Текст книги "Eye for an Eye"

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Dewey pumped the trigger. The slug struck the gunman in the ankle. He dropped to the road, screaming, his carbine dropping to the road. The gunman looked up at Dewey, a pained expression on his face, then to his rifle. He was young, no more than twenty-five. He lurched for the rifle. Dewey fired. The bullet hit him in the chest, dead center, his white T-shirt erupting in crimson as he was kicked back to the tar.

Dewey turned to look at the American, lying on the road, just outside his window. His brown eyes stared blankly back at him. Then he blinked. He was still alive.

“Dowling,” the man whispered. “I’m Delta.”

“Hold on, Dowling,” said Dewey, mustering every ounce of strength he had left. “Hold on. Don’t fucking give up on me, man.”

“I won’t,” Dowling said quietly through the smoke, looking at Dewey.

68

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY

BEIJING

“Huong?” barked Xiao. “Chiu? Answer!”

On the opposite side of the glass conference table stood Bhang. His arms were crossed. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. As he listened to Xiao attempt to raise the agents on COMM, Bhang was studying the large electronic map of Lisbon, now imposed on the glass of the table.

There were ten flashing red lights in all. Two at the airport and four on the highway, near the 25th of April Bridge, represented the agents who weren’t responding. Bhang already knew the two at the airport were dead, based on police reports coming out of Lisbon. Now it was clear the four men sent to take out Andreas on the A2 were also gone.

Xiao completed the COMM check and looked to Bhang for guidance.

“Should we send in the others?”

“No,” said Bhang, shaking his head.

Bhang pointed to one of the flashing lights, which was close to the bridge, on a side street beneath the highway, moving toward the scene.

“Who’s this?”

“Lo,” said Xiao.

“Lo,” said Bhang into the COMM mic on the desk. “Can you see the scene?”

“Almost, Minister.”

Bhang lit the cigarette. He glanced at Xiao. “Does he have a rifle?”

Xiao nodded yes.

“I can see it now,” said Lo, over the COMM. “It’s a … well, it’s hard to describe, sir. It’s a mess. Let me put it up on video.”

One of the plasmas suddenly lit up. The view was blurry. The screen bounced around as Lo focused and framed the shot. After a few seconds, the scene sharpened. A side shot, from beneath the highway, showed the pandemonium on the roadway above. Smoke clouded the sky. Cars were strewn about haphazardly, along with several overturned motorcycles. Bodies of injured or dead people were strewn about on the ground.

All of it was clustered around an overturned sedan, which Bhang recognized as the Mercedes.

Multiple sirens could be heard. Lo panned right to show police cruisers and ambulances hurrying from up the highway.

Bhang, Xiao, and the other men in the situation room back in Beijing watched, transfixed, as a pair of green-and-white ambulances zigzagged toward the wreck, then stopped.

“Focus on the wreck!” yelled Bhang, pointing at the Mercedes. “Get us in tighter!”

The view sharpened and moved in on the overturned sedan, just as two uniformed medics sprinted to the side of the car.

The sound of a helicopter, off camera, became louder. Lo suddenly shot the camera right and up. A black military chopper rushed overhead, descending toward the chaos. Lo followed the chopper as it hovered above the roadway, then descended in a slow loop to the highway, just a few feet from the overturned Mercedes.

As the chopper touched down, the blood-covered head of Andreas emerged from through the crushed side of the car. The medics struggled to pull the driver from the wreck. A third man ran to the far side of the car. Finally, they pulled him completely out. Bhang stared expectantly, hopefully, as the American’s torso, waist, then legs were pulled through by the medics. Was he dead?

“Don’t move the camera,” ordered Bhang.

Two medics lifted Andreas up to a gurney as a third medic stuck an oxygen mask on his face then stuck an IV into his left arm. The two medics, trailed by the third, ran the gurney to the chopper. All three men climbed aboard. The chopper lifted into the smoke, then crossed the blue sky and shot away.

“See if you can track the chopper,” said Xiao.

“Don’t bother,” said Bhang.

Bhang reached forward and shut off the COMM speaker.

“Minister?”

“Andreas is gone. He’s alive, and he’s gone.”

“Are you saying the operation is over, Minister?”

“No, of course not,” snapped Bhang. “It’s simply moved to a more-complicated part of the playing field.”

Bhang turned and walked to the door. He paused there. He turned, smiling, and pointed at Xiao.

