Eye for an Eye: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

Dewey took a shower and put on clean clothing. When he returned to the library, someone had placed a mug of fresh coffee in front of his seat. He looked around, trying to figure out who had done it, but no one said anything, which was, he realized, the point.

  He took a sip, ran his hand through his still-wet hair, and looked across the room at Chalmers, then Calibrisi.

  “I’m in,” Dewey said. “Tell me how we’re going to kill this motherfucker.”

  Chalmers smiled then looked at the woman on the sofa.

  “I’m Veronica Smythson,” she said to Dewey. “I run paramilitary operations at MI6.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “First, some context. Two weeks ago, you succeeded in finding the name of an elusive double agent working inside Mossad. The discovery of that mole, Dillman, began a chain of very brutal, very lethal reprisals and counterreprisals. For a variety of reasons, what began as a fairly traditional East–West intelligence battle has become personal between its two protagonists. Bhang’s behavior, we believe, holds the key to the operation. In his increasing obsession with killing you lies the architecture of his own demise.”

  “Speakay Anglay,” said Dewey, sipping from his coffee cup, “s’il vous plaît.”

  Smythson grinned.

  “As reckless as killing Bo Minh was, it served a vital purpose,” said Smythson. “You personalized it.”

  “Bhang issued a worldwide kill order on you,” said Chalmers.

  “In Bhang’s eighteen years running the ministry, he’s issued six,” said Smythson. “Killing you is now the highest priority of Chinese intelligence. Every move you’ve taken—killing his brother, killing the squad over at Borchardt’s house, escaping from Lisbon—has only added to the anger that now drives Bhang. It’s his obsession with you, ultimately, that’s going to be his undoing. Or yours. The operation we’ve designed takes that anger and directs it back at Bhang himself. The code name is ‘Eye for an Eye.’ It means revenge. But it also means deception; we are going to manipulate what Bhang sees for a brief period of time. Unknowingly, he will see something different than what is actually occurring. A series of lies. We will be substituting an eye for an eye.”

  Smythson nodded at the bald man next to her on the couch, who began typing on his laptop. Suddenly, the curtains slid shut over the windows, and the lights in the room dimmed. A large screen lowered from the ceiling behind Smythson. The screen lit up. It displayed a picture of the exterior facade of a hotel.

  “This afternoon, at approximately three fifty-five P.M., you’ll check into the Bristol Hotel,” said Smythson. “You’ll pay with a credit card that we’ll provide you. The name on the card will comport with a passport we’ll also provide.”

  A photo of a passport appeared showing Dewey’s face. The name “Walker, Dane M.” appeared next to it, along with “Kansas City, Missouri.” Next to the photo of the fake passport was a black American Express card, the name “Dane Walker” in the lower corner.

  Something about the name triggered a memory in Dewey.

  “Does that name sound familiar?” asked Smythson.

  “Yes,” said Dewey. “I don’t know why, though.”

  “Delta,” said Smythson. “That was your alias when you went to Munich and exfiltrated the Russian, Vargarin.”

  Dewey nodded.

  “When that credit card is swiped,” continued Smythson, “it will trigger the alias. It’s one of the aliases we assume the ministry will be in possession of. When that credit card is swiped, they’ll know within approximately ten seconds you’ve checked into the Bristol.”

  Smythson nodded at her aide, and the screen changed. A photo appeared of a man in a baseball hat. He was middle-aged, with a mustache and dark complexion.

  “We also have a backup, for redundancy. This man, Louis Vonnes, is a parking valet at the hotel. He’s also a Chinese informant. Yesterday afternoon, he was shown your photograph and promised a bunch of money if he sees you and phones you in. We would like you to smoke a cigarette outside the hotel before you check in.”

  “Does Dewey need to worry about this guy doing more than phoning it in?” asked Tacoma.

  “There’s always unpredictability,” said Smythson. “That said, we checked him out. He doesn’t own a gun or have any sort of criminal background.”

  A photo of the hotel’s front desk appeared.

  “After checking in, you will place your bags in room one-oh-one-one,” said Smythson. “You’ll put on this shirt.”

