“Get this thing in the air,” yelled Dewey into the cockpit. “And I mean right fuckin’ now.”

The Gulfstream’s engines flared and grew louder. The plane bounced into motion, then moved toward the end of the runway.

“Hold on,” barked one of the Israeli pilots. “We’re goin’ hot.”

The engines roared. The jet accelerated down the runway, to the right of the Boeing.

Dewey went back to the sofa and picked up the detonator. As the front wheels lifted off the tarmac, he pressed the small red button.

There was a pause of no more than half a second, then a tremendous thunderclap slammed the sky as the Boeing exploded.

Dewey watched through the porthole window. White, red, orange, and black flames, along with billows of thick smoke, exploded up into the sky in a spectacular radius around the plane. Dewey had to turn his eyes away from the explosion.

More loud thunder echoed across the sky as heat and flames from the explosion spread havoc within the plane’s explosive- and ammunition-laden cargo area.

The Gulfstream was punched sideways, shaking and tilting as it lifted off into the sky. Dewey almost fell to the floor, but he held on to the seat. He forced himself to look again. The tarmac was a smoldering inferno of steel, inside of which was the now very charred remains of Fao Bhang’s beloved half brother, Bo Minh.

Dewey looked above the burning jet. The lights of Beijing were visible in the distance.

“You’re next, motherfucker,” Dewey whispered.

58

BEIJING CAPITAL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

BEIJING

The black sedan reached the steel gates at the edge of the entrance to the private terminal. Dozens of flashing red and blue lights atop police cruisers made the scene look festive—until one moved past the gates and the line of soldiers and police officers standing guard. On the tarmac, the plane was still burning. It had been more than an hour since the blast. The object was was virtually unrecognizable, a destroyed carapace of charred steel, melted parts, atop a small crater torn into the tarmac.

The line of soldiers and officers were held back at least 150 yards by the intense heat still emanating from the wreckage.

Closer to the Boeing was a convoy of green and yellow fire trucks. Teams of firefighters in protective clothing sprayed water at the smoldering wreckage.

Bhang’s sedan passed through the gates, then past soldiers and officers. It came to a stop between two of the fire trucks. The driver leapt from the front seat and opened the back door.

It was 9:00 P.M. in China’s capital city.

Bhang stepped from the sedan. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. Despite the heat, which at this distance still hovered at approximately one hundred degrees, Bhang wore a black suit. Not realizing the irony of the act, he took a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette.

Bhang’s driver climbed back inside the air-conditioned limousine.

Bhang stood alone smoking the cigarette, listening to the loud crackling of the plane burning, watching the torrents of water strike the flames, creating steam that made clouds climb into the sky along with the smoke.

The chief investigator for the Beijing Fire Authority approached. Bhang saw him coming, from the corner of his eye, and held up his hand toward him without looking, telling him in no uncertain terms to stay away.

He stared at the burning jet, trying to imagine where Bo Minh had been and what had happened. He already knew who did it.

Bhang realized, as he took a long drag on his cigarette, that he’d let his personal feelings affect his professional judgment. But he never could have foreseen this. In all his years of covert activities, of killing, assassinations, being the target of attempts on his life, this was the first time anyone had succeeded in hurting him.

He stood in the intense heat. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He didn’t want his driver or anyone to see the tears that now flowed down his cheeks at the thought of his poor brother, his helpless brother, always the weakest one on the playground, always the one being picked on. The only person Bhang had ever truly loved. Now he was gone.

The one thing Bhang was there to do and was capable of doing—protecting Bo—he’d failed at. There was no other way to look at it. At that moment, Bhang knew that the dark knot in his stomach, the bitter woe and paralyzing guilt, was a feeling worse than dying.

He also knew what he had to do, the only thing he had to do, the only thing that mattered anymore.

Bhang flicked his cigarette butt down on the ground. He opened the door of the sedan and climbed into the cool air.

“Headquarters, Minister?”

“Yes. Hurry.”

*   *   *

Ming-húa and a swarm of other senior-level ministry officers were already assembled in Bhang’s large corner office at the ministry when he entered. He said nothing to the six men standing around the conference table as he walked to his desk. He placed his briefcase on the desk, picked up a silver lighter, and lit another cigarette.

“Minister Bhang,” said Ming-húa, bowing. “We are all deeply, deeply sorry for what happened to your brother.”

Bhang did not look up. Instead, he removed his suit coat and hung it on the back of the chair. He opened the top drawer of his desk. Reaching in, he removed a small, stainless-steel handgun, a Walther PPK/S 380CP. Next to it was a long suppressor. Methodically, Bhang screwed the suppressor into the muzzle. When he was done, he raised the weapon in his right hand and aimed it at Ming-húa. He fired one shot. The bullet struck Ming-húa between the eyes, dropping him to the ground, as the other five men stared in horror.

“Nobody leaves this building until Andreas is dead,” said Bhang. “His elimination is now the top priority of the ministry. Drop what you are doing. Delegate any projects you are currently working on.”

None of the five men still standing at the table said anything, but all nodded yes.

“We have learned something in the last few minutes, Minister,” said Dheng. “We found several Hong Kong–based accounts we know to be Borchardt’s at the Bank of China. This afternoon, Mr. Borchardt wired seventy million dollars to the Gulfstream Aerospace Corporation of Savannah, Georgia, presumably for an aircraft.”

“It could have been someone working for Borchardt,” said Bhang, “paying an old bill.”

“Yes, but it was wired into a Gulfstream account at the Bank of Hong Kong,” said Dheng. “The account is designed so that when Gulfstream sells something in China, it can keep the profits in China and not have to repatriate the money and thus pay American taxes on the transaction.”

“In other words,” said Bhang, “he bought a jet in China?”

“Today,” added Dheng. “An hour and a half ago.”

Bhang nodded. He lit another cigarette.

“Excellent work.”

“My team is now attempting to locate the plane,” said Dheng. “Gulfstream embeds standard tracking technology into all of its planes. But in order to do so, we must penetrate Gulfstream, and that’s not easy. The company is owned by General Dynamics. We need to access their internal servers to be able to access the GPS.”

Bhang looked at a tall bearded man, Xiao.

“I want the roster of every ministry operative, regardless of rank and regardless of current mission,” ordered Bhang. “I also want personal information on Andreas. Dig deeper. We know he was born in Castine, Maine. Does he have family?”

“Did we not already kill his fiancée?” asked another man at the table, who immediately regretted asking it.

Bhang glanced at him, nostrils flared.

“It’s a fair question,” said Bhang, hatred and fury inflecting in his normally calm voice. “What you all want to know is, when will it end? It ends when Andreas is dead. Until then, we take as many pieces off the chessboard as we can.”