Текст книги "Eye for an Eye"

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

25

PROVINCIAL POLICE DEPARTMENT

CÓRDOBA

Two men walked briskly into the provincial police department headquarters. One of the men was in his fifties, tall, with dark skin and a thick head of black hair. This was Colonel Arman Marti, director general of Argentina Federal Police, the country’s top law-enforcement agency, Argentina’s equivalent to the FBI. The other man was much younger, in his early thirties, had curly brown hair, and was shorter. This was Charlie Couture, Argentina chief of station for the CIA.

It was five in the morning.

Marti and Couture walked past the front desk without slowing. They entered a hallway that ran along the cellblock. At the last cell, Marti swiped a small steel card in front of a scanner. There was a loud click as the dead bolt popped open.

The two men stepped inside. The cell was dimly lit, humid, and smelled of body odor.

Seated on the ground was a shirtless man. He had on jeans and boots. His brown hair was disheveled, and he had several days’ worth of stubble on his face. Marti’s head jerked back as he looked at the man, an involuntary gesture as he realized the man was not only awake, but waiting, with a blank, hateful look.

The man was seated against the wall, staring at the two men as they entered the cell.

Couture spoke first.

“Hi, Dewey,” he said. “I’m Charlie Couture from Langley. This is Colonel Marti, who runs AFP. First things first: How are you?”

Couture and Marti waited for Dewey to respond, but he remained silent.

“We have the ranch cordoned off,” said Marti. “Is there any information you can provide to us? Did you see anything?”

Dewey stared impassively at Marti.

“I can have someone get your stuff,” said Couture. “You don’t need to go back there if you don’t feel like it.”

Dewey stared past the two men. He had a distant look, like he was staring at something a thousand miles away.

“We have a jet over at the airport that’ll fly you back to the U.S.”

Dewey still didn’t move or say anything.

Marti glanced at Couture, who returned the look.

Couture pulled a phone from his pocket and hit a button.

“It’s me,” Couture said into the phone. A moment later, he handed the phone to Dewey. “It’s Hector.”

Dewey hesitated, then took the phone.

“Dewey,” said Calibrisi.

Dewey took a deep breath but remained quiet.

“I’ve got a forensics team heading down there,” continued Calibrisi. “Six of my best guys. Jim Bruckheimer at NSA has a group charging hard as well. We’re going to find out who did this.”

There was a long moment of silence as Calibrisi paused, waiting for Dewey to talk.

“You there?”

“Yeah.”

“I know it’s tough, but right now, we need your help.”

“I know.”

“Did you see anyone? Do you think it was Iran?”

Dewey looked up at Couture, then at Marti. Both men were staring down at him. Couture nodded at Dewey, understanding that he wanted some privacy. He took Marti gently by the elbow and pushed him toward the cell door.

“It was a kill team,” said Dewey.

“How do you know?” asked Calibrisi.

“It was a three-man team. I found the sniper nest, five or six hundred yards out. I found someone in the field beyond the nest. He was already dead. The body was cold. Most of his head was shot off. But he looked Asian.”

“Did you tell Marti?”

“No. I don’t trust anyone down here. They knew we were here.”

“There are a ton of ways to track someone. We need to find that body and look at it.”

“Hector, I’m asking you, don’t tell AFP yet. Let me go look at the body in the daylight.”

“Fine.”

“Who runs the autopsy?” asked Dewey.

“AFP has jurisdiction,” said Calibrisi. “We’ll get access to the findings and we’ll sit in on the autopsy. The president of Argentina waived protocol and is letting us take Jess home this morning.”

“Why would someone…?”

“It could mean anything,” said Calibrisi. “You know that. There are a million possible explanations, with Iran being right there at the top of the list. Let’s get the body and look at it.”

“I have to go.”

“Were you in the room when Jessica was shot?” asked Calibrisi.

The question caused a pained expression to shoot across Dewey’s face, as he thought of that last sight of Jessica, standing in the French doors.

“Yeah. I watched it happen. They shot her in the back.”

“I think you should come back up here. Let us do our job down there.”

Dewey tasted salt as tears ran down his cheek into his mouth.

“Her body’s at the airport,” added Calibrisi. “We’ll bring her back to Andrews. Her parents are devastated.”

Dewey held the phone against his ear, staring at Couture and Marti, who stood, patiently, outside the cell, out of earshot.

“How will it be announced?”

Calibrisi exhaled deeply.

“I don’t know. I’m headed over to the White House in a few minutes to talk about that. It’ll happen today.”

Dewey felt a sudden wave of nausea.

“I have to go,” said Dewey.

“Hold on,” said Calibrisi. “I want to say something. I know you want to hit back. I want revenge too. I loved her like a daughter. Heads are going to fucking roll over this.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, let’s find out who the hell did this then design a proper retaliation, together.”

