“Did you go home?” asked Calibrisi, noticing that Chalmers had on the same clothing from the night before.

“No,” said Chalmers. “It’s been a long night.”

Calibrisi sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“What’s going on?”

“China is demanding to know what happened to their ambassador.”

“They should ask one of the goons they sent in,” said Calibrisi.

“Met’s dealing with it,” said Chalmers, referring to Scotland Yard. “Nobody knows we were even there.”

“Have you heard from Dewey?” asked Smythson.

“No,” said Calibrisi. “Any signs of Borchardt?”

Chalmers shook his head.

“What about the plane?” asked Tacoma. “Did they file a flight plan?”

“Yes,” said Smythson. “Moscow. They never landed.”

“So what are you guys thinking?” asked Calibrisi.

“We don’t know,” said Smythson. “He’s obviously improvising. My best guess is he’s headed to another foreign capital. Perhaps he’ll try to take out more ministry assets. He could also be heading to China.”

“Hector, would Dewey actually even consider entering China?” asked Chalmers, incredulous.

“He’s not crazy,” said Calibrisi. “But he is unpredictable. He was a Delta. He was taught to improvise and to act alone. Whatever it is he’s up to, I can guarantee you one thing: it will be bold.”

“If he’s headed for China, he’s not getting in,” said Smythson. “Certainly not a six-four American whose face, by now, is at every border crossing in PRC. Bhang, by now, knows damn well what happened to his agents. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Chinese knew Borchardt’s plane had gone missing.”

“If that’s true, they’ll look for the flight plan too,” said Katie. “They’ll know the plane hasn’t landed in Moscow.”

“We took care of it,” said Smythson. “We altered a tail number on a Moscow-bound BA flight out of Heathrow. If they’re tracking Borchardt’s plane, they’ll believe it actually landed. It should hold.”

“Why the hell is Dewey not coordinating with Langley?” asked Chalmers.

Calibrisi looked at Chalmers with an icy stare.

“Because we got his fiancée killed,” said Calibrisi. “Why is that so hard for you to understand, Derek? It was our goddamn operation that led to Jessica’s death. Dewey wants nothing to do with Langley, MI6, or anyone else. Can you blame him?”

Chalmers paused, considering his response.

“No, of course I can’t blame him,” said Chalmers, calmly. “I feel terrible. But I have a job to do. The removal of Fao Bhang has to be our top priority, now more so than ever.”

“President Dellenbaugh authorized us to take action,” said Calibrisi. “America is going to hit China back. But Dewey Andreas isn’t the one who’s going to do it. He’s in no condition to execute a black-on-black right now. It will be a suicide mission, and it will fail.”

“If we want Jessica’s death to mean something, let’s figure out how to help Dewey kill Fao Bhang,” said Chalmers.

“I’m all for killing Bhang,” yelled Calibrisi, slamming his fist on the conference table. “But we’re not using Dewey. We’re finding him, then I’m bringing him home. If I have to have President Dellenbaugh call the prime minister to tell you to back the fuck off, I will. I’m not going to kill Dewey too!”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence in the conference room. The anger and emotion between Calibrisi and Chalmers was palpable.

Chalmers had a blank look on his face. He scanned Calibrisi’s eyes for several moments.

“How long have we known each other, Hector?”

“Too long.”

“Twenty-five years this December. Cape Town. Remember?”

Calibrisi calmed down. A small grin even appeared on his face.

“Yeah, I remember. A couple of rubes, huh?”

“Speak for yourself,” said Chalmers.

“Okay, one American rube and a Cambridge dilettante.”

“That’s more like it,” said Chalmers. “You taught me something important in South Africa. Remember the girl, the Danish girl, at the consulate?”

“Annika.”

“You said, ‘Don’t get emotional.’ She ended up being KGB. My career at MI6 would have been over.”

“I was young and naïve,” said Calibrisi.

“Do you at least want to hear what we have in mind?”

Calibrisi took a sip from his cup and sat back.

“Why not.”

Chalmers nodded to Smythson.

“We have the rough architecture of a structured assassination of Fao Bhang,” said Smythson. “MI6 has an asset inside the ministry hierarchy; a high-level agent who was recruited six years ago. This agent has been an important source for the UK, and the West, for some time. MI6 is willing to sacrifice that asset in order to strike at Fao Bhang. The operation is code-named ‘Eye for an Eye.’”

“Revenge,” said Calibrisi.

“It’s a double meaning,” said Smythson. “The obvious one: revenge. But we will also attempt to deceive Fao Bhang, to make him believe that what he is seeing is something different than it actually is and not, in fact, a drama, a play, an orchestrated fiction whose final act is his very own death. We will be, in a sense, replacing Bhang’s eyes with our own, at least for a few hours.”

Calibrisi poured another cup of coffee, intrigued. He glanced at Katie, then Tacoma, both of whom were also rapt at attention, fascinated by Smythson’s words.

“But,” said Smythson.

“But what?”

“But we’re missing a key element. And without that element, the operation simply will not work.”

“What is it?” asked Calibrisi.

Smythson looked across the table at Chalmers. Chalmers turned to Calibrisi.

“We need Dewey.”

53

MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE COMPOUND

AUGUST 1ST BUILDING

BEIJING

Xu Qingchen, the top general in the People’s Liberation Army and the second-highest-ranking official in the Chinese military, was seated on a wooden bench. He finished a sandwich, then tossed the last piece of crust to the lawn. A pigeon pounced.

The red wooden bench sat at the center of a private lawn atop the roof of the Ministry of Defense building. Except when he was traveling or during inclement weather, Qingchen ate lunch every day on the roof, usually alone. Today, he was not alone. Seated next to him was Fao Bhang.

Between the two men was a yellow pad. Except for the occasional innocuous chitchat, Qingchen and Bhang communicated by writing notes. Bhang knew what eavesdropping technology was capable of.

“X met with council this morning,” wrote Qingchen.

“X” was shorthand for Premier Li.

“You were a subject,” Qingchen continued, “of discussion.”

“What about?” scribbled Bhang on the pad.

“The ministry budget. X proposes slashing it. This led to bigger discussion. It became agitated.”

“Continue.”

“Photos were produced.”

Bhang looked up from the pad, nostrils flaring.

“Photos?” he said aloud, barely above a whisper, yet seething with anger.

“A corpse,” said Qingchen. “An ax in the skull.”

Bhang abandoned any concern he might have had about speaking aloud.

“Gruesome,” said Qingchen, continuing.

“Mossad did it,” said Bhang.

“Who was the dead man?”

“It doesn’t matter. An asset.”

“What happened in London?” asked Qingchen.

Bhang stood up.

“How do you know about London?”

Qingchen stared at Bhang, a calm anger in his eyes. He remained silent.

“An operation,” said Bhang, defensively. “They don’t always go well. You should know that. It’s nothing, a trifle. A person we’re trying to remove.”

“Sit down,” ordered Qingchen. “And calm down.”

Bhang remained standing, taking a cigarette from his jacket.

“You know I dislike smoke, Fao.”

“What was Li’s objective in all this?” asked Bhang, ignoring him.

“He had no objective, other than cutting the budget, but that is a ruse,” said Qingchen. “It seems clear to me, you’ve upset him. He has started to politicize his paranoia about you.”