by Ben Coes
“I’m putting you in a difficult position,” said Dewey. “I don’t know where else to turn.”
Dewey walked to the bar and poured himself another glass of Jack Daniel’s and another scotch for Borchardt. He walked to one of the sofas and sat down.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Borchardt. “I’m used to being in difficult positions. I’ll help you. But I don’t want to be exposed. That means you can’t tell anyone, not Calibrisi, no one. I cannot afford to get in the crosshairs of Fao Bhang.”
“Not a problem,” said Dewey. “I don’t want anything elaborate. But it needs to happen soon. It needs to be loud and obnoxious. A big fuck you.”
“I have to tell you, Bhang is a dangerous man,” said Borchardt. “So is Ming-húa, his deputy, who runs the kill squads. A couple of evil bastards. China is one large booby trap. You never know who you can trust. The old man working at the shoe factory is just as likely to be an informant as the cashier at the hotel or the anchorman on the evening news. Your little foray into Iran was a cakewalk compared to this. They could very well already know you’re here. The ministry’s use of technology would blow your mind. They are far more aggressive than Langley or NSA.”
“I take it you don’t want to come with me?”
“The problem is,” said Borchardt, ignoring Dewey, “even if you had a very clean set of documents, with an INTERPOL back pull—a so-called ‘clean insertion’—the problem is, PRC has altered the entire architecture of its entrance protocols.”
“I’m only fluent in English and Spanish, Rolf,” said Dewey, taking a sip of whiskey.
“Your photograph, in other words, now exists in a highly sophisticated database inside China that is fed, in real time, by border security. Photos are ported from all border crossings, whether it’s the airport or the one-room train depot in Erenhot.”
“Erenhot?”
“The only border crossing between Mongolia and China. It’s a facial-recognition appliance that cost PRC more than two billion dollars and six years to design and implement. It’s causing plenty of headaches for people trying to get into PRC with false papers. Bhang’s brother, Bo Minh, designed it.”
“He has a brother?”
“Yes. Bo Minh. A genius. He’s the one who designed the new border security system. It’s extremely sophisticated. Every visitor to PRC, whether it’s by plane, boat, train, or vehicle, by foot, or by bicycle, is going to have their photo snapped and scanned against a massive database. If you attempt to enter China with a fake ID, it might work, but if it doesn’t—you tell me—what do you think Fao Bhang will do? I can tell you what he won’t do: he won’t let you ever see the light of day again.”
“How do you know they have my photograph? Don’t tell me you sold it to them too?”
Borchardt grinned. “Were you in the U.S. military?”
“Yes, you know that.”
“Then they have your photograph.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kidding. The Chinese are serious. They’re not fucking around. America has spent hundreds of billions, trillions even, to try and wipe out radical jihad, while the Chinese pose a capability, and thus a threat, that is several quanta more dangerous than terrorism and radical Islam.”
“What do they want?”
“I have no idea. No one does. I’m not sure even they do.”
“So why do you deal with them?”
“They have lots of money. They like weapons. They love information. And most important, they wire their money seven days after I send the bill.”
Dewey sat back on the deep leather sofa.
“I’ll have Karina put you in one of the suites,” said Borchardt. “In the meantime, don’t venture out into the party. If Bhang is after you, I can guarantee that every embassy official in the world has already memorized your photo. Also, no phone calls; I know what Bhang and his minions are capable of. The lines were swept before the party, but for all I know, one of the caterers works for him and already stuck a bug on the switch.”
Dewey nodded.
“Pour a whiskey. Pick out a book. Karina will set you up. You look like you could use a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
43
PRIVATE RESIDENCE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
King stepped off the elevator into the private residence of the president.
Amy Dellenbaugh greeted him.
“Hello, Mrs. Dellenbaugh.”
“For the hundredth time, call me Amy. Come in; he’s in the kitchen.”
