by Ben Coes
“Well done, Lieutenant,” said Bhang, quietly looking at the soldier who minutes before had aimed his sidearm at Bhang’s head. “Your performance was most convincing.”
“Thank you, Minister Bhang.”
Bhang raised the window and looked in the rearview mirror.
“Drive,” he said.
The sedan moved slowly away from the house as Bhang removed a cigarette from his suit-coat pocket and lit it. He took a long drag on the cigarette, staring at the burning ember, feeling new emotions: embarrassment, shame, and humiliation. Even the harsh burn of the nicotine could not quell the taste of bitterness in his mouth.
“You’ll pay,” he whispered to himself.
But he wasn’t thinking of Li. Li was a sideshow. Rather, Bhang pictured nothing but a figure, a dark, featureless face, the anonymous one who’d found Dillman. “Yes, you’ll pay, my friend, whoever you are.”
7
OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
As national security advisor, Jessica Tanzer had carte blanche to enter the president’s office whenever she wanted to, but on this particular morning she’d made an appointment. Jessica checked her watch, then walked to the door that led to the Oval Office.
She knocked lightly on the door.
“Yeah,” came the voice of J. P. Dellenbaugh from inside.
Jessica opened the door and popped her head in.
“Hi, Mr. President.”
“Come in, Jess.”
Jessica closed the door behind her. Dellenbaugh looked up from a document he was reading, returned to the document, then looked up again, scanning Jessica from head to toe.
Her auburn hair was braided back in a thick, neat ponytail. She wore a diamond necklace, a blue sleeveless Prada dress that clung tightly to her body and came barely halfway down her thighs, and shiny brown riding boots that climbed to her knees.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Dellenbaugh, “but you could get arrested for wearing that in some places.”
“Are you harassing me, Mr. President?” Jessica laughed. She walked across the office and took a seat on one of the chesterfield sofas at the center of the room.
“Trust me,” said Dellenbaugh, laughing, “after I saw what your future husband is capable of doing, I’m the last person who’d harass you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Dewey didn’t tell you what happened at the rink?”
“No.”
“Nothing,” said Dellenbaugh, who grinned, stood up, and walked to the sofa across from Jessica. “He got a goal and three assists. He’s good. He’s got a very graceful, almost gentle way about him out there.”
“Gentle?” she asked. “Are we talking about the same guy?”
“You look like you just stepped off a Hollywood set, Jessica.”
Jessica blushed light red.
“Thank you,” she said. “Dewey and I are leaving for Argentina at lunchtime. I thought I’d wear my travel outfit to work.”
The morning sun shone brightly through the French doors, creating a checkered, geometric pattern on the tan leather. Dellenbaugh reached forward and poured two cups of coffee from the silver service atop the table, handing one to Jessica.
Dellenbaugh raised the cup to his lips to take a sip.
“So what’s up?”
“I’m resigning,” said Jessica.
Dellenbaugh paused as he was about to take a sip. For a moment, he didn’t move.
“I know the timing isn’t great, sir. But I want you to know it has nothing to do with you or the team here. I love my job.”
The president put the coffee cup back down on the table. He leaned back, put his hand to his tie, loosened it, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt.
“Wow. I definitely was not expecting that. You and Hector are the linchpins of our national security team. You more than anyone. I need you here.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President.”
“Does Hector know?”
“Not even Dewey knows,” said Jessica. “I felt it was my duty to inform you first.”
“Is there something wrong?”
“Not at all. I love it here. And, President Dellenbaugh, I truly enjoy working with you. To be perfectly frank, I didn’t think I would. I thought after President Allaire died, I’d hate my job and resent you. But the opposite is true. You’re doing a fantastic job. Every day has been a blast. I understand now why Rob Allaire asked you to be his vice president. And, you’ve given me the freedom to do my work, and you’ve given me your trust. That’s all a national security advisor can ask for.”
Dellenbaugh ran his hand back through his hair.
“You didn’t answer me, Jess.”
“I’m thirty-seven years old,” said Jessica. “I’ve got a wedding to plan, and that’s just for starters. I also want to make some money, sir. I’ve never held a job outside of government.”
“There’s plenty of time for that,” said Dellenbaugh. “You are at the center of this administration. You are a critical component to our national security. This might sound corny, but we need you. America needs you.”
Jessica smiled.
“I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that. But I’ve made up my mind.”
Jessica’s eyes were red with emotion.
Dellenbaugh paused, then smiled. He stared at Jessica in silence for several moments. He sighed.
“I understand,” he whispered. “I understand, and, as sad as I am right now, I’m very proud of you. How much time do I have?”
“A while,” said Jessica. “I’d like to work with you to find the best possible individual to serve as your next national security advisor. Then, from the private sector somewhere, I’d like to remain your friend, as well as be a part of the team that gets you reelected in two years.”
Dellenbaugh laughed.
“Jessica, I can’t stop you. But I’m going to try and talk you out of it.”
“I’ll always listen to anything you have to say, President Dellenbaugh.”
Jessica stood up. She walked around the coffee table and put her hand out, but Dellenbaugh ignored her outstretched hand and wrapped his arms around her and gave her a hug.
