“Tell him I’m busy,” said Dewey.

“He wants us to take you up to Andrews.”

“No,” Dewey said, shaking his head. “Like I told you, first airport after you get into the U.S.”

29

IN THE AIR

The U.S. Treasury Department–owned Boeing 757 was Wood Uhlrich’s favorite perk that came with being secretary of the treasury.

Inside the private stateroom there were three adjoining rooms; a small but comfortable sitting area with a pair of leather couches and two chairs along with a flat-screen plasma television; a large bedroom with a king-size bed that sat beneath a line of windows; and a bathroom, inside of which was a marble-tiled shower. The suite looked like something out of the St. Regis Hotel.

As the plane cruised high above the Atlantic Ocean, Uhlrich sat on the bed, reading The Wall Street Journal. After an hour or so, he got up, put his shoes on, walked through the living room, then opened the door and glanced around.

He walked to a conference table at the front of the cabin. He glanced toward the galley kitchen and made eye contact with a woman in a white uniform.

“Coffee,” he said, “and two Advils. Thanks, Margaret.”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”

Uhlrich sat down at the table.

“What do we have, guys?”

“I’m not a guy,” said one of the two people seated at the table, a pretty woman who smiled as she said it. Beatrix Packard was deputy secretary of the treasury.

Uhlrich laughed as he took a seat next to Packard, across from the only other treasury official on the trip, Lance Rapala, undersecretary of the treasury for international affairs.

Rapala, a former member of Congress, was a seasoned treasury official. Rapala was in his early seventies but still had a thick mane of black hair, aided no doubt by some product of American chemical innovation.

Packard was even higher on the treasury totem than Rapala. Packard, a former managing director at the legendary Boston private equity firm Mustang, was charged with managing the roughly one-trillion-dollar annual treasury-bond-sale effort, a linchpin in the creation of liquidity not only for the U.S. government but the American economy. It was Packard’s job to make sure money kept floating within the multilayered channels and back alleyways of the official U.S. economy, a feat that was accomplished via a tricky, mediated dance involving bond sales to foreign governments and corporations and a near-constant arm-wrestling match with the Federal Reserve.

If Packard had one of the most stressful jobs in government, she didn’t show it.

“You’re starting to sound like my daughter, Trix.”

“You’re starting to sound like my dad, Wood.”

“I wish I was your dad,” said Uhlrich. “Retired … living in Florida.”

“Eating soft food, bored out of your mind.”

“Exactly.”

“You don’t like twisting arms, Wood?” asked Rapala.

“No,” said Uhlrich. “I’m getting tired of it. So who am I meeting in Hong Kong?”

“Zhu,” said Rapala. “I set up a one-on-one meeting. He knows the subject matter.”

“What do we want?”

“England and Germany have each agreed to pick up fifty billion,” said Packard. “That means we need China to take the other four hundred billion.”

“That’s it?”

“No,” said Packard. “By year’s end, we’ll need to put another trillion out there. You should probably mention that to Mr. Zhu.”

Uhlrich watched as the attendant delivered his coffee and Advils. He popped the Advils into his mouth and followed it with a swig of coffee.

“Eight months ago, it was difficult to place a quarter billion dollars worth of bonds,” said Uhlrich. “Since that time, debt levels across the EU have shot up. Everyone is asking Germany for help; same with Britain. The entire continent is in a recession. So where is this money going to come from, Trix?”

“That’s why we’re flying to Hong Kong, Mr. Secretary. China is our only option.”

Uhlrich leaned back.

“Have you spoken to Zhu?” asked Rapala.

“No,” said Packard, looking at Rapala, then Uhlrich. “I don’t need to. China will buy the bonds. I’m not worried.”

“You better hope so,” said Uhlrich. “What’s the backup plan?”

Packard shifted in her chair.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“China’s always been the backup plan,” said Uhlrich. “Now, they are the plan. Which means we don’t have a backup plan, do we?”

“No, sir, we don’t,” said Packard. “We need China to buy the bonds. America’s dirty little secret, sir.”

30

BIRCH HILL

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Calibrisi was eating dinner at his home in McLean when his cell rang. He glanced at his wife, Vivian, who smiled understandingly.

“Yeah,” he said, putting the phone to his ear.

“CIA Control, sir. I’ve got Steve Owen patched in from CIA one-two-alpha.”

Calibrisi looked at Vivian.

“Do you want me to leave?” she mouthed.

Calibrisi shook his head no.

“Hi, Steve.”

“He’s refusing to talk, Hector. He’s also drinking.”

“Where does he want to be dropped?

“First airport inside U.S. territory. I thought I’d give you a chance to influence that decision. Where do you want us to leave him?”

Calibrisi was silent, thinking quickly about what assets he had in the southeastern United States. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to have any. But the last thing he wanted to do was drag in the FBI. This one was personal. He knew Dewey was likely headed for a tailspin, and he wanted to be there to catch him when he fell. He could have simply ordered Owen to fly him back to Andrews, but that would’ve been even worse. Dewey would resent him for a long, long time if he pulled a stunt like that.

“Miami,” said Calibrisi. “Drop him in Miami. Thanks, Steve.”

“No problem, sir.”

Calibrisi waited for Owen to drop off, then spoke to the CIA switchboard.

“Control,” said Calibrisi into the phone. “Get me Katie Foxx.”

31

MIAMI, FLORIDA

The CIA jet landed at Opa-locka Executive Airport on the outskirts of Miami. He wasn’t quite drunk, but he was well on his way. For the last hour of the trip, Dewey swigged from the bottle of whiskey, staring out the window, saying nothing, trying to push all thoughts from his mind.

In truth, Dewey was still lucid enough to understand where he was and why he was there. He’d poured enough whiskey down his throat over the years to understand what his limits were. He knew they all thought he was inconsolable, perhaps even suicidal, but he wasn’t. He was angry. The last thing he felt like doing was getting the third degree by a brigade of CIA analysts. Actually, strike that. The last thing, the truly last thing he wanted to do, was to listen to people he barely knew express their condolences. He wanted solitude. He wanted to figure out what would come next. More than anything, he wanted revenge.

At the airport gift shop, where he’d stopped to buy a pack of Marlboros, Dewey caught the sight of Chip Bronkelman, the Boston billionaire who had offered him a job running security for his hedge fund. Bronkelman’s round, pudgy, friendly face smiled out from the cover of Forbes. Jessica had been the one to set up the job with Bronkelman. It would have paid more than a million dollars a year. Still, Dewey had turned it down. Now, as he looked at the cover of the magazine, his mind played a cruel trick on him. If he’d taken the job, he wouldn’t have been able to accompany Jessica to Argentina. Whoever had targeted him for assassination wouldn’t have tracked him to Estancia el Colibri. If he’d taken the job with Chip Bronkelman, Jessica would still be alive.

He climbed into a cab outside the airport, asking to be taken to a hotel.

“What hotel?” asked the cabbie.

“I don’t care,” said Dewey. “Any hotel.”