“I want my knife back, and my sidearm.”

In the front seat, Colonel Marti turned. He looked at Couture.

“The knife was given to me. It was a gift.”

“I’ll give it to you,” said Marti, “but you’re going to have to wait on the gun.”

Marti reached into a steel briefcase in front of the seat. He removed Dewey’s combat blade, still sheathed, and handed it back to him.

Dewey looked out the window. He saw her eyes again.

*   *   *

Thanksgiving that year was cold, crisp, and cloudless. They bought a turkey from a farm in Virginia. They drove out to get it that morning, the top of her 911 down, freezing cold but tempered by the sun. It was just the two of them. Jessica cooked it to perfection, the skin a crispy mahogany brown, stuffing with sausage in it, sweet potatoes with browned marshmallows on top, her grandmother’s recipe. They ate by candlelight then watched football. Dewey made a fire and they sat on the chair, Jessica on his lap, sharing a glass of wine. Silver Oak. He loved that memory. They drank from the same glass. Something so small, so insignificant and trivial, but the memory of sharing that glass warmed him.

“Will you marry me, Jessica?”

The words he vowed long ago never to say again, but when they arrived on his lips he felt the weight fall from his shoulders. He was giving up his freedom with those few words, and yet he’d never felt more free.

“Yes, I will.”

Walk away. She’s gone. It’s all gone. Leave it behind now, Dewey.

There’s only one thing you can do now. The thing you were meant to do.

*   *   *

A few minutes later, they reached Colibri.

A long cordon of patrol cars lined the main road, their red and blue lights flashing, creating a security perimeter at the entrance to the ranch. Dewey heard the distant churning of chopper blades, then glanced out the window and counted two helicopters in the sky.

The Suburban moved through the cordon. Several soldiers and various agents saluted as Marti looked blankly ahead through the front window. A mile on, another small swarm of AFP agents was gathered, along with a medical examiner’s van.

Dewey glanced at Couture.

“I’m going to pack up my stuff and take a shower.”

“Take your time.”

Dewey emerged from the back of the SUV. Every AFP agent, police officer, and med tech stared at him. He cut through the middle of the group. At the front door, an armed AFP agent held up his hand.

“Alto,” said the agent.

Dewey ignored him, brushing past, and as the agent was about to say something else, Marti whistled from the driveway. He waved his head, indicating to let Dewey by and, by the harsh look of reproach on his face, telling the young Argentinian in no uncertain terms to leave Dewey the hell alone.

The ranch house was empty and quiet. The terrace to the dining room was marked off in yellow police tape. The blood had already been cleaned from the bluestone terrace.

To his left, from down the hallway, he heard voices. He walked to the bedroom. Two forensics techs in white smocks were in the room, snapping photographs. They looked up when Dewey entered. They said nothing.

Dewey went into the bathroom and took a shower. He left his bloody jeans on the floor of the bathroom, put on another pair of jeans and a white Lacoste shirt. He packed his belongings into his duffel bag. Then, he packed Jessica’s things into her Louis Vuitton suitcase: shirts, shoes, skirts, a couple of bathing suits. Beneath her clothing, he found a simple wooden frame. In was a photo of the two of them. He tucked it into her bag.

Dewey stepped to the doors that led to the terrace. He scanned the horizon, looking for the sniper nest he knew was out there. They hadn’t found it yet.

There were maybe a dozen people who knew where he and Jessica were going. He didn’t know how they’d found him, but there was no question, they’d been tracked or followed. There was no way it was one of the Americans. Dellenbaugh, Calibrisi, Jessica’s chief of staff Josh Brubaker, Morty and the other Secret Service agent, the head of the Secret Service, a handful of others—that was it. It hadn’t come from within.

Perhaps he’d never know. But until he was out of the country, he couldn’t trust anyone.

He stepped out onto the terrace. He crossed it, then walked diagonally out, across the expansive lawn, then beyond, into the knee-high grass. He knew the general direction, and soon enough he picked up the trampled-down grass from the night before.

If they were looking at him, they would think he was either a member of the search party or, if it was Marti or Couture, a mourning man, taking one last walk, grieving at the death of his fiancée.

A few minutes later, he came upon the dead man.

Under the hot glare of the morning sun, the man’s destroyed skull was even more grotesque. Flies hovered.

Dewey knelt. He pulled his knife from the sheath. He grabbed the man’s hand and cut off the right index finger. He slipped it into his pocket, turned, and headed back to the ranch house.

He stared at the ground as he walked, deep in thought. Whoever killed Jessica was out there. He would find him. If it took him the rest of his life, he would find him. And when he did, he would pay.

Fight. It’s all you can do. It’s all you could ever do.

“I’m coming,” he whispered, eyes scanning the horizon.

26

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY

BEIJING

Ming-húa was waiting inside Bhang’s office when he returned. A cigarette dangled from Bhang’s mouth, unlit. Out the window, the Beijing afternoon was a bland mixture of clouds and gray sky. Not that either man noticed the weather. It was just a sideshow to the main event, which was running the largest intelligence agency in the world.

One could say Bhang lived, ate, and breathed the ministry. In point of fact, he smoked it. From the start of the day until the wee hours, Bhang, along with nearly every other top official at MSS, chain-smoked. The result was that headquarters had a rank, stale permeation of smoke, despite constant cleaning.

“Minister—”

“Be quiet,” said Bhang sharply as he grabbed a silver lighter from his desk and lit his cigarette.

“I am deeply apologetic,” continued Ming-húa, seated on one of three leather chairs arrayed in an orderly line before Bhang’s desk. “May I ask—”

“I want silence,” said Bhang. “This has been a failure of epic proportions. I knew it was a mistake to elevate you, Ming-húa. You belong in the field, taking orders, not giving them. It was your responsibility to terminate Andreas. Instead, we now have a situation that could become very uncomfortable, very quickly. A situation you likely do not fully understand. So you will keep your mouth firmly shut and you will listen and you will do exactly as I say.”

Ming-húa nodded.

“If the Americans ascertain that China was behind the assassination of Jessica Tanzer, it’s not unrealistic to think there could be war,” said Bhang, puffing his cigarette, staring at Ming-húa. “At the very least, they will be extremely upset. The United Nations will be brought in. The international community will be outraged.”

Bhang lit another cigarette with the ember from the first.

“And the blame for all of this will fall on the ministry,” continued Bhang, “and, more specifically, on me. Lest you have any illusions as to your own personal safety, Ming-húa, trust me: you will be dangling from the rafters long before they wrap the noose around my neck.”

“Minister Bhang, may I say something?”

“No,” said Bhang. “Shut up and listen. Your top priority at this moment is to follow my orders. I want you to retrieve the body of our agent. Whatever assets we have in Argentina must be utilized to retrieve Hu-Shao or destroy any evidence of his identity. If Hu-Shao is identified, we will be finished. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”