by Ben Coes
“No,” said Calibrisi. “I don’t. What I need is a very immediate off-event scan in regard to this explosion, focused within PRC. We are flying in the dark here, and we can’t be.”
“Can you point us toward something?” asked Bruckheimer. “Words, names—whatever will help us cut to the quick.”
“Andreas, Bhang, Borchardt, Ming-húa. That’s all I can think of.”
Pacheco and June started typing.
“That’s a good start,” said Bruckheimer.
“What’s the end goal here?” asked Redgrave.
“Finding Dewey Andreas,” said Calibrisi.
“Do we have a precise timeline on the explosion?” asked Bruckheimer.
“We have an approximate time,” said Calibrisi. “We stumbled onto the burning wreckage after the explosion, so we don’t know how long it had been on fire. However, eight minutes before the explosion, another plane landed and there was no fire, so we’ve got it narrowed. It was between 8:12 and 8:18 Beijing time.”
Bruckheimer nodded at Pacheco.
“You take the explosion,” he said.
Bruckheimer looked at June.
“Let’s look at ThinThread real quick,” Bruckheimer said, off-line. “Get it sniffing for Andreas.”
“I thought ThinThread got shut down?” said Calibrisi on speaker.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” said Bruckheimer.
“Call me when you have something.”
* * *
The NSA’s ThinThread program was created in the late 1990s and designed to gather, synthesize, and contextualize vast amounts of data in real time in order to then cherry-pick relevant communications targeted around specific dates, times, locations, or people. ThinThread was able to gather and subsequently marry seemingly unrelated data from such real-time, innocuous trigger events such as credit-card purchases, e-mails, financial transactions, travel records, use of GPS equipment, Internet activity, and any other electronic imprint that an NSA analyst might find helpful in locating virtually any individual anywhere in the world.
Though ThinThread had been shut down, much of its internal engines still hummed along under various names. Bruckheimer was old-school, however, and had been part of the team that designed and named the system. He refused to call it by anything else.
Unfortunately for Bruckheimer and June, Dewey was precisely the sort of individual who could elude ThinThread based not on intent but solely on the way he lived his life. Dewey rarely used credit cards and didn’t like the Internet. He didn’t have a Facebook account and was serially plagued with the same problem, trying to remember his password for his e-mail account. He found it easier to simply not communicate.
For the first hour after the conference call with Calibrisi, June found little to nothing on Dewey. His e-mail hadn’t been opened in more than two weeks. He didn’t own a cell phone. The most recent travel records, Dewey’s flight to London, they already knew about. After that, Dewey’s life was a blank slate, at least as far as ThinThread was concerned.
Serena Pacheco, on the other hand, quickly found a veritable treasure trove of information coming off the explosion at Beijing International Airport.
First were various radio transmissions coming from firemen and policemen who were on the scene. While interesting, they were useless. Then Pacheco hit paydirt. When she entered the name Andreas into an e-mail system based in Morocco and owned by a private Russian company, it was like striking oil. Attached to five different e-mails of individuals using the Russian e-mail server, a document was attached. On the document was a large photograph of Dewey. The document had five separate encryptions off a base Chinese text; Pacheco fed this document into a NSA code breaker algorithm that was designed to run text and figures through a massive store of mathematical and language possibilities. It took the program less than ten minutes to decrypt the document with Dewey’s photo on it. Once it was decoded, the document had five separate versions: Chinese, Spanish, Russian, French, and English. Pacheco hit print on the English version, then grabbed the document from the printer.
Across the top of the document, above Dewey’s photo, were the initials in bold black letters on a red stripe: TEP. It looked like an FBI most-wanted poster at the local post office.
Pacheco ran out of the SID conference room to Bruckheimer’s office down the hall.
“Jim,” she said. “I got something.”
Bruckheimer took the sheet from her. He looked at the photo of Dewey, then called Calibrisi and put it on speaker.
