Eye for an Eye: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  “I understand, General,” said Bhang.

  Just then a steady beeping noise came from Bhang’s phone. Emergency. Bhang pulled the phone from his jacket, then read the coded text:

  16/339-2

  G1-y

  Andreas had been found; he’d triggered an alias, using a credit card in Paris, and every ministry asset in the city had been notified, nine in all.

  Bhang put the phone away.

  “That little problem is about to go away,” said Bhang, trying to contain his excitement. “I can promise you there will be no further interruptions. Now, if you’ll forgive me, General, I must go.”

  * * *

  Dewey opened the door to room 1011. He went inside, bolted the door, then threw the leather bag to the bed. He pulled off his sweater and T-shirt. He put on the blue from the bag. He took the small ceramic ring and put it on his left thumb.

  Dewey went to a large mirror. He stared for a moment at his week of stubble, coating his cheeks and chin. His heart was starting to beat faster, he could feel that now for the first time. He stared into the mirror, into his blue eyes. The man who looked back at him looked tired, sad, but mostly just blank and emotionless. Inside, Dewey felt a combination of emotions—anger, grief, nervousness, fear, excitement—which he allowed to build, pool up, to grow into a single feeling: desire. Desire for vengeance.

  He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, then moved to the door.

  * * *

  Katie held a newspaper, a copy of Le Figaro, as she scanned the lounge with trained calm. Her legs were crossed in front of her.

  On the blue-green chintz sofa cushion next to her, her slightly worn toffee-colored Hermès Birkin bag sat on its side. For all pretenses and purposes, she looked like any other young, stunning, wealthy French woman, out for an afternoon espresso.

  Inside the bag was an MP7A1. It had been sanitized by MI6, in case the operation went south. A snub-nosed suppressor jutted from the muzzle. The MP7 was a terrific close-quarters combat firearm, with lethal kill power, accuracy, and reliability. She also had a Glock 30, in case she burned through the MP7’s magazine.

  Katie checked her watch. In the reflection off the face of the watch, she saw Tacoma’s unmanageable hair. He was seated a few tables away, sipping water.

  * * *

  Lijun—along with eight other ministry agents assigned to Paris—received the text as he was in the middle of a bite of a ham sandwich at a café on Montparnasse.

  8U 8U Di7

  Lijun jumped up so fast that he knocked over the table, sending dishes, glasses, and silverware crashing to the sidewalk.

  Two minutes later he was in the back of a Citroën taxicab as it moved across the Pont Neuf, the black water of the Seine underneath. A few minutes later, the Louvre’s signature glass and steel pyramid appeared to the right. To his left spread the ordered birches, gardens, and walking paths of the Tuileries Gardens. But he wasn’t admiring the scenery.

  Lijun made sure the driver wasn’t looking, then popped open his briefcase. Inside was Lijun’s Steyr TMP, a select-fire 9x19mm machine pistol, in essence a handheld, extremely compact submachine gun. He attached a custom snub-nosed suppressor, upon which was attached a small camera, then inserted a thirty-round magazine.

  He checked his watch. Finally, he removed his cell phone. He typed in:

  R5 999

  That told Beijing he was approximately four minutes from the target. It also engaged the small camera at the end of his weapon. He tucked the Steyr TMP against his chest, then zipped up his Windbreaker.

  * * *

  Dewey took the elevator to the lobby, where it opened to the left of the lounge. He walked across the marble floor and stepped to the entrance of the lounge. A tuxedoed waiter approached him, held his arm out, and pointed to a table in the middle of the crowded lounge.

  To the right, against a far wall, Dewey saw Katie.

  Next to Dewey’s table, where the waiter now held out a seat, was Tacoma, drinking water, reading the International Herald Tribune. Their eyes met briefly; Tacoma looked calm.

  “May I get you an aperitif?” asked the waiter. “Perhaps a coffee or glass of wine?”

  “Coffee,” said Dewey.

  * * *

  Koo received the text from the ministry as he crossed rue de Miromesnil. He waited for a large group of schoolchildren to pass by before replying. In the distance, he could see the entrance to the Bristol Hotel, the flag of France, of the EU, and of several other countries, all billowing in the wind above the entrance.

