by Ben Coes
He heard multiple sirens in the distance, along with screams and gunfire.
Dowling grabbed the submachine gun as the killer approached the Mercedes. From the ground, Dowling triggered the SMG; he weaved a disjointed line of slugs across the sky, his aim unsteady, as debilitating pain, then a sense of numbness, abruptly burst in his arm, chest, and body. He struggled to avoid the blackout he knew was upon him, still firing. His line of automatic weapon fire found the agent as he came point-blank to the side of the Mercedes. Dowling watched as a slug ripped the man’s forehead, splattering crimson, kicking him backward, just a foot or two before the assassin would have enjoyed a clean shot at Andreas.
Dowling got to his knees and unzipped his orange jacket, then ripped his shirt aside. It was then that he realized he’d been hit twice, the second slug striking his chest, and he tasted blood in his mouth, bubbling up from somewhere inside him.
He stood, picked up his MP5, and moved clumsily toward Andreas. He knew there would be more men coming to kill the American. But his feet wouldn’t hold, and he tumbled to the ground. With the last of his strength, he took up position next to the overturned wreck of the Mercedes.
* * *
Sirens now wailed through the Lisbon air from all directions. Traffic was at a standstill. Whatever cars were on the freeway, in either direction, had stopped. Except for one.
A blue Audi S8 moved toward the wreck from the opposite direction, its engine revving above the din, tires screeching, as it hopscotched between car after stopped car, moving at more than a hundred miles per hour toward the pandemonium.
Innocent bystanders, closest to the scene, climbed frantically from their cars. A long-haired woman climbed from a station wagon, clutching a baby and screaming, running away from the carnage.
Farber, from MI6, didn’t see the woman until the very last second; he swerved the Audi, coming within a foot of hitting the hysterical woman.
Farber slammed the brakes on the Audi as he arrived at smoke-clogged ground zero.
He grabbed the car door, opened it, then leapt from the Audi in a hard sprint down the highway. He hurdled the concrete divider as the first flames danced from the AMG’s engine.
Farber registered two motorcycles behind the wrecked Mercedes, both on the ground, one of them in two pieces. He counted four men on the ground in the vicinity of the Mercedes, lying in various stages of contortion, amid growing pools of blood.
One of the men—an American in a bright orange motorcycle jacket—was still alive. Their eyes met. Blood coursed from the American’s mouth down onto the ground.
* * *
Dowling was close to darkness now. He saw the MI6 agent as the man jumped the concrete divider, running toward him.
Dowling’s eyes caught a white van in the background, speeding down the road, weaving through abandoned cars. Dowling lifted his left hand, pointing, trying to warn the British agent.
The agent turned. He saw the approaching van. In one smooth motion, he swept his M4 to the van, firing, ripping slugs through the windshield. A cartridge tore into the driver’s head. His head bounced sharply forward against the steering wheel. The van fishtailed and crashed into the concrete highway divider one lane away from the smoking, wrecked Mercedes.
The British agent charged at the van, firing as he ran, pelting the vehicle with slugs.
The back of the van opened, and two more men, both Chinese, jumped out, firing assault rifles from behind the van.
Dowling watched helplessly as the MI6 agent caught a slug in the head, dropping him lifeless to the highway.
With what life remained in him, Dowling moved his right index finger to the trigger of his MP5. His arm was shaking badly.
Dowling saw the first Chinese agent hurdle the divider and dash toward the Mercedes. Dowling triggered the MP5. The submachine gun made a dull clicking noise. The magazine was empty.
Dowling watched, helplessly, as the two gunmen came closer, leaping over the dead British agent.
Dowling couldn’t feel his body anymore. He was going into shock.
Dowling’s eyes drifted to the Mercedes. His eyes found the American, Andreas, who was hanging from the ceiling, helpless, upside down, his face drenched in blood.
Dowling watched as the American turned and looked in his direction, blood pouring from his ears, nose, mouth, their eyes making contact over the smoke-choked air.
