Текст книги "Eye for an Eye"

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

72

MILL CREEK ROD & GUN

ORRINGTON, MAINE

Dao took a right off Route 15 and parked in front of a sign that read MILL CREEK ROD & GUN. The shop looked like an old house whose bottom floor had been converted into a gun shop a long time ago.

Inside, the shop was empty except for an older gray-haired man who wore a flannel shirt, clip-on suspenders, and Carhartts. He had a long thick beard and mustache. He was smoking a pipe. He looked at her as she stepped into the shop, scanning Dao from head to toe.

“What can I do you for?” he asked in a hard Down East accent.

Dao quickly scanned the small shop. Gun racks lined the walls and were filled with dozens of shotguns and rifles, new and used. The wall behind the counter was a checkerboard of handguns of all types and calibers, also new and used. The glass counter case had a variety of new handguns.

“I’m in the market for a rifle,” Dao said. “I’d like to do some target practice. Long-range.”

“New or used?”

“I don’t care.”

“You are aware of Maine gun laws, young lady?” the shopkeeper asked.

“That there aren’t any?” she replied.

The man grinned.

“Well, you need a permit to carry a handgun, although you can still buy one, of course. Not sure I understand the distinction on that one, but that’s politicians for ya. Other than that, there’s just the instant background check.”

Dao stared at him.

“I’m not buying a handgun,” she said. “I want a rifle.”

“All right. I hear ya.”

The man nodded at the wall behind her. A gun rack held a line of rifles, locked behind a steel bar.

He walked out from behind the counter and unlocked the bar. He swept his arm across the air, pointing at the line of firearms.

“Other than the Browning there on the right, which ain’t for sale, those’ll all do fine.”

He lifted a rifle up, then handed it to her.

“Kimber Classic,” he said. “Used by a fella up in Winterport.”

Dao picked up the rifle. It was light, about five pounds, with a handsome walnut stock. She swung it up, aiming at the corner of the ceiling.

“What else do you have?” she asked.

“We have the SuperAmerica, also by Kimber,” he said, pointing. “Brand-new. Beautiful rifle. To be perfectly honest, it’s pretty much the same rifle as that other one. The America’s more of a collector’s item. We also got a few Remingtons, the Woodmaster, which I think is a decent gun, especially for the price.”

“What’s that one?” asked Dao, pointing toward a rifle that was hanging on the wall alone, above the others, although she already knew the answer. It looked heavily used, even beat-up, with a patina of scratched metal and wear. A worn sling dangled beneath it.

He glanced up at the rifle.

“That there’s a Panther,” he said, reaching up and lifting it from the wall. “That was my nephew’s. That’s a military rifle right there. Great rifle. I’d have to sell you the ten-round mag. Lawman won’t let me sell the nineteen, which is what it was designed for.”

He handed the rifle to Dao. It was heavy, but Dao already knew that. The DPMS Panther LR-308 was the rifle she’d been trained on. It was an easy-to-use, incredibly reliable sniper rifle, ideal for medium-range precision shooting that required speedy setup and pickup.

Dao took it to the counter. She made sure it wasn’t loaded, then quickly fieldstripped the weapon; shutting the bolt assembly, pressing the rear takedown pin and pulling it out the other side, pivoting the upper receiver and barrel assembly away from each other, pressing the front pin, pulling it out the other side, separating the upper and lower receivers, pulling the charging handle back, removing the bolt assembly, then removing the charging handle until it fell free. She laid the parts neatly on the counter.

Dao did the fieldstrip in exactly five seconds, her long fingers dancing over the steel of the firearm with dizzying speed. The shopkeeper watched her do it, his eyes bulging in awe. She inspected the weapon, then reassembled it. When she was finished, she handed it back to him.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

73

NORTHERN SPAIN

The steady rhythm of the train was familiar and comforting. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Feeling the slow swaying of the car beneath him was the first sensation Dewey had, and it calmed him. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t; he was still deeply groggy, drugged. He tried to move his hand, but it was fastened down. Then he slipped back into unconsciousness.

A distant train horn is what awakened him the next time. How much later was it, where he was, he didn’t know. The rhythm of the train soothed him, the steady bouncing of the wheels, steel turning atop steel. This time he opened his eyes.

It was, at first, blurry and dark. It was nighttime. His eyes were trained at the window, which was black. He was lying down. His throat hurt, and he tried to move his arm up to feel it but could not. His right arm was shackled to something; looking down, he saw the black synthetic band of the flex cuffs, tight around his wrist. He tried the same with his left hand, but it too was shackled down. He tested his legs. They were shackled tight. He couldn’t move.