  She stood up and walked to a credenza on the side of the room. From a leather weekend bag, she lifted a blue button-down shirt and held it up. It appeared normal from the outside, but on the inside of the shirt was a thin sheet of mesh that resembled Bubble Wrap. Four fist-sized bladders of transparent liquid were attached to the mesh. It looked like water.

  She carried it to Dewey. “Put this on; let’s make sure it fits.”

  Dewey stood up and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He tried the shirt on. It was snug but would work.

  “Look in the pocket,” said Smythson.

  Dewey looked in the chest pocket and removed a ceramic ring. A small button stuck out of one side of the ring.

  “Don’t press it,” said Smythson.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ll get to that. Now take the shirt off.”

  She folded it up and walked it back to the leather bag.

  “Sometime after four, you will return to the lobby of the hotel, wearing the shirt. The ring will be on your finger. Head for the Bristol lounge.”

  A floor plan appeared, showing the elevator marked with a big X. To the elevator’s right was a large red star. An arrow showed the route.

  The floor plan disappeared and was replaced by a photo of the Bristol lounge. The room was fancy, like a tearoom at a palace, with cavernous ceilings, chandeliers, large double-decker windows, booths, and tables filled with people.

  “Unfortunately for the Bristol, I’m afraid we’re going to be making quite a mess of it this afternoon,” Smythson went on.

  “It’s critical you understand the next sequence,” said Chalmers. “If any aspect of the operation from this point forward goes south, you’re a dead man.”

  Three photographs popped onto the screen. On the left was a head shot of Katie. To the right, Tacoma. In the center of the screen was a photo of a Chinese man.

  “These are the three role players in our drama,” said Smythson. “Katie, Rob, and a third individual.”

  Dewey stood and walked in front of the screen, studying Koo’s face.

  “Who is he?” asked Dewey.

  “His name is Xiua Koo. He is a high-rank ministry agent. For six years, Koo has also worked for England. Koo is being sacrificed by MI6 for the greater objective of this operation. He’s playing a key role in our deception, and then he will be brought in from the cold.”

  Dewey studied Koo’s face.

  “As of three thirty this afternoon, Katie and Rob will be in the lounge,” Smythson went on. “They will not be together and will not do anything to acknowledge each other. Rob will brush his hair and put on some decent trousers so that the Bristol allows him inside.”

  Tacoma smiled and ran his hand through his hair.

  “That could be the most challenging part of the whole operation,” said Katie.

  “When you emerge from the elevator, Dewey, you’ll go to the lounge. You’ll be provided a table near the front. You’ll take the seat facing the entrance. By my estimates, time will be approximately five after four.”

  The screen flashed to a handgun.

  “QSZ-92,” said Dewey, standing in front of the screen, looking at the photo. “Nine by one-nine. Undermount red-dot laser.”

  “Correct,” said Smythson.

  The screen zeroed in on the muzzle. At the end of the barrel, where the site was located, was a small silver object. Dewey thought it was a smudge on the photo or a nick on the site. When the shot came into sharp relief, it looked like a tiny ball bearing.r />
  “Dewey, this is the most important part of the briefing.”

  “What is it?”

  “A camera,” said Smythson. “From the moment Koo walks into the hotel, everything will be watched live back in Beijing. Everything. Assume Fao Bhang will be watching.”

  “No flipping him off,” said Calibrisi.

  “That little camera is what this entire operation is about. That is our eye. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah, I get it.”

  “Xiua Koo will enter the hotel at approximately four ten,” said Smythson. “He’ll be wearing a tan trench coat. You’ll be in the lounge, sitting, perhaps having a spot of tea. When he sees you, he’ll pull the QSZ from the coat. Koo will then fire at you from close range, like this.”

  Smythson pretended to pull a sidearm from her coat, then stepped toward Dewey, aiming the invisible weapon at Dewey’s chest.

  “Bang, bang,” she said. “That’s when you press that little button on the ring, twice. You need to time it so that the second time you press it is right when he fires. It would also be helpful if you fell backward and pretended to be dead.”

  “So obviously the QSZ will be loaded with blanks,” said Dewey. “Unless, of course, he has a change of heart. Or Bhang gets to him. Then what happens?”

