers shook their hands. They followed him to the Range Rover and climbed in.

Chalmers tapped the back of the driver’s seat, telling his driver to move. They shot down the tarmac toward the airport exit.

“Well?” asked Calibrisi. “We got anything?”

Chalmers nodded.

“It’s a bloody mess.”

“Why didn’t you call?” asked Calibrisi.

Chalmers stared at Calibrisi, a slightly annoyed look on his face.

“Because there are five dead Chinese commandos at Borchardt’s house and one dead Chinese ambassador,” said Chalmers. “I have no idea if they’re listening in, and I don’t want to find out.”

“When did it go down?” asked Tacoma.

“Sometime late last night. The team we sent in last night found the bodies. They were still warm. We haven’t pulled them out.”

“Have you run any of the prints?”

“Yes. They were all MSS. This was a kill team.”

“They’re all dead?” asked Calibrisi.

Chalmers nodded.

“As doornails. Your man Andreas redecorated the bedroom with them.”

“Does China know about their dead ambassador?” asked Calibrisi.

“I assume,” said Chalmers. “Borchardt’s security team was coordinating with Beijing. The entire operation was run out of Beijing. They had live video of the OP.”

“So it’s escalating.”

“Yes,” agreed Chalmers. “Bhang is now fully engaged. It’s going to get violent, but we can work with it. I know you don’t want to hear this, Hector, but Dewey is proving to be a rather tempting morsel for our friend in Beijing.”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, the Range Rover pulled into the alleyway behind Upper Phillimore Gardens and extinguished its lights. A plainclothes agent, hand against his ear, was standing near an iron gate at the back of Borchardt’s darkened gardens. He flicked a quick thumbs-up at the driver. Chalmers, Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma climbed out, then moved through the gate, meeting another agent who was waiting for them beneath the shadow of a Japanese maple tree.

Inside, they followed Chalmers into the library, whose curtains were drawn. A woman in a black bodysuit, a MI6 coroner, with blue rubber gloves on, was waiting.

On the floor were two bodies, both riddled with bullet holes and drenched in blood that had begun to blacken as it dried. One was a large man with dirty-blond hair in a gray plaid suit, who looked Russian. The other was a Chinese man in a tuxedo. His torso looked like a knife had been taken to it, though the blood-splattered wall behind him told a different story, of slugs having passed straight on through.

“The ambassador?” asked Calibrisi.

“The Honorable Sūn Mă,” said Chalmers. “The other’s ex-KGB. I assume one of Borchardt’s men.”

They followed Chalmers up the ornate central stairwell. At the third-floor landing, a large pool of blood shimmered under the light from the hallway. A few feet from the top step, a dead Chinese commando lay on his back, his head half blown off.

Down the corridor stood another coroner. He nodded at Chalmers but said nothing.

Chalmers led them into the bedroom. Inside were four more dead agents, littered on the oriental rug—three near the foot of the bed, one just inside the door. Blood was scattered in pools on the ground and splattered on the wall.

“China wasn’t fucking around,” said Calibrisi.

“Nor was Dewey,” added Chalmers.

Calibrisi moved to the bed, stepping around the corpses. The bed was torn apart by slugs. Feathers were scattered all over the bedspread.

“Any calls from the neighbors?” asked Calibrisi.

“Yes,” said Chalmers. “But nothing to worry about.”

“No sign of Dewey or Borchardt?” asked Katie.

“Nothing. But we do know this: Borchardt’s plane is gone. It left Heathrow around midnight.”

As they walked back through the gardens, Calibrisi stopped to talk to Chalmers one-on-one.

“What are you thinking?” Calibrisi asked.

“We leave it exactly the way we found it,” said Chalmers. “Let Scotland Yard take jurisdiction.”

“Why?”

“We have an advantage as long as Bhang believes Dewey is acting alone,” said Chalmers. “We can’t risk Bhang thinking this is a sanctioned operation by CIA or MI6. The fact that they targeted Dewey while he was with your national security advisor means they’re really bloody serious. We need to keep our heads down, and we need to find Dewey. If we play our cards right, he’ll lead us straight to Bhang.”

