by Ben Coes
“Shall I attempt to do anything regarding the dead agents?” asked Dheng. “We could, perhaps, alter certain aspects of their backgrounds—”
“No,” said Bhang. “Don’t bother. We should expect a healthy counterstrike from Langley.”
“I’ll send out a warning.”
“Yes,” said Bhang. “Standard rules of engagement. I want to cool things off. The mission has been completed. Make arrangements as per usual protocol regarding pension for the two dead agents. See that their records reflect their part in this mission.”
Bhang picked up his coat from the back of a chair.
“One more thing,” said Bhang. “Please call the Bureau of Central Supplies. We will need to cast a new medal; the Order of the Lotus is to be awarded. Tell them it is their top priority.”
Bhang walked toward the door, then turned.
“Thank you, everyone,” he added, his words barely above a whisper. “I appreciate your work today.”
* * *
Smythson met Dewey at the door.
“Follow me,” she said.
They moved across the garage bay, which looked like an operating room.
Dewey climbed onto an elevated stainless-steel platform as two nurses pulled the hospital gown from him. He stood naked atop the table. Dewey wasn’t shy; everyone there knew it was business.
The two nurses, looking at photos of Koo on a large plasma to the right of Dewey, shaved his chest and legs. One of the nurses took out a small glass dish, which she placed on the stainless steel table next to Dewey. She took a paintbrush and painted Dewey’s pubic hair, staining it black. After she finished, the other nurse handed him a towel to wrap around his waist.
“Here, Mr. Andreas,” said a man in a white surgeon’s uniform. He pointed at a large chair in the center of the room, similar to a dentist chair. “Sit.”
The man jabbed a needle into Dewey’s shoulder, as another man started cutting Dewey’s hair to resemble Koo’s.
“This will numb it up,” he said. “It’s still going to hurt.”
They dyed his hair black, then dried it.
“We’re twenty minutes out,” said Smythson, her voice stern and loud. “We need to get moving.”
Lacey James, the makeup artist, approached.
Dewey looked left. Xiua Koo was standing next to Smythson, watching with a blank look on his face.
“Lean, back. Contacts first.”
James put brown-tinted contacts in each of Dewey’s eyes.
“Okay, now I need you to shut your eyes,” said James. “Hold your breath for the first minute or so, or you’re going to get really stoned.”
Dewey shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt a warm, rubbery substance moosh into his eyes, like clay but with a synthetic feel. Dewey felt pressure against his right eyelid for more than a minute, then the same pressure on the other eyelid. Then he heard what sounded like a blow-dryer, and felt heat on his forehead, cheeks, and around his eyes.
“We have to hurry up,” said Smythson.
“Eyebrows,” he heard, then moments later, felt a hand rubbing across his eyelids.
“Okay, I need you to hold really still,” said James. “And I mean really bloody still. Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes.”
He felt coldness, like ice, then hard pressure against his nose, cheeks, and forehead.
“Eyes closed now, until I say open.”
Dewey felt pressure against his right eye, followed by the same sensation above the left eye. He heard a suction device, then felt suction at each eye. Finally, warm liquid was poured over his eyes, which was then vacuumed out.
“Okay, open up,” said James. “It’ll sting, but that should be gone soon.”
Dewey opened his eyes. It was a strange sensation, as if he were numb around his eyes, nose, and forehead. But he could see perfectly.
“Can you see?”
“Yeah.”
“Blink. Fast.”
Dewey blinked.
“Well, I won’t win another Oscar for it, but it should do. By the way, it’ll last a week. Then it’ll harden and start to flake off.”
Dewey felt another needle jam into his shoulder, to the left of his neck.
“A little more anesthetic,” said the doctor.
“Let’s go,” said Smythson. “We’re down to minutes here.”
“Stand up,” said the nurse. “Put this clothing on.”
Dewey dressed quickly: white underwear, black slacks, socks, black shoes, belt, white sleeveless undershirt, shirt. Someone handed him a tan Burberry trench coat.
Behind him, he heard wheels squeaking. He turned to see a large portable wall being moved into the lights. The wall looked like some sort of thick corkboard.
“Dewey,” said the surgeon, “the pain shots will help, but you’re going to feel this. I injected a six-hour anesthetic. Anything more powerful and it will leave a trace when they read your blood. In about five hours or so, it’s going to start hurting. In six, you’re going to be in real pain.”
Dewey said nothing.
“Stand in front of the wall,” said Smythson.
Dewey moved to the corkboard wall.
Smythson stepped in front of Dewey, a suppressed SIG P226 in her hand. She stepped to a piece of blue tape that had been put on the floor, replicating the distance from which Tacoma had fired at Koo in the lounge. She raised the weapon and fired.
A slug tore into Dewey’s shoulder. He was kicked back, into the wall, and he grimaced as a ripping burn kicked out from his shoulder, like fire. His hand shot to the bullet wound. He held his hand up. His fingers were coated in blood.
The surgeon pulled the trench coat aside and examined the wound.
“Clean exit,” he said. “Couldn’t be any less harmful, even though I’m sure it kills.”
“What was in that needle, doc?” Dewey asked, looking down at his shoulder and grimacing. “That fucking hurt.”
