by Ben Coes
Calibrisi poured another cup of coffee, intrigued. He glanced at Katie, then Tacoma, both of whom were also rapt at attention, fascinated by Smythson’s words.
“But,” said Smythson.
“But what?”
“But we’re missing a key element. And without that element, the operation simply will not work.”
“What is it?” asked Calibrisi.
Smythson looked across the table at Chalmers. Chalmers turned to Calibrisi.
“We need Dewey.”
53
MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE COMPOUND
AUGUST 1ST BUILDING
BEIJING
Xu Qingchen, the top general in the People’s Liberation Army and the second-highest-ranking official in the Chinese military, was seated on a wooden bench. He finished a sandwich, then tossed the last piece of crust to the lawn. A pigeon pounced.
The red wooden bench sat at the center of a private lawn atop the roof of the Ministry of Defense building. Except when he was traveling or during inclement weather, Qingchen ate lunch every day on the roof, usually alone. Today, he was not alone. Seated next to him was Fao Bhang.
Between the two men was a yellow pad. Except for the occasional innocuous chitchat, Qingchen and Bhang communicated by writing notes. Bhang knew what eavesdropping technology was capable of.
“X met with council this morning,” wrote Qingchen.
“X” was shorthand for Premier Li.
“You were a subject,” Qingchen continued, “of discussion.”
“What about?” scribbled Bhang on the pad.
“The ministry budget. X proposes slashing it. This led to bigger discussion. It became agitated.”
“Continue.”
“Photos were produced.”
Bhang looked up from the pad, nostrils flaring.
“Photos?” he said aloud, barely above a whisper, yet seething with anger.
“A corpse,” said Qingchen. “An ax in the skull.”
Bhang abandoned any concern he might have had about speaking aloud.
“Gruesome,” said Qingchen, continuing.
“Mossad did it,” said Bhang.
“Who was the dead man?”
“It doesn’t matter. An asset.”
“What happened in London?” asked Qingchen.
Bhang stood up.
“How do you know about London?”
Qingchen stared at Bhang, a calm anger in his eyes. He remained silent.
“An operation,” said Bhang, defensively. “They don’t always go well. You should know that. It’s nothing, a trifle. A person we’re trying to remove.”
“Sit down,” ordered Qingchen. “And calm down.”
Bhang remained standing, taking a cigarette from his jacket.
“You know I dislike smoke, Fao.”
“What was Li’s objective in all this?” asked Bhang, ignoring him.
“He had no objective, other than cutting the budget, but that is a ruse,” said Qingchen. “It seems clear to me, you’ve upset him. He has started to politicize his paranoia about you.”
“I can handle him.”
“Not if he moves to quell a perceived threat from you. If the premier senses a threat, a real threat, you are in danger. The council favors you, but more important to the council is rule of law. Political hierarchy. To the extent he politicizes his paranoia, you risk losing support within the council. It’s only a matter of time. He’s very good at politics.”
“What should I do?” asked Bhang, taking a hard drag on his cigarette.
“You have two choices,” replied Qingchen.
“What are they?”
“Appease him. Apologize. Do something to make him—how shall we say?—less concerned about your ambitions. Politicians also like flattery.”
“What’s the other choice?”
“Move on him.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“What is the condition of your support within PLA?”
“As always, it is nearly unanimous,” said Qingchen. “Those generals loyal to Li are well known to me and would be easily removed. But…”
“But what?” asked Bhang.
“You must want to be premier,” said Qingchen. “I’m too old. You know this. And there is nobody else capable.”
Bhang sat back down. General Qingchen’s words were surprising but not unexpected.
Bhang had pledged his loyalty to Qingchen many years ago. Both men, and a sizable piece of the upper ranks of the PLA, didn’t trust Li. Like all leadership changes in China, the outside world would know little of the internal machinations that ended up paving the way for a new leader. The elevation of someone new, like Qingchen or Bhang, would be seen as yet another mysterious though placid transition by the West. But in China, power was taken. It had been that way since the beginning.
The general’s words represented the culmination of a decade’s worth of work.
Bhang had correctly guessed that Qingchen would not want to rule when the time came. Like many military leaders, politics was a business he wanted little to do with. It was enough for the old general to have his man at the helm, in this case, Bhang.
Bhang attempted to control his excitement. He knew he could never be the one to suggest it. It had to be Qingchen. Ironically, it was Li who’d pushed him to it. He would have to remember to thank Li someday.
“With your support, I would do it,” said Bhang.
Qingchen stood.
“Clean up this London affair,” said Qingchen. “You give him needless ammunition. Clean it up.”
“It is a mosquito,” said Bhang. “I swung and missed. Next time, I’ll not miss.”
54
IN THE AIR
Dewey wrapped tape around Borchardt’s mouth again. He went to the back of the plane, opening doors until he found the entrance to a small circular stairwell that led belowdecks. There, he found another door. Inside was the weapons hold. The storage area seemed endless: like a low-ceilinged warehouse, the shelves of various firearms, explosives, and ammunition-lined walls that ran to the front of the plane
Over the next hour, Dewey wired up a large block of SEMTEX, which he knew was not only effective but idiotproof, hence the reason it was popular with terrorists. It was forgiving and resilient to the accidental bumping or grinding that might trigger an explosion in other materials.