“I want to make something very clear, Derek,” said Calibrisi, sharply. “I need help finding Dewey. But I have absolutely no intention of doing anything more than taking him back to the United States. He is not part of any operation to kill Fao Bhang.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Chalmers. “Andreas is in the middle of this thing, Hector, whether you like it or not. A dead ambassador? A dead squad of commandos? This is going to anger the hell out of them. You need to put your guilt about Jessica aside and focus on the objective.”

“I don’t care about the objective,” said Calibrisi, stabbing his finger at Chalmers. “We find Dewey, then he’s out. I’m not going to have his blood on my hands too.”

“This is what we wanted,” Chalmers shot back. “Dewey’s going to lead us to Bhang. You want to do your friend a favor? Help him get revenge. That’s what he wants. It’s what he deserves.”

51

IN THE AIR

Dewey slept for the first two hours of the flight, seated a few rows behind Borchardt. When he awoke, he went to the galley kitchen at the front of the cabin and made a cup of coffee. He returned and sat down across from Borchardt, whose mouth remained taped shut.

“You want some?” Dewey asked.

Borchardt looked miserable. His eyes were bloodshot and angry. A sheen of sweat covered his head. His comb-over dangled down by his ear. He nodded up and down, indicating yes, he wanted a cup of coffee.

“What do I look like, a waitress?” asked Dewey.

Borchardt glared at Dewey. He screamed, though it was muted by the tape around his mouth.

“What?” asked Dewey, innocently. “I can’t hear you.”

Dewey took a sip.

“Mmmm, that’s good coffee,” Dewey said. “You know, Rolf, you need to stop reading too much into things. I never said I was going to get you coffee. That’s called taking someone for granted. I read somewhere it’s one of the main reasons relationships fall apart.”

Borchardt again screamed from behind the tape, then yanked against the flex cuffs, as Dewey took small sips from his coffee cup and made satisfied purring noises.

“I wonder if those Chinese guys liked coffee?” pondered Dewey. “What do you think?”

He looked at Borchardt.

“Oh, that’s right, you can’t talk, can you?”

Borchardt again screamed, his face turning beet red. For several seconds he screamed, though it was muted.

Dewey took another sip.

“You never know with those Chinese guys. I mean, they like some weird shit. Take for example sushi. I mean, raw fish? Who wants to eat a piece of raw fucking fish? Why the hell do they like sushi so much, Rolf? Actually, now that I think about it, that’s Japan who likes sushi, isn’t it?”

Dewey smiled, staring into Borchardt’s eyes. He took a last sip from the coffee mug, then hurled it over Borchardt’s shoulder. It struck the wall and shattered, dropping pieces of the mug all over Borchardt’s head and shoulders.

“Sorry,” said Dewey, watching as Borchardt tried to shake shards of the mug from his shoulder. “I was aiming for the dishwasher.”

Dewey reached for his ankle, pulling out his knife. He took it and thrust it toward Borchardt, who screamed, flinched, and yanked at his cuffs, all to no avail.

“Relax.”

He stuck the tip of the blade next to Borchardt’s ear, under the tape edge, then ripped the blade up, cutting the tape. Dewey grabbed the tape and ripped it from Borchardt’s face, which made a loud noise, though not as loud as Borchardt’s scream.

Dewey sat back and let him finish his wailing.

“Don’t say anything you’re going to regret,” said Dewey. “There’s an entire roll of tape, and I’d be glad to put some more on.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“You know what I want, asshole. I explained it to you. I want help getting these fuckheads back.”

“Then you kill me?”

“Maybe. But unlike you, I’m a man of my word. If you help me, there’s a chance I won’t kill you. It’s not a promise, because sometimes I’m just in the mood, know what I mean? Even though you attempted to fuck me back at your house, Rolf, I still really actually don’t care if you live or die. You and I are professionals. We know the drill. We understand the risks. But Jessica was innocent.”

“I’ll help you. I give you my word.”

“Spare me, will you? You don’t have a ‘word’ to give. You’re a fundamentally dishonest human being, which is how I knew you’d rat me out. Just shut the fuck up, answer my questions, and do as you’re told.”

Borchardt nodded. “Got it.”

“Now, my first question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Something I’ve been meaning to ask you since I first met you.”

“What?”

