Текст книги "Eye for an Eye"

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

76

MARGARET HILL

CASTINE

Sam walked up the long gravel driveway toward his grandparents’ farm.

Before he left the club, he’d grabbed the nine iron from his golf bag. As he ambled slowly toward the farm, he was swinging it at the yellow dandelion heads that sprouted in the grass strip that ran up the middle of the driveway, and at anything even remotely hittable in the low bushes alongside the driveway—flowers, pinecones, even the occasional rock.

Truth be told, he didn’t like golf very much, so he actually didn’t care about not playing the back nine, which was, at nine-hole Castine Golf Club, simply the front nine all over again. But the thought of scrubbing down the cantankerous old pig Homer made Sam walk as slowly as humanly possible without drawing the suspicion of his grandmother, who was apt to go looking for him if he took too long walking up the meandering drive to the farm.

Sam came to a small green apple that had fallen in the middle of the road. He considered eating it, but then changed his mind. He got into a golf stance, then swung, firing the apple in a hail of scattering parts into the bushes.

After admiring his shot for much longer than it actually deserved, he started walking again, practically smelling Homer as he drew closer. His momentum was suddenly interrupted by the dull red speckles of a raspberry bush.

They wouldn’t want you to starve, he said to himself as he dropped the club and leaned over to pick a few raspberries and waste more time.

*   *   *

John Andreas stepped to the side of a large fenced-in pigpen. Three pigs were inside the pen, but there was little question as to whose pigpen it was. Homer lay on his side, covered in dried mud, sunbathing in the morning sunshine. He occupied the entire center of the pen, next to the feeding trough, guarding access to it and snoring.

“Hey, Homer,” called Andreas. “Sam’s giving you a bath. Don’t bite him, or I’ll cut another one of those legs off.”

If the pig understood anything that his sixty-six-year-old owner had just said, he didn’t act like it. Indeed, the sound of the big pig’s snoring hummed on through Andreas’s words, uninterrupted.

Andreas, trailed by an old sheepdog named Ginny, walked back across the lawn toward the farmhouse.

Inside the kitchen, he sat down at the table where his wife, Margaret, was already seated. Three plates with sandwiches on them, along with three glasses of lemonade, were on the table.

“Well, that was nice of you, Marge,” he said. “Who’s the third one for?”

“Sammy.”

“Hobey’s trying to teach him a lesson, hon.”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with that kid. He’s a spitting image of his uncle. How did he turn out?”

“That’s not the point, Marge. It’s not our place to get in the middle of that.”

“We’ll tell him to keep it hush,” she said, patting his hand. “And before you have him clean that damn pig, I need his help in the garden. My arthritis is acting up. He can weed for a spell.”

*   *   *

Less than a half mile away, just past Hatch Cove, Dao took a right turn on Wadsworth Cove Road. She drove a few hundred feet, slowly, looking ahead and behind, making sure no one was around to see her. She turned into a grassy cutout lot to the left. She aimed the car across the thick field grass and parked between a pair of pine trees, out of sight of anyone driving or walking on Wadsworth Cove Road.

Outside the car, she took off her leather boots, then removed her white blouse and jeans, tossing them in the back of the Camaro. She pulled on tight green camouflage running pants, a matching running shirt, then a camo ski mask, which she pulled down over her head. She slammed a magazine in the Panther LR-308, then strapped the rifle across her back.

Dao began a fast run into the woods, due south, guided by the small compass on her watch. She’d never been to Castine before, but she knew precisely where she was going.

The stand of trees soon dissolved into thickets of overgrown shrubs, but it didn’t slow her down. She came to a thin stream, jumped across it, then kept moving south. Soon, she was cloaked in the shadows of the forest, the North Woods, as it was called in Castine.

When she hit the first of the tall trees, Dao turned, stopped, and faced due east. She walked off exactly four hundred paces. She then turned to face south and walked slowly straight ahead, being careful not to make any noise. After half a minute, the red of a barn suddenly appeared through the trees. Dao was at the farm.