She led King through the luxurious, intimate living quarters of the first family, to the kitchen, where J.P. Dellenbaugh was standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, making a sandwich.
“You hungry?” asked Dellenbaugh. “I made you a sandwich. I hope you like roast beef.”
“Thank you. I do like roast beef.”
King walked to the counter, where a sandwich was piled on a plate.
“You really made that?” asked King. “There are people who are paid to do that for you, Mr. President.”
“I like doing it myself. If the Secret Service would let me, I’d mow the lawn too.”
Dellenbaugh picked up the two plates and carried them to a long table in the center of the kitchen, where they sat down. King picked up the sandwich and took a bite.
“Not bad, sir.”
“Not bad?” asked Dellenbaugh, grinning. “How about, ‘Great sandwich, Mr. President’?”
“It’s a little heavy on the mustard, sir.”
“You can’t have too much mustard,” said Dellenbaugh, taking a large bite of his sandwich. “What do we got?”
“It was China.”
“You’re sure?”
“The evidence is indisputable. We found the body of one of the men sent to Argentina. He was a high-ranking agent in the Ministry of State Security. Hector believes they were after Dewey.”
Dellenbaugh took another bite, then chewed in silence as he thought. His face went from calm to disgusted, followed by irate.
“Motherfuckers,” the president said, finally. He put the sandwich down.
“I believe, Hector and Tim believe, we need to confront them. Fao Bhang and whoever else was involved in this need to be held accountable.”
“I’ll call Li,” said Dellenbaugh, standing up.
“Not yet, sir. Tim is going to call him. Let’s see what their response is. Let’s keep some dry powder, in case we need it later.”
44
UPPER PHILLIMORE GARDENS
KENSINGTON
LONDON
Borchardt walked with his eyes on the ground, through the party, ignoring those guests who called to him. In the central ballroom, beneath a Rembrandt painting of a young girl in a meadow, he saw Sūn Mă, the Chinese ambassador to England, speaking with a woman. Borchardt walked close enough to Mă to make eye contact. When the smiling Mă looked up from his conversation, Borchardt nodded to him.
Mă followed Borchardt into a hallway off the kitchen, then down the stairs into the basement. Mă trailed in silence. Both men walked quickly. At the end of the hallway, a large guard in an ill-fitting suit stood. In his hands, aimed at the ground, was a close-quarters combat machine gun.
Borchardt and Mă passed the guard in silence and entered a windowless, brightly lit room. Inside, two men were seated, monitoring a wall of plasma screens, all displaying different views of the mansion, both inside and out.
“Go to the Equinox Suite,” said Borchardt.
One of the men punched a few keys. The screen cut to a large, empty bedroom suite.
“Would you mind telling me why we’re in your basement, Rolf?” asked the ambassador.
Borchardt turned to Mă.
“You’ll see,” said Borchardt. “Make it fast and don’t make a mess. I don’t want to know what you’re going to do, or how you’re going to do it. I want no part of it.”
“Of what?” asked Mă.
There was movement on the video screen. A woman walked through the door, followed by a large man in an orange T-shirt, carrying a duffel bag.
Mă moved closer to the screen to get a better look. His smile slowly dissipated and shock overtook his face. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
“Get me Minister Bhang,” barked Mă, in Mandarin. “Now!”
45
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY
Calibrisi was asleep in his chair when loud knocking on his glass door woke him up. It was two in the afternoon. After staying up all night and working through the morning, Calibrisi had finally succumbed to exhaustion a few hours before.
“We found Dewey.”
It was Bill Polk, deputy head of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service and director of Special Operations Group, the CIA’s paramilitary outfit. It hadn’t taken long for Polk’s team to figure out where Dewey went.
They started with a fast scan of the three airports within reach of Middleburg by car: Dulles International, Reagan National, and Baltimore/Washington International. They also dispatched three on-the-ground teams to look for Tacoma’s BMW M5, which happened to be, in typical Tacoma flamboyance, orange.