“What the fuck is the deal with your hair? You’re a wealthy man. Buy yourself a toupée. Or better yet, do what real men do: go bald. Be a man about it. It looks like a dead rat.”

Dewey leaned forward and grabbed the end of the long bunch of hair that dangled to the side of Borchardt’s head. He took his knife and put it next to Borchardt’s scalp and sliced the entire piece of hair off, then tossed it into Borchardt’s lap.

“There we go,” said Dewey, sitting back, nodding slowly, assessing his hairdressing skills. “Much better.”

Borchardt looked sadly down at the clump of hair on his lap.

“Okay, next question,” said Dewey. “Weapons.”

“Enough for whatever you want to do. A full cache of military-grade combat equipment. You’re welcome to inspect it. It’s in the cargo hold.”

“Explosives?”

“SEMTEX, PBXN, gelatin, C4. Enough explosives to blow up Buckingham Place, or … the Ministry of State Security?”

“Good one, Rolf. What about shoulder-fired missiles?”

“MANPADs, RPG-7s.”

“What sort of MANPADs?”

“Javelins.

“Oldies but goodies.”

“There are also half a dozen Alcotán-100s.”

“What are those?”

“Portable antitank missiles. Very easy to use. No recoil. Very effective too. I sold a bunch to Syria last year. They couldn’t afford all of them, so I kept a few.”

Dewey nodded.

“Okay, next question,” said Dewey. “Tell me about Fao Bhang.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Do you have a relationship with him?”

“I’ve never met him. Few have.”

“Where does he live?”

“I have no idea. Presumably Beijing. If he’s like all of the rest of the State Council, he also has a house somewhere, Hong Kong, Macau, Shanghai. But I don’t know.”

“What do you know?” asked Dewey. “Because I can tell you right now, your life span is directly correlated to how much you can help me.”

“He’s a buyer of information. Loves information. What sort of weapons system so-and-so bought, what sort of satellite setup this or that government has. That sort of thing. Very price agnostic. Big spender.”

“What else? What’s his deal?”

“His deal?”

“Yes, his deal. What’s his fucking deal?”

“Bhang is the brains behind whatever nasty thing China does. He’s the strategist and the implementer. He was without question the one who sent the team in to kill you last night. He would’ve been the one to organize the wet work down in Argentina.”

“What about his brother, Bo Minh?”

“I know Minh. I know him quite well, as a matter of fact.”

“How?”

“He’s on my payroll. Bo Minh is the top technologist at the ministry. He designs various cryptographics, eavesdropping, profiling algorithms, lie-detection devices. He’s as ruthless as Bhang, but a recluse, an introvert; he doesn’t have the political skills or ambition of Bhang. But he’s brilliant.”

“Why is he on your payroll?”

“He keeps me apprised of developments within ministry weapons programs. He helps ensure I continue to play an active role in their decision-making process.”

“Bribery.”

“Something like that.”

“How much have you paid him over the years?”

“Tens of millions.”

Dewey stared at Borchardt.

“You really are a scumbag, aren’t you?”

Borchardt smiled.

“I’m a businessman.”

“Are they close?”

“Who?”

“Bhang and his brother, shitbrain.”

Borchardt’s eyes grew sharp.

“I’m not sure.”

“Rolf,” Dewey said, shaking his head, scolding in his voice. “Remember our discussion a little while ago about answering my questions? There is one individual on the entire planet you need to keep happy. And right now, that individual is a little upset. He’d like nothing better than to fire one of these Alcotáns up your constipated German ass. Answer the fucking question.”

“Yes, they’re close,” said Borchardt, sighing. “Very close.”

“What’s ‘very’?”

“Very. Bhang protects him. Minh is smart but weak. Bhang is not weak. They say even Li has a healthy dose of wariness about Bhang. His people are everywhere. Bhang watches out for Bo Minh. Minh was once caught in a Ponzi scheme. This was in Shanghai, several years ago. There were two men. They were caught and convicted, sentenced to thirty or forty years in a labor camp. The day after arriving at the camp, both men were shot in the head.”

Dewey nodded. He sat back, pausing, then smiled.

“Well, you better hope I succeed then.”

“Why?”

“Because Bhang’s going to be mighty pissed off at you after his brother dies.”