She walked a slow, stalking, meticulously quiet path along the edge of the trees that encircled the large farm. When she finally stopped, she was south of the farm, looking up at a pretty, rambling white farmhouse.

In the yard, she saw a fluffy dog walking alongside a tall, silver-haired man and a much-shorter woman.

Chang continued to stalk around the perimeter of the farm, shielded by the shadows of the trees, looking up at the couple as they walked across the front lawn of the farm to a garden. The couple—John and Margaret Andreas—went inside the garden. Dao stared as they each pulled on yellow gardening gloves and went to work.

Dao glanced quickly around her, scanning for a place to set up. She quickly found it. An old stone wall was just a few feet away. She walked to it and found a place to set up the Panther for a nice, clean shot. When she found a stable, flat boulder, Dao removed the rifle from her back, set up the bipod on the rock, then lay down behind the stone wall.

*   *   *

Thirty feet up in the air, Sam sat on the branch of a massive maple tree. He stared down at the camouflaged figure on the ground.

Sam’s heart was beating so loudly, he feared the person might hear him.

He looked in front of him. Carved into the bark of the old maple tree were brown letters, carved many years ago, long before he was born:

Hobey

Then, just below it:

Dewey

Sam tried to focus on the letters, looking at them as if they might give him some sort of guidance.

When Sam had first heard the sound of someone walking on dried leaves below, he’d been halfway through the letter “A” of his own name, a few inches below Dewey’s. Sam was about to yell at the person—“Hey, who is that?”—when his eye caught the sight of the long black rifle strapped across the person’s back, and he caught his words.

Now Sam tried to keep from fainting, from screaming, from moving, as he watched the camouflaged figure set up the rifle on a rock below him.

Straight ahead, through the trees, Sam watched as his grandparents walked across the green front lawn. Ginny was between them.

“Oh, God,” Sam whispered, shutting his eyes as tears welled up and he fought against them. “Please help me.”

He finally opened his eyes as the figure set the weapon down on the stone wall and lay down on the ground behind it. It was aimed at his grandparents up in the garden.

He looked back at the tree.

Dewey

Sam took a deep breath, then put his left foot gently down on a branch below where he sat. His tears abruptly stopped, and he felt a warmth that he’d never experienced before, invading his body. Silently, he stepped down onto the branch as, with his other foot, he searched for another branch even lower, a branch he knew by heart, a branch one step closer to the mysterious figure.

77

PARIS

In a small apartment near Luxembourg Gardens, Koo finished toweling off, then went to the bedroom. His clothing was laid out on the bed. Next to his clothing, a nurse’s outfit was laid out.

Koo didn’t get dressed. Instead, he walked downstairs. Tammy was in the kitchen, reading the newspaper.

“Good morning,” he said.

Tammy smiled. “Why are you not dressed?”

“I don’t have to work until this afternoon,” he said.

She smiled and slowly put the paper down, then followed him back upstairs to the bedroom. There, they climbed into bed and made love.

Afterward, she watched from beneath the covers as he got dressed.

“I was thinking of inviting Sam and Kelly for dinner tonight,” she said. “I could make chicken and forty cloves, your favorite.”

Koo pulled the heavy white T-shirt over his head.

“That would be wonderful,” he said, without looking at her. “I’ll pick up a bottle of wine.”

“My shift ends at eight. I’ll invite them for eight thirty, all right?”

“Sounds perfect.”

By the time Koo finished getting dressed, Tammy had fallen asleep. He reached into the drawer and took the QSZ-92 from beneath a pair of pants, sticking it into his shoulder holster.

Koo walked to the side of the bed, then leaned down and kissed his wife on the forehead.

“I love you,” he said, then, in Mandarin, he whispered a Chinese proverb: “How lucky I am to have known someone who was so hard to say goodbye to.”

