Borchardt screamed.
“Help!”
Dewey took the tape and wrapped it across his mouth. Borchardt squirmed and fought against the cuffs, his screams muted by the tape.
Dewey sat and stared at Borchardt for a few minutes. Finally, he stood and walked to the galley. He searched through drawers until he found some tools. He removed wire cutters, then returned to the seat. He held up the tool.
“Wire cutters,” he said, putting them down on Borchardt’s lap. “They should be able to cut through the flex cuffs.”
The plane’s landing gear went down and the plane shook.
“As much as I’d like to continue this enlightening discussion,” said Dewey, “this is my stop. Good luck.”
57
BEIJING CAPITAL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
BEIJING
Borchardt sat in the same seat he’d been seated in, with the exception of one bathroom break, for twelve hours straight.
He was alone. His hands and feet remained tethered to the seat. On his lap sat a pair of wire cutters, taunting him with their proximity and their stillness. He calculated that once his hands were free, it would take him less than ten seconds to clip the flex cuffs from his ankles, then run down the aisle to the open cabin door and down the stairs. The reality, he knew, was a little different. Right now, he was one itchy American finger away from being immolated in the white-hot hell of a SEMTEX explosion.
Out the window, to Borchardt’s right, two hundred yards across the empty tarmac, was another plane, a white Gulfstream G250. Fortunately, Gulfstream had it in Hong Kong, a short flight away. The plane had already been sold to a Chinese coal tycoon named Junbei. It had cost Borchardt twenty-five million dollars over the asking price of the jet to convince the CEO of Gulfstream to break the contract with Junbei and force the thirty-six-year-old to wait two extra days for another G250.
Borchardt stared at his new plane, wondering if he would ever actually get to use it.
Over time, Borchardt knew, his weapons had been used to kill thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands of people, on every continent and in almost every country in the world.
But Borchardt had never actually killed someone.
Borchardt’s eye was suddenly drawn to the door of the private terminal building, behind the Gulfstream. The door opened and a man emerged, alone. Borchardt recognized Minh immediately. He was short and thin, and he walked with a stoop. His hair was down to his shoulders.
Minh surveyed the tarmac suspiciously, then started walking toward Borchardt’s plane.
In his hand he carried a large briefcase. He wore the typical uniform of seemingly half the men in China, a dark plain Windbreaker and dark plain pants.
* * *
Dewey leaned to the porthole window of the Gulfstream, as a small man—who he assumed was Bo Minh—stepped from a blue corrugated-steel building and started walking across the tarmac toward Borchardt’s brightly lit plane.
As he walked across the blacktop, Minh glanced in Dewey’s direction, in fact, for one brief second, into Dewey’s eyes, at least that’s what it felt like.
Dewey walked to the cockpit. Inside, the two Israeli pilots were both seated. Their hair looked matted and slightly greasy. They were clearly exhausted.
“Let’s start getting ready to go,” said Dewey. “And when I say ‘go,’ I mean we’re going to need to get the fuck out of here lickety-split.”
“Okay,” said the pilot on his left.
“What about Borchardt?” asked the other.
“Jury’s still out on that one,” said Dewey.
Dewey went back to the leather sofa and sat down. He watched as Bo Minh stopped at the bottom of the mobile airstairs that led up into the Boeing.
* * *
The rattle of Minh’s shoes on the steel stairs made Borchardt’s heart race. He felt like his heart was about to explode. He counted the steps as Minh climbed. Finally, Minh’s head popped into view. Long black hair with specks of gray; thick, square glasses. Minh had a fearful look on his face as he entered. Then, as he focused in on Borchardt, tethered to the seat, duct tape across his mouth, his head jerked forward in shock and his glasses tumbled to the ground.
Borchardt yelled. The tape muffled the sound.
Minh picked up his glasses, put them on, and gently placed the large briefcase on the floor. He walked quickly down the aisle to Borchardt.
“Hold on, Mr. Borchardt.”
Borchardt nodded at the wire cutters, still yelling.
Minh grabbed the wire cutters and cut the flex cuff at Borchardt’s left arm. Borchardt reached up and pulled the tape from his mouth, panting.
“Oh, thank God, you’re here,” Borchardt said, panting. “It was unbelievable.”
Borchardt grabbed the wire cutters from Minh. He slashed them through the air, stabbing Minh in the neck, then again, two fierce blows that made blood abruptly flood from Minh’s neck. Minh dropped to the ground, screaming.
Borchardt cut the cuff at his left wrist, then the cuffs at his feet.
He dropped the wire cutters and ran to the galley kitchen, but fell down, his knees and legs weak from inactivity. He got back up, looking back to see Minh crawling after him, his front covered in crimson. At the galley, Borchardt pulled a drawer out and found a small knife. He grabbed it with his left hand, then turned, but Minh was already on him.
The sharp points of the wire cutters struck Borchardt just behind the ear. Minh swung again, from Borchardt’s right, ripping a gash into Borchardt’s ear. Borchardt screamed as he fell to the aisle floor, covering his ear.
Minh was screaming in Mandarin, a rabid, bloodcurdling yell, as he stabbed again, viciously, hitting Borchardt above the right eye. Blood spurted forward. Minh swung again as, from the ground, Borchardt stabbed the knife into Minh’s calf. Minh screamed but landed another blow to Borchardt’s forehead. Borchardt crawled toward the front of the plane, trying to get away, as Minh pulled the knife from his calf.
Minh picked up the steel briefcase with both hands. He slammed it into Borchardt’s head as the German attempted to crawl away. After the second blow, Borchardt went cold. Minh hit him one more time, cursing him in Mandarin as he did so.
Minh stared for several minutes at Borchardt, who was unconscious, bleeding badly on the ground. Minh tried to catch his breath. He reached his hand to his neck, then looked at it. The fingers were covered in wet blood.
Minh limped to the cabin door, clutching the briefcase.
* * *
The engines on the Gulfstream were fired up, and a smooth electric din permeated the cabin as the pilots prepared to take off.
Dewey stared at the entrance door to the Boeing, watching the light, waiting for signs of life. He gripped the detonator. The first minute turned into a second, then a third. Then a shadow appeared in the Boeing door, at the top of the stairs.
But where Dewey expected to see Borchardt, Bo Minh suddenly appeared. His head darted wildly about. He stepped into the light atop the stairs, and Dewey could see blood covering one of his hands and his neck. He was limping. He started descending the stairs.
“Motherfucker,” said Dewey.
Dewey held the remote detonator. He put his thumb to the red button. He was about to press it, then paused. He put it down on the seat.
He bolted to the cabin door and jumped from the top step to the tarmac ten feet below. He sprinted toward Borchardt’s plane. As he ran, Dewey pulled a Glock from his shoulder holster. He closed in on Bo Minh, who was limping beneath the shadows of the Boeing.
Minh saw Dewey sprinting toward him. He dropped the briefcase as Dewey closed in. Minh did not even have time to move as Dewey fired a round from point-blank range into his chest.
Dewey caught Minh as he fell, throwing him over his shoulder, fireman style. He sprinted the last few yards to the Boeing, then climbed up, two steps at a time. At the top stair, he tossed Minh’s body to the floor. He saw Borchardt. Dewey grabbed him and lifted him up onto his shoulder. He ran back to the cabin door, then descended the airstairs, still clutching the handgun. He ran the last hundred yards to the Gulfstream, then climbed aboard. He tossed Borchardt onto one of the leather sofas, then turned and hit the door lever. The stairs began to rise.