There were several types of detonators, and he rigged one that would allow for remote detonation, testing it before inserting it, feeling the slightly painful tickle of the electric pulse between his fingers.
He carried the detonator, a pair of Glocks, and an Alcotán-100 back upstairs and sat down.
Borchardt had nodded off.
“Wake up, Mary Poppins,” said Dewey. “Rise and shine.”
Borchardt opened his eyes. He groaned from behind the tape. Dewey grabbed a piece, then ripped it off.
“Fuck!” yelled Borchardt.
“That never gets old,” said Dewey.
“You really are a mean son of a bitch, aren’t you? Can I please get something to drink?”
“Like what?”
“Like water. I’ve been sitting here for at least six hours.”
“Clean or dirty?”
Borchardt chuckled.
Dewey stood up, went to the galley, and got a bottle of water, then returned and held the bottle up to Borchardt’s lips. He chugged down the entire bottle.
“So, two things,” said Dewey.
“What?”
“First, we need another plane.”
“Another plane?”
“Yes. It needs to be in Beijing, near where we’re landing this monstrosity.”
“Monstrosity?”
“This flying homage to greed, barbarism, and ego. This gaudy symbol of what happens when you’re willing to sell weapons to terrorists.”
“Why do we need another plane?”
“The answer is, none of your fucking business. Number two. You need to call Bo Minh
.”
“Why Bo Minh?”
“Because you’d like to meet with him in,” said Dewey, pausing, looking at his watch, “three hours. At the airport.”
“Beijing Airport?”
“On the plane. I don’t care what you have to offer him. What you have to give him, promise him, threaten him—whatever. But you need to think of something, and it better be good. He’s going to visit you on this plane.”
“They found the dead bodies by now,” said Borchardt, pleading. “They’ll know the team failed. They’ll know Ambassador Mă is dead. They’ll know, Dewey. They’ll assume I’m with you.”
“Well, now, that’s the most insightful thing you’ve said all day. Which means you better be pretty fucking clever when you call the little retard.”
Borchardt glanced at the shoulder-fired missile. Then his eyes moved to the remote detonator. His eyes grew wider.
“What’s that?” asked Borchardt.
“It’s a detonator. I thought you knew about weapons?”
“I know very well what it is. What’s it for?”
“Oh, yeah, I did a little art project downstairs while you were napping.”
Borchardt’s face flushed red.
“I made a sculpture out of some orange plastic stuff. It was like Play-Doh. I felt like I was back in kindergarten. I forget what it’s called.”
“You!” screamed Borchardt. “You fucking idiot, Dewey!”
“SEMTEX. That’s it. I hope I did it right. Anyway, according to the instructions, if I press this little button here, it’ll make the orange stuff change colors and get all hot. Doesn’t that sound friggin’ awesome, man? Then again, the instructions were in German, so who knows? Only one way to find out.”
Borchardt became frantic, his face turning red, sweat appearing on his forehead and upper lip.
“You’re a fucking maniac!” he screamed. “What have you done?”
Borchardt kept yelling and pulling at his cuffs. Finally, Dewey took the roll of tape and wrapped another piece across his mouth to shut him up.
“Can I bounce a few ideas off you?” asked Dewey. “You don’t need to talk, just grunt if you agree, okay? So here’s what I’m thinking.”
Dewey stood up and started pacing the aisle next to the frantic Borchardt.
“When we get to Beijing, me and those pilots of yours are getting off the plane. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to keep this with me.”
Dewey held up the remote detonator.
“You, on the other hand, should probably stay to meet your guest, don’t you think? Catch up on old times. I think it would be bad etiquette to not be here when he arrives. By the way, is that what you’re wearing? Do you have anything more colorful? Maybe a light blue or yellow, something that would complement that tape across your mouth?”
Borchardt yelled hysterically and yanked at his cuffs.
“Sorry, it was just a suggestion. Wear what you have on.”
Dewey walked to the galley and opened the refrigerator. He took a bottle of beer and twisted off the cap, took a large gulp, then walked casually back to Borchardt.
“Can you behave?”
Borchardt nodded yes.
Dewey leaned over and ripped the tape off Borchardt’s face.
“Ow! Fuck!”
“I know. Tape hurts, doesn’t it? Not as much as being vaporized in SEMTEX, but still.”
“You said I wouldn’t die.”
“I said you might not die. Get the dork on the plane and a plane for us to leave on, and you’ll live. We won’t take off without you.”
“What if I can’t get Bo Minh to meet me? What if he tells his brother and the plane is intercepted?”
Dewey stared at Borchardt, his blue eyes as cold and blank as a winter sea. He held up the remote detonator and placed his thumb on the button.
“Then it’s hard-count time. We all die.”