“There’s no amount of people we could kill to get even,” said Dewey. “There’s no way to bring Jessica back.”

“I know we can’t bring her back. But we can make anyone and everyone who was involved pay dearly.”

Dewey didn’t say anything more. He hung up the phone.

*   *   *

Behind police headquarters, Dewey climbed into the back of a dark green AFP Chevy Suburban. They drove in silence back to Estancia el Colibri. Dewey tried to focus on the road ahead, tried to avoid the dark thoughts that kept recurring.

He reached down and felt for his knife. The sheath was gone. Then he remembered being tackled on the tarmac. Hitting the ground as the two police officers strong-armed him down. Watching the Gulfstream lift off.

“I want my knife back, and my sidearm.”

In the front seat, Colonel Marti turned. He looked at Couture.

“The knife was given to me. It was a gift.”

“I’ll give it to you,” said Marti, “but you’re going to have to wait on the gun.”

Marti reached into a steel briefcase in front of the seat. He removed Dewey’s combat blade, still sheathed, and handed it back to him.

Dewey looked out the window. He saw her eyes again.

*   *   *

Thanksgiving that year was cold, crisp, and cloudless. They bought a turkey from a farm in Virginia. They drove out to get it that morning, the top of her 911 down, freezing cold but tempered by the sun. It was just the two of them. Jessica cooked it to perfection, the skin a crispy mahogany brown, stuffing with sausage in it, sweet potatoes with browned marshmallows on top, her grandmother’s recipe. They ate by candlelight then watched football. Dewey made a fire and they sat on the chair, Jessica on his lap, sharing a glass of wine. Silver Oak. He loved that memory. They drank from the same glass. Something so small, so insignificant and trivial, but the memory of sharing that glass warmed him.

“Will you marry me, Jessica?”

The words he vowed long ago never to say again, but when they arrived on his lips he felt the weight fall from his shoulders. He was giving up his freedom with those few words, and yet he’d never felt more free.

“Yes, I will.”

Walk away. She’s gone. It’s all gone. Leave it behind now, Dewey.

There’s only one thing you can do now. The thing you were meant to do.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, they reached Colibri.

A long cordon of patrol cars lined the main road, their red and blue lights flashing, creating a security perimeter at the entrance to the ranch. Dewey heard the distant churning of chopper blades, then glanced out the window and counted two helicopters in the sky.

The Suburban moved through the cordon. Several soldiers and various agents saluted as Marti looked blankly ahead through the front window. A mile on, another small swarm of AFP agents was gathered, along with a medical examiner’s van.

Dewey glanced at Couture.

“I’m going to pack up my stuff and take a shower.”

“Take your time.”

Dewey emerged from the back of the SUV. Every AFP agent, police officer, and med tech stared at him. He cut through the middle of the group. At the front door, an armed AFP agent held up his hand.

“Alto,” said the agent.

Dewey ignored him, brushing past, and as the agent was about to say something else, Marti whistled from the driveway. He waved his head, indicating to let Dewey by and, by the harsh look of reproach on his face, telling the young Argentinian in no uncertain terms to leave Dewey the hell alone.

The ranch house was empty and quiet. The terrace to the dining room was marked off in yellow police tape. The blood had already been cleaned from the bluestone terrace.

To his left, from down the hallway, he heard voices. He walked to the bedroom. Two forensics techs in white smocks were in the room, snapping photographs. They looked up when Dewey entered. They said nothing.

Dewey went into the bathroom and took a shower. He left his bloody jeans on the floor of the bathroom, put on another pair of jeans and a white Lacoste shirt. He packed his belongings into his duffel bag. Then, he packed Jessica’s things into her Louis Vuitton suitcase: shirts, shoes, skirts, a couple of bathing suits. Beneath her clothing, he found a simple wooden frame. In was a photo of the two of them. He tucked it into her bag.

Dewey stepped to the doors that led to the terrace. He scanned the horizon, looking for the sniper nest he knew was out there. They hadn’t found it yet.

There were maybe a dozen people who knew where he and Jessica were going. He didn’t know how they’d found him, but there was no question, they’d been tracked or followed. There was no way it was one of the Americans. Dellenbaugh, Calibrisi, Jessica’s chief of staff Josh Brubaker, Morty and the other Secret Service agent, the head of the Secret Service, a handful of others—that was it. It hadn’t come from within.

Perhaps he’d never know. But until he was out of the country, he couldn’t trust anyone.

He stepped out onto the terrace. He crossed it, then walked diagonally out, across the expansive lawn, then beyond, into the knee-high grass. He knew the general direction, and soon enough he picked up the trampled-down grass from the night before.

If they were looking at him, they would think he was either a member of the search party or, if it was Marti or Couture, a mourning man, taking one last walk, grieving at the death of his fiancée.

