by Ben Coes
“Do I have a choice about where I am to go?”
“No,” said Chalmers. “I’m sorry.”
Koo reached to his pocket and removed a pack of cigarettes.
“Do you mind?” he asked, looking at Smythson.
“Not at all,” she said.
Koo lit a cigarette, then took a long puff.
“So tell me about the operation,” said Koo, exhaling.
“It has to do with the ministry,” said Smythson. “More than that, I cannot tell you. Excepting, of course, your role.”
Koo nodded, and suddenly it made sense now.
“The American,” said Koo.
“Andreas,” said Smythson. “What is your knowledge of him?”
“It is the highest priority of the ministry,” said Koo. “Every agent in the clandestine bureau has been repurposed until he’s found and terminated. I would imagine there are other efforts going on as well.”
“Tomorrow, the American will be in Paris,” said Smythson.
Koo’s eyes became more alert.
“Do you have informants at any of the hotels?” asked Smythson. “A parking valet? A concierge? Front-desk person?”
“Yes. I have people at many of the hotels.”
“The Bristol?”
“Yes.”
“Does he work afternoons?”
“Yes, his name is Vonnes.”
“Good,” said Smythson. “This afternoon, you will show him a photo of Andreas. You will ask him to call you if he happens to see him; offer him money. Make the rounds. Make the same offer to all of your informants. It’s important that you show them the photo.”
Koo nodded.
Smythson reached to her right. She lifted a paper bag with the Shakespeare and Company logo on the side. She handed it to Koo.
He reached into the bag and pulled out an old hardcover edition of Anna Karenina. Koo lifted the cover. There were no pages. The book was a storage box, designed to look like a book. He pulled out a handgun. It was the same sidearm Koo already had, a slightly weathered 9x19mm QSZ-92 with an undermounted laser pointer. He popped the magazine. The gun was loaded.
“Tomorrow afternoon, just before four P.M., your man at the Bristol will call you,” said Smythson. “You will be somewhere close by. What’s the first thing you should do?”
“Call it in.”
“Precisely,” said Smythson. “You call it in. What next?”
“Go immediately to the Bristol,” said Koo.
“Are there rules of engagement?” Smythson asked.
“It’s a TEP,” said Koo. “It means we are to take any risk necessary on behalf of the state.”
“I’m talking about procedural rules,” she said. “Do you have to wait for backup? Kill or capture? Day or night?”
“None of that. The only one is that we must have our microcamera mounted and running.”
“Can I see it?”
Koo reached inside his coat. He removed his handgun, a QSZ-92, the twin of the 9mm Smythson had just given him. He handed it to her.
Smythson examined it. At the end of the muzzle, a small silver bead, like the round head of a pin, was affixed.
“How is it engaged?”
Koo held up his watch. “A code typed into either our watch or phone.”
“Can Beijing turn it on remotely?”
“No.”
Smythson disassembled Koo’s weapon, taking everything but the barrel and handing it to Koo. She then took apart the other sidearm. She switched barrels, so that the handgun she’d given Koo now had the camera on it.
“It’s important that the camera be running when you enter the hotel,” said Smythson.
Koo nodded.
“Where will he be?” asked Koo.
“In the lounge. When you see him, you pull your weapon from your coat. You will shoot Andreas at close range, here, once.”
Smythson gestured to her chest, pointing at her heart.
“One kill shot.”
Koo listened but said nothing.
“But, as you might expect, there are other American agents in the lounge,” said Smythson.
She pulled two photographs from her trench coat pocket. One showed Katie, the other, Tacoma. She handed them to Koo.
“Your shots alert them,” continued Smythson. “They are part of the operation.”
“Who are they?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
She pointed at the fake book. Koo reached inside. He pulled out a neatly folded white T-shirt. It was unusually heavy.
“You’ll have that on,” she continued.
“What is it?”
“The shirt is embedded with a chemical. The man in the photo will be at a table in the lounge. When he sees you move at Andreas, he’ll stand up and shoot you.”