As he lifted his head, his wife’s eyes opened. She stared at him without moving.

“Must it be?” she whispered.

Koo stared at her for several moments. He said nothing. Finally, he averted his eyes from her, turned, and left.

*   *   *

In Beijing, General Qingchen was dressed in his green khaki uniform, a gold rope sash from right shoulder across his waist; a block of colors was over his left breast, gold stars atop both shoulders, and a beautiful red-and-gold neck ribbon, reserved for the highest-ranking military leader in the People’s Liberation Army. At seventy-four, General Qingchen was not the oldest man in the room, but he was the only one not dressed in a black or dark blue suit.

He was seated on a gold-colored damask couch, in a room called the Gold Sun Room on the grounds of Zhongnanhai, the palace that was the home of China’s paramount leader, Qishan Li, as well as headquarters for China’s Communist Party and its governing State Council, both of which Qingchen was a member.

Qingchen was one of twelve members of the State Council invited to the meeting, which had been called by Premier Li, who was seated on the sofa across from Qingchen. The others, Qingchen had realized as soon as he sat down, were Li’s closest allies.

For the preceding hour, Qingchen and the others had been listening to a detailed briefing by China’s foreign minister regarding Portugal and a series of violent killings in Lisbon that had occurred the day before, involving men that the president of Portugal believed were Chinese agents, four of whose corpses were being held in a Lisbon mortuary.

“This is the second incident in a week involving the Ministry of State Security,” said Li, looking around the room, making eye contact with every man in the room, Qingchen noted, but him. “First America’s national security advisor dies in some sort of botched operation, and now this thing in Lisbon. Bhang’s missteps are becoming a deep embarrassment to us all. I didn’t want to have to do this, but I must insist we consider Bhang’s removal. We all know he’s a capable and talented man, but he’s beginning to harm China’s reputation abroad.”

“What would you like from us?” asked one of the members of the council.

“You are my most trusted circle,” said Li, again glancing around the room, and again, either consciously or unconsciously, avoiding Qingchen. “I know already that I have your loyalty. I would like your support with the broader membership. It is time for action. Bhang must be removed.”

Li flashed Qingchen a look.

“He is a powerful self-advocate,” said another council member. “He has many allies.”

“He is not the paramount leader,” snapped Li. “He would be afforded the honors and awards becoming of a high-ranking official who has decided to retire. A stipend, a seat in the congress, medals, et cetera, and other such things.”

Qingchen felt a chill as Li looked his way.

“As for his allies,” said Li, “we will continue to expect and appreciate their service to the republic. Indeed, I like to consider myself one of Bhang’s strongest allies. This need not be contentious. But it must be.”

*   *   *

At noon, a silver GV touched down at Orly Airport on the outskirts of Paris.

But for the man aboard the jet, Lacey James, it was 3:00 A.M.

With James was his girlfriend, a svelte, beautiful twenty-eight-year-old Swarthmore grad named Didi, with ghost white skin, and a face that garnered ten thousand dollars an hour modeling, when she felt like it, which wasn’t often. She had on a pair of glasses and was reading a book, her third on the flight.

James was dressed in bright yellow leather pants, cowboy boots, a J.Crew flannel shirt, and a cowboy hat. As the plane taxied toward the black Mercedes sedan parked on the tarmac, outside the private terminal, he opened a can of Red Bull and guzzled it.

The jet came to a stop a few feet from the Mercedes. James looked out the window. An MI6 agent climbed from the car’s driver’s seat. He was tall, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved green Under Armour T-shirt.

“See you in a few hours,” he said.

Didi looked up.

“Are we here already?”

“Yes. They’re going to fly you to London. I’ll get there tonight.”

“Cool. See you then, L.J.”

James smiled at her nickname for him.

As far as Didi was concerned, he was getting off in Paris to meet with a French film director named Bruggé, who was interested in hiring him for an upcoming film about the French Revolution. She’d agreed to come when promised a long weekend in London, her favorite city, mainly because she loved its bookstores.

