“What time did he land?” asked Calibrisi, sitting up.

“An hour ago.”

Calibrisi looked at his watch.

“Get a plane ready for takeoff,” said Calibrisi. “I want to be airborne in exactly thirty minutes.”

“You got it.”

Calibrisi leaned forward. He hit the button on the phone console atop the brass-and-glass coffee table, then quickly dialed a number he knew by heart.

“Foxx.”

“Katie?”

“Hi, Hector.”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, let’s see. I just finished adjusting the locks on the vault, so Dewey can’t lock us in again.”

“Speaking of Dewey,” said Calibrisi, “we found him.”

“Congratulations,” said Katie. “Say hi to him for me, will you?”

“He’s in London.”

“That’s really exciting. Maybe he’ll send me a postcard? I’ll be waiting by the mailbox. If you talk to him, would you mind relaying a message for me?”

Calibrisi breathed in deeply, grinned, then shook his head.

“And what is that?”

“Tell him to fuck off.”

“I will. Anything else?”

“Don’t ever ask for Rob and me to help that ungrateful son of a bitch ever again. What a jerk. What if that room didn’t have an oxygen circuit?”

Calibrisi let Katie finish blowing off steam.

“You done?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Rob?”

“Shooting things in the backyard.”

“Well … so … the reason I called.”

“Yeah?”

“I got you two into this whole thing, and I feel sort of bad. I’d like to make it up to you.”

Katie was silent.

“Something special,” added Calibrisi.

“That’s nice. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking it might be fun to go on a trip.”

“Oh, no, Hector,” said Katie, warily. “You’re not serious.”

“London is so pretty this time of year,” said Calibrisi. “The rain. The clouds. The rain. The drizzle. Then there’s the fog. Harrods. Buckingham Palace. Changing of the Guard. What do you say? Throw a few shrimps on the barbie?”

“That’s Australia, jackass.”

“We can go there afterward,” added Calibrisi, enthusiastically.

Katie was silent.

“I take off from Andrews in twenty minutes,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll swing by Dulles private.”

“Do we have a choice in the matter?”

“No,” said Calibrisi, standing up. “And tell Rob to bring something nice to wear, in case we get to meet the queen.”

*   *   *

The black Sikorsky S-76C chopper picked up Calibrisi on the roof helipad at Langley, then delivered him, ten minutes later, to the tarmac at Andrews. He climbed down the airstairs then walked 150 feet to the waiting CIA-owned black-and-silver Gulfstream G150, whose turbines were already buzzing as the pilots prepared for takeoff.

Twelve minutes later, after landing at the private terminal at Dulles, Katie and Tacoma climbed up the jet’s stairs, each carrying a small duffel bag.

Tacoma had a wide smile on his face. His hair was a mess. He had on cutoff khaki shorts with paint stains and a faded yellow T-shirt with a trident shield stamped on the chest—symbol of the Navy SEALs. He had on a pair of heavily beat-up cowboy boots.

Katie, as usual, looked slightly more elegant than Tacoma. She had on knee-high brown leather boots with a silver Gucci insignia on the sides. She wore short green-and-white flower-print shorts, which showed off her legs, and a thin white cotton sweater with a black stripe across it. Her hair was braided into a ponytail. Unlike Tacoma, there was no smile on her face.

“Hi, guys,” said Calibrisi. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it, chief,” said Tacoma, sitting down in one of the white leather captain’s chairs, diagonally across from Calibrisi. “I hear Polky found my Beemer.”

Katie sat down across from Calibrisi but remained silent.

The plane taxied down the long tarmac, turned, then roared down the runway, lifting smoothly into the sunny Virginia sky.

Calibrisi briefed Katie and Tacoma on his meeting at the White House with Adrian King and Secretary of State Lindsay.

“So basically, we’re going to ask China to turn over their top intelligence official so that he can be prosecuted at The Hague?” asked Katie, incredulous.

“That’s the plan.”

“Did you speak with the president?”

“Not yet. King is meeting with the Chinese ambassador as we speak. We’re going to get on the phone after that.”

“Why don’t they let you deal with it?”

“That’s not off the table yet,” said Calibrisi. “Look, if China will hand over Fao Bhang, that would be adequate for me. He should pay. If going the official route is what gets that done, then so be it, I’m happy.”

“Happy?” asked Tacoma.

“Well, not happy. I’m still pissed. But the staging of something like a hit on Fao Bhang is not straightforward, guys. We need to let things run their course. Dellenbaugh isn’t going to go to DEFCON five right from the get-go. I don’t disagree with him either.”

“Understood.”

“Coffee anyone?” asked Tacoma.

“Sure,” said Calibrisi.

Katie held up two fingers, indicating she wanted one also.

Tacoma stood and walked to the galley kitchen at the aft of the jet. He made three cups of coffee, then returned to the seats.

“Why London?” asked Calibrisi, as Tacoma sat down.

“If I had to guess, he’s going to see Borchardt,” said Tacoma.

“Deep connections to Beijing,” agreed Calibrisi, nodding. “Whatever weapons Dewey wants. There’s a certain logic to it.”

“Dewey is asking him to help get back at Bhang,” said Katie.

“The problem is,” said Calibrisi, “Borchardt would flip Dewey in a heartbeat. China is his biggest client by far.”

“Do we have someone tracking him from Heathrow?” asked Katie.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to exacerbate the situation,” said Calibrisi. “He’s extremely pissed off. If I sent a spotter, he would’ve seen him. At that point, he’d feel even more betrayed than he does already. Then he’d shut us out permanently. I don’t think we want to be shut out.”

“We need to get a team over there,” said Katie. “Who do we have in London, Hector? Should I call Danny?”

Calibrisi unfolded the SAT phone. He pressed one of the speed-dial numbers, then put the phone to his ear.

“Who you calling?” asked Katie.

“Derek Chalmers,” said Calibrisi. “We need to find Dewey and bring him home before he gets in any deeper.”

46

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

When King walked back into his office, Zhai Jintao, China’s ambassador to the United States, was seated in front of his desk.

Jintao was fifty years old. He had a neatly coiffed head of black hair that was a tad long, and wore a stylish pair of round, tortoiseshell eyeglasses. Unlike many of his fellow Chinese government officials, he wore beautiful clothing, brightly striped button-down shirts, Hermès ties, Prada shoes, and suits that were made on Savile Row in London. Most unusual, however, was his smile. It was, in a word, infectious. That and his good looks had done much for him over the years, and there weren’t many people, inside or outside of diplomatic circles, who didn’t like Jintao.

Jintao was alone. As King entered, he stood up immediately. King took off his sports coat and hung it on the back of his door, then shut it.

“Adrian,” said Jintao, stepping toward him, “good to see you, my friend.”

King ignored his outstretched hand. He went behind his desk.

“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, Mr. Ambassador.”

“It’s your meeting.”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Not exactly, though I can probably guess.”

King pushed the manila dossier on Hu-Shao across the desk to Jintao. Jintao picked it up and leafed through it as King watched in silence. It took Jintao only a minute or two to pore through it. When he was done, he placed it back on the desk in front of King.