55
LAKESIDE GOLF CLUB
TOLUCA LAKE, CALIFORNIA
Lacey James leaned over his Big Bertha driver, staring at the golf ball that was perched on a tee.
“So what’s the answer, Lacey?” said a tall dark-haired man standing behind him, his agent, Chris George. “I need to get back to them this afternoon.”
“I told you,” said James in a clipped, aristocratic British accent. “I want ten million and some points. You figure out the points.”
“Iger is not going to give you any points,” said his agent. “It’s fucking Star Wars, for chrissakes.”
“Then tell them to find someone else.”
“They don’t want anybody else.”
“Which is why I want the points, especially if I have to deal with those miserable communists at Disney.”
James’s large, rotund belly dangled over his belt as he stood still, trying to concentrate.
“By the way,” added George, eyeing his gut. “That P90X is really working wonders on you.”
James’s bushy beard itched and he wanted to scratch it. Instead, he raised his middle finger off the club.
“Some of us don’t need to be good-looking in order to get laid,” said James.
“It helps though.”
Lacey James didn’t look like an Eton-educated Oxford grad. He also didn’t look like someone worth millions of dollars, but he was that too.
James was universally considered the foremost special-effects makeup man in the film industry, with more than two hundred film credits to his name. He could make a donkey look like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, and vice versa, as one actress had said before handing James his second Oscar.
“I’ll tell you what,” said James, getting ready to hit. “If I drive the green, I’ll do it for twelve, no points.”
James pulled his club back. As the head of the driver reached its apotheosis in the sky, George let out a loud, wet belch, booming from his throat for at least three seconds, right as James started his swing at the ball. His club came down awkwardly, he skulled the ball and sent it flying into the parking lot. A pregnant moment of silence was followed by the sound of a windshield shattering, then the siren from someone’s car alarm.
James turned and stared at George.
“I’ll try for the points,” said his agent.
James felt a vibration in the pocket of his shorts. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to have a cell phone at Lakeside. He looked at the number, glanced about nervously, then put the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Lacey,” came the voice, British, confident, unmistakable: James’s uncle, Derek Chalmers. “It’s Uncle Derek.”
“Hi, Uncle Derek,” said James. “Is this about my mother?”
“No,” said Chalmers. “It’s about you. We need your help.”
“Who’s we?”
“The agency. I’m texting you a photo. I need to know if you can make someone look like this man.”
James examined the photo. It showed a Chinese man.
“The short answer is yes, of course. It’s a fucking Chinese guy.”
“It needs to hold up under scrutiny,” said Chalmers.
“What do you mean by ‘scrutiny’?”
“Close inspection,” said Chalmers. “The consequences of it not working would be quite negative.”
“Understood,” said James. He turned from the tee box and started walking back toward the pro shop. George tried to get his attention, but James ignored him. “How much time do I have?”
“I don’t know. At most, a few days.”
James crossed the parking lot, walking by a good-looking silver-haired man and his friend, who were examining the broken windshield of a brand-new Porsche Panamera. James pointed back toward George, who was walking down the fairway, indicating to the owner of the car that George was the one who’d put the golf ball through the windshield.
James climbed into a red and white Bugatti Veyron.
“I’ll do it, Uncle Derek,” said James, turning on the car. “Send me more photos if you can.”
“Will do,” said Chalmers. “Thanks, kid. By the way, what will this cost us?”
“Nothing,” said James, firing out of the Lakeside parking lot.
56
BEIJING
Bo Minh was already up when the phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. The number was blocked. He pressed a small device that looked like high-tech wire cutters to the phone line. He squeezed the teeth of the device lightly against the phone line. The identity of the dialer appeared.
BORCHARDT, R. H.
“Hello?”
“It’s Borchardt.”
“Mr. Borchardt. It’s nice to talk to you. What can I do for you?”
“I’m upset with you, Bo. I pay you a lot of money.”
“What exactly are you referring to, sir?”
“The documents that were sent last week.”
“What is the matter with the documents?” asked Minh. “Those are highly classified. It’s a system that the army plans to spend more than ten billion dollars on. I thought you would be pleased.”
“You’re telling me about a missile defense system more than a month after the decision has been made?” said Borchardt. “This is what I pay you for? What’s the point?”
Minh looked out the window. Borchardt had always been kind to him. He felt himself becoming upset. He shut his eyes.
“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Borchardt. I sent the documents immediately after I received them. I even helped to design the specifications.”
Minh waited for Borchardt to respond, but he said nothing.
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” continued Minh.
“There still may be time, but I’ll need your help,” said Borchardt. “Can the specifications be amended during the bidding phase?”
“Yes, yes, absolutely. I can’t promise—”
“I leave Shanghai in a few minutes. I could divert to Beijing if you could meet me.”
Minh considered the two agents outside the door to his apartment, sent by Ming-huá. He couldn’t bring them; Ming-huá couldn’t know about his relationship to Borchardt. Of course, evading them would be simple enough. His deck attached to a neighbor’s deck, who lived in a duplex. He would go next door, then take the elevator from the floor above.