The light in the compartment was out, and it was pitch-black. He tried to keep his eyes open, tried to achieve a level of lucidity, but without the light, it was hard to stay awake. He willed himself to.

The horn sounded again as the TGV approached a town somewhere, not slowing one iota. The lights from the station cast soft yellow patches into the compartment. In the wan light, Dewey looked around. That was when he saw a figure—seated across from him, dark slacks, a striped shirt, suit coat. Dewey’s eyes drifted up to his face. Where he expected to find the closed lids of a man sleeping, he found himself staring into eyes as dark, as blank, as angry as he’d ever seen, staring back at him. Their eyes met and locked for several still, quiet moments, the man communicating in those moments his anger.

“Hi, Hector,” Dewey said.

Calibrisi didn’t move. He didn’t respond.

“Why am I cuffed?”

“So you don’t run away.”

“Where am I?” Dewey asked.

“Spain.”

Dewey tried to turn his head, wincing in pain.

“What happened to the Delta?” Dewey asked. “Dowling?”

“He’s going to live. The bullet missed his heart by a quarter of an inch.”

Dewey pulled at the restraints.

“Is this really necessary?”

Calibrisi ignored him, not taking his dark eyes away, staring at him with cold fury.

“Well, if you’re not going to talk to me, could you at least get me a beer?” asked Dewey.

Calibrisi lurched forward and slammed the back of his right hand at Dewey’s face, hitting him hard enough to hurt, to jerk his head sideways. Dewey absorbed the punch, then looked back at Calibrisi.

“One Delta and one British intelligence officer died saving your motherfucking ass today,” said Calibrisi. “Athanasia. You know where he’s from? Well, I do. I spoke with his dad tonight. Montana. The British kid, Farber? From a little town outside London called St. Alban’s. They had nothing to do with this. You’re a selfish son of a fucking bitch.”

Dewey let Calibrisi burn through his point, his anger, listening.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” said Dewey. “I didn’t want it. I didn’t ask for it. You sent those men in, not me.”

Calibrisi’s nostrils flared, then he lurched out again, hitting him in the same exact spot, harder this time. Dewey absorbed it again.

“It was your fault, and you know it, Hector.”

“You would’ve died.”

“So what. That’s not your choice.”

“You think you’re so fucking tough, don’t you? ‘I don’t care if I live or die. I’m Dewey Andreas.’ The world is always out to get poor little Dewey Andreas.”

“Pretty easy to say that when you have me tied down, ain’t it, chief? Untie me and say it again.”

Calibrisi shook his head, more furious now than ever. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding combat knife. He stood, flipped it open, stepped to the other side of the compartment, leaned down, then cut the cuffs from Dewey’s hands and legs. Then he sat back down.

“Well, tough guy?” Calibrisi said.

Dewey slowly sat up.

“Cool down,” said Dewey.

“Don’t tell me to cool down.”

“Fine. Don’t cool down. I’m sorry they died. Obviously, I’m sorry they died. Is that what you want to hear? You’re the one—”

“Don’t say it.”

Dewey leaned back, wincing from pain in his neck.

The train horn made a distant blow. Dewey and Calibrisi sat in silence for more than an hour as the train pushed through the Spanish countryside.

“Where are we going?” asked Dewey.

“Paris.”

“Why Paris?”

“You’ll see.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have a job to do.”

“A job? I didn’t realize I work for you.”

“You don’t. But if you don’t do it, the SAS team down the hallway is dropping you off at the Chinese embassy when we get to Paris.”

Dewey looked out the window.

“You want Fao Bhang dead?” continued Calibrisi. “Well, you’re going to get your chance.”

Dewey tried to read Calibrisi’s stony, emotionless eyes.

“What’s the catch?”

“The catch? The catch is, the odds of it working are about one in a million. Oh, and after it’s done, whether it works or not, you’re either gonna spend the rest of your life in a Chinese prison or, more likely, you’re gonna get a nice slug right between those blue eyes of yours.”

Dewey nodded. “Sounds like fun,” said Dewey. “And please remind me, why would I do this?”

“Because you don’t have a choice.”

74

CASTINE GOLF CLUB

BATTLE AVENUE

CASTINE, MAINE

Eleven-year-old Reagan Andreas clutched the roof of the golf cart as it barreled toward a large grass-covered knoll at the side of the fairway. Reagan wore cutoff khaki shorts, a white polo shirt, and was barefoot. Her knees were green and brown with dirt and grass stains. Reagan was seated in the passenger seat.