“We’re e-mailing this to you now,” said Bruckheimer. “It’ll be on MI6 1422 in a few seconds.”
“Great work, guys,” said Calibrisi, from London.
“By the way, what does TEP stand for?” asked Bruckheimer.
“Is that what it says?”
“Yeah.”
“Termination with extreme prejudice,” said Calibrisi.
* * *
Calibrisi hung up the phone, then turned to Smythson as Chalmers came back into the glass conference room.
A few moments later, one of the corner plasma screens lit up with the document.
→ TEP
ANDREAS, DEWEY AGE: 39
CURRENT LOCATION: 11798700ADE
NATIONALITY: U.S.A.
BIOGRAPH: FORMER U.S. SPECIAL FORCES (DELTA)
WANTED: MURDER OF TOP-RANKING MINISTRY OFFICIAL
COMMENTS: TARGET IS ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS
“That might explain the explosion,” said Chalmers.
“Do we have a time stamp on this?” asked Calibrisi.
“It was sent out more than two hours ago,” said the analyst.
“What’s the location?” asked Chalmers, pointing at the long coded number.
“The SID code breaker couldn’t figure it out.”
“They know where he is,” said Katie, urgency in her voice. “They have a location on him.”
Calibrisi opened his phone.
“Get me Jim Bruckheimer again,” he told the CIA operator.
A few moments later, Bruckheimer came on the line.
“How can I miss you if you won’t leave?” asked Bruckheimer.
Calibrisi didn’t laugh.
“I need you to find out where that location is. This termination order went out more than two hours ago. We’re behind here. Dewey is a sitting duck.”
“If it didn’t decrypt, it means it won’t, Hector,” said Bruckheimer. “That thing went through the mainframe. They formatted the document into five different versions. Each version was the same except for the code. It’s different on each version. We also opened the document that was attached to other e-mail accounts. Again, all the codes were different. I can’t explain it other than to say, we can’t decrypt the locale.”
“That doesn’t do much for me,” said Calibrisi. “What about ThinThread?”
“We need an electronic event. You know that. He needs to buy something. But he hasn’t done that. Until he does, we got nothing.”
“What about Borchardt?”
“Same. Try and be patient.”
“I can’t,” said Calibrisi. “Let’s keep a line open here. I’ll have control set up the bridge.”
Calibrisi pointed at the phone console in the center of the table. Smythson hit the conference button, and the CIA operator created a secure bridge between MI6 and Fort Meade.
Calibrisi then had the CIA operator connect him with Bill Polk in Virginia.
“Hi, Bill,” said Calibrisi, stepping into the corner of the conference room, away from the larger group.
“What’ve you got?”
“Where are you?”
“Langley.”
“We’ve got a situation,” said Calibrisi.
“Dewey?”
“Yeah.”
“I talked to Katie a couple hours ago.”
“China has a termination order out on him,” said Calibrisi. “They have a hard location.”
“Where?”
“We have no i
dea.”
“What can I do? I’ve got a tac team waiting here. As soon as we get a location, we’ll redeploy whatever assets we have in the theater. I’ve got every operative I have on standby. If you want, I can call JSOC and see about getting some Deltas and SEALs good to go.”
“Do it.”
“Hector, one more thing. If they do succeed in killing Dewey, I’d like permission to change the rules of engagement, at least for a day or two. Let my guys clear some of these Chinese motherfuckers off the face of the earth.”
“They won’t succeed,” said Calibrisi.
“But if they do.”
“They won’t.”
63
GUINCHO BREAK
OFF THE COAST OF LISBON, PORTUGAL
A quarter mile off the coast of Lisbon, Huong lay winded atop his surfboard, an Al Merrick 6´2´ Tangent, his most prized possession, floating in the cold ocean, catching his breath. His arms and legs, after a morning of surfing, were sore and aching.
