Eye for an Eye: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  On the floor were two bodies, both riddled with bullet holes and drenched in blood that had begun to blacken as it dried. One was a large man with dirty-blond hair in a gray plaid suit, who looked Russian. The other was a Chinese man in a tuxedo. His torso looked like a knife had been taken to it, though the blood-splattered wall behind him told a different story, of slugs having passed straight on through.

  “The ambassador?” asked Calibrisi.

  “The Honorable Sūn Mă,” said Chalmers. “The other’s ex-KGB. I assume one of Borchardt’s men.”

  They followed Chalmers up the ornate central stairwell. At the third-floor landing, a large pool of blood shimmered under the light from the hallway. A few feet from the top step, a dead Chinese commando lay on his back, his head half blown off.

  Down the corridor stood another coroner. He nodded at Chalmers but said nothing.

  Chalmers led them into the bedroom. Inside were four more dead agents, littered on the oriental rug—three near the foot of the bed, one just inside the door. Blood was scattered in pools on the ground and splattered on the wall.

  “China wasn’t fucking around,” said Calibrisi.

  “Nor was Dewey,” added Chalmers.

  Calibrisi moved to the bed, stepping around the corpses. The bed was torn apart by slugs. Feathers were scattered all over the bedspread.

  “Any calls from the neighbors?” asked Calibrisi.

  “Yes,” said Chalmers. “But nothing to worry about.”

  “No sign of Dewey or Borchardt?” asked Katie.

  “Nothing. But we do know this: Borchardt’s plane is gone. It left Heathrow around midnight.”

  As they walked back through the gardens, Calibrisi stopped to talk to Chalmers one-on-one.

  “What are you thinking?” Calibrisi asked.

  “We leave it exactly the way we found it,” said Chalmers. “Let Scotland Yard take jurisdiction.”

  “Why?”

  “We have an advantage as long as Bhang believes Dewey is acting alone,” said Chalmers. “We can’t risk Bhang thinking this is a sanctioned operation by CIA or MI6. The fact that they targeted Dewey while he was with your national security advisor means they’re really bloody serious. We need to keep our heads down, and we need to find Dewey. If we play our cards right, he’ll lead us straight to Bhang.”

  “I want to make something very clear, Derek,” said Calibrisi, sharply. “I need help finding Dewey. But I have absolutely no intention of doing anything more than taking him back to the United States. He is not part of any operation to kill Fao Bhang.”

  “It’s too late for that,” said Chalmers. “Andreas is in the middle of this thing, Hector, whether you like it or not. A dead ambassador? A dead squad of commandos? This is going to anger the hell out of them. You need to put your guilt about Jessica aside and focus on the objective.”

  “I don’t care about the objective,” said Calibrisi, stabbing his finger at Chalmers. “We find Dewey, then he’s out. I’m not going to have his blood on my hands too.”

  “This is what we wanted,” Chalmers shot back. “Dewey’s going to lead us to Bhang. You want to do your friend a favor? Help him get revenge. That’s what he wants. It’s what he deserves.”

  51

  IN THE AIR

  Dewey slept for the first two hours of the flight, seated a few rows behind Borchardt. When he awoke, he went to the galley kitchen at the front of the cabin and made a cup of coffee. He returned and sat down across from Borchardt, whose mouth remained taped shut.

  “You want some?” Dewey asked.

  Borchardt looked miserable. His eyes were bloodshot and angry. A sheen of sweat covered his head. His comb-over dangled down by his ear. He nodded up and down, indicating yes, he wanted a cup of coffee.

  “What do I look like, a waitress?” asked Dewey.

  Borchardt glared at Dewey. He screamed, though it was muted by the tape around his mouth.

  “What?” asked Dewey, innocently. “I can’t hear you.”

  Dewey took a sip.

  “Mmmm, that’s good coffee,” Dewey said. “You know, Rolf, you need to stop reading too much into things. I never said I was going to get you coffee. That’s called taking someone for granted. I read somewhere it’s one of the main reasons relationships fall apart.”