Koo said nothing.
“His gun will have blanks in it, Koo.”
A small grin flashed on Koo’s face.
“The first bullet misses, and you return fire. Then you step forward and shoot Andreas three more times, proving without question to your handlers that he’s dead. But you fail to kill the other man. He shoots from the ground and hits you in the shoulder. You fall to the ground. When you do, the chemicals in the shirt will combine and your shoulder will be covered in what appears to be blood. Wear something light above it, so that the blood is visible.”
Koo stared at Smythson, then his eyes drifted to Chalmers, who stared back.
“After falling, get up and run for your life,” said Smythson. “Hail a taxicab and run.”
“Where will I be taken?”
“You call it in. Remember, you’ll be on a live feed to Beijing. You’re in pain. By the way, how do you say ‘pain’ in Mandarin?”
“Téngtòng,” said Koo.
“Téngtòng,” repeated Smythson.
“Yes.”
“Repeat it over and over as you ride in the cab. Our guess is, you’ll be directed to a safe house or back to your apartment. They’ll want to get you out of the country. Once we know where they’re going to exfiltrate you from, you hang up, and you’re done.”
“Done?”
“For good. We might need you to wait it out, but by suppertime you’ll be in the UK.”
Koo studied the photos of Katie and Tacoma. He held up the picture of Katie.
“Pretty,” he said.
“Yes.”
“What is her role?”
“She’s going to kill the other ministry agents who will be coming after you call it in,” said Smythson. “Don’t get in the way of her bullets, Koo; they’re real.”
Koo lit another cigarette, reclining in the leather chair, contemplating everything.
“What about Tammy?” asked Koo, looking at Chalmers.
Chalmers stared back.
“Xiua,” said Chalmers, “you know the drill. If she knows, if she does anything, it won’t work.”
Koo took a puff, nodding.
“If we’re successful, you have my word that we’ll make arrangements at the first opportunity,” added Chalmers. “But there are no promises.”
“By the way, no keepsakes,” said Smythson. “No photos, mementos—nothing. It all stays behind. A normal day at the office, so to speak.”
“I understand,” said Koo. “However, I must also ask: Is there no other alternative?”
Chalmers shook his head.
“This is important,” said Chalmers calmly. “Important enough to kill off one of MI6’s most valuable assets. By my estimates, you should have at least five million euros tucked away somewhere. It’s been my experience that others, after a similar transition, learn to be very happy. We will be there to support you at every turn. But you must also understand something.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve invested a lot in you,” said Chalmers, leaning toward Koo, his voice barely above a whisper, a polite but unmistakable hint of threat in his voice. “As you might have anticipated, you and Tammy will be under surveillance for the dur
ation of the operation. I don’t need to explain to you what that means.”
71
SIR ELLY’S
32 ZHONGSHAN NO.1 ROAD
SHANGHAI
Ji-tao Zhu, governor of the People’s Bank of China, sipped from a martini glass as he sat alone, looking out at the Bund, Shanghai’s famous waterfront, the Huangpu River, and its most famous building, the Pearl Tower, a concrete needle that stuck up into the sky, with two large round balls, like pearls, strung at either end of the needle, one near the top, the other closer to the ground.
Like most top government officials, Zhu had a weekend apartment away from Beijing. His was in Shanghai.
On this night, Zhu did what he liked to do every Friday night he was in town. He sat in a seat at Sir Elly’s alone, having a cocktail, before heading into the restaurant for a private dinner with his mistress. That was another accoutrement enjoyed by Beijing’s governmental elite. Zhu, a short, stooped, pasty man of fifty, was no exception. If anything was a testament to the homely Zhu’s power, it was the stunning beauty of his mistress, a twenty-six-year-old Shanghai native named Tai-lin.
He sipped his cocktail, looking out on the neon-lit cruise ships and myriad party boats that moved around the harbor.
