“Yeah,” said the pilot on the right.

“Got it,” said the other.

“We’ll need to file a flight plan,” said the pilot on the right.

“No you don’t,” said Dewey.

“Yes, we do. You want to pop this thing on an INTERPOL screen, the best way to do that is for us to leave Heathrow without filing a flight plan.”

“Fine, file a flight plan.”

“Where to?”

Dewey thought for a moment.

“Moscow,” said Dewey.

“What’s the final destination?”

“You’ll be the first to know,” said Dewey. “One more thing. Don’t close the door. Don’t lock the door. Trust me, you don’t want to be on that side of the door if I have to break it down.”

The two pilots nodded; the one on the right grinned.

“Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

50

LONDON

It was three in the morning London time when Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma landed at Heathrow.

A black Range Rover waited on the tarmac, its parking lights on and engine running.

The back door of the SUV opened as they crossed the blacktop. A tall man in a blue suit, no tie, with longish, slightly unruly blond hair moved toward the three Americans. This was Derek Chalmers, director of Britain’s MI6, England’s foreign intelligence service.

“Hector,” he said, reaching his hand out toward Calibrisi as they met under the wan yellow lights of the Gulfstream. “Good to see you.”

“Hi, Derek,” said Calibrisi, shaking Chalmers’s hand. “You remember Katie and Rob.”

“Sure, of course.”

Chalmers shook their hands. They followed him to the Range Rover and climbed in.

Chalmers tapped the back of the driver’s seat, telling his driver to move. They shot down the tarmac toward the airport exit.

“Well?” asked Calibrisi. “We got anything?”

Chalmers nodded.

“It’s a bloody mess.”

“Why didn’t you call?” asked Calibrisi.

Chalmers stared at Calibrisi, a slightly annoyed look on his face.

“Because there are five dead Chinese commandos at Borchardt’s house and one dead Chinese ambassador,” said Chalmers. “I have no idea if they’re listening in, and I don’t want to find out.”

“When did it go down?” asked Tacoma.

“Sometime late last night. The team we sent in last night found the bodies. They were still warm. We haven’t pulled them out.”

“Have you run any of the prints?”

“Yes. They were all MSS. This was a kill team.”

“They’re all dead?” asked Calibrisi.

Chalmers nodded.

“As doornails. Your man Andreas redecorated the bedroom with them.”

“Does China know about their dead ambassador?” asked Calibrisi.

“I assume,” said Chalmers. “Borchardt’s security team was coordinating with Beijing. The entire operation was run out of Beijing. They had live video of the OP.”

“So it’s escalating.”

“Yes,” agreed Chalmers. “Bhang is now fully engaged. It’s going to get violent, but we can work with it. I know you don’t want to hear this, Hector, but Dewey is proving to be a rather tempting morsel for our friend in Beijing.”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, the Range Rover pulled into the alleyway behind Upper Phillimore Gardens and extinguished its lights. A plainclothes agent, hand against his ear, was standing near an iron gate at the back of Borchardt’s darkened gardens. He flicked a quick thumbs-up at the driver. Chalmers, Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma climbed out, then moved through the gate, meeting another agent who was waiting for them beneath the shadow of a Japanese maple tree.

Inside, they followed Chalmers into the library, whose curtains were drawn. A woman in a black bodysuit, a MI6 coroner, with blue rubber gloves on, was waiting.

On the floor were two bodies, both riddled with bullet holes and drenched in blood that had begun to blacken as it dried. One was a large man with dirty-blond hair in a gray plaid suit, who looked Russian. The other was a Chinese man in a tuxedo. His torso looked like a knife had been taken to it, though the blood-splattered wall behind him told a different story, of slugs having passed straight on through.

“The ambassador?” asked Calibrisi.

“The Honorable Sūn Mă,” said Chalmers. “The other’s ex-KGB. I assume one of Borchardt’s men.”

They followed Chalmers up the ornate central stairwell. At the third-floor landing, a large pool of blood shimmered under the light from the hallway. A few feet from the top step, a dead Chinese commando lay on his back, his head half blown off.

Down the corridor stood another coroner. He nodded at Chalmers but said nothing.

Chalmers led them into the bedroom. Inside were four more dead agents, littered on the oriental rug—three near the foot of the bed, one just inside the door. Blood was scattered in pools on the ground and splattered on the wall.

“China wasn’t fucking around,” said Calibrisi.

“Nor was Dewey,” added Chalmers.

Calibrisi moved to the bed, stepping around the corpses. The bed was torn apart by slugs. Feathers were scattered all over the bedspread.

“Any calls from the neighbors?” asked Calibrisi.

“Yes,” said Chalmers. “But nothing to worry about.”

“No sign of Dewey or Borchardt?” asked Katie.

“Nothing. But we do know this: Borchardt’s plane is gone. It left Heathrow around midnight.”

As they walked back through the gardens, Calibrisi stopped to talk to Chalmers one-on-one.

“What are you thinking?” Calibrisi asked.

“We leave it exactly the way we found it,” said Chalmers. “Let Scotland Yard take jurisdiction.”

“Why?”

“We have an advantage as long as Bhang believes Dewey is acting alone,” said Chalmers. “We can’t risk Bhang thinking this is a sanctioned operation by CIA or MI6. The fact that they targeted Dewey while he was with your national security advisor means they’re really bloody serious. We need to keep our heads down, and we need to find Dewey. If we play our cards right, he’ll lead us straight to Bhang.”

“I want to make something very clear, Derek,” said Calibrisi, sharply. “I need help finding Dewey. But I have absolutely no intention of doing anything more than taking him back to the United States. He is not part of any operation to kill Fao Bhang.”

“It’s too late for that,” said Chalmers. “Andreas is in the middle of this thing, Hector, whether you like it or not. A dead ambassador? A dead squad of commandos? This is going to anger the hell out of them. You need to put your guilt about Jessica aside and focus on the objective.”

“I don’t care about the objective,” said Calibrisi, stabbing his finger at Chalmers. “We find Dewey, then he’s out. I’m not going to have his blood on my hands too.”

“This is what we wanted,” Chalmers shot back. “Dewey’s going to lead us to Bhang. You want to do your friend a favor? Help him get revenge. That’s what he wants. It’s what he deserves.”

51

IN THE AIR

Dewey slept for the first two hours of the flight, seated a few rows behind Borchardt. When he awoke, he went to the galley kitchen at the front of the cabin and made a cup of coffee. He returned and sat down across from Borchardt, whose mouth remained taped shut.

“You want some?” Dewey asked.

Borchardt looked miserable. His eyes were bloodshot and angry. A sheen of sweat covered his head. His comb-over dangled down by his ear. He nodded up and down, indicating yes, he wanted a cup of coffee.

“What do I look like, a waitress?” asked Dewey.

Borchardt glared at Dewey. He screamed, though it was muted by the tape around his mouth.

“What?” asked Dewey, innocently. “I can’t hear you.”

Dewey took a sip.

“Mmmm, that’s good coffee,” Dewey said. “You know, Rolf, you need to stop reading too much into things. I never said I was going to get you coffee. That’s called taking someone for granted. I read somewhere it’s one of the main reasons relationships fall apart.”