*   *   *

The private aviation lounge was a small modern glass building with a comfortable seating area. It was reserved for passengers on private planes. In the far corner of the lounge area sat Huong. He was in the back, in a black leather chair, sipping a coffee. He looked at his iPhone. The words were in Mandarin.

“Wheels down.”

Despite the heat, Huong had on a black Windbreaker. Across his chest, inside the Windbreaker, a 5.7x28mm FN P90 close-quarters combat submachine gun was strapped, its unusual bullpup shape easy to hide, the top-mounted magazine loaded, the safety off, the fire selector set to full auto.

Huong first eyed the Gulfstream when its silver nose reflected a sun flash in the low western sky, coming toward the runway. The jet barreled down the runway, then moved toward the terminal. It was unmistakable; it had to be the jet.

Huong hit a few strokes on the iPhone.

“Target in sight. Do I have backup?”

Huong waited for the response, his heart beating wildly.

“Yes. Lei and Shin are outside the main terminal.”

Huong knew both men. Lei was young, early twenties. Shin was in his forties, tough as nails, the second-ranking agent in Portugal.

Huong looked one last time at Andreas’s photo, then pocketed his phone.

In addition to a compact, extremely lethal FN P90 submachine gun, Huong had a suppressed, Spanish-made Star Megastar .45 ACP tucked in a specially designed pocket of the Windbreaker. He knew it would be better to use the suppressed Megastar. Inside the terminal, he would have to go quiet. But he’d never killed someone with the P90, and he longed to do it.

He looked around and counted only two other people in the spacious, brightly lit lounge area, a woman behind the reception desk and a businessman seated in the center of the reception area, reading.

The plane came to a stop directly in front of the building, a few hundred feet away. The right side of the jet faced the building. Huong walked to the window. He searched the tarmac near the jet, looking for people, security guards, maintenance crew. But it was empty.

He felt the rectangular block of steel against his torso. He could do it outside, as he crossed the tarmac. The sound would be barely intelligible above the loud noise and confusion of the airport.

Then Huong remembered his training. To show off was frowned upon.

The sound of a gun is the sound of the soldier; silence, the signature of the professional.

He moved to a seat against the far wall, a seat removed from the line of sight of the entrance door. He put his hand in his pocket and gripped the butt of the Megastar, waiting, heart racing, the warmth of adrenaline coursing through him, warmth ten times that of the feeling off Guincho, when the front of his Tangent board slashed horizontally across the front wall of the wave.

*   *   *

Inside the main terminal, Dewey went into the first store he could find. He bought a baseball hat with a Benfica football logo on it, along with a pair of dark sunglasses and an international phone card.

In the distance, he saw a sign for the taxi stand. Against the wall, he noticed a line of public phones. He went to one of the glass semiprivate booths, put his bag down, keyed in the calling-card number, then dialed. Though he’d picked up the receiver with the intent of calling Hector, when he started to dial, his fingers struck different digits, another number he knew by heart. After nearly half a minute, the phone started to ring. It rang four times, then picked up.

“Hi, this is Jess,” said the voice. Dewey shut his eyes, picturing her face.

“I can’t come to the phone right now; please leave me a message.”

He forgot how warm her voice was, how soft and shy, and he remembered that it would have been his voice to listen to, to laugh with, for the rest of his life.

He fought to push the thoughts away. He hung up, then leaned his head against the wall.

Leave it behind, Dewey. Walk away. Get it through your head and walk away. Leave her behind. Yesterday’s gone. She’s gone.

Fight. It’s all you can do. It’s all you could ever do.

Against his better judgment, he dialed again. He listened until he felt someone’s eyes on him. He looked up. An old woman was staring at him, politely waiting for the phone. He hung up the phone and walked away from the phone booth.

Dewey walked quickly through the terminal, keeping his head down. He rode an escalator to the baggage-claim area. Near the glass doors to the outside, he saw a sign for the taxi stand.

The area outside the terminal was crowded with cars, buses, rental-car shuttles, taxis, and people. There were three separate lanes. The first was reserved for taxis. A center lane was reserved for public transportation and shuttles; a procession of buses, hotel and rental-car shuttles lined the concrete sidewalk. The far traffic lane was for everyday cars and was crowded with double-parked cars, as passengers hustled to climb in.

Dewey saw the taxi line to the left. He fell in line behind a young black couple. They were holding hands and laughing. From their accents, they sounded French. The man was tall; Dewey moved into line as close to the couple as possible, using them to provide a visual shield as he scanned the sidewalk for anyone even remotely Asian.

The airport was chaotic and crowded. This, Dewey knew, was exactly what he wanted.

Seek crowds. Blend in. Know where your weapon is.

Dewey began to relax slightly as the French couple came to the front of the taxi line. Still, he felt perspiration beneath his armpits.

“Are you here on holiday?” asked the woman behind Dewey. He turned. She looked Middle Eastern; her accent was British. She smiled at him.

“No,” said Dewey.

The line moved again. A small green taxi pulled in front of the French couple. As they climbed in back, the woman giggled watching the man attempt to squeeze into the tiny vehicle. The driver climbed out and opened the trunk of the taxi, then grabbed the couple’s bags and tossed them into the trunk. A few seconds later, the taxi sped away.

Dewey was at the front of the line now. He was exposed to anyone driving in any of the three pickup lanes. He stooped a bit, pulling the hat as low as he could without looking suspicious. He registered a long succession of buses and rental-car shuttles in the next lane. In the far lane, cars were backed up, double parked, horns honking intermittently.

Dewey glanced left, toward the airport entrance. There wasn’t a taxi in sight.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Dewey turned.

“How about you?” he asked politely, looking at the woman. He surveyed over her shoulders, to both sides, scanning the terminal entrance for spotters.

“Yes, I’m on holiday. I’m meeting my sister.”

Dewey turned from the woman, looking again for a taxi. There wasn’t one in sight.

“Would you like to share a taxi into town?” asked the woman. “It’s so frightfully expensive.”

Dewey looked into the woman’s eyes for a brief moment, saying nothing. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a bright red sedan with black checkers on its doors and a flashing yellow sign on its roof. The taxi barreled into the airport and, moments later, sped down the taxi lane.

“Thank God,” he muttered.

The red taxi moved quickly down the lane and stopped in front of Dewey.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Dewey to the woman.

Dewey reached for the taxi door and noticed, for the first time, a white van parked two lanes over, its windows tinted jet-black.

A chill spiked in the back of Dewey’s neck as the van’s lights suddenly flickered. Someone inside the van had turned the key.

“Where to?” asked the cab driver.

Dewey leaned down, into the passenger window, making eye contact with the driver.