Uhlrich sat silently on the couch. He stared at Zhu’s extended hand until Zhu, after not receiving any response, started walking to the door.

“Your message has been delivered,” said Uhlrich, standing, an angry look in his eyes. “What the hell do you want?”

Zhu turned. He paused, then walked back across the room to Uhlrich. He was shorter than the American. He stood just inches away from Uhlrich, uncomfortably close. He craned his neck to look up at him.

“Perhaps there is a way for us to reconsider our decision,” said Zhu. “I will be in touch.”

39

RUMIANA FARM

MIDDLEBURG, VIRGINIA

A set of headlights moved down a long dark gravel driveway. On each side of the simple drive was low white picket fence, behind which lay fields of freshly cut grass.

Katie and Tacoma owned the farm, tucked away in the rolling horse country of Middleburg. It housed their consulting firm, which provided various services to government and private industries alike. Those services tended to be top-secret, clandestine activities, categorized under the broad rubric of security.

Until two years before, both Katie and Tacoma had worked at Langley. Katie was the deputy director of Special Operations Group, running covert paramilitary operations across the globe. Tacoma, a former Navy SEAL, who was recruited by Katie to the CIA, had been her deputy.

Their firm didn’t have a Web site, glossy brochures, or a listed phone number. What they did have was the backing of Hector Calibrisi and a reputation for being able to do almost anything, in any country, using its extensive network of former spies, former Special Forces soldiers, and a willingness to bend the rules. But Katie and Tacoma had one overarching rule: they considered themselves proxies for the United States of America. They didn’t do anything that was not in the best interests of the United States. Calibrisi usually had them on retainer, often calling on them when the bureaucracy of Langley threatened to slow him down.

In the circle outside the main house, Dewey, Katie, and Tacoma climbed out of Tacoma’s orange BMW M5, after a hair-raising drive from Andrews Air Force Base. It was almost midnight. The sky was awash in stars as they crossed the driveway toward the front door.

“Listen for it,” said Tacoma, pointing to the sky.

All Dewey could hear was the sound of crickets. A few seconds later, the faint rhythm of a helicopter hit his ears.

“Good ears.”

“You’re just getting old, Dewey.”

“What’s with all the insults?” asked Dewey, grumpily. “I’m really not in the mood for kicking your ass, but I will.”

“You could try,” said Tacoma.

Katie shook her head.

“You two are like children,” said Katie. “I should get babysitting pay.”

The sound of the chopper grew louder. Flashing lights moved across the sky. The wind picked up as a jet-black Bell 525 descended from the sky and landed on the grass next to the driveway. The door opened and Calibrisi climbed out. He walked toward them carrying a steel briefcase.

“Well, look who it is,” Calibrisi yelled, above the din.

Dewey walked toward Calibrisi, putting his hand out, but Calibrisi wrapped his arms around him and hugged him.

“Hi, kid.”

“Hi, Hector.”

“How you feeling?” asked Calibrisi.

“Okay,” said Dewey.

Calibrisi lifted Dewey’s hand and inspected his gashed knuckles.

“That doesn’t look too bad,” said Calibrisi. “Rob told me you beat the shit out of a mirror.”

Dewey laughed, then looked at Tacoma.

Katie and Tacoma walked toward the door and went inside.

“Hold up,” said Calibrisi.

Dewey stopped and looked at Calibrisi.

“I’ve always known it’s part of this business we’re in,” said Calibrisi, putting his arm on Dewey’s shoulder. “I’ve had friends killed standing next to me. But I’ve never felt like this. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Dewey nodded but said nothing.

“If you need someone to talk to—”

“Let’s go inside, Hector.”

“Okay.”

They followed Katie and Tacoma inside. The entrance foyer looked like a weapons room at a large police station. The walls were crowded with gun racks that held a variety of high-powered rifles, assault weapons, submachine guns, and handguns.

They went to the basement, to a large steel door that looked like the door to a bank vault. Tacoma punched a code into the digital lock. The door opened.

Inside was a large windowless basement-level room that housed Katie and Tacoma’s computers, communications equipment, and more weapons. The room was enclosed in walls made of thick steel and was accessible only by the iris scanner outside the steel door. Katie and Tacoma were the only people capable of opening it.

The room itself was sprawling, eighty feet long by forty feet wide. It had been built by KBR, in conjunction with a team of electrical engineers from the CIA, and was linked to the CIA’s powerful mainframes. The room looked like mission control at Cape Canaveral, with walls of large plasma screens, all of which were dark. Long steel desks were lined with computers. But there was one big difference; unlike NASA, the back of the room had a red felt pool table, a Ping-Pong table, and several leather sofas.

On a table near the wall, Calibrisi opened the steel briefcase. He took out what looked like an oversized iPad with a pair of cords sticking out one end. Tacoma plugged one of the cords into the wall. The other he unfurled and plugged into a server in the middle of the room. Calibrisi turned on the biometric scanner. Six of the plasma screens suddenly came to life, lighting up the room.

Dewey handed Calibrisi the dead man’s finger. He took it and pressed it against the green screen. After a few moments, the plasma screens showed large photographs, all of the dead sniper. Two were grainy, in black-and-white. The other three were in color. The center photo showed the man, his face now familiar to them all, with the same thin mustache. He was very much alive. The photo was taken from a distance. He wore sunglasses. He was walking down a busy city street, the word UTRECHT stamped into the upper corner along with a date: 05/2004.

The other photos were both black-and-white. Each was a military photo. The man appeared much younger and was wearing the starched gray uniform of Chinese defense forces.

On the last screen, which the four of them stared at in silence, were the results of the print analysis from the finger Dewey had cut off. The finger belonged to a high-ranking operative in the clandestine paramilitary bureau at China’s Ministry of State Security. His name was Hu-Shao.

ID:

LING HU-SHAO

DOB:

AUG 8 74

BIR:

CHENGDU, PRC

ED:

TAIPEI MILITARY INSTITUTE

CLASS OF 1992

LANG:

MANDARIN

ENGLISH

ARABIC

FRENCH

OCC:

OPERATIVE (LTK BLANKET)

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY, PRC

LEVEL: V1 (WITH SILVER SCROLL)

POS:

CARACAS (CURRENT)

MADRID (2009–11)

CAIRO (2007–09)

BUENOS AIRES (2007)

NEW YORK CITY (2006–07)

CAPETOWN (2005–06)

RIO DE JANEIRO (2004–05)