  He removed the Hermès tie from its bag, folded it, and stuffed it in his pants pocket. He threw the bag in a trash can. Then Koo typed into his iPhone:

  P+ KK1 8U

  The code activated the camera on the end of his QSZ, which he felt sticking into his side. His words also communicated something to Beijing: “I am within one minute of target.”

  Koo put the iPhone back in his coat pocket, crossed Miromesnil, and walked toward the Bristol.

  * * *

  As the cab moved up Avenue Matignon, Lijun was sweating, his body a live wire, filled with tension and nervous energy. In the distance, he saw soldiers standing at the gates of the Élysée Palace.

  The taxi turned onto Faubourg Saint-Honoré. To the left, a short line of cabs sat waiting in front of the Bristol. Multicolored flags, tossed by a breeze, waved above the majestic entrance canopy. Then Lijun saw someone he recognized: Cao Chong, another agent, running down the sidewalk from the opposite direction toward the hotel door. In Chong’s hand, swinging in the air, was a black steel handgun, a suppressor sticking from the end.

  Lijun did not wait for the taxi to get to the hotel, instead he ripped the door open and leapt from the back, leaving the briefcase behind, going into a hard sprint toward the hotel entrance.

  * * *

  The waiter walked toward Dewey with a tray in his hand. As he was about to arrive at the table, Dewey’s eyes were drawn across the lobby to the glass doors at the hotel’s entrance.

  Through them walked a man with dark hair in a tan trench coat. He was tall. His eyes scanned the lobby. There was no question: it was Koo.

  “Monsieur—”

  “I changed my mind,” said Dewey, raising his hand to stop the waiter. “A glass of wine.”

  From the corner of his eye, Dewey watched as Koo crossed the lobby quickly, moving like an athlete. As he descended the marble steps near the lounge, his arm reached inside his trench coat. He ripped a sidearm from inside the coat, walking with it at his side as he approached.

  Dewey felt the small button on the thumb ring.

  “Very good, monsieur,” said the waiter. “What kind of wine would you like?”

  “Anything,” said Dewey, impatiently. “Red.”

  Koo came to the lounge entrance. His dark eyes scanned the room. In his right hand he clutched a suppressed QSZ-92.

  “Bordeaux, monsieur? Beaujolais?”

  “Anything,” said Dewey. “I trust you.”

  “Very good.”

  As the waiter moved from in front of Dewey, Koo’s eyes scanned a moment longer, then found him, then locked. Koo’s arm flew up, the black suppressor swung in line, and found Dewey.

  * * *

  Bhang stood before the plasma screen, which was divided into three separate views: the live shots from the cameras on the weapons of Koo, Chong, and Lijun.

  Bhang’s suit jacket was removed, as was his tie. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He was smoking a cigarette. The room was filled with at least a dozen other men, all transfixed on the plasma.

  On another screen was a map of Paris with live GPS locations on all nine ministry agents in the city, indicated by flashing green lights. Bhang studied the map quickly. The three green lights—Koo, Chong, Lijun—were clustered in and around the Bristol.

  “Tell the others to hold back,” said Bhang calmly. “Three agents should be enough.”

  Bhang, recalling his meeting with Qingchen, didn’t want to create
any more violence than necessary.

  “Don’t enter the hotel unless we tell them to.”

  Bhang went back to the screen showing the live video feeds. Koo was on the left. He was now inside the hotel, walking across the lobby. The view was grainy but clear. He came to a stop at the front of a lounge full of people, seated at tables.

  In the middle screen, Chong was entering quickly through the door. To the right, Lijun’s view was dark; he still had his weapon concealed, but he’d activated it. Suddenly, his section of the plasma lit up. The back of Chong, running across the hotel lobby, was plainly visible.

  * * *

  Dewey lurched forward, tossing the table over, lunging in the direction of Koo, as a woman to Dewey’s left suddenly started screaming. Dewey leapt at Koo, his arms outstretched. But before he could reach him, Koo fired.

  The mechanical staccato of the suppressed weapon played low, beneath the screams, in the same moment Dewey pressed the button on the thumb ring twice. Dewey’s shirt exploded in a riot of dark red above his heart. His forward motion was halted. He tumbled sideways, down to the ground, onto his back, chest sopped in crimson.

