The light in the compartment was out, and it was pitch-black. He tried to keep his eyes open, tried to achieve a level of lucidity, but without the light, it was hard to stay awake. He willed himself to.

The horn sounded again as the TGV approached a town somewhere, not slowing one iota. The lights from the station cast soft yellow patches into the compartment. In the wan light, Dewey looked around. That was when he saw a figure—seated across from him, dark slacks, a striped shirt, suit coat. Dewey’s eyes drifted up to his face. Where he expected to find the closed lids of a man sleeping, he found himself staring into eyes as dark, as blank, as angry as he’d ever seen, staring back at him. Their eyes met and locked for several still, quiet moments, the man communicating in those moments his anger.

“Hi, Hector,” Dewey said.

Calibrisi didn’t move. He didn’t respond.

“Why am I cuffed?”

“So you don’t run away.”

“Where am I?” Dewey asked.

“Spain.”

Dewey tried to turn his head, wincing in pain.

“What happened to the Delta?” Dewey asked. “Dowling?”

“He’s going to live. The bullet missed his heart by a quarter of an inch.”

Dewey pulled at the restraints.

“Is this really necessary?”

Calibrisi ignored him, not taking his dark eyes away, staring at him with cold fury.

“Well, if you’re not going to talk to me, could you at least get me a beer?” asked Dewey.

Calibrisi lurched forward and slammed the back of his right hand at Dewey’s face, hitting him hard enough to hurt, to jerk his head sideways. Dewey absorbed the punch, then looked back at Calibrisi.

“One Delta and one British intelligence officer died saving your motherfucking ass today,” said Calibrisi. “Athanasia. You know where he’s from? Well, I do. I spoke with his dad tonight. Montana. The British kid, Farber? From a little town outside London called St. Alban’s. They had nothing to do with this. You’re a selfish son of a fucking bitch.”

Dewey let Calibrisi burn through his point, his anger, listening.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” said Dewey. “I didn’t want it. I didn’t ask for it. You sent those men in, not me.”

Calibrisi’s nostrils flared, then he lurched out again, hitting him in the same exact spot, harder this time. Dewey absorbed it again.

“It was your fault, and you know it, Hector.”

“You would’ve died.”

“So what. That’s not your choice.”

“You think you’re so fucking tough, don’t you? ‘I don’t care if I live or die. I’m Dewey Andreas.’ The world is always out to get poor little Dewey Andreas.”

“Pretty easy to say that when you have me tied down, ain’t it, chief? Untie me and say it again.”

Calibrisi shook his head, more furious now than ever. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding combat knife. He stood, flipped it open, stepped to the other side of the compartment, leaned down, then cut the cuffs from Dewey’s hands and legs. Then he sat back down.

“Well, tough guy?” Calibrisi said.

Dewey slowly sat up.

“Cool down,” said Dewey.

“Don’t tell me to cool down.”

“Fine. Don’t cool down. I’m sorry they died. Obviously, I’m sorry they died. Is that what you want to hear? You’re the one—”

“Don’t say it.”

Dewey leaned back, wincing from pain in his neck.

The train horn made a distant blow. Dewey and Calibrisi sat in silence for more than an hour as the train pushed through the Spanish countryside.

“Where are we going?” asked Dewey.

“Paris.”

“Why Paris?”

“You’ll see.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have a job to do.”

“A job? I didn’t realize I work for you.”

“You don’t. But if you don’t do it, the SAS team down the hallway is dropping you off at the Chinese embassy when we get to Paris.”

Dewey looked out the window.

“You want Fao Bhang dead?” continued Calibrisi. “Well, you’re going to get your chance.”

Dewey tried to read Calibrisi’s stony, emotionless eyes.

“What’s the catch?”

“The catch? The catch is, the odds of it working are about one in a million. Oh, and after it’s done, whether it works or not, you’re either gonna spend the rest of your life in a Chinese prison or, more likely, you’re gonna get a nice slug right between those blue eyes of yours.”

Dewey nodded. “Sounds like fun,” said Dewey. “And please remind me, why would I do this?”

“Because you don’t have a choice.”

74

CASTINE GOLF CLUB

BATTLE AVENUE

CASTINE, MAINE

Eleven-year-old Reagan Andreas clutched the roof of the golf cart as it barreled toward a large grass-covered knoll at the side of the fairway. Reagan wore cutoff khaki shorts, a white polo shirt, and was barefoot. Her knees were green and brown with dirt and grass stains. Reagan was seated in the passenger seat.

“Not again, Sam,” she implored. “Your ball isn’t anywhere near here!”

The golf cart was speeding along as fast as it could go. Its driver, thirteen-year-old Sam Andreas, had a devilish smile on his face as he ignored his younger sister for the umpteenth time that day. Sam’s only thought was that he hated the fact that the cart couldn’t go faster.

Sam had on his favorite shirt, a blue Lacoste polo shirt with a large rip across the back, a hand-me-down from his Uncle Dewey. He wore bright red madras shorts and flip-flops. Sam had curly blond hair, which he hadn’t brushed or washed since the beginning of summer, letting the salt water of the ocean do the job for him. He wore sunglasses, was tan, and was as thin as a beanstalk, despite the fact that he ate at least five meals a day and snacked incessantly.

Reagan clutched tighter as the cart crested the hill, then launched out into the air, becoming airborne for the briefest of moments. The cart came to an awkward, bouncing landing, the clubs jangling in back, as everyone within earshot turned their heads, including a small crowd of onlookers on the terrace of the green-and-white clubhouse in the distance, including their father, Hobey Andreas.

“Did you see that?” Sam screamed.

He straightened the cart out, then weaved in an absurdly sharp left turn toward the clubhouse.

“Let me out,” said Reagan. “Honestly, you are the most immature human being I have ever met. I can’t believe I’m related to you.”

“You’re not,” said Sam. “You were adopted. Mom and Dad didn’t tell you?”

She rolled her eyes.

“I wish I was adopted. It would mean I wasn’t related to you.”

Sam drove the old cart back to the clubhouse. Standing on the porch, arms crossed, a pissed-off look on his face, was their father, Hobey.

“Sucks being you,” Reagan sang as she climbed out of the cart.

Hobey Andreas crossed the gravel parking area. Like his father and his brother, Hobey was tall and good-looking, with a mop of unruly brown hair. He came up to Reagan and gave her a little pat on the shoulder.

“How’d you shoot ’em, muffin?” he asked her.

“Okay. I almost got a hole in one on four.”

“You did not,” said Sam.

“Did I ask you?” said Hobey sharply, without looking at his son. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. Is that understood?”

“Dad, technically, if I say ‘I understand,’ that would be making a peep,” said Sam.

Hobey Andreas smiled at his daughter, trying to control his temper.

“Mom’s inside, sweetie. Why don’t you go grab some lunch.”

“Okeydokey,” Reagan said. She looked at Sam and smiled. “Bye, Sam.” She turned and walked toward the clubhouse.

Her father waited for her to go through the screen door, then leaned into the cart.

“Five complaints,” seethed Hobey, holding up his hand to show all five fingers of an open fist. “That’s a new record.”

“Five? What are you talking about?”

“The hill jump,” said his dad, holding his thumb up to count. “Hitting the Anderson’s roof.” He held up another finger.