“Not again, Sam,” she implored. “Your ball isn’t anywhere near here!”

The golf cart was speeding along as fast as it could go. Its driver, thirteen-year-old Sam Andreas, had a devilish smile on his face as he ignored his younger sister for the umpteenth time that day. Sam’s only thought was that he hated the fact that the cart couldn’t go faster.

Sam had on his favorite shirt, a blue Lacoste polo shirt with a large rip across the back, a hand-me-down from his Uncle Dewey. He wore bright red madras shorts and flip-flops. Sam had curly blond hair, which he hadn’t brushed or washed since the beginning of summer, letting the salt water of the ocean do the job for him. He wore sunglasses, was tan, and was as thin as a beanstalk, despite the fact that he ate at least five meals a day and snacked incessantly.

Reagan clutched tighter as the cart crested the hill, then launched out into the air, becoming airborne for the briefest of moments. The cart came to an awkward, bouncing landing, the clubs jangling in back, as everyone within earshot turned their heads, including a small crowd of onlookers on the terrace of the green-and-white clubhouse in the distance, including their father, Hobey Andreas.

“Did you see that?” Sam screamed.

He straightened the cart out, then weaved in an absurdly sharp left turn toward the clubhouse.

“Let me out,” said Reagan. “Honestly, you are the most immature human being I have ever met. I can’t believe I’m related to you.”

“You’re not,” said Sam. “You were adopted. Mom and Dad didn’t tell you?”

She rolled her eyes.

“I wish I was adopted. It would mean I wasn’t related to you.”

Sam drove the old cart back to the clubhouse. Standing on the porch, arms crossed, a pissed-off look on his face, was their father, Hobey.

“Sucks being you,” Reagan sang as she climbed out of the cart.

Hobey Andreas crossed the gravel parking area. Like his father and his brother, Hobey was tall and good-looking, with a mop of unruly brown hair. He came up to Reagan and gave her a little pat on the shoulder.

“How’d you shoot ’em, muffin?” he asked her.

“Okay. I almost got a hole in one on four.”

“You did not,” said Sam.

“Did I ask you?” said Hobey sharply, without looking at his son. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. Is that understood?”

“Dad, technically, if I say ‘I understand,’ that would be making a peep,” said Sam.

Hobey Andreas smiled at his daughter, trying to control his temper.

“Mom’s inside, sweetie. Why don’t you go grab some lunch.”

“Okeydokey,” Reagan said. She looked at Sam and smiled. “Bye, Sam.” She turned and walked toward the clubhouse.

Her father waited for her to go through the screen door, then leaned into the cart.

“Five complaints,” seethed Hobey, holding up his hand to show all five fingers of an open fist. “That’s a new record.”

“Five? What are you talking about?”

“The hill jump,” said his dad, holding his thumb up to count. “Hitting the Anderson’s roof.” He held up another finger.

“It was an accident.”

“Leaving Reagan on the tee box at one,” he continued, holding up a third finger.

“How’d you know about that?”

“Playing chicken with Mac.”

Hobey held four fingers up.

“What’s the fifth?” asked Sam.

“Mrs. Penske said you made a lewd comment while cleaning your golf ball on the third tee?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Sam was silent. He remained seated in the cart.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepishly.

Hobey shook his head back and forth.

“It’s a nice Saturday. You have to go and act like a knucklehead.”

“Does this mean I can’t play the back nine?”

Hobey pulled his cell from his pocket and hit a button. He let it ring.

“Hi, Pop,” Hobey said, staring daggers at his son. “What are you up to?”

Sam started shaking his head back and forth, mouthing the word “no” to his father, who stared at him with a small grin on his face.

“So, I have someone here who’d like to come up and do some work,” said Hobey. “And I mean work. Anything. Shoveling cowshit. Cleaning the stables. Getting rid of the wasp nests. Nothing fun or even remotely pleasant. Don’t let him sweet-talk you or Mom. No lemonade, iced tea, soda—nothing. If he gets thirsty, let him drink from the hose.”

Hobey paused, listening to his father, smiling at Sam.

“Oh, I’m sure Sammy would love to give Homer a bath,” said Hobey, his grin becoming wider.

Sam looked as if he might cry. Homer was the Andreas’ ill-tempered, three-hundred-pound three-legged pig, known for the time he bit the UPS man.

“Thanks, Dad,” said Hobey. “No, he can walk. We’ll pick him up around dinner, if we remember.”

75

NEUILLY-SUR-SEINE, FRANCE

The train pulled into Gare Saint-Lazare at 11:00 A.M.