Huong was surfing his favorite spot, Guincho, an exposed, west-facing beach that picked up some of the first and thus biggest of the fast-moving swells coming off the Atlantic Ocean. Guincho was not for the faint of heart nor the technically challenged. Add the occasional shark to the mix, and it was not a mystery as to why most of the people on this warm autumn day were watching from the beach or from the crumbling rock jetty next to it, rather than trying to tame one of the double-overhead sets that came like rolling thunder from the open ocean.
Huong was paddling just a few feet behind the notorious, intimidating Guincho break when he felt a sharp vibration at his wrist. It was coming from his ministry-issued wristwatch. He pulled his wet-suit sleeve up. The face of the watch displayed a red light that flickered on and off. It meant one thing and one thing only: get in.
Something was going down inside his station, meaning Lisbon proper. He nearly screamed with excitement. But he didn’t. In fact, Huong didn’t show any emotion.
Huong saw an oncoming wave and paddled hard to get into position. He dropped onto what turned into a vicious, eighteen-foot-high wall of deep blue, which he caught a tad late. But once he was atop it, he knew what to do, shaping the front of his board into the wave’s sharp upper edge. Huong and board were thrown forward and down. He slashed like a dagger across a hard wall of blue water, just inches from the foaming white barrel that wanted to rip into him from behind and pummel him into the oblivion. He crouched, skimming his fingers along the wall of blue, as, in the distance, he could hear excited screams from onlookers atop the jetty, cheering him on. He emerged from the chute as the wave collapsed like a falling building, and he popped out the side, unscathed. He let the massive wave’s remnants fire him gently onto the sandy beach.
At the beach, Huong dried off, took off his wet suit, then sprinted up the hill to his car, carrying his board. He strapped his board to the roof of his car, then climbed in the front seat. He ripped the bright blue Porsche 911 out of the parking area, nearly hitting a woman, as he fumbled for his phone.
“Where have you been?” It was Huong’s team leader, somewhere in Beijing.
“Surfing.”
“Get to the airport, now.”
“What terminal?”
“The private terminal. You’ll get further instructions when you get there.”
64
LISBON PORTELA AIRPORT
LISBON
It was late morning as the Gulfstream made its approach into Lisbon.
Borchardt was still out. He’d be unconscious for a few more hours at least. Borchardt was going to no doubt require a few days in the hospital. Then a month or two of psychotherapy.
Out the window, Dewey saw the curvilinear slope of the Portuguese coast, Lisbon like a white-and-red patch at the northern apex. Lisbon was one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and from the sky, the dark, muted ocean behind the green curvature of the land was like a painting.
“Buckle up,” said one of the pilots from the cockpit.
Dewey ignored the suggestion.
As the plane arced down toward the tarmac and the city of Lisbon drew closer, its rich panoply of low red-roofed buildings, Dewey pondered his next steps.
The Chinese would be looking for him, but they would have no idea where he was, unless they had somehow tracked the plane. Dewey knew that was possible, though highly doubtful.
Lisbon was a random decision, just as he’d been trained to make. He thought back to his training:
Move quickly. Never stay in the same place for long. Stay in crowded areas. Seek crowds. Blend in. Don’t hide. Avoid locations where you’ve been in the past or where they assume you will go. Move with speed. Know when you are found. Always know what your weapon is, and have it within reach at all times.
The smartest thing for Dewey to do would be to simply take a taxicab to the American embassy. There, he would be beyond the reach of Bhang. He could do what he should have done already: call Hector. Go back and figure out a way to get at Bhang.
The jet’s wheels kissed the tarmac. The plane sped down the landing strip, then slowed.
Dewey checked the calf sheath on his left leg, making sure his knife was there. He stood up. He checked the magazines on the two Glocks he’d taken from the weapons cache in the other plane. He tucked one of the guns into his belt, in front. He took the other Glock and holstered it beneath his left armpit.
Dewey leaned into the cockpit.
“Move it around so the stairs face away from the building,” he said, pointing at the modern glass building that served as the entrance area for the private terminal.