“Kill his family,” said Bhang.

69

BANGOR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

BANGOR, MAINE

US Airways flight 132 from Quebec City landed at Bangor International Airport at 8:50 A.M. There were four passengers aboard the fifty-seat Embraer jet. One of them, a Chinese woman, thanked the flight attendant, then stepped quickly down the airstairs and onto the tarmac.

Her name was Dao. She was twenty-three, had short black hair, and was a level-two operative in the paramilitary branch of the Ministry of State Security, assigned to territory U-8, eastern Canada and northern New England. U-8 included Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire.

Dao headed for the main terminal, a few hundred feet away. Inside, she found the Hertz counter.

“Good morning,” said a pretty blonde behind the counter. “How can I help you today?”

“I’d like to rent a car.” She handed the woman a credit card along with a forged Maine driver’s license.

“My pleasure,” she said, picking up her license, “Miss Dao. Let me see what we have.”

The woman typed a few keystrokes into the computer.

“Here we go. How about a Camaro? That’s a nice car, if you ask me. I also have a Dodge Challenger. That one’s fast as heck. My boyfriend has one. Sometimes he—”

“Camaro,” Dao said, interrupting her.

The Hertz woman typed away as Dao studied the map on the wall.

“And what brings you to Bangor?” the Hertz woman asked absentmindedly, making conversation as she typed.

“I’m visiting some friends,” answered Dao, studying the map, a cold look on her face, “in Castine.”

70

DEYROLLE

RUE DU BAC

PARIS, FRANCE

Xiua Koo stood beneath the mounted head of a rhinoceros, admiring it. The leather skin looked like armor, hardened by a lifetime’s worth of fighting. Koo was always amazed at how marred, ripped, and pockmarked the rhino was upon close inspection, but it was also why he liked the beast so much. He imagined what the animal had faced in its abbreviated life, what elephants, other rhinos, cheetahs, and other predators had attempted to kill him, before the hunter had finally succeeded in shooting him.

A small white price tag was affixed to the wall next to the head.

1914

British East Africa

€75,000

A short bald man with round gold-rimmed glasses stepped to Koo’s right, also admiring the head.

“The hunting was good that year,” said the man.

“It’s not for sale,” replied Koo. He turned, without looking at the man, and left the taxidermy shop.

*   *   *

Koo walked slowly, on thin cobblestone sidewalks, toward the Seine, stopping to look in the windows of different art galleries, chocolate shops, and patisseries. He didn’t look behind him.

Koo knew he was possibly being watched, and the next few minutes were important. The chances they were following him were slim but real. After all, Koo himself had spent his first years at the ministry doing nothing except surveillance of other ministry agents. It had always struck him as being inefficient and uneconomical. And yet he’d discovered two different traitors during his time in the surveillance unit, both ministry agents who’d gone to work for Russia.

If they were following him, looking back could be construed as paranoia, a cue; it had the potential to cause more men to be called in. And so he walked casually, pretending to enjoy the warm fall afternoon despite the speed with which his heart now beat.

He replayed the exchange at Deyrolle:

The hunting was good that year: We must meet immediately.

It’s not for sale: Shakespeare and Company.

At the Seine, he turned right and walked in front of the small booksellers and antiquarians who lined the banks of the river. He aimed for Notre Dame and its ornate spires.

Inside the main door to the cathedral, he stepped quickly to his left, then sprinted down a set of stairs to the basement. He ran down a dimly lit hallway, past a man in vestry garments, who did not even look up. At the end of the hallway, he went through a small wooden door to another stairwell, this one darkened. He went down to the next level, using his phone light to guide him. At the next landing was another door. He opened it and stepped into an alley, a recessed flood channel at the back of the cathedral, two stories below ground level. Koo climbed an iron ladder attached to the masonry and was soon back at street level, near the verdant lawns that flanked the cathedral. Koo walked quickly to the street. Across the busy traffic, he saw the sign: SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY.

Inside the crowded bookstore, Koo climbed thin stairs to the second floor, then passed customers browsing old, used books. Near the back, he stopped at a shelf of dust-covered volumes, next to a door that said EMPLOYEES ONLY. He pretended to browse, glancing around him until, finally, there was no one else in sight. Koo removed a key from his pocket, placed it in the door lock, and turned.

Koo stepped into the small office, shutting the door quickly behind him.