  Tacoma leapt up from his chair, pulling his P226 from his shoulder holster. In one fluid motion, he swung it toward Koo and fired, missing, the sound of Tacoma’s unsuppressed sidearm only adding to the screams, the sense of chaos, that now filled the lounge.

  Koo swung the QSZ to the right and fired at Tacoma. Tacoma was struck in the center of his chest as he grunted loudly and was kicked backward, tumbling to the ground, his T-shirt abruptly ruined in dark red.

  Screams filled the Bristol lounge; patrons ran toward the back of the lounge and dived under tables for cover.

  From the lobby, a commotion ensued, voices raised, then suddenly there was more gunfire, this time from near the entrance to the hotel.

  Koo stepped above Dewey, weapon trained at his chest. Dewey looked up at the agent. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out. Koo fired once, twice, three more times as, behind him, through the lobby, another man stormed toward the lounge, running with a weapon outstretched in his hand, a long black suppressor sticking out from the muzzle.

  The loud, unmuted sound of Tacoma’s gun exploded as Tacoma got off a round from the ground. Koo lurched backward, clutching his left shoulder, falling to the ground, screaming in pain.

  Katie saw the second gunman as he came into view, near the front of the lounge. He was running fast, weapon out. Katie stood up. She ripped the MP7 from her bag just as the gunman rounded the entrance, saw Dewey on the ground, and swung his weapon.

  Katie triggered the submachine gun, full auto. A hail of slugs tore into Chong, arresting his forward motion and kicking the back of his skull out in a spray of blood. He fell in a contorted heap to the marble floor, dead.

  For the first time, sirens pealed in the distance from somewhere outside the hotel.

  Katie moved to Dewey, crouching at his side. Suddenly, her eye was drawn to the lobby. Another man was charging. In his left hand, he clutched a squat black CQB machine gun, which she recognized: Steyr TMP.

  From the ground next to Dewey, Katie swept the MP7, trigger flexed, and sprayed slugs across the agent’s torso, ripping holes through him before he could even fire, felling him a few feet behind the other gunman, the wall behind him abruptly splattered in red.

  * * *

  Koo ran through the lobby, toward the entrance, clutching his weapon. He pushed through the now-abandoned doors.

  Sirens moved closer now, becoming louder.

  Outside, Koo ran to the first taxi he could find. He climbed in back, clutching his shoulder.

  “Drive.”

  The driver eyed Koo in the rearview mirror, holding his shoulder, a pancake of red now covering the shoulder of the trench coat.

  “L’hôpital, monsieur?”

  “Non. Jardin du Luxembourg.”

  Koo removed his iPhone from his pocket and typed.

  009 YT-6

  The code told Beijing a number of things: Andreas was dead, he needed an exfilt, and he was injured.

  It also turned off the camera.

  * * *

  Bhang stood in front of the plasma screen as Koo’s video feed went black. The other feeds—from Chong and Lijun—had already gone black.

  “Rewind it to the point of conflict,” said Bhang. “Then put it full screen.”

  A few moments later, the video from Koo’s camera started playing.

  A man holding a small tray stood at the center of the picture, his back to the camera. As he moved out of the way, Andreas appeared, seated, behind where the waiter had been standing. Koo raised his weapon. Andreas lurched toward the camera. The frame then bounced as Koo fired, but the sight of blood erupting as the bullet hit his chest was plainly visible. Andreas fell to the ground. The lounge devolved in chaos. Another man stood and fired at Koo; Koo swung his gun and shot him in the chest, knocking him to the ground. Then the view moved back to Andreas. Koo moved above him. The shot was grainy. He aimed the weapon at close range and fired three more times; each time the view became interrupted as the QSZ kicked back on Koo. To the right, in the corner of the screen, the other American could be seen on the ground. Then the feed went abruptly haywire as Koo was shot.

  “Stand down the other men,” said Bhang, standing before the plasma screen. “Get them away from the hotel and out of Paris, immediately.”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “I have a message from Koo,” said another agent. “He’s injured and is requesting exfilt.”

  “Get a logistics team moving,” said Bhang. “Make sure they have medical equipment aboard the plane.”

  * * *

  The first French police arrived a minute later amid a growing chorus of screams, ambulance sirens, and shouting. It was a two-man detail, carbines out and aimed forward as they stormed into the Bristol.