A few minutes later, he came upon the dead man.

Under the hot glare of the morning sun, the man’s destroyed skull was even more grotesque. Flies hovered.

Dewey knelt. He pulled his knife from the sheath. He grabbed the man’s hand and cut off the right index finger. He slipped it into his pocket, turned, and headed back to the ranch house.

He stared at the ground as he walked, deep in thought. Whoever killed Jessica was out there. He would find him. If it took him the rest of his life, he would find him. And when he did, he would pay.

Fight. It’s all you can do. It’s all you could ever do.

“I’m coming,” he whispered, eyes scanning the horizon.

26

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY

BEIJING

Ming-húa was waiting inside Bhang’s office when he returned. A cigarette dangled from Bhang’s mouth, unlit. Out the window, the Beijing afternoon was a bland mixture of clouds and gray sky. Not that either man noticed the weather. It was just a sideshow to the main event, which was running the largest intelligence agency in the world.

One could say Bhang lived, ate, and breathed the ministry. In point of fact, he smoked it. From the start of the day until the wee hours, Bhang, along with nearly every other top official at MSS, chain-smoked. The result was that headquarters had a rank, stale permeation of smoke, despite constant cleaning.

“Minister—”

“Be quiet,” said Bhang sharply as he grabbed a silver lighter from his desk and lit his cigarette.

“I am deeply apologetic,” continued Ming-húa, seated on one of three leather chairs arrayed in an orderly line before Bhang’s desk. “May I ask—”

“I want silence,” said Bhang. “This has been a failure of epic proportions. I knew it was a mistake to elevate you, Ming-húa. You belong in the field, taking orders, not giving them. It was your responsibility to terminate Andreas. Instead, we now have a situation that could become very uncomfortable, very quickly. A situation you likely do not fully understand. So you will keep your mouth firmly shut and you will listen and you will do exactly as I say.”

Ming-húa nodded.

“If the Americans ascertain that China was behind the assassination of Jessica Tanzer, it’s not unrealistic to think there could be war,” said Bhang, puffing his cigarette, staring at Ming-húa. “At the very least, they will be extremely upset. The United Nations will be brought in. The international community will be outraged.”

Bhang lit another cigarette with the ember from the first.

“And the blame for all of this will fall on the ministry,” continued Bhang, “and, more specifically, on me. Lest you have any illusions as to your own personal safety, Ming-húa, trust me: you will be dangling from the rafters long before they wrap the noose around my neck.”

“Minister Bhang, may I say something?”

“No,” said Bhang. “Shut up and listen. Your top priority at this moment is to follow my orders. I want you to retrieve the body of our agent. Whatever assets we have in Argentina must be utilized to retrieve Hu-Shao or destroy any evidence of his identity. If Hu-Shao is identified, we will be finished. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Yes, sir, you do. Most perfectly.”

Bhang stared for several silent moments at Ming-húa, scorn on his face. He finished his cigarette, then opened the top drawer of his desk. He removed a yellow folder, put it on the desk, then flipped it open. He removed a small stack of photos, all of Dewey Andreas. He picked one up. It showed Andreas in a crisp white uniform, a military hat on his head, shaking someone’s hand as he was formally sworn in as a member of 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta.

Bhang stared at the photo, then handed it toward Ming-húa. Bhang’s hand appeared to be trembling slightly as he attempted to control his anger.

“Second, I want Andreas dead. Issue a worldwide termination order. Immediately. I want our top paramilitary project team on this. Their sole responsibility is finding and killing Andreas. I will oversee the group personally, not you. It will be run out of the conference room next to my office.”

Ming-húa remained silent. He didn’t react, but he was listening.

“Am I perfectly clear, Ming-húa? I want to hear you state that I’ve been clear.”

“Perfectly clear, Minister.”

Bhang walked to the door.

“Where are you going, Minister?”

“Where am I going?” answered Bhang, calmly, turning, a vicious sneer on his face. “Your highly paid marksman just assassinated the American national security advisor. I’m going to clean up your mess.”

27

PEOPLE’S BANK OF CHINA

BEIJING

Bhang stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor of a modern, low-slung office building, its curvilinear glass wrapped in a half-moon around a squat round granite centerpiece. This was the People’s Bank of China. Bhang was accompanied by two security guards. He was here to see Ji-tao Zhu, governor of the People’s Bank.

The bank’s modest-sized building belied its vast global reach and influence. It was the People’s Bank that controlled all monetary policy for the country, the world’s second-largest and fastest growing economy. The People’s Bank had the most financial assets of any single public financial institution ever, including the Federal Reserve. This small building and the men and women walking through its hushed corridors were sitting on more than $3.5 trillion of liquid reserves and tens of trillions of dollars in other nonliquid assets, such as foreign debt. The bank’s tentacles were everywhere, both inside the country and across the globe.