  Borchardt again screamed from behind the tape, then yanked against the flex cuffs, as Dewey took small sips from his coffee cup and made satisfied purring noises.

  “I wonder if those Chinese guys liked coffee?” pondered Dewey. “What do you think?”

  He looked at Borchardt.

  “Oh, that’s right, you can’t talk, can you?”

  Borchardt again screamed, his face turning beet red. For several seconds he screamed, though it was muted.

  Dewey took another sip.

  “You never know with those Chinese guys. I mean, they like some weird shit. Take for example sushi. I mean, raw fish? Who wants to eat a piece of raw fucking fish? Why the hell do they like sushi so much, Rolf? Actually, now that I think about it, that’s Japan who likes sushi, isn’t it?”

  Dewey smiled, staring into Borchardt’s eyes. He took a last sip from the coffee mug, then hurled it over Borchardt’s shoulder. It struck the wall and shattered, dropping pieces of the mug all over Borchardt’s head and shoulders.

  “Sorry,” said Dewey, watching as Borchardt tried to shake shards of the mug from his shoulder. “I was aiming for the dishwasher.”

  Dewey reached for his ankle, pulling out his knife. He took it and thrust it toward Borchardt, who screamed, flinched, and yanked at his cuffs, all to no avail.

  “Relax.”

  He stuck the tip of the blade next to Borchardt’s ear, under the tape edge, then ripped the blade up, cutting the tape. Dewey grabbed the tape and ripped it from Borchardt’s face, which made a loud noise, though not as loud as Borchardt’s scream.

  Dewey sat back and let him finish his wailing.

  “Don’t say anything you’re going to regret,” said Dewey. “There’s an entire roll of tape, and I’d be glad to put some more on.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “You know what I want, asshole. I explained it to you. I want help getting these fuckheads back.”

  “Then you kill me?”

  “Maybe. But unlike you, I’m a man of my word. If you help me, there’s a chance I won’t kill you. It’s not a promise, because sometimes I’m just in the mood, know what I mean? Even though you attempted to fuck me back at your house, Rolf, I still really actually don’t care if you live or die. You and I are professionals. We know the drill. We understand the risks. But Jessica was innocent.”

  “I’ll help you. I give you my word.”

  “Spare me, will you? You don’t have a ‘word’ to give. You’re a fundamentally dishonest human being, which is how I knew you’d rat me out. Just shut the fuck up, answer my questions, and do as you’re told.”

  Borchardt nodded. “Got it.”

  “Now, my first question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you since I first met you.”

  “What?”

  “What the fuck is the deal with your hair? You’re a wealthy man. Buy yourself a toupée. Or better yet, do what real men do: go bald. Be a man about it. It looks like a dead rat.”

  Dewey leaned forward and grabbed the end of the long bunch of hair that dangled to the side of Borchardt’s head. He took his knife and put it next to Borchardt’s scalp and sliced the entire piece of hair off, then tossed it into Borchardt’s lap.

  “There we go,” said Dewey, sitting back, nodding slowly, assessing his hairdressing skills. “Much better.”

  Borchardt looked sadly down at the clump of hair on his lap.

  “Okay, next question,” said Dewey. “Weapons.”

  “Enough for whatever you want to do. A full cache of military-grade combat equipment. You’re welcome to inspect it. It’s in the cargo hold.”

&
nbsp; “Explosives?”

  “SEMTEX, PBXN, gelatin, C4. Enough explosives to blow up Buckingham Place, or … the Ministry of State Security?”

  “Good one, Rolf. What about shoulder-fired missiles?”

  “MANPADs, RPG-7s.”

  “What sort of MANPADs?”

  “Javelins.

  “Oldies but goodies.”

  “There are also half a dozen Alcotán-100s.”

  “What are those?”

  “Portable antitank missiles. Very easy to use. No recoil. Very effective too. I sold a bunch to Syria last year. They couldn’t afford all of them, so I kept a few.”

  Dewey nodded.

  “Okay, next question,” said Dewey. “Tell me about Fao Bhang.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you have a relationship with him?”