One of the pilots opened the cabin door and lowered the stairs. James lifted a large stainless-steel trunk from a back seat and walked toward the door.

“You need a hand, sir?”

“I got it.”

“London, then back to get you, correct, sir?”

“That’s right. See you later.”

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made him turn just as the agent from the tarmac stuck his head in the cabin. He scanned James from head to toe.

“You got any other clothing?” he asked.

“Yes, why? You don’t like what I’m wearing?”

“The pants are hideous, but that has nothing to do with it, sir,” said the agent. “We’re going to be passing through a residential neighborhood. You can’t stand out. Lose the pleather.”

James went to the back of the plane.

“They’re leather,” he muttered to himself under his breath, as he changed in back. “Versace. Twenty thousand dollars.”

The agent had already put the steel box in the trunk. James went to open the passenger-seat door, but the black window suddenly lowered. Another agent was already seated. Across his lap was a submachine gun. The agent looked up.

“Why don’t you sit in back, Mr. James.”

“If you insist,” said James.

*   *   *

Dewey took a shower and put on clean clothing. When he returned to the library, someone had placed a mug of fresh coffee in front of his seat. He looked around, trying to figure out who had done it, but no one said anything, which was, he realized, the point.

He took a sip, ran his hand through his still-wet hair, and looked across the room at Chalmers, then Calibrisi.

“I’m in,” Dewey said. “Tell me how we’re going to kill this motherfucker.”

Chalmers smiled then looked at the woman on the sofa.

“I’m Veronica Smythson,” she said to Dewey. “I run paramilitary operations at MI6.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“First, some context. Two weeks ago, you succeeded in finding the name of an elusive double agent working inside Mossad. The discovery of that mole, Dillman, began a chain of very brutal, very lethal reprisals and counterreprisals. For a variety of reasons, what began as a fairly traditional East–West intelligence battle has become personal between its two protagonists. Bhang’s behavior, we believe, holds the key to the operation. In his increasing obsession with killing you lies the architecture of his own demise.”

“Speakay Anglay,” said Dewey, sipping from his coffee cup, “s’il vous plaît.”

Smythson grinned.

“As reckless as killing Bo Minh was, it served a vital purpose,” said Smythson. “You personalized it.”

“Bhang issued a worldwide kill order on you,” said Chalmers.

“In Bhang’s eighteen years running the ministry, he’s issued six,” said Smythson. “Killing you is now the highest priority of Chinese intelligence. Every move you’ve taken—killing his brother, killing the squad over at Borchardt’s house, escaping from Lisbon—has only added to the anger that now drives Bhang. It’s his obsession with you, ultimately, that’s going to be his undoing. Or yours. The operation we’ve designed takes that anger and directs it back at Bhang himself. The code name is ‘Eye for an Eye.’ It means revenge. But it also means deception; we are going to manipulate what Bhang sees for a brief period of time. Unknowingly, he will see something different than what is actually occurring. A series of lies. We will be substituting an eye for an eye.”

Smythson nodded at the bald man next to her on the couch, who began typing on his laptop. Suddenly, the curtains slid shut over the windows, and the lights in the room dimmed. A large screen lowered from the ceiling behind Smythson. The screen lit up. It displayed a picture of the exterior facade of a hotel.

“This afternoon, at approximately three fifty-five P.M., you’ll check into the Bristol Hotel,” said Smythson. “You’ll pay with a credit card that we’ll provide you. The name on the card will comport with a passport we’ll also provide.”

A photo of a passport appeared showing Dewey’s face. The name “Walker, Dane M.” appeared next to it, along with “Kansas City, Missouri.” Next to the photo of the fake passport was a black American Express card, the name “Dane Walker” in the lower corner.

Something about the name triggered a memory in Dewey.

“Does that name sound familiar?” asked Smythson.