If China’s long-term vision was to be the most powerful nation on earth, it was through the bank that such a vision was being slowly but inevitably implemented. Beginning in 1948, when the bank was formed, the People’s Bank of China had woven its way into economies large and small, across the world, democracies and dictatorships alike, creating an interlocking grid of influence and dependence in virtually every country on every continent. The bank was owed money by virtually every government of consequence in the world.

The bank rarely if ever used its financial influence, especially in matters of foreign policy. Those who were naïve thought it was because the Chinese government was, deep down, a moral institution, which would never dare use its power to harm others, to exert pressure, or to exact revenge. Those who were smart knew that it was just the opposite. Like a poisonous snake, the bank chose to lurk in the tall grass and the shadows, as it grew stronger and stronger with each passing day, until it was ready and willing to show its fangs and, if necessary, to attack.

Bhang entered through another set of metal detectors into the suite of offices that were the purview of Zhu and his small executive staff. The walls along the corridor were thick, opaque glass, tinted in gold. In a large conference room, he saw Zhu, seated at the end of the table, a half dozen functionaries seated around the table before him. Zhu saw Bhang approaching. He stood up and walked to the door, then stepped into the hallway.

With his hand, Bhang flicked at the security detail, telling them to move away so that he and Zhu could speak.

“I assume you’re not here to open a savings account, Minister Bhang?” asked Zhu, smiling.

“We might need your help, Governor,” said Bhang, a serious expression on his face.

“How can I be of assistance?”

“We could be in a situation,” said Bhang.

“A ‘situation’?” asked Zhu, blinking rapidly.

“A situation that requires some of the bank’s legendary powers of persuasion, Governor Zhu.”

28

IN THE AIR

Dewey sat on a plush, black leather captain’s chair in the cabin of a CIA-owned Citation X jet, heading north, toward America. Except for the two copilots, he was alone. Out the window, the snow-capped peaks of the Andes passed beneath.

He removed the framed photograph from Jessica’s suitcase. He stared at it for more than a minute. It showed him giving Jessica a piggyback ride. It had been taken in Castine, during the early summer, along the path that ran near Wadsworth Cove. The photo was lopsided because they couldn’t find a flat place to set the camera before putting the timer on and getting into place. They were both laughing. Jessica’s hair was in pigtails. He had a big smile. That was why she’d framed it, he guessed. She always said he looked too serious in photographs. On some level, that, more than anything, affected him profoundly. That this was how she saw them. That was the moment that captured, for her, their love.

Fumbling inside his bag, he unzipped a pocket along the liner. He removed another frame, this one made of silver. It was a black-and-white photo, old and faded. It had been a sunny day in Southern California. He was fresh out of college, his hair short, a military uniform on, the Ranger tab visible on his shoulder, before he’d been asked to try out for Delta. When he was still innocent to it all, to the misery of loss, the finality of it, to the feeling of fighting for a country you loved alongside men who were closer than brothers, then watching them die by your side, in your arms. To the feeling of losing a son.

On his lap, Robbie ate a chocolate ice cream cone, his cheeks and the tip of his nose messed with chocolate. His arm was around a beautiful dark-haired woman, who seemed more and more, with time’s passage, an ember, barely a memory: Holly, so beautiful, his high school sweetheart, the first person to make him understand what love was, the second person, after Robbie, to teach Dewey what it meant to lose.

He fought to push the thoughts away. He stacked the frames together. He put them in the pocket of the bag and zipped it up.

Leave it behind. Walk away. It’s dust now, memories, broken thoughts, and it will only cause you pain.

There’s only one thing you can do. It’s all you could ever do.

Fight.

Dewey knew what he had to do. He’d been trained to do it, and he was the best at it. He wanted revenge, and he alone, he uniquely, could exact it. But a more-powerful urge swept over him then, an even darker force than revenge or the desire to kill.

He stood and walked to the front of the cabin. He opened one storage compartment after another until he found what he thought might be there. A line of liquor bottles crowded a low shelf. He scanned it then lifted a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He unscrewed the cap, then raised the bottle to his lips, taking a tremendous gulp before removing the bottle from his lips.

“Sir,” said one of the copilots, poking his head out from the cabin after hearing the opening and closing of cabinet doors. “Mr. Calibrisi wants to talk to you.”

Dewey put the bottle back to his lips and took a smaller, more-refined slug this time, perhaps self-conscious about what he looked like in front of the Special Operations Group pilot, though, of course precisely the opposite phenomenon occurred; the image of Dewey was already engraved in the man’s mind by the swaying, by the large bottle gripped in his hands, by the look of madness on Dewey’s face.

“Tell him I’m busy,” said Dewey.

“He wants us to take you up to Andrews.”

“No,” Dewey said, shaking his head. “Like I told you, first airport after you get into the U.S.”