Dewey hit the door lever. The stair hydraulic vibrated as the stairs lowered. He stepped down the stairs. His eyes darted from side to side as he scanned the tarmac. He peered beneath the fuselage. In the distance stood the private aviation building. Dewey started walking in the opposite direction, toward the main terminal. There was a long strip of hardtop he would have to cross. He started a fast walk across it. After a hundred yards, he was near a line of commercial jets. He fell in with a line of passengers disembarking down a set of stairs. He walked into the terminal building, his eyes scanning, the hard steel of the Glocks pressing, in an uncomfortable but familiar way, into his torso and side.
* * *
The private aviation lounge was a small modern glass building with a comfortable seating area. It was reserved for passengers on private planes. In the far corner of the lounge area sat Huong. He was in the back, in a black leather chair, sipping a coffee. He looked at his iPhone. The words were in Mandarin.
“Wheels down.”
Despite the heat, Huong had on a black Windbreaker. Across his chest, inside the Windbreaker, a 5.7x28mm FN P90 close-quarters combat submachine gun was strapped, its unusual bullpup shape easy to hide, the top-mounted magazine loaded, the safety off, the fire selector set to full auto.
Huong first eyed the Gulfstream when its silver nose reflected a sun flash in the low western sky, coming toward the runway. The jet barreled down the runway, then moved toward the terminal. It was unmistakable; it had to be the jet.
Huong hit a few strokes on the iPhone.
“Target in sight. Do I have backup?”
Huong waited for the response, his heart beating wildly.
“Yes. Lei and Shin are outside the main terminal.”
Huong knew both men. Lei was young, early twenties. Shin was in his forties, tough as nails, the second-ranking agent in Portugal.
Huong looked one last time at Andreas’s photo, then pocketed his phone.
In addition to a compact, extremely lethal FN P90 submachine gun, Huong had a suppressed, Spanish-made Star Megastar .45 ACP tucked in a specially designed pocket of the Windbreaker. He knew it would be better to use the suppressed Megastar. Inside the terminal, he would have to go quiet. But he’d never killed someone with the P90, and he longed to do it.
He looked around and counted only two other people in the spacious, brightly lit lounge area, a woman beh
ind the reception desk and a businessman seated in the center of the reception area, reading.
The plane came to a stop directly in front of the building, a few hundred feet away. The right side of the jet faced the building. Huong walked to the window. He searched the tarmac near the jet, looking for people, security guards, maintenance crew. But it was empty.
He felt the rectangular block of steel against his torso. He could do it outside, as he crossed the tarmac. The sound would be barely intelligible above the loud noise and confusion of the airport.
Then Huong remembered his training. To show off was frowned upon.
The sound of a gun is the sound of the soldier; silence, the signature of the professional.
He moved to a seat against the far wall, a seat removed from the line of sight of the entrance door. He put his hand in his pocket and gripped the butt of the Megastar, waiting, heart racing, the warmth of adrenaline coursing through him, warmth ten times that of the feeling off Guincho, when the front of his Tangent board slashed horizontally across the front wall of the wave.
* * *
Inside the main terminal, Dewey went into the first store he could find. He bought a baseball hat with a Benfica football logo on it, along with a pair of dark sunglasses and an international phone card.
In the distance, he saw a sign for the taxi stand. Against the wall, he noticed a line of public phones. He went to one of the glass semiprivate booths, put his bag down, keyed in the calling-card number, then dialed. Though he’d picked up the receiver with the intent of calling Hector, when he started to dial, his fingers struck different digits, another number he knew by heart. After nearly half a minute, the phone started to ring. It rang four times, then picked up.
“Hi, this is Jess,” said the voice. Dewey shut his eyes, picturing her face.
“I can’t come to the phone right now; please leave me a message.”
He forgot how warm her voice was, how soft and shy, and he remembered that it would have been his voice to listen to, to laugh with, for the rest of his life.
He fought to push the thoughts away. He hung up, then leaned his head against the wall.