“Yes,” said Dewey. “I don’t know why, though.”

“Delta,” said Smythson. “That was your alias when you went to Munich and exfiltrated the Russian, Vargarin.”

Dewey nodded.

“When that credit card is swiped,” continued Smythson, “it will trigger the alias. It’s one of the aliases we assume the ministry will be in possession of. When that credit card is swiped, they’ll know within approximately ten seconds you’ve checked into the Bristol.”

Smythson nodded at her aide, and the screen changed. A photo appeared of a man in a baseball hat. He was middle-aged, with a mustache and dark complexion.

“We also have a backup, for redundancy. This man, Louis Vonnes, is a parking valet at the hotel. He’s also a Chinese informant. Yesterday afternoon, he was shown your photograph and promised a bunch of money if he sees you and phones you in. We would like you to smoke a cigarette outside the hotel before you check in.”

“Does Dewey need to worry about this guy doing more than phoning it in?” asked Tacoma.

“There’s always unpredictability,” said Smythson. “That said, we checked him out. He doesn’t own a gun or have any sort of criminal background.”

A photo of the hotel’s front desk appeared.

“After checking in, you will place your bags in room one-oh-one-one,” said Smythson. “You’ll put on this shirt.”

She stood up and walked to a credenza on the side of the room. From a leather weekend bag, she lifted a blue button-down shirt and held it up. It appeared normal from the outside, but on the inside of the shirt was a thin sheet of mesh that resembled Bubble Wrap. Four fist-sized bladders of transparent liquid were attached to the mesh. It looked like water.

She carried it to Dewey. “Put this on; let’s make sure it fits.”

Dewey stood up and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He tried the shirt on. It was snug but would work.

“Look in the pocket,” said Smythson.

Dewey looked in the chest pocket and removed a ceramic ring. A small button stuck out of one side of the ring.

“Don’t press it,” said Smythson.

“Why not?”

“I’ll get to that. Now take the shirt off.”

She folded it up and walked it back to the leather bag.

“Sometime after four, you will return to the lobby of the hotel, wearing the shirt. The ring will be on your finger. Head for the Bristol lounge.”

A floor plan appeared, showing the elevator marked with a big X. To the elevator’s right was a large red star. An arrow showed the route.

The floor plan disappeared and was replaced by a photo of the Bristol lounge. The room was fancy, like a tearoom at a palace, with cavernous ceilings, chandeliers, large double-decker windows, booths, and tables filled with people.

“Unfortunately for the Bristol, I’m afraid we’re going to be making quite a mess of it this afternoon,” Smythson went on.

“It’s critical you understand the next sequence,” said Chalmers. “If any aspect of the operation from this point forward goes south, you’re a dead man.”

Three photographs popped onto the screen. On the left was a head shot of Katie. To the right, Tacoma. In the center of the screen was a photo of a Chinese man.

“These are the three role players in our drama,” said Smythson. “Katie, Rob, and a third individual.”

Dewey stood and walked in front of the screen, studying Koo’s face.

“Who is he?” asked Dewey.

“His name is Xiua Koo. He is a high-rank ministry agent. For six years, Koo has also worked for England. Koo is being sacrificed by MI6 for the greater objective of this operation. He’s playing a key role in our deception, and then he will be brought in from the cold.”

Dewey studied Koo’s face.

“As of three thirty this afternoon, Katie and Rob will be in the lounge,” Smythson went on. “They will not be together and will not do anything to acknowledge each other. Rob will brush his hair and put on some decent trousers so that the Bristol allows him inside.”

Tacoma smiled and ran his hand through his hair.

“That could be the most challenging part of the whole operation,” said Katie.

“When you emerge from the elevator, Dewey, you’ll go to the lounge. You’ll be provided a table near the front. You’ll take the seat facing the entrance. By my estimates, time will be approximately five after four.”

The screen flashed to a handgun.

