Dewey paid the cabbie, grabbed his leather bag, and climbed out. He was dressed in what he’d been wearing when he drove out of Middleburg eight hours before; jeans, T-shirt, boots. His face was covered in stubble.

Borchardt and Dewey had an unusual relationship, to say the least. Borchardt was a German international weapons dealer with ties to not only most Western countries, including the United States, but also to virtually every known terrorist organization in the world. Borchardt had few morals, but he didn’t sell terrorists anything more powerful than guns and ammunition. His reasoning was simple: he didn’t like jihadists, and he thought guns would mostly be used to kill each other. Anything more powerful, and he wouldn’t have been able to sleep at night, constantly worried that it might be his plane or boat or car that got heated up by an angry freedom fighter.

Borchardt was worth more than ten billion dollars and was considered the most powerful weapons dealer in the world. Interestingly, he made almost as much money selling information as he did selling weapons. He’d learned long ago that every time he sold centrifuges to the North Koreans, for example, the South Koreans were more than willing to pay handsomely for that information, nearly as much as the North Koreans had paid for the centrifuges themselves.

Borchardt had almost gotten Dewey killed two years before. It was Borchardt who plumbed contacts within the Pentagon to identify who killed Aswan Fortuna’s son, Alexander. Aswan paid Borchardt four million dollars for a photo of Dewey. A year after selling it to Fortuna, that photo had come within a hairsbreadth of getting Dewey killed by Hezbollah.

But the five-foot-four, waifish-looking Borchardt had made amends by helping Dewey infiltrate Iran the year before. Afterward, Borchardt told Dewey he would be more than happy to help him when he needed it. There was something Borchardt saw in the rough-hewn American. Perhaps it was the way Dewey had stood up to him, without fear, and had given him the opportunity to make amends. Maybe it was the way they each approached the world, reliant on no one. Borchardt had even allowed Dewey and Tacoma the use of one of his basement rooms for the interrogation of Bhutta, an interrogation that had yielded the name of China’s asset inside Mossad.

Of course, Dewey trusted Borchardt about as far as he could throw him. Borchardt was unscrupulous, amoral, and self-interested. Yet the moment the true identity of the Chinese sniper had appeared on the plasma screen back in Middleburg, Dewey knew he needed Borchardt’s knowledge and connections to Beijing. He needed information on the man behind Jessica’s death, Fao Bhang. And, he needed to start planning his infiltration of China and, ultimately, Fao Bhang’s world.

Dewey knew full well that Borchardt might betray him to the Chinese. As a matter of fact, he was counting on it.

Dewey climbed the wide marble steps up to the mansion’s entrance. A few people stared at him but said nothing. Violins could be heard from somewhere inside the mansion, along with the sounds of laughter and conversation. He saw Borchardt, dressed in coat and tails, greeting guests as they came in. They made eye contact. Borchardt finished speaking with a young blond woman in a black dress, excused himself, and made a beeline for Dewey.

“I see you got the invitation,” said Borchardt, smiling as he shook Dewey’s hand.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, Rolf,” said Dewey.

“Did you rent that tux,” asked Borchardt, pointing at Dewey’s orange T-shirt, “or do you own it?”

“Rented it,” said Dewey. “I need to have it back by midnight.”

Borchardt grinned.

“Let’s get a drink,” he said.

Dewey followed Borchardt into a room off the entrance foyer. Borchardt shut the door. It was a large library with vaulted ceilings of dark wood, a huge crystal chandelier, fireplace, walls lined with books, several big couches, a bar in the corner. Borchardt poured two drinks.

“Whiskey, as I recall?”

“Yes, thanks. What’s the party for?”

“Some board I’m on.”

“Do you need to get back to it?”

“They don’t come to see me,” said Borchardt. “They come to eat my food, drink my wine, and see my house. Frankly, I know very few of them, and those I do know don’t like me.”

“Then why are you on the board?”

“I get to look legitimate because I’m on the board of some museum, and they get my money. It’s like an arms deal.”

Borchardt finished pouring and turned back to Dewey.

“What happened to your hand?”

Dewey didn’t answer. Borchardt handed him a glass and clinked his against it. Dewey downed it in one gulp.

“You can tell me later, I guess,” said Borchardt. “What do you need?”

“It’s complicated,” said Dewey.

“Let’s start with a country.”

“China.”

Borchardt tipped his glass back and took a large sip.

“Is this about Jessica Tanzer?”

Dewey stared at him. He was silent for a few moments.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She was my fiancée. They sent a kill team to Argentina. They were after me, but they shot her.”

Borchardt nodded.

“I’m sorry, Dewey.”

Dewey was silent.

Borchardt drained the rest of his glass.

“So you want vengeance?” asked Borchardt.

“Yes.”

“Against who?”

“Two days ago, I would have wiped out the entire country if I could’ve. But I don’t want that. I want to kill the ones who were responsible for her death. Fao Bhang. Anyone close to him. If I could make it hurt, that would be an added bonus.”

“A well-planned infiltration into the PRC could take months. There’s getting in. There’s the design of the operation itself. There’s getting back safely. In addition, there’s the simple challenge of accessing Bhang. He’s going to be extremely well guarded. Look, they were after you. They sent a wet crew to Argentina? That means if you set foot in PRC and they capture you, you’re toast. They’ll simply kill you.”

“Yeah,” said Dewey. “I’ve thought about it. I’m not looking for a nice, clean round-trip ticket here.”

“I need to tell you something,” said Borchardt. “I have very deep ties to the PRC. I helped them modernize their military infrastructure, probably more than anyone. I’ve dined with Premier Li on at least half a dozen occasions. The Chinese ambassador to Britain is here tonight with his wife.”

“I’m putting you in a difficult position,” said Dewey. “I don’t know where else to turn.”

Dewey walked to the bar and poured himself another glass of Jack Daniel’s and another scotch for Borchardt. He walked to one of the sofas and sat down.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Borchardt. “I’m used to being in difficult positions. I’ll help you. But I don’t want to be exposed. That means you can’t tell anyone, not Calibrisi, no one. I cannot afford to get in the crosshairs of Fao Bhang.”

“Not a problem,” said Dewey. “I don’t want anything elaborate. But it needs to happen soon. It needs to be loud and obnoxious. A big fuck you.”

“I have to tell you, Bhang is a dangerous man,” said Borchardt. “So is Ming-húa, his deputy, who runs the kill squads. A couple of evil bastards. China is one large booby trap. You never know who you can trust. The old man working at the shoe factory is just as likely to be an informant as the cashier at the hotel or the anchorman on the evening news. Your little foray into Iran was a cakewalk compared to this. They could very well already know you’re here. The ministry’s use of technology would blow your mind. They are far more aggressive than Langley or NSA.”

“I take it you don’t want to come with me?”

“The problem is,” said Borchardt, ignoring Dewey, “even if you had a very clean set of documents, with an INTERPOL back pull—a so-called ‘clean insertion’—the problem is, PRC has altered the entire architecture of its entrance protocols.”