Zhu was used to getting a seat at the rooftop lounge. It didn’t matter what time Zhu showed up. Beyond being a regular customer, and a generally nice person, Zhu also happened to run the largest financial institution in China. It made sense to keep a seat warm for him.
Most Friday nights, the rooftop lounge was crowded with people, and his reserved chair at the rooftop bar was the only one available. For some reason, on this night, Zhu was the only person at the bar. He took a few more sips, relaxing, staring out at the Bund. At some point, he noticed another man seated at the far end of the bar. His back was turned.
Had he been there before? Zhu didn’t think so. Something about the man was familiar. Zhu finished his cocktail. He left money on the bar, climbed down from his chair, and walked toward Sir Elly’s, where he knew Tai-lin would be waiting.
“Tai-lin is not there,” said the man.
Zhu hesitated.
It wasn’t a loud voice, and the man’s back was still turned. Had he been speaking to someone else? Or, perhaps Zhu had misheard him?
Zhu shook his head and continued walking. As he got to the door, he turned to get one last look at the man. As he did, the man, as if sensing Zhu’s eyes, turned. It was Fao Bhang. An unnatural shudder vibrated down Zhu’s spine as he stared at the spymaster.
“Fao, how are you?” asked Zhu, waving awkwardly.
Bhang continued to stare at Zhu.
“I must go,” said Zhu. “I … I have a dinner appointment.”
Zhu turned to leave and found himself standing face-to-face with two large men in suits, guarding the entrance.
Zhu turned and walked back to Bhang, who was smoking and looking out at the Bund. He had a small pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes.
“The Bund is so beautiful at night, don’t you think?” asked Bhang, looking through the binoculars. “I particularly love the Pearl Tower. So ugly during the day, but so pretty at night.”
“I did what you asked,” said Zhu quietly.
“No, you did not,” said Bhang, turning.
“We cleaned up the situation with the White House for you,” said Zhu. “We expended considerable political capital to do so, I might add.”
“That was only part of it,” said Bhang, icily.
“It is not my position to demand that the United States turn over a citizen for extradition,” said Zhu.
“I can certainly understand your hesitancy, Governor.”
“I am the top official of the largest financial institution in the world,” said Zhu, stammering. “The public face of China’s fiscal policy. This man, Andreas, I don’t even know who he is. You must seek the legal avenues. There is a process for this, I’m sure of it. I am not a prosecutor, a judge, or a special agent, Fao. I’m an accountant.”
“Ah, so I’m told,” said Bhang, smiling. “So perhaps you can help me with a math problem?”
Zhu’s face turned red. He stared at Bhang.
“What is it? Is it some kind of joke?”
“No,” said Bhang, “a simple mathematics problem.”
“Fine, ask your question, then I must go. I am late.”
“Thank you for indulging me, Ji-tao. Here is my question: If one were to drop something from the top of the Pearl Tower, which is a thousand feet high, and it landed on top of the lower floor, which is two hundred feet, how far would the object drop?”
Zhu’s eyes shot across the water to the Pearl Tower, lit up in the distance. He grabbed Bhang’s binoculars. He searched the Pearl Tower until he found the round upper pearl. There, he saw the silhouette of a woman whom he knew immediately was Tai-lin. She was hanging by one foot, upside down.
“Keep watching,” said Bhang.
“No!”
Suddenly the woman fell from the sky, dropping quickly and silently to the lower pearl, which she slammed into with an awful force, bouncing visibly. Her limp corpse then slid down the curvature of the ball and fell to the ground below.
Zhu’s mouth went agape. He couldn’t say anything. He had a hard time even breathing. A pained, terrible expression wrinkled his face as tears came to his eyes.
“There is a plane waiting for you at the airport,” said Bhang, standing up and flicking his cigarette to the ground. “It will take you to Washington, D.C. I have gone ahead and taken the liberty of having the chef at Sir Elly’s prepare your favorite meal, diver scallops, which was sent ahead to the plane, along with a bottle of wine, which I asked the sommelier himself to select on your behalf.”