“You have fun down there, will you?” he said.
“I will. Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll check in from the ranch.”
“Don’t do that,” said Dellenbaugh. “You’re on vacation. I’ve got things covered here. You go have fun with Dewey. Let him know I already ordered him a new helmet and a decent pair of skates.”
8
MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY
BEIJING
Headquarters for the Ministry of State Security comprised six large buildings in a sprawling rectangular campus on the southern outskirts of Beijing, the buildings connected underground by tunnels and, on the ground floor, by concrete courtyards. Each of the six buildings was indistinguishable from the next: ten stories high, square, built of drab gray concrete and small windows, not so much ugly as boring and bureaucratic. The courtyards were largely empty except for a few people milling about. The occasional low rumble of the underground subway system, which ran in an internal circular loop connecting the six buildings, could be heard above the din of traffic beyond the unexpectedly ornate steel fence that enclosed the campus. The complex was guarded by armed soldiers stationed every few hundred feet.
The black limousine carrying Hasim Aziz, Iran’s highest-ranking intelligence official in China, turned through the main entrance at the northeast corner of the campus, then entered the subterranean parking garage. The vehicle stopped in front of a glass-enclosed lobby with yet more soldiers standing about, submachine guns held aimed at the ground. This was building 6.
Aziz had been to the ministry many times before. To say that Iran relied on the Chinese ministry of intelligence was an understatement. Annually, the ministry provided Iran with more than one billion dollars in covert aid in the form of cash payment
s. In addition, and more important, the ministry doled out intelligence about Iran’s enemies and allies alike, gleaned from ministry agents spread like flies across the Middle East. In return, China did not ask for anything specifically. Anything, that is, except to be obeyed at those times when they called.
They took the elevator to the tenth floor. Aziz followed one of Bhang’s staffers down a long corridor. At the corner of the building, two men in suits stood in front of a set of imposing steel double doors. As Aziz approached, the man on the right reached for the doorknob and opened the door.
Inside the office, to the left, the wall was covered in an ancient Chinese tapestry, which hung from the ceiling. Two green sofas faced each other across a simple glass coffee table. The other side of the office faced the outer part of the building; both walls had windows looking out on Beijing. Fao Bhang was seated behind a desk in the corner, his fingers interlocked, still. He stared at Aziz as he entered. Two other ministry officials stood to the left, next to the desk. A single chair sat unoccupied in front of Bhang’s desk.
“Minister Bhang,” said Aziz, bowing slightly, out of respect, then stepping toward Bhang, his right hand extended.
“Good evening,” said Bhang, ignoring the Iranian’s hand. He pointed to the chair. “How was your trip, Mr. Aziz?”
“Fine,” said Aziz, sitting down.
“Are you curious as to why you’re here?”
“My assumption is that you’ll tell me at some point, Minister Bhang.”
Bhang nodded his head up and down, then his lips spread in a forced smile.
“Does China ask much of you, Mr. Aziz?”
“What do you mean, sir?’
“Do we ask much of you? The question is self-explanatory.”
“Do you mean Iran?”
“I mean you, Hasim Aziz,” said Bhang.
Aziz shifted in the chair.
“China is very generous. It’s no secret that the ministry helped us acquire weapons-grade uranium. In addition, your financial aid has been very important. As for me, in my five years as station chief, I have always enjoyed my relationship with the ministry.”
Bhang was silent for several moments. Without taking his eyes away from Aziz, he reached with his left hand to the desk drawer, opened it, and pulled an object from the desk. It was a necklace. He tossed it onto the wood top of his desk so Aziz could see it.
Aziz looked at it. Then his eyes moved back to Bhang. He remained silent.
“For more than a decade, Iran has enjoyed the fruits that come from China’s friend inside Israeli intelligence. I pulled this from around his neck this morning. He was the unfortunate recipient of an ax to the skull.”
“This is most disturbing,” said Aziz, looking perplexed. “As you said, Iran benefited greatly from your man.”
“Do you know what his name was, Mr. Aziz?”
“No, sir. I knew of the existence of a man, of course, but his name was always a secret to me. Nor did I ever ask my contact for further information. As you said, his insights were a benefit to our republic.”
“His name was Dillman.”
Aziz was silent. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Two months ago, in a Shanghai restaurant, we provided photographs to you,” continued Bhang.
One of the men placed a pair of photos on the desk in front of Aziz. The first showed a tall Iranian, dressed in a suit, walking with a woman. The other photo showed an American, white shirt, blue blazer, stubble, big, tough-looking.
Aziz looked at the photos, sat back, then looked at Bhang.
“Lon Qassou,” said Aziz. “And the American.”
“Dewey Andreas,” said Bhang. He reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one.
“Yes.”
“It was Andreas who stole the Iranian nuclear bomb, correct?”
“Yes, he did, Minister.”
“And how did he do that?”
Aziz stared dumbfounded at Bhang. His eyes darted left and right.
“He infiltrated the Turkish border.”
“And replaced the bomb with a replica, correct?”