Against the wall sat an old wooden desk, piled high with documents, bills, and paper, much of it yellowed and frayed. Two chairs were next to the desk, along with an old, torn leather club chair, which served as the desk chair. A beautiful glass lamp on the desk provided the only light in the windowless room.

Two people were seated in the chairs, waiting for Koo. In the left chair was a woman in a stylish black trench coat, with brown hair that was combed neatly back and a serious look on her pale, unattractive face. Koo had never met her before but knew exactly who she was: Veronica Smythson, head of MI6 paramilitary operations.

In the other chair was someone Koo did know, the man who’d recruited him to be a double agent for MI6 six years before: Derek Chalmers, the head of the agency, his blond hair longer and more unruly than Koo remembered.

“Hello, Koo,” said Chalmers. “Please sit down.”

Koo sat down in the leather chair, saying nothing.

“It’s time to make preparations,” said Chalmers. “We’re bringing you in.”

Koo stared at Chalmers impassively, without emotion.

“Why?”

“You’re going to be exposed,” said Chalmers.

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Koo stared at Chalmers. He knew the day might come. Indeed, sometimes he dreamed of it, of the day, the time, the place he would go, the day everything would be wiped clean and he would be brought in.

“Where will I be sent?”

“You know we can’t tell you that.”

“Do I have a choice about where I am to go?”

“No,” said Chalmers. “I’m sorry.”

Koo reached to his pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes.

“Do you mind?” he asked, looking at Smythson.

“Not at all,” she said.

Koo lit a cigarette, then took a long puff.

“So tell me about the operation,” said Koo, exhaling.

“It has to do with the ministry,” said Smythson. “More than that, I cannot tell you. Excepting, of course, your role.”

Koo nodded, and suddenly it made sense now.

“The American,” said Koo.

“Andreas,” said Smythson. “What is your knowledge of him?”

“It is the highest priority of the ministry,” said Koo. “Every agent in the clandestine bureau has been repurposed until he’s found and terminated. I would imagine there are other efforts going on as well.”

“Tomorrow, the American will be in Paris,” said Smythson.

Koo’s eyes became more alert.

“Do you have informants at any of the hotels?” asked Smythson. “A parking valet? A concierge? Front-desk person?”

“Yes. I have people at many of the hotels.”

“The Bristol?”

“Yes.”

“Does he work afternoons?”

“Yes, his name is Vonnes.”

“Good,” said Smythson. “This afternoon, you will show him a photo of Andreas. You will ask him to call you if he happens to see him; offer him money. Make the rounds. Make the same offer to all of your informants. It’s important that you show them the photo.”

Koo nodded.

Smythson reached to her right. She lifted a paper bag with the Shakespeare and Company logo on the side. She handed it to Koo.

He reached into the bag and pulled out an old hardcover edition of Anna Karenina. Koo lifted the cover. There were no pages. The book was a storage box, designed to look like a book. He pulled out a handgun. It was the same sidearm Koo already had, a slightly weathered 9x19mm QSZ-92 with an undermounted laser pointer. He popped the magazine. The gun was loaded.

“Tomorrow afternoon, just before four P.M., your man at the Bristol will call you,” said Smythson. “You will be somewhere close by. What’s the first thing you should do?”

“Call it in.”

“Precisely,” said Smythson. “You call it in. What next?”

“Go immediately to the Bristol,” said Koo.

“Are there rules of engagement?” Smythson asked.

“It’s a TEP,” said Koo. “It means we are to take any risk necessary on behalf of the state.”

“I’m talking about procedural rules,” she said. “Do you have to wait for backup? Kill or capture? Day or night?”

“None of that. The only one is that we must have our microcamera mounted and running.”

“Can I see it?”

Koo reached inside his coat. He removed his handgun, a QSZ-92, the twin of the 9mm Smythson had just given him. He handed it to her.

Smythson examined it. At the end of the muzzle, a small silver bead, like the round head of a pin, was affixed.

“How is it engaged?”

Koo held up his watch. “A code typed into either our watch or phone.”

“Can Beijing turn it on remotely?”

“No.”

Smythson disassembled Koo’s weapon, taking everything but the barrel and handing it to Koo. She then took apart the other sidearm. She switched barrels, so that the handgun she’d given Koo now had the camera on it.

“It’s important that the camera be running when you enter the hotel,” said Smythson.

Koo nodded.

“Where will he be?” asked Koo.

“In the lounge. When you see him, you pull your weapon from your coat. You will shoot Andreas at close range, here, once.”