Dewey was led from the train directly into a waiting sedan, one of three onyx Mercedes S550s, windows tinted black, waiting at the station. Dewey had a dark hood over his head and his arms shackled behind his back. No one—no security personnel, no camera, not even his own mother—could have recognized him.

The three-car convoy took Calibrisi, Dewey, and a half dozen other CIA staffers and security personnel away from the station, north. Calibrisi went in a separate car from Dewey. There wasn’t room in Dewey’s sedan, not with the driver and two operatives from CIA Special Operations Group, weapons loaded and trained on Dewey at all times. Not that Dewey necessarily wanted to run, but Calibrisi wasn’t taking any chances.

The small convoy drove through Paris to Neuilly-sur-Seine, a wealthy, quiet neighborhood just outside the city. There was a large black iron gate at the end of the driveway. The sedans rolled through the gates and sped down the long gravel driveway, lined on each side by massive, ancient elm trees.

At the end of the driveway sat a beautiful rambling limestone mansion, with large black wooden shutters. The front of the house was half covered in ivy, which had grown and spread in pretty bunches up toward the copper gutters and slate roof. The lawn was neatly manicured. The gardens were ornate, more than two acres of carefully trimmed alders, dogwoods, cherry trees, and rare pines, intercut with ordered rows of boxwoods.

They parked near the front door of the house, three abreast, in front of a round fountain, which had long ago been shut off and filled with boxwoods. To the right of the house, an old swimming pool stood out in the middle of the acreage, brick-tiled gunite, with water a tempting light blue. A helipad sat just beyond it, with a black chopper at rest, just before deep woods that bordered the land.

The Neuilly safe house was the epicenter of what would be an MI6-designed operation to assassinate Fao Bhang.

When the three cars emptied, Calibrisi made a quick hand signal to one of the agents, instructing him to remove Dewey’s hood and cuffs. When the hood was removed, Dewey’s hair was messed up, his face sweating and red, his expression emotionless and blank.

As Dewey followed Calibrisi toward the front door, it didn’t take much to guess the general mood in regard to him. He already knew Calibrisi’s state of mind; his slightly sore cheek was testament to his anger. Dewey already understood CIA paramilitary from experience; they were mostly ex-Delta or ex-SEAL, so it wouldn’t have surprised Dewey if they knew the American who died on the highway back in Lisbon.

As for the British, Dewey could immediately see anger in the eyes of the two plainclothed agents, suppressed carbines strapped around their necks, standing at the large green door. They eyed Dewey like the soldiers at Buckingham Palace might. Dewey looked back without reacting, ignoring them, and entered the house.

Through an entrance foyer filled with antiques, Dewey and Calibrisi walked into a spacious, high-ceilinged living room, with bookshelves, dark blue walls, and a back wall that was filled with French windows, giving a sweeping view down into the gardens. The doors were open, and the sound of birds was the only noise that could be heard. More agents with machine guns stood outside the doors in back of the house; Dewey quickly counted three gunmen.

In the center of the large room, a glass chandelier was hung. Four long sofas in dark maroon velvet were squared around a modern wooden coffee table. Seated on the sofas already was a group of five people.

On the right, next to each other on one side of the seating area, were Katie and Tacoma. On the sofa opposite them sat a middle-aged woman with brown hair and a dignified but stern, even harsh, demeanor. Next to her sat a bald man with round gold-rimmed glasses, young, perhaps only thirty years old, with a laptop open on his lap.

The last man faced the gardens, his back to Dewey and Calibrisi as they entered the room. The man saw the heads of the four others look up when they walked in. He stood up and looked at them. He had slightly messed-up, slightly long blond-and-gray hair, an angular nose, and was the only person, other than Calibrisi, wearing a tie.

He eyed Dewey without saying anything, scanning him head to toe then back up.

“Hi, Hector,” he said. “This must be Dewey.”

“Dewey, this is Derek Chalmers,” said Calibrisi, introducing him. “He runs British intelligence.”

Chalmers extended his hand, but Dewey ignored it. He looked at Chalmers icily, then glanced at Katie and Tacoma. Katie revealed nothing, said nothing, and didn’t move. Tacoma had a poker face as well.

“Sit down,” said Chalmers, looking at Dewey, nodding at the far sofa.

Calibrisi took a seat next to Chalmers. Dewey walked to the far sofa and sat down.

“What do you want?” asked Dewey calmly, looking at Chalmers, then Calibrisi.

Chalmers spoke first.