“I might’ve injected you with estrogen,” said the surgeon, smiling.
Dewey grinned, through the pain.
“Why are you smiling?” asked Dewey, looking at Smythson. “You enjoyed that a little too much.”
One of the nurses handed Dewey a mirror. He looked into it. For a moment, he thought it was Koo. He held it closer to see the artificial skin around his eye sockets.
“We need to move,” Smythson said. “We need to beat the recon team.”
Smythson showed Dewey a map, telling him where the apartment was. She gave him a key.
Dewey was having a hard time concentrating as his shoulder wracked him in waves of sharp pain.
“Third floor, unit twelve. Remember: téngtòng.”
* * *
Dewey slipped out of the garage.
His shoulder hurt badly. He remembered the feeling in Cali, when he’d been struck by the cartridge from the Kalashnikov. That slug had remained inside him. He was grateful for that experience now; the 9x19mm from the SIG SAUER was smaller. It was embedded in the cork back at the garage, not inside him. Still, the pain was excruciating, making him breathe hard and fast. The trench coat was covered in blood.
Dewey stepped into the apartment building, climbed the stairs, then entered the apartment.
He felt thirsty. He went to the kitchen and drank a large glass of water. The screech of brakes came from the street below.
Dewey went into the bathroom and glanced at himself in the mirror. A sheen of perspiration had now formed on his forehead. The patch of fresh blood had grown larger, down to his shoulder blade and across his chest. He peeled back the trench coat, which caused unbelievable pain, and he moaned but looked at the wound. Blood was everywhere. The hole pumped a small amount out every few seconds. He felt nauseated as chills ran through him. Most of all, he felt pain.
In one sense, however, it wasn’t a bad thing: he hurt too much to be nervous.
He stumbled back into the living room, feeling dizzy. He sat down in a leather armchair. He shut his eyes just as the rec
on team put the pick gun in Koo’s lock and opened the door.
81
OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Dellenbaugh was seated at his desk. In front of him stood Wood Uhlrich, the treasury secretary, and Adrian King, his chief of staff.
Uhlrich had just finished briefing Dellenbaugh and King on the visit by Ji-tao Zhu, the head of the People’s Bank of China, and Zhu’s ultimatum: hand over Dewey Andreas or China stops lending the United States money.
Dellenbaugh and King were incredulous.
“What did you say?” asked Dellenbaugh.
“I used some words which may not have been in the spirit of China-U.S. relations,” said Uhlrich.
“What’d you say, Wood?”
“I told him to go to hell,” said Uhlrich.
“You reacted emotionally,” said Dellenbaugh.
“Yes, Mr. President. I wasn’t thinking about the financial implications.”
Dellenbaugh sat back. He looked up at Uhlrich, a blank expression on his face.
“Good,” said the president, finally. “I would’ve punched the son of a bitch in the nose.”
“If we can’t borrow the money, sir, we will be in a very precarious spot,” said King.
“What are you suggesting?” asked Dellenbaugh. “You wouldn’t actually consider handing over Dewey, would you?”
“No, sir,” said King. “But it’s time to elevate this. If Premier Li is aware of what occurred today, we need to know that. If he isn’t aware, it means something entirely different. It’s time to pick up the phone, Mr. President.”
82
PARIS
Two men entered the apartment. They shut the door and moved silently to Dewey.
One of the men gently slapped Dewey’s cheek, but Dewey didn’t open his eyes. He heard a zipper, then his nostrils were abruptly stung by smelling salts.
He opened his eyes and looked at the two men. Both were Chinese, one in a suit, the other in jeans and a dark Windbreaker.
One of them said something to Dewey in Mandarin, but Dewey didn’t respond. The two men looked at each other, then whispered back and forth, speaking rapidly.
“Téngtòng,” whispered Dewey.
The man in the suit pulled the trench coat aside and stared at the wound. He leaned down and patted Dewey’s head, then said something in Mandarin; but Dewey knew it was something along the lines of “It’ll be okay,” or “Good job.”
Dewey shut his eyes.
They lifted him up and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. Dewey acted as if he could barely move, though the truth was, it wasn’t much of an act; the wound was increasingly degenerating his ability to function and think properly. He groaned, and it was a real groan. He was losing a lot of blood.
They moved through the door, then, step-by-step, as fast as possible, down the three flights of stairs. Both men were smaller than Dewey, but they were strong and athletic.
In the lobby stood a third man. He was also Chinese, with dyed blond hair. He was smoking a cigarette. He wore a dark green trench coat. Inside, Dewey could see, he clutched some sort of weapon, ready to be drawn.
The gunman glanced through the lace curtain that hung over the front door. He turned, nodded, said something, then opened the door.
They carried Dewey down the front steps of the apartment building. A blue minivan idled, and the side door opened as they came closer. They lifted Dewey up into the minivan and laid him down on the first bench seat. The team climbed in, gunman in the front passenger seat, the other two behind Dewey.
Dewey shut his eyes. He felt weak. The pain was abating. He knew the signs. He was going into shock.
Again, one of the men attempted to speak to him. But Dewey didn’t say anything. This time, he didn’t even open his eyes.