* * *
Dewey tried to mouth words, but he couldn’t.
Run, he tried to shout. Run.
But he couldn’t.
The world was spinning badly around him as he tried to focus on the young American now lying next to him, the American he knew had come to save him.
Dewey felt the cold, wet dripping of blood, coming from his mouth, his nose, running up his cheeks and into his eyes, as he hung upside down.
He struggled to remain conscious as, outside the car, he heard the high, incomprehensible words, yelling in Mandarin. Sirens and gunfire. Hell.
Through the groggy haze of semiconsciousness, Dewey looked down at the ceiling of the wrecked Mercedes. Lying on the roof, above his head, was one of the handguns. He reached up slowly for the weapon as the sound of automatic weapon fire drew closer, as yelling from the killers became louder, more frantic.
He heard the low, dull thuds of slugs striking the seat next to him, piercing leather. His right hand could almost touch the handgun. One more inch, he thought, as salt from the blood stung his eyes. He touched the steel, but instead of pulling it closer, he accidentally pushed it farther away. He stared for what seemed like forever at his badly shaking right hand, so close to the Glock yet so far away.
Dewey saw the shadow first, running on the road. Then he saw legs, running quickly. Through the destroyed windshield, he watched as a Chinese gunman ran toward the American in the orange jacket, trying to get a clear line of fire.
Fight. It’s what you were meant to do.
Dewey stabbed his arm up at the butt of the Glock, reaching it this time, clutching it. He wheeled his arm around just as the gunman started firing. Dewey fired through the open slat of the windshield. The bullet tore into the agent’s cheek, kicking out the back of his head, dropping him to the tar.
Dewey swung the Glock around to the other side of the car, marking the other Chinese agent as he approached. All he could see was the man’s legs. They were blurry, tinted red by the blood in Dewey’s eyes, moving quickly. All Dewey could hear was the sound of bullets ripping into the Mercedes as the gunman came closer, firing.
Dewey pumped the trigger. The slug struck the gunman in the ankle. He dropped to the road, screaming, his carbine dropping to the road. The gunman looked up at Dewey, a pained expression on his face, then to his rifle. He was young, no more than twenty-five. He lurched for the rifle. Dewey fired. The bullet hit him in the chest, dead center, his white T-shirt erupting in crimson as he was kicked back to the tar.
Dewey turned to look at the American, lying on the road, just outside his window. His brown eyes stared blankly back at him. Then he blinked. He was still alive.
“Dowling,” the man whispered. “I’m Delta.”
“Hold on, Dowling,” said Dewey, mustering every ounce of strength he had left. “Hold on. Don’t fucking give up on me, man.”
“I won’t,” Dowling said quietly through the smoke, looking at Dewey.
68
MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY
BEIJING
“Huong?” barked Xiao. “Chiu? Answer!”
On the opposite side of the glass conference table stood Bhang. His arms were crossed. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. As he listened to Xiao attempt to raise the agents on COMM, Bhang was studying the large electronic map of Lisbon, now imposed on the glass of the table.
There were ten flashing red lights in all. Two at the airport and four on the highway, near the 25th of April Bridge, represented the agents who weren’t responding. Bhang already knew the two at the airport were dead, based on police repo
rts coming out of Lisbon. Now it was clear the four men sent to take out Andreas on the A2 were also gone.
Xiao completed the COMM check and looked to Bhang for guidance.
“Should we send in the others?”
“No,” said Bhang, shaking his head.
Bhang pointed to one of the flashing lights, which was close to the bridge, on a side street beneath the highway, moving toward the scene.
“Who’s this?”
“Lo,” said Xiao.
“Lo,” said Bhang into the COMM mic on the desk. “Can you see the scene?”
“Almost, Minister.”
Bhang lit the cigarette. He glanced at Xiao. “Does he have a rifle?”
Xiao nodded yes.
“I can see it now,” said Lo, over the COMM. “It’s a … well, it’s hard to describe, sir. It’s a mess. Let me put it up on video.”
