“I’m only fluent in English and Spanish, Rolf,” said Dewey, taking a sip of whiskey.

“Your photograph, in other words, now exists in a highly sophisticated database inside China that is fed, in real time, by border security. Photos are ported from all border crossings, whether it’s the airport or the one-room train depot in Erenhot.”

“Erenhot?”

“The only border crossing between Mongolia and China. It’s a facial-recognition appliance that cost PRC more than two billion dollars and six years to design and implement. It’s causing plenty of headaches for people trying to get into PRC with false papers. Bhang’s brother, Bo Minh, designed it.”

“He has a brother?”

“Yes. Bo Minh. A genius. He’s the one who designed the new border security system. It’s extremely sophisticated. Every visitor to PRC, whether it’s by plane, boat, train, or vehicle, by foot, or by bicycle, is going to have their photo snapped and scanned against a massive database. If you attempt to enter China with a fake ID, it might work, but if it doesn’t—you tell me—what do you think Fao Bhang will do? I can tell you what he won’t do: he won’t let you ever see the light of day again.”

“How do you know they have my photograph? Don’t tell me you sold it to them too?”

Borchardt grinned. “Were you in the U.S. military?”

“Yes, you know that.”

“Then they have your photograph.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not kidding. The Chinese are serious. They’re not fucking around. America has spent hundreds of billions, trillions even, to try and wipe out radical jihad, while the Chinese pose a capability, and thus a threat, that is several quanta more dangerous than terrorism and radical Islam.”

“What do they want?”

“I have no idea. No one does. I’m not sure even they do.”

“So why do you deal with them?”

“They have lots of money. They like weapons. They love information. And most important, they wire their money seven days after I send the bill.”

Dewey sat back on the deep leather sofa.

“I’ll have Karina put you in one of the suites,” said Borchardt. “In the meantime, don’t venture out into the party. If Bhang is after you, I can guarantee that every embassy official in the world has already memorized your photo. Also, no phone calls; I know what Bhang and his minions are capable of. The lines were swept before the party, but for all I know, one of the caterers works for him and already stuck a bug on the switch.”

Dewey nodded.

“Pour a whiskey. Pick out a book. Karina will set you up. You look like you could use a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

43

PRIVATE RESIDENCE

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

King stepped off the elevator into the private residence of the president.

Amy Dellenbaugh greeted him.

“Hello, Mrs. Dellenbaugh.”

“For the hundredth time, call me Amy. Come in; he’s in the kitchen.”

She led King through the luxurious, intimate living quarters of the first family, to the kitchen, where J.P. Dellenbaugh was standing at the counter, sleeves rolled up, making a sandwich.

“You hungry?” asked Dellenbaugh. “I made you a sandwich. I hope you like roast beef.”

“Thank you. I do like roast beef.”

King walked to the counter, where a sandwich was piled on a plate.

“You really made that?” asked King. “There are people who are paid to do that for you, Mr. President.”

“I like doing it myself. If the Secret Service would let me, I’d mow the lawn too.”

Dellenbaugh picked up the two plates and carried them to a long table in the center of the kitchen, where they sat down. King picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

“Not bad, sir.”

“Not bad?” asked Dellenbaugh, grinning. “How about, ‘Great sandwich, Mr. President’?”

“It’s a little heavy on the mustard, sir.”

“You can’t have too much mustard,” said Dellenbaugh, taking a large bite of his sandwich. “What do we got?”

“It was China.”

“You’re sure?”

“The evidence is indisputable. We found the body of one of the men sent to Argentina. He was a high-ranking agent in the Ministry of State Security. Hector believes they were after Dewey.”

Dellenbaugh took another bite, then chewed in silence as he thought. His face went from calm to disgusted, followed by irate.

“Motherfuckers,” the president said, finally. He put the sandwich down.

“I believe, Hector and Tim believe, we need to confront them. Fao Bhang and whoever else was involved in this need to be held accountable.”

“I’ll call Li,” said Dellenbaugh, standing up.

“Not yet, sir. Tim is going to call him. Let’s see what their response is. Let’s keep some dry powder, in case we need it later.”

44

UPPER PHILLIMORE GARDENS

KENSINGTON

LONDON

Borchardt walked with his eyes on the ground, through the party, ignoring those guests who called to him. In the central ballroom, beneath a Rembrandt painting of a young girl in a meadow, he saw Sūn Mă, the Chinese ambassador to England, speaking with a woman. Borchardt walked close enough to Mă to make eye contact. When the smiling Mă looked up from his conversation, Borchardt nodded to him.

Mă followed Borchardt into a hallway off the kitchen, then down the stairs into the basement. Mă trailed in silence. Both men walked quickly. At the end of the hallway, a large guard in an ill-fitting suit stood. In his hands, aimed at the ground, was a close-quarters combat machine gun.

Borchardt and Mă passed the guard in silence and entered a windowless, brightly lit room. Inside, two men were seated, monitoring a wall of plasma screens, all displaying different views of the mansion, both inside and out.

“Go to the Equinox Suite,” said Borchardt.

One of the men punched a few keys. The screen cut to a large, empty bedroom suite.

“Would you mind telling me why we’re in your basement, Rolf?” asked the ambassador.

Borchardt turned to Mă.

“You’ll see,” said Borchardt. “Make it fast and don’t make a mess. I don’t want to know what you’re going to do, or how you’re going to do it. I want no part of it.”

“Of what?” asked Mă.

There was movement on the video screen. A woman walked through the door, followed by a large man in an orange T-shirt, carrying a duffel bag.

Mă moved closer to the screen to get a better look. His smile slowly dissipated and shock overtook his face. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

“Get me Minister Bhang,” barked Mă, in Mandarin. “Now!”

45

CIA HEADQUARTERS

LANGLEY

Calibrisi was asleep in his chair when loud knocking on his glass door woke him up. It was two in the afternoon. After staying up all night and working through the morning, Calibrisi had finally succumbed to exhaustion a few hours before.

“We found Dewey.”

It was Bill Polk, deputy head of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service and director of Special Operations Group, the CIA’s paramilitary outfit. It hadn’t taken long for Polk’s team to figure out where Dewey went.

They started with a fast scan of the three airports within reach of Middleburg by car: Dulles International, Reagan National, and Baltimore/Washington International. They also dispatched three on-the-ground teams to look for Tacoma’s BMW M5, which happened to be, in typical Tacoma flamboyance, orange.

At first, the team thought they’d gotten lucky early. There weren’t a ton of flights to look at in the immediate hours after Dewey left the farm, but a 2:00 A.M. Dulles-to-Frankfurt flight popped up Dewey’s name on the Lufthansa manifest. The CIA team, however, couldn’t find Tacoma’s M5 at Dulles, though that could have been easily explained away. Perhaps he’d parked it at a local motel, then taken a taxicab. A back-scan of the manifest against customs data, however, showed that Dewey had bought the ticket, gotten his boarding pass, but hadn’t been aboard the plane when it took off. Then, sometime in the wee hours of the night, Tacoma’s M5 was found at Reagan National, parked in the employee lot. Dewey had flown the Delta shuttle to JFK. At 7:00 A.M., he’d been in seat 4A of a British Airways flight to Heathrow.