“QSZ-92,” said Dewey, standing in front of the screen, looking at the photo. “Nine by one-nine. Undermount red-dot laser.”

“Correct,” said Smythson.

The screen zeroed in on the muzzle. At the end of the barrel, where the site was located, was a small silver object. Dewey thought it was a smudge on the photo or a nick on the site. When the shot came into sharp relief, it looked like a tiny ball bearing.

“Dewey, this is the most important part of the briefing.”

“What is it?”

“A camera,” said Smythson. “From the moment Koo walks into the hotel, everything will be watched live back in Beijing. Everything. Assume Fao Bhang will be watching.”

“No flipping him off,” said Calibrisi.

“That little camera is what this entire operation is about. That is our eye. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Xiua Koo will enter the hotel at approximately four ten,” said Smythson. “He’ll be wearing a tan trench coat. You’ll be in the lounge, sitting, perhaps having a spot of tea. When he sees you, he’ll pull the QSZ from the coat. Koo will then fire at you from close range, like this.”

Smythson pretended to pull a sidearm from her coat, then stepped toward Dewey, aiming the invisible weapon at Dewey’s chest.

“Bang, bang,” she said. “That’s when you press that little button on the ring, twice. You need to time it so that the second time you press it is right when he fires. It would also be helpful if you fell backward and pretended to be dead.”

“So obviously the QSZ will be loaded with blanks,” said Dewey. “Unless, of course, he has a change of heart. Or Bhang gets to him. Then what happens?”

“Then you won’t need to press the button,” said Tacoma.

Dewey smiled and shook his head.

“Koo is trustworthy,” said Chalmers.

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“If it was just about him, I would understand,” said Chalmers. “It’s not. If you die, some people Koo cares about will also die.”

“What if those people have already been exfiltrated by China?” asked Dewey. “Or shot?”

Chalmers looked at Smythson.

“There’s no way around that one, Dewey,” said Smythson. “But, if it’s any consolation, that’s one of the smaller risks you’re signing up for.”

Dewey said nothing.

“92’s a decent gun,” said Tacoma. “You won’t feel a thing.”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” said Dewey.

“Okay, let’s get back to it then,” said Smythson. “At this point, two different sequences begin, and you two”—Smythson pointed to Katie and Tacoma—“come into the picture.”

Smythson turned and nodded at her staffer. A generic photo of a man appeared on the screen.

“Rob,” said Smythson, “you’re there to keep an eye on Dewey. When you see Koo pull his weapon, you stand, pull yours, and fire, aiming here.”

She pointed to her left shoulder, then to the screen. A red star appeared where she wanted him to aim, atop his shoulder.

“Of course, you’ll be firing blanks, Rob,” she said. “Your first will miss. Koo will shoot at you, and you’ll take the fall, like Dewey. Koo puts a few more rounds in Dewey, giving the folks back in Beijing a nice view of a very bloody and very dead Dewey Andreas. From the ground, you fire again, Rob. That one hits. Koo will fall to the ground. He’ll run for the door, bleeding badly. Exit Koo. Katie, at the same time this is happening, you are watching the door to the hotel and the lobby. At some point, sooner rather than later, we have to anticipate the arrival of more ministry agents. Your firearm will be hot; you need to take them down. Otherwise, this will all be for naught. If any tertiary assets get into a firing zone, Dewey will die.”

“What will I be carrying?”

“Anything you want.”

“MP7A1,” said Katie. “A Glock 30, also.”

“Done,” said Smythson. “Now, this is important. There will be witnesses. Also, you should assume one or more of the Chinese agents have cameras. People in the lounge might have cameras, even the hotel. We should expect that all of it will be examined by MSS. What this means—Dewey, Rob, Katie—is that you need to play your parts, even after Koo is gone, and even after Katie has taken down whatever comes her way. Katie, you should tend to Dewey.”

“Then what?”