  “I’ve never met him. Few have.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “I have no idea. Presumably Beijing. If he’s like all of the rest of the State Council, he also has a house somewhere, Hong Kong, Macau, Shanghai. But I don’t know.”

  “What do you know?” asked Dewey. “Because I can tell you right now, your life span is directly correlated to how much you can help me.”

  “He’s a buyer of information. Loves information. What sort of weapons system so-and-so bought, what sort of satellite setup this or that government has. That sort of thing. Very price agnostic. Big spender.”

  “What else? What’s his deal?”

  “His deal?”

  “Yes, his deal. What’s his fucking deal?”

  “Bhang is the brains behind whatever nasty thing China does. He’s the strategist and the implementer. He was without question the one who sent the team in to kill you last night. He would’ve been the one to organize the wet work down in Argentina.”

  “What about his brother, Bo Minh?”

  “I know Minh. I know him quite well, as a matter of fact.”

  “How?”

  “He’s on my payroll. Bo Minh is the top technologist at the ministry. He designs various cryptographics, eavesdropping, profiling algorithms, lie-detection devices. He’s as ruthless as Bhang, but a recluse, an introvert; he doesn’t have the political skills or ambition of Bhang. But he’s brilliant.”

  “Why is he on your payroll?”

  “He keeps me apprised of developments within ministry weapons programs. He helps ensure I continue to play an active role in their decision-making process.”

  “Bribery.”

  “Something like that.”

  “How much have you paid him over the years?”

  “Tens of millions.”

  Dewey stared at Borchardt.

  “You really are a scumbag, aren’t you?”

  Borchardt smiled.

  “I’m a businessman.”

  “Are they close?”

  “Who?”

  “Bhang and his brother, shitbrain.”

  Borchardt’s eyes grew sharp.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Rolf,” Dewey said, shaking his head, scolding in his voice. “Remember our discussion a little while ago about answering my questions? There is one individual on the entire planet you need to keep happy. And right now, that individual is a little upset. He’d like nothing better than to fire one of these Alcotáns up your constipated German ass. Answer the fucking question.”

  “Yes, they’re close,” said Borchardt, sighing. “Very close.”

  “What’s ‘very’?”

  “Very. Bhang protects him. Minh is smart but weak. Bhang is not weak. They say even Li has a healthy dose of wariness about Bhang. His people are everywhere. Bhang watches out for Bo Minh. Minh was once caught in a Ponzi scheme. This was in Shanghai, several years ago. There were two men. They were caught and convicted, sentenced to thirty or forty years in a labor camp. The day after arriving at the camp, both men were shot in the head.”

  Dewey nodded. He sat back, pausing, then smiled.

  “Well, you better hope I succeed then.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Bhang’s going to be mighty pissed off at you after his brother dies.”

  52

  MI6 HEADQUARTERS

  85 VAUXHALL CROSS

  LONDON

  Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma grabbed a few hours of sleep at the American embassy, then were driven to MI6 headquarters on the banks of the Thames. They were escorted to the top floor, to a glass-walled conference room whose windows were lined with copper mesh, designed to prevent eavesdropping.

  It was 5:00 A.M. Chalmers was already seated when the three Americans walked in. With Chalmers was Veronica Smythson, who ran paramilitary operations for MI6.

  “Did you go home?” asked Calibrisi, noticing that Chalmers had on the same clothing from the night before.

  “No,” said Chalmers. “It’s been a long night.”

  Calibrisi sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “What’s going on?”

  “China is demanding to know what happened to their ambassador.”

  “They should ask one of the goons they sent in,” said Calibrisi.

  “Met’s dealing with it,” said Chalmers, referring to Scotland Yard. “Nobody knows we were even there.”

  “Have you heard from Dewey?” asked Smythson.

  “No,” said Calibrisi. “Any signs of Borchardt?”

  Chalmers shook his head.

  “What about the plane?” asked Tacoma. “Did they file a flight plan?”

  “Yes,” said Smythson. “Moscow. They never landed.”

  “So what are you guys thinking?” asked Calibrisi.