“The first thing I’d like to do is apologize,” said Chalmers. “It was my idea, not Hector’s, not anybody else’s, that resulted in the death of Jessica Tanzer. There is an unwritten code in this line of work: people who are innocent bystanders should be left alone. Fao Bhang crossed that line. That said, it was my operation that brought him there. And all I can say to you is that I am sorry.”

Chalmers looked at Dewey for several tense moments.

“I’m not looking for an apology,” said Dewey. “What do you want?”

“It’s not what we want,” said Chalmers. “It’s what you want. You want Fao Bhang dead, am I correct?”

Dewey didn’t answer.

“Is this going to be a one-way conversation?” asked Chalmers.

“I didn’t ask for this meeting. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll tell you if I’m willing to do it.”

Dewey looked around the room.

“Yeah, sure, I want Bhang dead, but I don’t need your help.”

“That’s where I beg to differ, Dewey,” said Chalmers. “I can tell you, there is no man who can single-handedly take down Fao Bhang. It can’t be done. I know what you are, Dewey. I know what you’re made of. You’re programmed to act alone, to improvise. Theoretically, you’re the best. But there are some mountains that are, quite simply, too high to climb, even for you.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion,” said Dewey, “but I don’t really give a fuck what you think, Derek. I was minding my own business. You’re the ones who dragged me up here.”

“Minding your own business?” asked Calibrisi. “You were dangling upside down in a fucking car. You’d be dead—”

“That’s my choice,” said Dewey, calmly.

“Yes, it is,” said Chalmers, agreeing. “And you’re right, you didn’t ask for our help. The truth is, we want Fao Bhang dead too.”

“So kill him.”

“You’re the one he’s developed the obsession with,” said Chalmers patiently. “That obsession is the only reason he’s vulnerable right now. Inserting ourselves into that obsession is the only way anyone is going to get within a hundred miles of Fao Bhang. So you’re right, you can try to do it on your own. You killed his brother on your own. I would imagine Bhang might be slightly more difficult, but, yes, you might be able to pull it off. Let me say this: I’d give you better chances than anyone else I know.”

Chalmers paused, then smiled at Dewey.

“But in the end, we both know, if you step foot out of this house, you’re a dead man,” said Chalmers. “I’d give it a day, maybe two. You know it, and I know it. What occurred in Lisbon is simply a taste of what awaits you. And not just here—everywhere.”

“That’s my choice. Let them try. And if they succeed, then I’ll wait for that motherfucker in hell.”

Chalmers shook his head.

“Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s say you do manage to not get killed. Bhang hasn’t left China in ten years. How would you infiltrate China? Then, once you were there, how is it you’d get close to him?”

Dewey stared icily at Chalmers.

“Why don’t you worry about protecting Queen Elizabeth, and I’ll worry about killing Fao Bhang,” said Dewey.

Chalmers shook his head in disbelief.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” Chalmers said. “Do you want to fail? To die trying? Do you think there’s some sort of nobility in that? And is that what Jessica deserves? Doesn’t she deserve more?”

“She deserves to be alive, which she isn’t.”

The room went silent.

“I need a break,” said Chalmers, struggling to maintain his composure. He stood up and walked behind the sofas to the French doors. He walked onto the terrace and stood looking out at the gardens.

Calibrisi stood up and walked out of the room. He was followed by Katie, then by the two Brits on the couch. Only Tacoma remained in the room. He was seated on the sofa. He had removed one of his shoes and was scratching between his toes.

“Dewey?” asked Tacoma after a while, quietly clearing his throat. “You know I’m not good at saying stuff. So I’m just gonna say it. I’m sorry for what happened. It sucks, man.”

Dewey stared at the coffee table for several moments. Finally, he looked at Tacoma. Tacoma’s long hair was a disheveled mess. He looked more like a hippie than a highly decorated former Navy SEAL. He had on a flannel shirt with paint stains on it, and a prominent rip on the right shoulder. His face was covered in stubble. Their eyes met.

“But are you so fucking selfish you’d rather die than forgive the people in this room?” continued Tacoma. “Are you so fucking selfish you’d rather die than kill that son of a bitch, the one who actually did kill her?”

Dewey didn’t quite know why—he’d served alongside many men—but for some reason he couldn’t explain, Tacoma was like the little brother he never had. He had an older brother, but not a younger one, and it was different. He stared at Tacoma and he felt embarrassed, even ashamed. And in that moment, Dewey found something he needed badly, something that no amount of revenge or killing or alcohol or running could ever give him: in that brotherhood, he found a reason for living.

Dewey smiled. “Well, since you put it so politely, Rob.”