  The first ambulance arrived just behind them. Two EMTs sprinted through the open doors, pushing a gurney across the lobby toward the blood-soaked lounge.

  Blood was splattered all over the place. A woman was dead at the foot of the marble stairs; she’d been gunned down by Chong as he ran through the lobby.

  Chong lay in a growing miasma of blood outside the lounge entrance, his head destroyed. Lijun, the third man on the scene, was just behind him, contorted on the ground, lying in a growing pool of blood, eyes staring up at nothing.

  Inside the lounge, Dewey lay on his back, eyes closed. Tacoma lay just feet away, motionless, drenched in red.

  At least a dozen more French police entered the lobby of the Bristol, followed by soldiers.

  Another pair of EMTs charged through the doors, running a gurney across the lobby.

  The first pair of EMTs went to Dewey. One of them put a stethoscope to his chest, felt his neck, then shook his head as he looked at the other EMT, who quickly turned and performed the same ritual with Tacoma.

  They hoisted Dewey to the gurney, wheeling him out of the lounge, back across the lobby. Katie trailed them, holding her MP7 in her right hand, lest any more agents arrive at the scene. In her left hand, in case she was stopped, she had an ID, issued by French intelligence, but amid the chaos, no one stopped her or even noticed the weapon at her side.

  Outside, Faubourg Saint-Honoré was shut off, taken over by police, SWAT teams, soldiers, and ambulances.

  The EMTs with Dewey pushed to the open doors at the back of the ambulance, collapsed the gurney, then lifted him in. Katie climbed in the back along with one of the EMTs. The other shut the door, then ran to the front, climbed in, and hit the siren.

  The ambulance shot away from the hotel, siren blaring.

  * * *

  In the backseat of the taxi, Koo looked out the window as they moved across Paris, trying to memorize the views of the city he loved and would likely never see again.

  On boulevard Montparnasse, his iPhone vibrated.

  7i 30 *

  Exfiltration in forty minutes, your apartment. Co
ngratulations.

  Koo removed the magazine from his QSZ, opened the window, and tossed it out. From the pocket of the trench coat he removed another magazine and jammed it in.

  Koo took a separate phone from his pocket. He typed in a text.

  “Exfilt forty minutes rue Madame.”

  The taxi pulled onto rue Guynemer, a block from his apartment.

  “Ici,” said Koo.

  He climbed out at the curb, removed the trench coat, folded it so that the red area wasn’t visible, then laid it atop his shoulder to conceal the red.

  Koo walked around the block, past his apartment building. He glanced around, making sure he wasn’t being followed. On rue de Fleurus, a large green garage door went ajar as he approached. He slipped inside.

  Koo’s eyes registered the brightly lit work area and a variety of people milling around. A woman walked across the large bay toward him.

  “Hello, Koo,” said Smythson, extending her hand.

  * * *

  Outside the Bristol, the doors to the ambulance shut. Dewey sat up and ripped his shirt open, sending buttons flying.

  “That was fun,” Katie said.

  “Speak for yourself.”

  The shirt was a storm of red, as was everything beneath. He stripped off all his clothing. Katie looked away. He handed the clothing to the EMT, who stuffed it into a black plastic bag. The EMT handed Dewey a warm, wet towel and he quickly wiped off every part of his body. Dewey wrapped a green hospital gown around his waist.

  The ambulance siren turned off as it pushed through the city’s streets. At the back of the Musée d’Orsay, the ambulance pulled into an underground unloading dock and stopped beside a white van, which was idling. Dewey and Katie followed the EMT to the van then got inside. The van sped back up the ramp and out of the loading dock.

  A few minutes later, they pulled onto rue de Fleurus. The van stopped in front of a set of green garage doors.

  * * *

  Bhang watched the video sequence six more times, not saying a word. Then he performed the same exercise with the other feeds, watching as his two agents, Chong and Lijun, were killed, both by the same woman, obviously, along with the long-haired man that Koo shot, CIA or some other agency, there with Andreas. That fact alone told Bhang that the killing of Bo Minh had probably been executed by the intelligence agency. It also told him that they would need to expect reprisals; France, though amoral, was a U.S. ally. They would quickly ID Chong and Lijun.