  “Then you won’t need to press the button,” said Tacoma.

  Dewey smiled and shook his head.

  “Koo is trustworthy,” said Chalmers.

  “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “If it was just about him, I would understand,” said Chalmers. “It’s not. If you die, some people Koo cares about will also die.”

  “What if those people have already been exfiltrated by China?” asked Dewey. “Or shot?”

  Chalmers looked at Smythson.

  “There’s no way around that one, Dewey,” said Smythson. “But, if it’s any consolation, that’s one of the smaller risks you’re signing up for.”

  Dewey said nothing.

  “92’s a decent gun,” said Tacoma. “You won’t feel a thing.”

  “Will you shut the fuck up?” said Dewey.

  “Okay, let’s get back to it then,” said Smythson. “At this point, two different sequences begin, and you two”—Smythson pointed to Katie and Tacoma—“come into the picture.”

  Smythson turned and nodded at her staffer. A generic photo of a man appeared on the screen.

  “Rob,” said Smythson, “you’re there to keep an eye on Dewey. When you see Koo pull his weapon, you stand, pull yours, and fire, aiming here.”

  She pointed to her left shoulder, then to the screen. A red star appeared where she wanted him to aim, atop his shoulder.

  “Of course, you’ll be firing blanks, Rob,” she said. “Your first will miss. Koo will shoot at you, and you’ll take the fall, like Dewey. Koo puts a few more rounds in Dewey, giving the folks back in Beijing a nice view of a very bloody and very dead Dewey Andreas. From the ground, you fire again, Rob. That one hits. Koo will fall to the ground. He’ll run for the door, bleeding badly. Exit Koo. Katie, at the same time this is happening, you are watching the door to the hotel and the lobby. At some point, sooner rather than later, we have to anticipate the arrival of more ministry agents. Your firearm will be hot; you need to take them down. Otherwise, this will all be for naught. If any tertiary assets get into a firing zone, Dewey will die.”

  “What will I be carrying?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “MP7A1,” said Katie. “A Glock 30, also.”

  “Done,” said Smythson. “Now, this is important. There will be witnesses. Also, you should assume one or more of the Chinese agents have cameras. People in the lounge might have cameras, even the hotel. We should expect that all of it will be examined by MSS. What this means—Dewey, Rob, Katie—is that you need to play your parts, even after Koo is gone, and even after Katie has taken down whatever comes her way. Katie, you should tend to Dewey.”

  “Then what?”

  “At this point, I would expect full-out pandemonium,” said Smythson. “Police, ambulances—you name it. Dewey and Rob, you’ll be taken away in ambulances that we happen to own. Katie, guard Dewey the entire way to the ambulance in case there are any more agents. You’ll have identification that, if necessary, will let you pass any French police. Get in the ambulance with Dewey.”

  Smythson looked at Tacoma, then Katie, and finally Dewey.

  “Everyone got it?”

  “I think I can handle that,” said Dewey. “Am I done at that point?”

  Smythson looked at Dewey, then to Chalmers, in silence.

  “Not quite,” said Chalmers. “Why don’t we take a five-minute break.”

  * * *

  Bhang stood on the deck outside his brother’s empty apartment.

  The sun was setting in the distance, and he understood then why Bo had chosen to live where he lived, far away from the ministry’s offices, from the city, in a place where, beneath the burnt orange sky, acres upon acres of trees, fields of wildflowers, and the serene, dark blue water of the lake spoke a different language than anything available from human beings.

  He smoked his third cigarette in a row, standing in silence on the small terrace.

  Back inside the apartment, Bhang walked one last time through the rooms. He’d already had all of Bhang’s computers and technical equipment shipped back to the ministry. Furniture, such that it was, would be picked up in a few days and donated to a local orphanage. As for Bhang’s personal effects, such as clothing and dishes, Bhang had it thrown away. He’d boxed up the photos, and they now sat in a cardboard container near the door.