Smythson gestured to her chest, pointing at her heart.

“One kill shot.”

Koo listened but said nothing.

“But, as you might expect, there are other American agents in the lounge,” said Smythson.

She pulled two photographs from her trench coat pocket. One showed Katie, the other, Tacoma. She handed them to Koo.

“Your shots alert them,” continued Smythson. “They are part of the operation.”

“Who are they?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said.

She pointed at the fake book. Koo reached inside. He pulled out a neatly folded white T-shirt. It was unusually heavy.

“You’ll have that on,” she continued.

“What is it?”

“The shirt is embedded with a chemical. The man in the photo will be at a table in the lounge. When he sees you move at Andreas, he’ll stand up and shoot you.”

Koo said nothing.

“His gun will have blanks in it, Koo.”

A small grin flashed on Koo’s face.

“The first bullet misses, and you return fire. Then you step forward and shoot Andreas three more times, proving without question to your handlers that he’s dead. But you fail to kill the other man. He shoots from the ground and hits you in the shoulder. You fall to the ground. When you do, the chemicals in the shirt will combine and your shoulder will be covered in what appears to be blood. Wear something light above it, so that the blood is visible.”

Koo stared at Smythson, then his eyes drifted to Chalmers, who stared back.

“After falling, get up and run for your life,” said Smythson. “Hail a taxicab and run.”

“Where will I be taken?”

“You call it in. Remember, you’ll be on a live feed to Beijing. You’re in pain. By the way, how do you say ‘pain’ in Mandarin?”

“Téngtòng,” said Koo.

“Téngtòng,” repeated Smythson.

“Yes.”

“Repeat it over and over as you ride in the cab. Our guess is, you’ll be directed to a safe house or back to your apartment. They’ll want to get you out of the country. Once we know where they’re going to exfiltrate you from, you hang up, and you’re done.”

“Done?”

“For good. We might need you to wait it out, but by suppertime you’ll be in the UK.”

Koo studied the photos of Katie and Tacoma. He held up the picture of Katie.

“Pretty,” he said.

“Yes.”

“What is her role?”

“She’s going to kill the other ministry agents who will be coming after you call it in,” said Smythson. “Don’t get in the way of her bullets, Koo; they’re real.”

Koo lit another cigarette, reclining in the leather chair, contemplating everything.

“What about Tammy?” asked Koo, looking at Chalmers.

Chalmers stared back.

“Xiua,” said Chalmers, “you know the drill. If she knows, if she does anything, it won’t work.”

Koo took a puff, nodding.

“If we’re successful, you have my word that we’ll make arrangements at the first opportunity,” added Chalmers. “But there are no promises.”

“By the way, no keepsakes,” said Smythson. “No photos, mementos—nothing. It all stays behind. A normal day at the office, so to speak.”

“I understand,” said Koo. “However, I must also ask: Is there no other alternative?”

Chalmers shook his head.

“This is important,” said Chalmers calmly. “Important enough to kill off one of MI6’s most valuable assets. By my estimates, you should have at least five million euros tucked away somewhere. It’s been my experience that others, after a similar transition, learn to be very happy. We will be there to support you at every turn. But you must also understand something.”

“Yes?”

“We’ve invested a lot in you,” said Chalmers, leaning toward Koo, his voice barely above a whisper, a polite but unmistakable hint of threat in his voice. “As you might have anticipated, you and Tammy will be under surveillance for the duration of the operation. I don’t need to explain to you what that means.”

71

SIR ELLY’S

32 ZHONGSHAN NO.1 ROAD

SHANGHAI

Ji-tao Zhu, governor of the People’s Bank of China, sipped from a martini glass as he sat alone, looking out at the Bund, Shanghai’s famous waterfront, the Huangpu River, and its most famous building, the Pearl Tower, a concrete needle that stuck up into the sky, with two large round balls, like pearls, strung at either end of the needle, one near the top, the other closer to the ground.

Like most top government officials, Zhu had a weekend apartment away from Beijing. His was in Shanghai.

On this night, Zhu did what he liked to do every Friday night he was in town. He sat in a seat at Sir Elly’s alone, having a cocktail, before heading into the restaurant for a private dinner with his mistress. That was another accoutrement enjoyed by Beijing’s governmental elite. Zhu, a short, stooped, pasty man of fifty, was no exception. If anything was a testament to the homely Zhu’s power, it was the stunning beauty of his mistress, a twenty-six-year-old Shanghai native named Tai-lin.