“Yes.”
“How did he know what it looked like? Its dimensions? Even I did not know, despite the fact that I provided the yellowcake, the trigger, and the money to build it.”
Aziz nodded, then was silent as he considered the question.
“I’m thinking of what I know, sir,” said Aziz.
“I suggest you think faster,” said Bhang, impatience in his voice. “How did he know what it looked like?”
“He had knowledge from someone who had seen it,” said Aziz. “Perhaps Qassou?”
“Qassou was a functionary,” said Bhang.
Aziz looked up.
“I realize you would perhaps like to move on to another subject, Mr. Aziz,” said Bhang. “But you will answer. I know you know the answer to my question, as do I.”
“Then why are you asking me?”
“I suppose I would like confirmation.”
“In New York City,” said Aziz, “Andreas kidnapped Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations.”
“Bhutta,” Bhang said, his nostrils flaring.
“Yes,” said Aziz. “Bhutta was involved in the creation—”
“I know who Amit Bhutta is,” said Bhang, his voice rising, staring daggers at Aziz.
“I’m sorry, Minister Bhang,” pleaded Aziz. “I had nothing to do with it.”
Bhang’s eyes darted right, to one of his aides. The man stood and motioned for Aziz to stand.
“Minister,” said the Iranian, his brow furrowing in worry as the aide grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry. I had no control over Amit Bhutta! Please, sir!”
The other aide joined the first, grabbing the Iranian’s other arm and yanking him toward the door.
Bhang’s eyes were black with rage, his pale face flushed red, yet he found a way to control himself. He reached for another cigarette and lit it. As Aziz was dragged to the door, his protestations grew louder, more desperate. Bhang inhaled, then glared at the back of the Iranian’s head.
“Have a safe trip, Mr. Aziz,” said Bhang.
9
LAN AIRLINES
EN ROUTE TO ARGENTINA
Dewey felt a hand on his shoulder, gently rubbing it.
“Wake up.”
He registered the soft, dry whisper of Jessica’s voice, then the smell of her perfume, before he opened his eyes or so much as moved. She rubbed his shoulder. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at her.
“Mile High Club?” he asked her in a whisper.
“Pig,” she said, smiling.
“We could squeeze into one of the restrooms.”
“Don’t you think people would notice?”
“I’ll shut the door.”
“Oh, my God. You’re demented.”
“Probably, but you look so good in that dress.”
“Wait ’til we get to the ranch. We have an entire week.”
“I can’t wait ’til the ranch.”
She glanced around, making sure nobody was looking, then leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Her hand went down to his crotch and pushed against his jeans.
“Buenos días, señor,” she whispered.
“Come on, we can do it right here. Everyone’s either asleep or reading.”
“You know what I really want right now?” she purred.
“What?”
Jessica reached beside her and picked up a catalog.
“For you to help me pick out our wedding china.”
“You’re evil,” he said.
She giggled.
“I’ve got it narrowed down to sixteen patterns.”
“Oh, God,” Dewey said. “I thought this was going to be low-key. Why don’t we elope? Why do we need china? What’s wrong with good old-fashioned paper plates?”
“This is the only time I’m ever getting married, farm boy. Fine, don’t help me.”
“I’ll help you,” he said. “Just promise
you won’t tell anyone.”
Jessica giggled, leaned toward him, and kissed his cheek.
“President Dellenbaugh told me you’re a good hockey player. He said you scored three assists.”
“You don’t score assists, Jess. You make assists.”
“Oh, whatever. What is there, some sort of hockey grammar book you guys carry around? Last time I checked, most hockey players can barely form a complete sentence without drooling.”
“Did he say anything else?” Dewey asked.
“Oh, you mean did he mention how you almost decapitated Tom DeGray?”
Dewey grinned.
“He didn’t tell me,” said Jessica. “Tom did. He called me and said he acted like a jerk. He said he wants to apologize to you.”
“Honestly, I can’t believe you dated that guy.”
“Well, you put him in his place, from what I hear.”
Dewey smiled.
Jessica placed her head on Dewey’s shoulder. She held up her left hand, admiring her ring finger. On it was a beautiful diamond ring: an antique setting, three diamonds of equal size set in a row atop a platinum band. She ran her right index finger over the top of the stones.
“I think it’s sort of cute that you were jealous,” Jessica whispered.
Dewey cleared his throat.
“I wasn’t jealous.”
“Oh, really?”
“The guy’s a douche. He tried to chop my foot off. I exacted a little justice, that’s all.”
“I think you were jealous, and I think it’s cute what you did. I guess I don’t blame you. He’s not that bad, though. Do you get jealous? We should probably talk about that. I mean, I definitely get jealous. If you so much as look at one of these South American bombshells walking around Córdoba, I will…”
Her voice trailed off as she looked at Dewey.
“I’d rather talk about china settings, Jess.”
She sat up and laughed.
“Okay, okay, I’ll drop it. By the way, wait until you see Argentina. It’s beautiful.”
“I’ve been,” Dewey said.
“Oh, really?” Jessica asked. “When did you go to Argentina?”