“Téngtòng,” he whispered.
The driver moved out into traffic.
* * *
They carried Dewey into a large unmarked private jet, an Embraer Lineage 1000. Dewey was laid out on a long leather sofa near the front of the cabin. Within minutes, the jet taxied down the runway, then took off.
Dewey willed himself to hold off going into shock, at least for a little while. He’d walked through, in his mind, how the operation would unfold, but what he hadn’t anticipated was the deleterious effects of the gunshot. He knew how to handle pain. It was one of his greatest strengths, an asset that enabled him to reach a little deeper than most men, to fight through situations. But it wasn’t the pain that worried him now. It was the shock that was coming. Unconsciousness. With it could come anything. One of the operatives could somehow cut into the skin around his eyes. They could take his fingerprints, which would reveal immediately who he was.
Dewey realized that his desire for vengeance had caused him to jump on board what was a suicide mission. Had Calibrisi really wanted to just get rid of him? Had he caused too many problems for him, for Langley, and for the United States?
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not dead yet.
A gauzy, numb feeling made the ceiling spin and blur. Then Dewey drifted into unconsciousness.
* * *
One of the men removed Dewey’s trench coat, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. Another man brought a stack of towels from the bathroom, along with a first-aid kit. The agent cleaned the wound with alcohol, then applied pressure to it. He sat next to Dewey’s head, pressing the towel into his shoulder.
The other agent prepared a needle with painkiller and injected it near the wound. He also injected Dewey with an antibiotic to prevent infection.
After pushing against the wound for more than an hour, the bleeding had abated somewhat. The man placed a large bandage on the wound, then wrapped gauze and tape over the bandage and around Dewey’s armpit.
“Hold on,” said the man, speaking in Mandarin to the unconscious Dewey.
83
BEIJING
At midnight, Bhang was still at his desk. Although he didn’t normally drink, he had a glass of vodka in his hand. He’d been sitting and staring out his large window at the Beijing evening, thinking not of Andreas but of his father, his mother, but mostly of Bo. It had been a long if memorable day. He’d expected to feel more elation when they finally succeeded in killing Andreas. Instead, he felt something altogether different and better, a happiness that was deeper than mere excitement. The guilt from Bo’s death was gone, replaced by a sense of personal satisfaction and closure.
Suddenly there was a knock on his door, and Xiao stepped into Bhang’s office.
“I thought you would be interested,” said Xiao. “Koo lands in the morning. He is to be taken to Beijing Hospital.”
“How is he?”
“In a great deal of pain. He’s not saying much.”
“He should receive a hero’s welcome,” said Bhang. “The best room at the hospital, that sort of thing.”
“When would you like to present him the award, sir? Of course, if you’d like, we can handle it for you, if you’re too busy.”
“I will present it personally to him tomorrow. What time does he land?”
“Early,” said Xiao. “Around six.”
“Good.” Bhang smiled. “The Order of the Lotus, Xiao. It has been far too long.”
After Xiao left, Bhang had one more task to do before leaving for the night. He picked up his phone and dialed.
“Yes,” said Qingchen.
“Good evening, General Qingchen.”
“Hello, Fao. It’s midnight.”
“I’m sorry. I had to inform you: the matter is cleaned up. The interruption is now behind us all. I’m ready to lead, though I would reiterate my sincere belief that you would be a better leader than me.”
“Your flattery is as unnecessary as it is fictitious,” said Qingchen.
“I am as sincere as it is possible for me to be, sir.”
“Then thank you,” said Qingchen, “but now it’s time to put away the mutual admiration
society and discuss next steps. The military is now solidly behind you and is prepared to act. In addition, we have made all necessary preparations as it relates to getting support from a quorum of party leadership and the State Council. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, the premier has called another meeting of his inner circle. I’ve once again been invited. We will detain them all until a peaceful transition has occurred.”
“Good,” said Bhang. On his desk, he saw the mahogany box, inside of which was the Order of the Lotus. Bhang smiled. “I have something that I must attend to first. It will be completed by eight, general.”
“Excellent. We can ride over to to Zhongnanhai together. Come by my office, Premier Bhang. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
84
IN THE AIR
Several hours after take off, Dewey awoke. His shoulder throbbed.
He looked up to see the blond agent, seated across from him. Dewey looked around nervously; part of him expected to see a gun, aimed at him. But the agent simply smiled. When he saw Dewey wake up and stir, he said something, in Mandarin.
“Téngtòng,” said Dewey.
The man reached to his left and opened the first-aid kit, removing a needle.
Dewey held up his hand, shaking his head no. As much as he wanted more pain medication, he needed to wake up, to become sharp again. Now more than ever, he had to endure the pain.
You wanted your shot at Fao Bhang.
He would have, at most, one chance to take that shot.
He stood and went to the restroom. He examined first his face. It was remarkable, even scary, to see how much like Koo he looked. He pulled aside his blood-soaked shirt. Just doing that caused him to moan loudly. He examined the wound. It had sealed up, but he needed stitches. A large-diameter radius encircled the wound, its color black-and-blue, bruising from the trauma of the bullet.