  “We don’t know,” said Smythson. “He’s obviously improvising. My best guess is he’s headed to another foreign capital. Perhaps he’ll try to take out more ministry assets. He could also be heading to China.”

  “Hector, would Dewey actually even consider entering China?” asked Chalmers, incredulous.

  “He’s not crazy,” said Calibrisi. “But he is unpredictable. He was a Delta. He was taught to improvise and to act alone. Whatever it is he’s up to, I can guarantee you one thing: it will be bold.”

  “If he’s headed for China, he’s not getting in,” said Smythson. “Certainly not a six-four American whose face, by now, is at every border crossing in PRC. Bhang, by now, knows damn well what happened to his agents. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Chinese knew Borchardt’s plane had gone missing.”

  “If that’s true, they’ll look for the flight plan too,” said Katie. “They’ll know the plane hasn’t landed in Moscow.”

  “We took care of it,” said Smythson. “We altered a tail number on a Moscow-bound BA flight out of Heathrow. If they’re tracking Borchardt’s plane, they’ll believe it actually landed. It should hold.”

  “Why the hell is Dewey not coordinating with Langley?” asked Chalmers.

  Calibrisi looked at Chalmers with an icy stare.

  “Because we got his fiancée killed,” said Calibrisi. “Why is that so hard for you to understand, Derek? It was our goddamn operation that led to Jessica’s death. Dewey wants nothing to do with Langley, MI6, or anyone else. Can you blame him?”

  Chalmers paused, considering his response.

  “No, of course I can’t blame him,” said Chalmers, calmly. “I feel terrible. But I have a job to do. The removal of Fao Bhang has to be our top priority, now more so than ever.”

  “President Dellenbaugh authorized us to take action,” said Calibrisi. “America is going to hit China back. But Dewey Andreas isn’t the one who’s going to do it. He’s in no condition to execute a black-on-black right now. It will be a suicide mission, and it will fail.”

  “If we want Jessica’s death to mean something, let’s figure out how to help Dewey kill Fao Bhang,” said Chalmers.

  “I’m all for killing Bhang,” yelled Calibrisi, slamming his fist on the conference table. “But we’re not using Dewey. We’re finding him, then I’m bringing him home. I
f I have to have President Dellenbaugh call the prime minister to tell you to back the fuck off, I will. I’m not going to kill Dewey too!”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence in the conference room. The anger and emotion between Calibrisi and Chalmers was palpable.

  Chalmers had a blank look on his face. He scanned Calibrisi’s eyes for several moments.

  “How long have we known each other, Hector?”

  “Too long.”

  “Twenty-five years this December. Cape Town. Remember?”

  Calibrisi calmed down. A small grin even appeared on his face.

  “Yeah, I remember. A couple of rubes, huh?”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Chalmers.

  “Okay, one American rube and a Cambridge dilettante.”

  “That’s more like it,” said Chalmers. “You taught me something important in South Africa. Remember the girl, the Danish girl, at the consulate?”

  “Annika.”

  “You said, ‘Don’t get emotional.’ She ended up being KGB. My career at MI6 would have been over.”

  “I was young and naïve,” said Calibrisi.

  “Do you at least want to hear what we have in mind?”

  Calibrisi took a sip from his cup and sat back.

  “Why not.”

  Chalmers nodded to Smythson.

  “We have the rough architecture of a structured assassination of Fao Bhang,” said Smythson. “MI6 has an asset inside the ministry hierarchy; a high-level agent who was recruited six years ago. This agent has been an important source for the UK, and the West, for some time. MI6 is willing to sacrifice that asset in order to strike at Fao Bhang. The operation is code-named ‘Eye for an Eye.’”

  “Revenge,” said Calibrisi.

  “It’s a double meaning,” said Smythson. “The obvious one: revenge. But we will also attempt to deceive Fao Bhang, to make him believe that what he is seeing is something different than it actually is and not, in fact, a drama, a play, an orchestrated fiction whose final act is his very own death. We will be, in a sense, replacing Bhang’s eyes with our own, at least for a few hours.”