One of the plasmas suddenly lit up. The view was blurry. The screen bounced around as Lo focused and framed the shot. After a few seconds, the scene sharpened. A side shot, from beneath the highway, showed the pandemonium on the roadway above. Smoke clouded the sky. Cars were strewn about haphazardly, along with several overturned motorcycles. Bodies of injured or dead people were strewn about on the ground.
All of it was clustered around an overturned sedan, which Bhang recognized as the Mercedes.
Multiple sirens could be heard. Lo panned right to show police cruisers and ambulances hurrying from up the highway.
Bhang, Xiao, and the other men in the situation room back in Beijing watched, transfixed, as a pair of green-and-white ambulances zigzagged toward the wreck, then stopped.
“Focus on the wreck!” yelled Bhang, pointing at the Mercedes. “Get us in tighter!”
The view sharpened and moved in on the overturned sedan, just as two uniformed medics sprinted to the side of the car.
The sound of a helicopter, off camera, became louder. Lo suddenly shot the camera right and up. A black military chopper rushed overhead, descending toward the chaos. Lo followed the chopper as it hovered above the roadway, then descended in a slow loop to the highway, just a few feet from the overturned Mercedes.
As the chopper touched down, the blood-covered head of Andreas emerged from through the crushed side of the car. The medics struggled to pull the driver from the wreck. A third man ran to the far side of the car. Finally, they pulled him completely out. Bhang stared expectantly, hopefully, as the American’s torso, waist, then legs were pulled through by the medics. Was he dead?
“Don’t move the camera,” ordered Bhang.
Two medics lifted Andreas up to a gurney as a third medic stuck an oxygen mask on his face then stuck an IV into his left arm. The two medics, trailed by the third, ran the gurney to the chopper. All three men climbed aboard. The chopper lifted into the smoke, then crossed the blue sky and shot away.
“See if you can track the chopper,” said Xiao.
“Don’t bother,” said Bhang.
Bhang reached forward and shut off the COMM speaker.
“Minister?”
“Andreas is gone. He’s alive, and he’s gone.”
“Are you saying the operation is over, Minister?”
“No, of course not,” snapped Bhang. “It’s simply moved to a more-complicated part of the playing field.”
Bhang turned and walked to the door. He paused there. He turned, smiling, and pointed at Xiao.
“Kill his family,” said Bhang.
69
BANGOR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
BANGOR, MAINE
US Airways flight 132 from Quebec City landed at Bangor International Airport at 8:50 A.M. There were four passengers aboard the fifty-seat Embraer jet. One of them, a Chinese woman, thanked the flight attendant, then stepped quickly down the airstairs and onto the tarmac.
Her name was Dao. She was twenty-three, had short black hair, and was a level-two operative in the paramilitary branch of the Ministry of State Security, assigned to territory U-8, eastern Canada and northern New England. U-8 included Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire.
Dao headed for the main terminal, a few hundred feet away. Inside, she found the Hertz counter.
“Good morning,” said a pretty blonde behind the counter. “How can I help you today?”
“I’d like to rent a car.” She handed the woman a credit card along with a forged Maine driver’s license.
“My pleasure,” she said, picking up her license, “Miss Dao. Let me see what we have.”
The woman typed a few keystrokes into the computer.
“Here we go. How about a Camaro? That’s a nice car, if you ask me. I also have a Dodge Challenger. That one’s fast as heck. My boyfriend has one. Sometimes he—”
“Camaro,” Dao said, interrupting her.
The Hertz woman typed away as Dao studied the map on the wall.
“And what brings you to Bangor?” the Hertz woman asked absentmindedly, making conversation as she typed.
“I’m visiting some friends,” answered Dao, studying the map, a cold look on her face, “in Castine.”