He sipped his cocktail, looking out on the neon-lit cruise ships and myriad party boats that moved around the harbor.

Zhu was used to getting a seat at the rooftop lounge. It didn’t matter what time Zhu showed up. Beyond being a regular customer, and a generally nice person, Zhu also happened to run the largest financial institution in China. It made sense to keep a seat warm for him.

Most Friday nights, the rooftop lounge was crowded with people, and his reserved chair at the rooftop bar was the only one available. For some reason, on this night, Zhu was the only person at the bar. He took a few more sips, relaxing, staring out at the Bund. At some point, he noticed another man seated at the far end of the bar. His back was turned.

Had he been there before? Zhu didn’t think so. Something about the man was familiar. Zhu finished his cocktail. He left money on the bar, climbed down from his chair, and walked toward Sir Elly’s, where he knew Tai-lin would be waiting.

“Tai-lin is not there,” said the man.

Zhu hesitated.

It wasn’t a loud voice, and the man’s back was still turned. Had he been speaking to someone else? Or, perhaps Zhu had misheard him?

Zhu shook his head and continued walking. As he got to the door, he turned to get one last look at the man. As he did, the man, as if sensing Zhu’s eyes, turned. It was Fao Bhang. An unnatural shudder vibrated down Zhu’s spine as he stared at the spymaster.

“Fao, how are you?” asked Zhu, waving awkwardly.

Bhang continued to stare at Zhu.

“I must go,” said Zhu. “I … I have a dinner appointment.”

Zhu turned to leave and found himself standing face-to-face with two large men in suits, guarding the entrance.

Zhu turned and walked back to Bhang, who was smoking and looking out at the Bund. He had a small pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes.

“The Bund is so beautiful at night, don’t you think?” asked Bhang, looking through the binoculars. “I particularly love the Pearl Tower. So ugly during the day, but so pretty at night.”

“I did what you asked,” said Zhu quietly.

“No, you did not,” said Bhang, turning.

“We cleaned up the situation with the White House for you,” said Zhu. “We expended considerable political capital to do so, I might add.”

“That was only part of it,” said Bhang, icily.

“It is not my position to demand that the United States turn over a citizen for extradition,” said Zhu.

“I can certainly understand your hesitancy, Governor.”

“I am the top official of the largest financial institution in the world,” said Zhu, stammering. “The public face of China’s fiscal policy. This man, Andreas, I don’t even know who he is. You must seek the legal avenues. There is a process for this, I’m sure of it. I am not a prosecutor, a judge, or a special agent, Fao. I’m an accountant.”

“Ah, so I’m told,” said Bhang, smiling. “So perhaps you can help me with a math problem?”

Zhu’s face turned red. He stared at Bhang.

“What is it? Is it some kind of joke?”

“No,” said Bhang, “a simple mathematics problem.”

“Fine, ask your question, then I must go. I am late.”

“Thank you for indulging me, Ji-tao. Here is my question: If one were to drop something from the top of the Pearl Tower, which is a thousand feet high, and it landed on top of the lower floor, which is two hundred feet, how far would the object drop?”

Zhu’s eyes shot across the water to the Pearl Tower, lit up in the distance. He grabbed Bhang’s binoculars. He searched the Pearl Tower until he found the round upper pearl. There, he saw the silhouette of a woman whom he knew immediately was Tai-lin. She was hanging by one foot, upside down.

“Keep watching,” said Bhang.

“No!”

Suddenly the woman fell from the sky, dropping quickly and silently to the lower pearl, which she slammed into with an awful force, bouncing visibly. Her limp corpse then slid down the curvature of the ball and fell to the ground below.

Zhu’s mouth went agape. He couldn’t say anything. He had a hard time even breathing. A pained, terrible expression wrinkled his face as tears came to his eyes.

“There is a plane waiting for you at the airport,” said Bhang, standing up and flicking his cigarette to the ground. “It will take you to Washington, D.C. I have gone ahead and taken the liberty of having the chef at Sir Elly’s prepare your favorite meal, diver scallops, which was sent ahead to the plane, along with a bottle of wine, which I asked the sommelier himself to select on your behalf.”

Bhang stared at Zhu as he cried. He leaned closer to Zhu, a look of pity on his face.

“Do you need help remembering his name, Ji-tao?”

“Andreas,” whispered Zhu. “Dewey Andreas.”