“Si,” came the voice, a Spanish accent, of Pascal, whom Bhang had woken up.

“What’s the tail number of the plane?” asked Bhang.

“What? Who is this?”

“It’s Fao Bhang. What’s the tail number?”

“I’m sorry, Minister Bhang. Hold on.”

With his left hand, Bhang reached to the table and picked up a dried noodle, then pushed it gently into his grandson’s toothless mouth. He smiled at his grandson as he waited, the phone against his ear.

“Do you have a pen, Minister Bhang?”

“I don’t need one,” said Bhang. “Just tell me the number.”

23

PRIVATE RESIDENCE

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

J. P. Dellenbaugh was awakened by the phone next to his bed. He reached for the light switch, pulled the chain, then looked around the room. His wife, Amy, opened her eyes but didn’t move.

Contrary to popular lore, there is no red phone in the bedroom of the president of the United States. There are three phones, each black, with a small console of buttons. It is White House Control—the White House switchboard—that connects the president to the world. It is through a tightly controlled protocol that any inbound phone call gets through to the president, at any hour, and it’s a short list of people whose calls get through. In the middle of the night, that list is even smaller, confined to the president’s chief of staff, the director of the CIA, the secretary of state, the secretary of defense, and the national security advisor. Someone else might be able to get through, a foreign leader, for instance, but first they would have to go through one of the chosen few.

Dellenbaugh grabbed for the phone before the second ring.

“Yes,” he said, sitting up against a pillow, which he pressed against the big ornate cherrywood headboard.

“White House Control, sir, please hold for CIA Director Calibrisi.”

The phone made a staccato beeping noise for a few moments. Dellenbaugh glanced at Amy, who had propped herself up on her left elbow and was watching him. Hector Calibrisi came on the line.

“Mr. President, sorry to awaken you,” said Calibrisi.

“It’s okay,” said Dellenbaugh. “What’s going on?”

“I received a call a few minutes ago from our chief of station in Argentina. I’m afraid it’s very bad news, sir. Jessica is dead; she was killed a few hours ago.”

Dellenbaugh reflexively, unconsciously jerked forward, heaving involuntarily, like a cough without noise. With his free hand, his right hand, he reached out and gripped his wife’s hand, squeezing it. He was silent for several moments, blinking, trying to process the news, unable to speak. He looked at his wife with a pained expression of disbelief and sorrow.

Amy Dellenbaugh said nothing, instead took her other hand and wrapped it around his, trying to be supportive.

“Killed?” Dellenbaugh finally whispered.

“She was shot. It’s still early. We have a forensics team getting on a plane in a few minutes to get down there. She was gunned down by what appears to have been a sniper. It was a planned attack. One of the ranch owners was gunned down; so was Morty, sir. Dewey survived.”

“My God,” said Dellenbaugh. “I’m sorry, Hector. I know how close you were.”

Calibrisi was silent. Dellenbaugh heard what sounded like a low sniffle.

“Who would want to kill our national security advisor?”

Dellenbaugh let Calibrisi regain himself. After more than a dozen seconds, Calibrisi cleared his throat.

“I don’t know. It very well may have been Dewey they were after. In fact, it probably was Dewey.”

“Iran?”

“Possibly.”

Calibrisi paused, then continued in halted speech.

“I should have known, Mr. President. I should have known and insisted on a much broader security detail.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Dellenbaugh.

“Yes, it is, sir.”

“Where’s Dewey?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“Córdoba. He chased someone—presumably the attackers—to the airport. They escaped on a private plane. He shot at the plane. Local police didn’t know what was going on, so they locked him up. We’re dealing with it.”

“How did we learn about it?”

“The head of AFP woke me an hour ago. He and our chief of station are on their way from Buenos Aires.”

Dellenbaugh glanced at Amy. She’d figured out what had happened, and tears were running down her cheeks, which she did not attempt to hide.

After a long pause, Dellenbaugh cleared his throat. He sat up, then stood up. He held the phone in his right hand. Dellenbaugh still retained much of the brawn that had made him a much-feared pugilist during his time in the NHL. He unconsciously clenched his left fist, as if he were about to slug somebody in the nose. His biceps lumped out like a baseball.

“We need to find out who the hell did this,” said Dellenbaugh. He stared out the window at a Washington that was dark, except for a few lights here and there, including the ones that demarcated the pinnacle of the Washington Monument. “Whether it was an accident because they were after Dewey or, God forbid, the assassination of America’s national security advisor, someone has to pay. If it was the latter, Hector, this is war.”

Calibrisi was silent.

“Do you agree?”

“Yes, I do, Mr. President. Intentionally or unintentionally, this is an act of war. We need to find out who did it. I need to speak to Dewey.”

“We need to handle how this is announced,” said Dellenbaugh.

“I haven’t even thought about that, sir.”

“You don’t need to. Let me handle that. In the meantime, get Dewey back here. I want to know what happened. Let’s reconvene first thing in the morning, in the Situation Room. Make sure Harry Black and Tim Lindsay are briefed and ready to talk about military options.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dellenbaugh hung up the phone. He looked at his wife.

“I’m sorry,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Dellenbaugh said nothing. He fought to hold back tears. He picked up the phone.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Get me Jessica’s parents. They’re in Princeton.”

24

VIA NUEVE

SANTIAGO, CHILE

In a dilapidated concrete building near Santiago’s soccer stadium, Chang stood atop a stainless-steel platform, barefoot, naked, sweating profusely, and breathing heavily, as heavily as if he’d just run five miles.

The building looked like an abandoned warehouse. But its external decrepitude masked its true purpose. From the outside, the doors were boarded up and no light was visible. From the inside, two stories below ground, a windowless expanse looked like a laboratory at a pharmaceutical manufacturer.

The facility was owned and operated by a company called Utrecht Promotions, which was, in point of fact, a shell corporation set up by China’s Ministry of State Security. It was one of thirty such secret interrogation labs dotting the globe.

The reason Chang was standing, despite the fact that he was exhausted, was because he couldn’t sit down. It was physically impossible. Forty-six stainless-steel probes the thickness of pencils jutted out from walls on both sides of him. These steel probes—long needlelike protuberances—were the approximate sharpness of golf tees, not sharp enough to break skin at first contact, but painful nevertheless, and capable, with some pressure, of puncturing skin and even leather. The probes were connected to a computer that monitored all manner of Chang’s physiological state, all in the name of determining if Chang was telling the truth.

Different countries, even different agencies within the same country, had different methods of getting people to talk. Simple lie detectors, while excellent devices for sniffing out lies from the untrained, were beatable with coaching and practice. Torture—electricity, waterboarding, fingernail removal, and dozens of other methods—was effective but often led to false confessions. Then there were pharmaceuticals, drugs, in many shapes and formats, employed in a variety of methods. But like the proverbial cure for baldness, no drug had yet been invented that could compel someone to tell the truth. Truth serum was a fiction, a product of Hollywood and thriller writers. What had been shown to be effective in a pharmaceutical context was the interplay of opiates, such as heroin, intended to make the victim feel good, and any manner of neurotoxins, which caused pain. The lure of the opiates intermixed with the harsh pain of the neurotoxins had been shown, especially by the CIA and Mossad, to be enormously effective at drawing out confessions.