Tacoma walked to the front of the jet. He took the sheets of paper off the printer and returned to the conference table.

The first sheet showed two photos. On the left was a photo of the destroyed skull of the Asian man who’d been found in the field at Estancia el Colibri. On the right was the same man, taken while he was still alive, with a mustache and short black air.

The second sheet was a short INTERPOL dossier:

NAME:

Chiong-il

AKA:

Kwoong, Namkung, Kwon

CIT:

Seoul, South Korea

RES:

Mogadishu, Somalia

DOB:

22/07/69

SERV:

1991–2001

National Intelligence Service (SK)

CURR:

Security consultant

MISC:

Freelance mercenary working out of eastern Africa. Ties to SSNK (North Korea), Al-Qaeda. Mark X sniper (NIS)

The last sheet displayed what looked like a checkerboard. Two sets of fingerprint blocks were lined up side-by-side, taken from the dead man before and after his death. There were red lines connecting all ten print blocks on the left, the prints taken by AFP, to the ones on the right, from INTERPOL, indicating a perfect match. The AFP logo was stamped across the top of the page.

“The prints match perfectly,” said Katie.

“So the question is, who hired Chiong-il?” said Tacoma.

“And why,” said Katie.

Dewey sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, dark object that looked a little bit like a sausage link. It was shriveled, slightly bent, with a long fingernail at one end, dirt beneath the nail, and tendrils of dried scab and skin at the other, with a white nub of a small bone sticking out.

He tossed it onto the conference table.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Tacoma.

“That depends, Robert,” said Dewey.

“On what?”

“On what the fuck you think it is.”

“It looks like a finger.”

“Then, yes, it is what you think it is.”

Katie picked it up.

“That’s disgusting,” she said, inspecting it. “Care to illuminate us as to who the lucky individual is whose finger you now possess?”

“I don’t know,” said Dewey. “But I am highly doubtful that it’s a South Korean mercenary who lives in Mogadishu named Long Dong Silver or whatever the fuck his name is.”

“How did you get this?”

“I cut it off his hand. There should be nine prints on that sheet.”

Katie picked up the print blocks, which showed prints from all ten fingers.

“Someone fucked up,” she said, smiling.

“AFP is involved,” said Tacoma.

“At least in the cover-up,” said Katie. “Whoever did this thought they were covering their tracks. They might even think the case is over. That could be useful.”

“I’ll call Hector,” said Tacoma, reaching for the SAT phone. “He can meet us at the farm with a print kit.”

38

PENINSULA HOTEL

HONG KONG, PRC

A gleaming white Mercedes limousine pulled up to the Peninsula Hotel in the Kowloon section of Hong Kong. Treasury Secretary Wood Uhlrich climbed out.

On the second floor of the luxury hotel, Uhlrich walked down a high-ceilinged corridor to a double doorway which was flanked by two armed security guards. He walked past the men and into a vast library with two-story ceilings and huge windows. In the middle of the room, two long sofas in pale yellow leather faced each other. A short, well-dressed man with square, thick-framed glasses, stood up.

“Good afternoon, Governor Zhu,” said Uhlrich, crossing the room and shaking Zhu’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

“And you, Mr. Secretary. How was your flight?”

“Uneventful,” said Uhlrich, sitting across from Zhu. “I appreciate your making the trip from Beijing.”

“Tell me why you wanted to see me. I assume it has something to do with the upcoming bond sale?”

“That’s correct,” said Uhlrich. “Given the size of the issue, I thought it was important for us to get together. I want to head off any questions China might have.”

“How big is the issue, Mr. Secretary?”

“Five hundred billion dollars.”

Zhu nodded, looking without emotion at Uhlrich.

“The bonds are plain vanilla,” said Uhlrich. “Typical terms.”

“If the United States Treasury secretary is willing to fly all the way to Hong Kong, I’m assuming the appetite for the paper has not been as avid as you might have wished.”

“The People’s Bank is the first and, hopefully, only conversation we’re having.”

“I’m concerned about America’s level of indebtedness,” said Zhu. “The recession forced Europe to impose fiscal discipline, but in the U.S., your Congress keeps spending money it doesn’t have.”

“I was a United States senator,” said Uhlrich. “I share your concerns. But we’ll grow out of our current fiscal dilemma long before these bonds mature.”

“According to my figures, our current balances show that the U.S. owes China almost two trillion dollars,” said Zhu. “How much of the five hundred billion do you expect us to take?”

“All of it.”

“All five hundred?”

“That’s right.”

Zhu sat back, crossed his legs, and said nothing for at least a dozen seconds. He reached up and brushed his hand back through his hair.

“Will there be more after this, Mr. Secretary?”

“We’re going to need another trillion dollars by the end of next year,” said Uhlrich. “Above and beyond the current issue.”

Zhu nodded.

“I appreciate your visiting us first, Mr. Secretary,” said Zhu. “I would feel very bad if you were to have waited and then learned of our disinterest only after exhausting all other avenues.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Zhu?”

“I suggest you spend some time in Riyadh,” said Zhu. “The Saudis might very well have some appetite for the U.S. bonds, though I highly doubt it will be to a level that meets your needs.”

“Both of us know China is our only option.”

“But we’re not going to buy them,” said Zhu. “Do we have the financial capacity? Yes, of course. But for reasons which I shall not be sharing with you this afternoon, we are fully allocated in terms of our exposure to U.S. risk.”

“Governor Zhu, do you understand the ramifications if we’re unable to sell these treasuries?”

Zhu stared at Uhlrich but remained silent.

“If America can’t borrow money, we’ll either stop paying foreign interest, or the Fed will start printing money. When inflation comes, it won’t just hurt us. The world will go into recession.”

“Let me be very clear,” said Zhu calmly, leaning toward Uhlrich. “If the United States halts interest payments or in any way materially alters its obligations to China, I will order my treasury to start selling on the free market from our current inventory of U.S. bonds. I will start at par and then move pricing down as fast as possible. My guess is, once my counterparts are aware of what I’m doing, the price will drop precipitously. By my own estimates, we would end up liquidating the entire portfolio at between forty-five and fifty cents on the dollar.”

Uhlrich’s smile disappeared. It took him less than a second to calculate the implications of Zhu’s threat. America would still owe the full amount of each bond, but by selling them for half price, China would in effect destroy the market for U.S. bonds. No one would ever buy another bond, certainly not for a full dollar when they could get the same thing for fifty cents from China.

Zhu stood up.

“Now, Mr. Secretary, I must get back to Beijing,” said Zhu, extending his hand. “Thank you once again for making the trip. And best of luck with the sale.”