Raul stood up, moving to the weapons box at the back of the cabin.

“You—” said Raul, nodding at Chang, “a hand, will you?”

15

ESTANCIA EL COLIBRI

CÓRDOBA

By one in the afternoon, the black Land Cruiser arrived at Estancia el Colibri.

Raul drove as Hu-Shao navigated with coordinates provided by Beijing.

“Cut in farther up the road,” said Hu-Shao as they passed the dirt road entrance.

In the backseat, Chang looked out the side window with a high-powered monocular scope. Fifty feet down the drive, he spied the shiny grill of a parked Suburban.

“There’s someone there,” said Chang.

They drove a few minutes longer, then Hu-Shao pointed to the right of the road.

Raul slowed, then took a right off the paved road and cut into a field. He drove for nearly a mile, until Hu-Shao held up his hand, telling him to stop.

Chang opened the door, climbed to the roof, and scanned in the direction of the ranch. A minute later, he jumped from the roof, then climbed back into the SUV.

“We’re out of visual range,” he said.

“Let’s get moving,” said Hu-Shao.

The three men climbed out of the SUV. They rubbed black and green paint on their faces and changed into camouflage. The two Chinese agents each packed a rifle and a handgun. Raul carried the Dragunov, strapped over his back.

They skulked in a low traverse toward where they knew the Suburban was parked. They walked for ten minutes. When they came to a rise on a low hill, Chang raised his hand, stopping the others. He pulled out the scope and scanned the distance.

“I have a visual on the security vehicle,” he said.

The three men took up position on the hill, lying down on their stomachs. The sun was beating down.

“What’s next?” asked Raul.

“We wait,” said Hu-Shao. “We need to understand the security protocol. I want to know how often they’re rotating shifts.”

Raul took the scope from Chang and looked for the vehicle. He found the small specter of the Suburban in the distance. There were no signs of life from the black SUV.

“How do you know someone’s even in there?” asked Raul.

“There’s someone there,” said Hu-Shao. “Be patient.”

16

ESTANCIA EL COLIBRI

CÓRDOBA

Dewey and Jessica arrived at the polo house, which looked deserted. Out back of the building they came upon Alvaro, sitting on a chair, shirt off, soaking in some morning sun. His eyes were closed. Earbuds were in. In his right hand was a joint, which he was puffing away on, as his head moved rhythmically up and down to the music.

“Awkward,” said Jessica, as the boy eyed her, then Dewey, then abruptly turned and fell from the chair, onto the grass. He leapt to his feet. He dropped the joint and stomped on it with his boot as he exhaled.

Dewey started laughing.

“If you tell my parents—”

“Oh, man, that’s insulting,” said Dewey.

“Aren’t you government people?” he asked, getting to his feet, embarrassed.

“Tell you what,” said Dewey. “Get us a couple of horses and we won’t fly you to Guantánamo.”

Alvaro got a big grin on his face.

“Deal,” said Alvaro. “I have the perfect horses for you.”

Alvaro showed them around the stables. The barn itself was a long, light green rectangular building with a red tin roof. Inside, more than forty horses were stabled. Near the middle of the long line of horses, Alvaro stopped at a large, black stallion.

“This is my father’s,” he said. “A beautiful horse. A champion. Very smart. You can handle him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Da Gama.”

In the stable next to Da Gama, a smaller, black-and-tan filly leaned over the railing and put her snout next to Jessica’s head, then licked her before she even knew the horse was there.

“Thea,” said Alvaro. “My mother’s.”

*   *   *

Alvaro outfitted Thea while Dewey got Da Gama ready. They climbed onto the horses and moved out through the stable door.

The stallion beneath Dewey gave him a familiar feeling. He’d grown up riding and loved the feeling, the bond, between a rider and a horse. As he rode Da Gama out onto the green grass next to the stables, looking at the mountains in the distance, he reached down and ran his right hand along Da Gama’s neck.

Jessica trailed behind him.

Alvaro came out onto the lawn.

“What’s the lay of the land?” asked Dewey. “Anything we need to watch out for?”

“Don’t go beyond the northern fork of the river,” said Alvaro, pointing toward the mountains. “Da Gama will know how to get back, but I would keep in sight.”

Dewey grinned at Jessica.

“You ready?”

“I’m ready.”

*   *   *

They rode south for two hours. The views were stunning, the kind no picture book could ever do true justice to. Mountains streaked bluegreen and, on top, white with snow; valleys of fields that ran for miles, balkanized by wildflowers, heaving in the breeze, like a Chinese fan; red-tailed hawks soaring above, then streaking through the air toward earth, diving at the ground and grabbing a rodent before lifting back off into the blue, cloudless sky.

When they hit a slow-running stream, they stopped beneath an ancient elm tree to let the horses drink.

For as long as she could remember, Jessica had wanted to fall in love, to get married, to have a family. She’d dreamed of wedding dresses, bridesmaids, china settings, a honeymoon. Yet Jessica had never found someone. She’d lived through the marriage whirlwind of late twenties to mid-thirties, attending at least two dozen weddings of her friends.

The truth is, she could’ve married any number of men who’d courted her over the years, accomplished men, one of the top attorneys in Washington, a widowed U.S. senator, the British ambassador to the United States, wealthy businessmen.

Jessica looked toward Dewey. He turned and smiled.

“Nice out here, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Not bad.”

They leaned in, toward each other, beneath the shade branch of the big elm, and kissed.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too.”

A tear came to Jessica’s eye and ran down her cheek, even as she smiled.

“Why are you crying?” he asked.

“Because I’m so stinkin’ happy,” she said.

*   *   *

Four miles to the north as the crow flies, Raul, lying still on his stomach, saw movement through the scope. A sedan pulled in and parked in front of the Suburban.

“I have movement,” said Raul.

Hu-Shao and Chang both put binoculars against their eyes and watched as two men stood next to the cars, talking. After a few minutes, the Americans climbed back into the cars. The man who’d been in the Suburban climbed into the sedan and pulled a U-turn, then drove quickly out of the driveway.

“What now?” asked Raul, impatiently.

Hu-Shao watched the sedan pull out, then put his binoculars down.

“We wait. In the meantime, make sure the Dragunov is calibrated.”

“We could’ve killed him by now,” said Raul.

“And he could’ve killed us, Raul. Now please, if you will be so kind, shut the fuck up. Go make sure that twenty-pound bag of shit Russian rifle is working.”

17

NEAR YUQUAN HILL

BEIJING

The apartment building was made of gray concrete. It was nine stories high, neat, and well maintained, though plain-looking, with small windows. It was in an area of Beijing that was considered remote, naturalistic, with close proximity to gardens, trees, lakes, and nature.

The dark sedan pulled up to the front of the building, and Bhang emerged. He carried a large plastic grocery bag filled with fruit, milk, juice, chocolate, and vegetables.

He climbed the stairs to the ninth floor and was winded, as always, by the time he arrived at the door to unit 9B. He wheezed as he looked down at the straw welcome mat, the same worn mat that had been there for as long as he could remember.