  Bhang walked one last time through the apartment. He looked in the closet, off the bedroom, finding it empty. Then he stared at the bed for a few moments. He crouched and peered beneath it. There, he saw a small object tucked away, near the wall. He crawled on his stomach and grabbed its edges. He pulled it out, then set it on the bed. It was a homemade radio, the radio Bo had made, with help from their father, when he was all of seven years old. He touched the wires to the old battery, and the radio made a faint static noise. He moved a small wooden dial until he could hear the sound of a man, coming through the small speaker. He was giving a weather report. After a few seconds, the battery died out.

  Bhang stared for several moments at the radio, feeling an emotion he hadn’t felt in so long that at first he couldn’t recognize it: sorrow. He felt his eyes become wet, and then he began to cry, a high-pitched, childlike cry, his head bobbing up and down as tears fell to the floor.

  As he was driven back to the ministry, his composure reestablished, Bhang listened to his voice mail, a number that only three people possessed, two of whom—Bo and Ming-huá—were now dead. He dialed the third.

  “General Qingchen,” said Bhang, after he’d answered.

  “We must talk,” said Qingchen. “Time is moving faster than I anticipated. Events are occurring.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  Dewey saw Calibrisi standing alone on the terrace. He went outside.

  Calibrisi turned. He put his hand on Dewey’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry for slugging you earlier.”

  “It’s all right. Sorry for choking you. Now, what are you not telling me?”

  Calibrisi paused.

  “Let’s go back inside,” said Calibrisi.

  The rest of the group had reconvened in the library.

  Dewey sat down.

  “We need to hurry,” said Chalmers, looking at his watch. “We’re going to start running into time issues.”

  “Next steps,” said Smythson. “You’re shot. You’re down on the ground. You’ll be taken from the Bristol in an ambulance. The ambulance is going to take you to a garage near Luxembourg Gardens. It’s near where Koo lives and where we believe he’ll be exfiltrated from.”

  Dewey listened without reacting.

  “I’ll meet you there,” continued Smythson. “Your hair will be dye
d and cut. Then a cast of Xiua Koo will be attached to your face.”

  Smythson nodded at the screen. The photo of Xiua Koo appeared.

  “I’m six-four.”

  “Koo is six-three,” said Smythson. “As for the cast, you won’t be able to tell the difference.”

  “I don’t speak Mandarin,” said Dewey, his doubt starting to show.

  “You only need to know one word,” said Smythson. “Téngtòng. It means, ‘pain.’ Remember, you just got shot. Everyone will understand if you don’t say anything for a while.”

  “They’ll examine my shoulder,” said Dewey.

  Smythson looked at Dewey, then to Calibrisi and Chalmers. Dewey’s eyes followed hers.

  “That part will be real.”

  Dewey sat back, saying nothing.

  “You’ll take the place of Xiua Koo,” said Smythson. “You’ll be exfiltrated today and flown to China. That’s the part of the operation you’ll have to architect, Dewey. It is our belief that soon after your arrival, either at the airport or when you get to the hospital, Bhang will visit you. Of course, he’ll think he’s visiting Koo, the ministry hero who killed his nemesis. What you do at that point, what tools or weapons you may or may not improvise, that will be solely up to you to innovate. Perhaps break his neck or strangle him.”

  “What if he doesn’t visit?” asked Dewey.

  “He will,” said Chalmers. “The agent who succeeds in assassinating you receives the highest award the ministry has. Bhang is awarding it in person. This is all going to go down quickly—right when you arrive or soon thereafter. But if you miss the opportunity, they’re going to find out sooner rather than later. Then you’re dead, and Bhang lives on.”

  Dewey leaned back.

  “Sounds like I’m dead no matter what.”

  “You wanted your shot at Fao Bhang,” said Calibrisi. “Now you’ve got it.”

  “You can still back out,” said Katie. “You don’t have to do it.”

  “She’s right,” said Chalmers. “We’re going to do everything we can to figure out how to get you out of China. But there are no guarantees, and I would be lying if I said the odds of rescuing you are good.”

  Dewey thought of Jessica. She wouldn’t want him to do it, of course. Were she alive, the operation would’ve been killed in its infancy. But she wasn’t alive, and Hector was right: he did want a shot at Bhang. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t take it, even if the odds were low and the aftermath fatal.