Bhang stared at Zhu as he cried. He leaned closer to Zhu, a look of pity on his face.
“Do you need help remembering his name, Ji-tao?”
“Andreas,” whispered Zhu. “Dewey Andreas.”
72
MILL CREEK ROD & GUN
ORRINGTON, MAINE
Dao took a right off Route 15 and parked in front of a sign that read MILL CREEK ROD & GUN. The shop looked like an old house whose bottom floor had been converted into a gun shop a long time ago.
Inside, the shop was empty except for an older gray-haired man who wore a flannel shirt, clip-on suspenders, and Carhartts. He had a long thick beard and mustache. He was smoking a pipe. He looked at her as she stepped into the shop, scanning Dao from head to toe.
“What can I do you for?” he asked in a hard Down East accent.
Dao quickly scanned the small shop. Gun racks lined the walls and were filled with dozens of shotguns and rifles, new and used. The wall behind the counter was a checkerboard of handguns of all types and calibers, also new and used. The glass counter case had a variety of new handguns.
“I’m in the market for a rifle,” Dao said. “I’d like to do some target practice. Long-range.”
“New or used?”
“I don’t care.”
“You are aware of Maine gun laws, young lady?” the shopkeeper asked.
“That there aren’t any?” she replied.
The man grinned.
“Well, you need a permit to carry a handgun, although you can still buy one, of course. Not sure I understand the distinction on that one, but that’s politicians for ya. Other than that, there’s just the instant background check.”
Dao stared at him.
“I’m not buying a handgun,” she said. “I want a rifle.”
“All right. I hear ya.”
The man nodded at the wall behind her. A gun rack held a line of rifles, locked behind a steel bar.
He walked out from behind the counter and unlocked the bar. He swept his arm across the air, pointing at the line of firearms.
“Other than the Browning there on the right, which ain’t for sale, those’ll all do fine.”
He lifted a rifle up, then handed it to her.
“Kimber Classic,” he sa
id. “Used by a fella up in Winterport.”
Dao picked up the rifle. It was light, about five pounds, with a handsome walnut stock. She swung it up, aiming at the corner of the ceiling.
“What else do you have?” she asked.
“We have the SuperAmerica, also by Kimber,” he said, pointing. “Brand-new. Beautiful rifle. To be perfectly honest, it’s pretty much the same rifle as that other one. The America’s more of a collector’s item. We also got a few Remingtons, the Woodmaster, which I think is a decent gun, especially for the price.”
“What’s that one?” asked Dao, pointing toward a rifle that was hanging on the wall alone, above the others, although she already knew the answer. It looked heavily used, even beat-up, with a patina of scratched metal and wear. A worn sling dangled beneath it.
He glanced up at the rifle.
“That there’s a Panther,” he said, reaching up and lifting it from the wall. “That was my nephew’s. That’s a military rifle right there. Great rifle. I’d have to sell you the ten-round mag. Lawman won’t let me sell the nineteen, which is what it was designed for.”
He handed the rifle to Dao. It was heavy, but Dao already knew that. The DPMS Panther LR-308 was the rifle she’d been trained on. It was an easy-to-use, incredibly reliable sniper rifle, ideal for medium-range precision shooting that required speedy setup and pickup.
Dao took it to the counter. She made sure it wasn’t loaded, then quickly fieldstripped the weapon; shutting the bolt assembly, pressing the rear takedown pin and pulling it out the other side, pivoting the upper receiver and barrel assembly away from each other, pressing the front pin, pulling it out the other side, separating the upper and lower receivers, pulling the charging handle back, removing the bolt assembly, then removing the charging handle until it fell free. She laid the parts neatly on the counter.
Dao did the fieldstrip in exactly five seconds, her long fingers dancing over the steel of the firearm with dizzying speed. The shopkeeper watched her do it, his eyes bulging in awe. She inspected the weapon, then reassembled it. When she was finished, she handed it back to him.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
73
NORTHERN SPAIN