70
DEYROLLE
RUE DU BAC
PARIS, FRANCE
Xiua Koo stood beneath the mounted head of a rhinoceros, admiring it. The leather skin looked like armor, hardened by a lifetime’s worth of fighting. Koo was always amazed at how marred, ripped, and pockmarked the rhino was upon close inspection, but it was also why he liked the beast so much. He imagined what the animal had faced in its abbreviated life, what elephants, other rhinos, cheetahs, and other predators had attempted to kill him, before the hunter had finally succeeded in shooting him.
A small white price tag was affixed to the wall next to the head.
1914
British East Africa
€75,000
A short bald man with round gold-rimmed glasses stepped to Koo’s right, also admiring the head.
“The hunting was good that year,” said the man.
“It’s not for sale,” replied Koo. He turned, without looking at the man, and left the taxidermy shop.
* * *
Koo walked slowly, on thin cobblestone sidewalks, toward the Seine, stopping to look in the windows of different art galleries, chocolate shops, and patisseries. He didn’t look behind him.
Koo knew he was possibly being watched, and the next few minutes were important. The chances they were following him were slim but real. After all, Koo himself had spent his first years at the ministry doing nothing except surveillance of other ministry agents. It had always struck him as being inefficient and uneconomical. And yet he’d discovered two different traitors during his time in the surveillance unit, both ministry agents who’d gone to work for Russia.
If they were following him, looking back could be construed as paranoia, a cue; it had the potential to cause more men to be called in. And so he walked casually, pretending to enjoy the warm fall afternoon despite the speed with which his heart now beat.
He replayed the exchange at Deyrolle:
The hunting was good that year: We must meet immediately.
It’s not for sale: Shakespeare and Company.
At the Seine, he turned right and walked in front of the small booksellers and antiquarians who lined the banks of the river. He aimed for Notre Dame and its ornate spires.
Inside the main door to the cathedral, he stepped quickly to his left, then sprinted down a set of stairs to the basement. He ran down a dimly lit hallway, past a man in vestry garments, who did not even look up. At the end of the hallway, he went through a small wooden door to another stairwell, this one darkened. He went down to the next level, using his phone light to guide him. At the next landing was another door. He opened it and stepped into an alley, a recessed flood channel at the back of the cathedral, two stories below ground level. Koo climbed an iron ladder attached to the masonry and was soon back at street level, near the verdant lawns that flanked the cathedral. Koo walked quickly to the street. Across the busy traffic, he s
aw the sign: SHAKESPEARE AND COMPANY.
Inside the crowded bookstore, Koo climbed thin stairs to the second floor, then passed customers browsing old, used books. Near the back, he stopped at a shelf of dust-covered volumes, next to a door that said EMPLOYEES ONLY. He pretended to browse, glancing around him until, finally, there was no one else in sight. Koo removed a key from his pocket, placed it in the door lock, and turned.
Koo stepped into the small office, shutting the door quickly behind him.
Against the wall sat an old wooden desk, piled high with documents, bills, and paper, much of it yellowed and frayed. Two chairs were next to the desk, along with an old, torn leather club chair, which served as the desk chair. A beautiful glass lamp on the desk provided the only light in the windowless room.
Two people were seated in the chairs, waiting for Koo. In the left chair was a woman in a stylish black trench coat, with brown hair that was combed neatly back and a serious look on her pale, unattractive face. Koo had never met her before but knew exactly who she was: Veronica Smythson, head of MI6 paramilitary operations.
In the other chair was someone Koo did know, the man who’d recruited him to be a double agent for MI6 six years before: Derek Chalmers, the head of the agency, his blond hair longer and more unruly than Koo remembered.
“Hello, Koo,” said Chalmers. “Please sit down.”
Koo sat down in the leather chair, saying nothing.
“It’s time to make preparations,” said Chalmers. “We’re bringing you in.”
Koo stared at Chalmers impassively, without emotion.
“Why?”
“You’re going to be exposed,” said Chalmers.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
Koo stared at Chalmers. He knew the day might come. Indeed, sometimes he dreamed of it, of the day, the time, the place he would go, the day everything would be wiped clean and he would be brought in.
“Where will I be sent?”
“You know we can’t tell you that.”