At first, the team thought they’d gotten lucky early. There weren’t a ton of flights to look at in the immediate hours after Dewey left the farm, but a 2:00 A.M. Dulles-to-Frankfurt flight popped up Dewey’s name on the Lufthansa manifest. The CIA team, however, couldn’t find Tacoma’s M5 at Dulles, though that could have been easily explained away. Perhaps he’d parked it at a local motel, then taken a taxicab. A back-scan of the manifest against customs data, however, showed that Dewey had bought the ticket, gotten his boarding pass, but hadn’t been aboard the plane when it took off. Then, sometime in the wee hours of the night, Tacoma’s M5 was found at Reagan National, parked in the employee lot. Dewey had flown the Delta shuttle to JFK. At 7:00 A.M., he’d been in seat 4A of a British Airways flight to Heathrow.
“What time did he land?” asked Calibrisi, sitting up.
“An hour ago.”
Calibrisi looked at his watch.
“Get a plane ready for takeoff,” said Calibrisi. “I want to be airborne in exactly thirty minutes.”
“You got it.”
Calibrisi leaned forward. He hit the button on the phone console atop the brass-and-glass coffee table, then quickly dialed a number he knew by heart.
“Foxx.”
“Katie?”
“Hi, Hector.”
“What are you doing?”
“Well, let’s see. I just finished adjusting the locks on the vault, so Dewey can’t lock us in again.”
“Speaking of Dewey,” said Calibrisi, “we found him.”
“Congratulations,” said Katie. “Say hi to him for me, will you?”
“He’s in London.”
“That’s really exciting. Maybe he’ll send me a postcard? I’ll be waiting by the mailbox. If you talk to him, would you mind relaying a message for me?”
Calibrisi breathed in deeply, grinned, then shook his head.
“And what is that?”
“Tell him to fuck off.”
“I will. Anything else?”
“Don’t ever ask for Rob and me to help that ungrateful son of a bitch ever again. What a jerk. What if that room didn’t have an oxygen circuit?”
Calibrisi let Katie finish blowing off steam.
“You done?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s Rob?”
“Shooting things in the backyard.”
“Well … so … the reason I called.”
“Yeah?”
“I got you two into this whole thing, and I feel sort of bad. I’d like to make it up to you.”
Katie was silent.
“Something special,” added Calibrisi.
“That’s nice. What did you have in mind?”
“I was thinking it might be fun to go on a trip.”
“Oh, no, Hector,” said Katie, warily. “You’re not serious.”
“London is so pretty this time of year,” said Calibrisi. “The rain. The clouds. The rain. The drizzle. Then there’s the fog. Harrods. Buckingham Palace. Changing of the Guard. What do you say? Throw a few shrimps on the barbie?”
“That’s Australia, jackass.”
“We can go there afterward,” added Calibrisi, enthusiastically.
Katie was silent.
“I take off from Andrews in twenty minutes,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll swing by Dulles private.”
“Do we have a choice in the matter?”
“No,” said Calibrisi, standing up. “And tell Rob to bring something nice to wear, in case we get to meet the queen.”
* * *
The black Sikorsky S-76C chopper picked up Calibrisi on the roof helipad at Langley, then delivered him, ten minutes later, to the tarmac at Andrews. He climbed down the airstairs then walked 150 feet to the waiting CIA-owned black-and-silver Gulfstream G150, whose turbines were already buzzing as the pilots prepared for takeoff.
Twelve minutes later, after landing at the private terminal at Dulles, Katie and Tacoma climbed up the jet’s stairs, each carrying a small duffel bag.
Tacoma had a wide smile on his face. His hair was a mess. He had on cutoff khaki shorts with paint stains and a faded yellow T-shirt with a trident shield stamped on the chest—symbol of the Navy SEALs. He had on a pair of heavily beat-up cowboy boots.