“At this point, I would expect full-out pandemonium,” said Smythson. “Police, ambulances—you name it. Dewey and Rob, you’ll be taken away in ambulances that we happen to own. Katie, guard Dewey the entire way to the ambulance in case there are any more agents. You’ll have identification that, if necessary, will let you pass any French police. Get in the ambulance with Dewey.”

Smythson looked at Tacoma, then Katie, and finally Dewey.

“Everyone got it?”

“I think I can handle that,” said Dewey. “Am I done at that point?”

Smythson looked at Dewey, then to Chalmers, in silence.

“Not quite,” said Chalmers. “Why don’t we take a five-minute break.”

*   *   *

Bhang stood on the deck outside his brother’s empty apartment.

The sun was setting in the distance, and he understood then why Bo had chosen to live where he lived, far away from the ministry’s offices, from the city, in a place where, beneath the burnt orange sky, acres upon acres of trees, fields of wildflowers, and the serene, dark blue water of the lake spoke a different language than anything available from human beings.

He smoked his third cigarette in a row, standing in silence on the small terrace.

Back inside the apartment, Bhang walked one last time through the rooms. He’d already had all of Bhang’s computers and technical equipment shipped back to the ministry. Furniture, such that it was, would be picked up in a few days and donated to a local orphanage. As for Bhang’s personal effects, such as clothing and dishes, Bhang had it thrown away. He’d boxed up the photos, and they now sat in a cardboard container near the door.

Bhang walked one last time through the apartment. He looked in the closet, off the bedroom, finding it empty. Then he stared at the bed for a few moments. He crouched and peered beneath it. There, he saw a small object tucked away, near the wall. He crawled on his stomach and grabbed its edges. He pulled it out, then set it on the bed. It was a homemade radio, the radio Bo had made, with help from their father, when he was all of seven years old. He touched the wires to the old battery, and the radio made a faint static noise. He moved a small wooden dial until he could hear the sound of a man, coming through the small speaker. He was giving a weather report. After a few seconds, the battery died out.

Bhang stared for several moments at the radio, feeling an emotion he hadn’t felt in so long that at first he couldn’t recognize it: sorrow. He felt his eyes become wet, and then he began to cry, a high-pitched, childlike cry, his head bobbing up and down as tears fell to the floor.

As he was driven back to the ministry, his composure reestablished, Bhang listened to his voice mail, a number that only three people possessed, two of whom—Bo and Ming-huá—were now dead. He dialed the third.

“General Qingchen,” said Bhang, after he’d answered.

“We must talk,” said Qingchen. “Time is moving faster than I anticipated. Events are occurring.”

“I’ll be right there.”

*   *   *

Dewey saw Calibrisi standing alone on the terrace. He went outside.

Calibrisi turned. He put his hand on Dewey’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry for slugging you earlier.”

“It’s all right. Sorry for choking you. Now, what are you not telling me?”

Calibrisi paused.

“Let’s go back inside,” said Calibrisi.

The rest of the group had reconvened in the library.

Dewey sat down.

“We need to hurry,” said Chalmers, looking at his watch. “We’re going to start running into time issues.”

“Next steps,” said Smythson. “You’re shot. You’re down on the ground. You’ll be taken from the Bristol in an ambulance. The ambulance is going to take you to a garage near Luxembourg Gardens. It’s near where Koo lives and where we believe he’ll be exfiltrated from.”

Dewey listened without reacting.

“I’ll meet you there,” continued Smythson. “Your hair will be dyed and cut. Then a cast of Xiua Koo will be attached to your face.”

Smythson nodded at the screen. The photo of Xiua Koo appeared.

“I’m six-four.”

“Koo is six-three,” said Smythson. “As for the cast, you won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“I don’t speak Mandarin,” said Dewey, his doubt starting to show.

“You only need to know one word,” said Smythson. “Téngtòng. It means, ‘pain.’ Remember, you just got shot. Everyone will understand if you don’t say anything for a while.”