BAGHDAD (2004)

DAMASCUS (2002–04)

BAHRAIN (2000–02)

Calibrisi stared stone-faced at the plasma screen.

He thought back to his conversation with Derek Chalmers. As much as he trusted his counterpart in London, he’d had a difficult time believing China was behind it. Now the truth was irrefutable. It all added up in a single moment, an instant, as if someone somewhere had flipped a switch.

It was China after all. And it was Dewey they were after.

“Why would China want Jessica dead?” asked Katie. “Or Dewey for that matter?”

Calibrisi’s mind raced as it all came together, like pieces of a puzzle suddenly falling into place.

By outing Dillman, Dewey had given Chalmers, Fritz Lavine, Menachem Dayan—and Calibrisi—the means by which to go after their shared nemesis, Fao Bhang. It was they who’d upped the ante, without Dewey’s permission or knowledge. It was they who, in the interest of trying to get at Bhang, had designed an operation that exposed Dewey and Jessica to reprisal. The ax in the head, the Louis Vuitton trunk, Premier Li’s granddaughter—all of it the brainchild of spies who’d failed to see the very simple human beings they had inadvertently placed in the crosshairs of one of the world’s most brutal men.

Calibrisi felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over him. He felt faint. He looked over at Dewey, who stood in front of the plasma screen, studying the dead agent’s background.

Dewey had done his job. He’d gotten the identity of the mole out of Amit Bhutta. They had returned the favor by starting a lethal blood feud against one of the most powerful and ruthless men in the world, which ultimately led back to Dewey.

As far as Dewey knew, Dillman was to be killed by Kohl Meir, then dropped in a Tel Aviv landfill. Clean and simple. Instead, the brightest minds in Western intelligence had used Dillman, just as they used Dewey, and now Jessica. It was their fault. By not seeing it ahead of time, it was his fault.

Calibrisi felt sick to his stomach. A sharp pain stabbed his chest. He put his hand out on the table to steady himself.

Dewey turned and looked at him.

“You okay, chief?” he asked.

Calibrisi knew that if he told Dewey the truth, Dewey would have every justification in the world to kill him, right then and there. He was the one who got Jessica murdered. But what was even worse, Calibrisi knew, was the fact that Dewey wouldn’t blame Calibrisi or Chalmers or Menachem Dayan. He’d blame himself.

It didn’t matter any longer. He had to come clean. Dewey deserved to know.

“It was my fault,” Calibrisi whispered. “I’m the one who got her killed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dillman.”

“Who?”

“The Israeli.”

“He’s dead,” said Dewey.

“We used the body. We used it to launch an operation inside China.”

Dewey stared at Calibrisi.

“You what?” he asked, incredulous, his anger suddenly flashing.

“We used the corpse to expose Fao Bhang. To bring him out of hiding so we could kill him.”

Dewey lurched at Calibrisi, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him hard against the wall.

“He was supposed to be killed, then buried!” screamed Dewey, clutching Calibrisi’s throat and holding him against the wall. “You arrogant son of a bitch!”

Dewey felt nothing but anger and betrayal as he stared into Calibrisi’s eyes and listened to him cough. He heard the click of a round being chambered, next to his head.

“Let him go,” said Tacoma, holding a SIG SAUER P226, now trained at the side of Dewey’s head.

Dewey waited a moment longer, then let Calibrisi drop. He stared for a moment longer at him, then turned and walked to the door.

“Where are you going?” asked Katie.

Dewey didn’t answer. At the door, he turned. He had a confused look as he stared across the room at Calibrisi.

“I’m sorry, Hector,” he said.

He walked through the steel door. Katie went to follow him, but he shut the door before she could get to it. When she tried to open it, she couldn’t.

“Goddamn it,” she said.

“What?”

She slammed her fist against the door.

“He locked it. It’s on a timer. We won’t be able to get out for five minutes.”

Five minutes later, the bolts on the vault door made a loud clicking noise and it swung slowly open.

Katie, Tacoma, and Calibrisi ran down the basement hallway, then climbed the stairs. Tacoma sprinted through the kitchen to the entrance foyer, then ran through the open front door. In the distance, two headlights flickered as a car sped down the driveway, out of sight. Tacoma turned around and ran back inside.

“Keys, Hector,” shouted Tacoma as he ran toward the front door.

Calibrisi looked frantically around the kitchen table, where he’d left them. They were gone.

Calibrisi walked to the door as Tacoma sprinted in. Tacoma stopped, then looked at Calibrisi and Katie behind him, all of them realizing at approximately the same time that Dewey had left, had taken Tacoma’s car along with Calibrisi’s keys and God knows what else.

Calibrisi pulled out his cell phone.

“The president?” asked Katie.

“No, that’s my second call,” said Calibrisi, a flash of anger appearing on his normally placid face. He put the phone against his ear. “Control, get me Couture. He’s in Argentina.”

As he waited, Calibrisi looked at Katie.

“It’s time to start hitting back.”

40

SHERATON HOTEL

CÓRDOBA

Couture stood in his Córdoba hotel room, staring out the window, phone against his ear.

“Yeah, I’ll handle it, Hector,” he said, anger sharpening his eyes. “I know precisely who the fuck did it.”

He hung up the phone.

Charlie Couture wasn’t a very complicated individual. Physically, what you saw was what you got—five feet nine inches of raw muscle and bad attitude, weighing in at precisely two hundred pounds. As for Couture’s demeanor, it was a cross between a pit bull and a wolverine. Like many CIA paramilitary, he didn’t have many friends. He’d risen not because of his political skills but because of his lack of political skills. He was reliable, a workhorse, sent to places that were on the cusp of anarchy, where political turbulence was just beginning to boil up and threaten America. Once there, Couture had a relatively straightforward job, and it wasn’t diplomacy.

Buenos Aires was a plum assignment. There was occasional unrest and a strong strain of remnant communist anti-Americanism, but for the most part the country was stable. But Buenos Aires wasn’t about Argentina. It was about the rest of South America, particularly Bolivia, Peru, and Brazil. These were trouble spots.

Couture speed-dialed Timms, his lead investigator in Córdoba.

“We’re leaving,” said Couture into his cell phone. “Have everyone pack up their shit and be downstairs in five minutes.”

Couture stuffed his green nylon duffel bag with all of his belongings. He walked out of his hotel room, leaving the door wide open. He walked quickly down the hall, carrying his duffel bag, and entered the fire stairs. He climbed from the fourth floor to the ninth floor, two steps at a time. He walked down the hallway until he came to room 955. He knocked loudly on the door.

“Colonel, it’s Charlie Couture,” he barked. “Open up.”

He pounded the wood a few more times. Then, from the inside, he heard Marti’s sleepy voice.

“What is it, Charlie? Can it wait?”

“No,” said Couture. “I just got off the phone with Hector Calibrisi. It’s urgent.”

There was a long silence, at least ten seconds. Then Couture pounded the door again.

“Open the fucking door, Colonel,” said Couture. “We found something.”