Katie, as usual, looked slightly more elegant than Tacoma. She had on knee-high brown leather boots with a silver Gucci insignia on the sides. She wore short green-and-white flower-print shorts, which showed off her legs, and a thin white cotton sweater with a black stripe across it. Her hair was braided into a ponytail. Unlike Tacoma, there was no smile on her face.
“Hi, guys,” said Calibrisi. “Thanks for coming.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it, chief,” said Tacoma, sitting down in one of the white leather captain’s chairs, diagonally across from Calibrisi. “I hear Polky found my Beemer.”
Katie sat down across from Calibrisi but remained silent.
The plane taxied down the long tarmac, turned, then roared down the runway, lifting smoothly into the sunny Virginia sky.
Calibrisi briefed Katie and Tacoma on his meeting at the White House with Adrian King and Secretary of State Lindsay.
“So basically, we’re going to ask China to turn over their top intelligence official so that he can be prosecuted at The Hague?” asked Katie, incredulous.
“That’s the plan.”
“Did you speak with the president?”
“Not yet. King is meeting with the Chinese ambassador as we speak. We’re going to get on the phone after that.”
“Why don’t they let you deal with it?”
“That’s not off the table yet,” said Calibrisi. “Look, if China will hand over Fao Bhang, that would be adequate for me. He should pay. If going the official route is what gets that done, then so be it, I’m happy.”
“Happy?” asked Tacoma.
“Well, not happy. I’m still pissed. But the staging of something like a hit on Fao Bhang is not straightforward, guys. We need to let things run their course. Dellenbaugh isn’t going to go to DEFCON five right from the get-go. I don’t disagree with him either.”
“Understood.”
“Coffee anyone?” asked Tacoma.
“Sure,” said Calibrisi.
Katie held up two fingers, indicating she wanted one also.
Tacoma stood and walked to the galley kitchen at the aft of the jet. He made three cups of coffee, then returned to the seats.
“Why London?” asked Calibrisi, as Tacoma sat down.
“If I had to guess, he’s going to see Borchardt,” said Tacoma.
“Deep connections to Beijing,” agreed Calibrisi, nodding. “Whatever weapons Dewey wants. There’s a certain logic to it.”
“Dewey is asking him to help get back at Bhang,” said Katie.
“The
problem is,” said Calibrisi, “Borchardt would flip Dewey in a heartbeat. China is his biggest client by far.”
“Do we have someone tracking him from Heathrow?” asked Katie.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t want to exacerbate the situation,” said Calibrisi. “He’s extremely pissed off. If I sent a spotter, he would’ve seen him. At that point, he’d feel even more betrayed than he does already. Then he’d shut us out permanently. I don’t think we want to be shut out.”
“We need to get a team over there,” said Katie. “Who do we have in London, Hector? Should I call Danny?”
Calibrisi unfolded the SAT phone. He pressed one of the speed-dial numbers, then put the phone to his ear.
“Who you calling?” asked Katie.
“Derek Chalmers,” said Calibrisi. “We need to find Dewey and bring him home before he gets in any deeper.”
46
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
When King walked back into his office, Zhai Jintao, China’s ambassador to the United States, was seated in front of his desk.
Jintao was fifty years old. He had a neatly coiffed head of black hair that was a tad long, and wore a stylish pair of round, tortoiseshell eyeglasses. Unlike many of his fellow Chinese government officials, he wore beautiful clothing, brightly striped button-down shirts, Hermès ties, Prada shoes, and suits that were made on Savile Row in London. Most unusual, however, was his smile. It was, in a word, infectious. That and his good looks had done much for him over the years, and there weren’t many people, inside or outside of diplomatic circles, who didn’t like Jintao.
Jintao was alone. As King entered, he stood up immediately. King took off his sports coat and hung it on the back of his door, then shut it.
“Adrian,” said Jintao, stepping toward him, “good to see you, my friend.”
King ignored his outstretched hand. He went behind his desk.
“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, Mr. Ambassador.”