“It was an accident.”

“Leaving Reagan on the tee box at one,” he continued, holding up a third finger.

“How’d you know about that?”

“Playing chicken with Mac.”

Hobey held four fingers up.

“What’s the fifth?” asked Sam.

“Mrs. Penske said you made a lewd comment while cleaning your golf ball on the third tee?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Sam was silent. He remained seated in the cart.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepishly.

Hobey shook his head back and forth.

“It’s a nice Saturday. You have to go and act like a knucklehead.”

“Does this mean I can’t play the back nine?”

Hobey pulled his cell from his pocket and hit a button. He let it ring.

“Hi, Pop,” Hobey said, staring daggers at his son. “What are you up to?”

Sam started shaking his head back and forth, mouthing the word “no” to his father, who stared at him with a small grin on his face.

“So, I have someone here who’d like to come up and do some work,” said Hobey. “And I mean work. Anything. Shoveling cowshit. Cleaning the stables. Getting rid of the wasp nests. Nothing fun or even remotely pleasant. Don’t let him sweet-talk you or Mom. No lemonade, iced tea, soda—nothing. If he gets thirsty, let him drink from the hose.”

Hobey paused, listening to his father, smiling at Sam.

“Oh, I’m sure Sammy would love to give Homer a bath,” said Hobey, his grin becoming wider.

Sam looked as if he might cry. Homer was the Andreas’ ill-tempered, three-hundred-pound three-legged pig, known for the time he bit the UPS man.

“Thanks, Dad,” said Hobey. “No, he can walk. We’ll pick him up around dinner, if we remember.”

75

NEUILLY-SUR-SEINE, FRANCE

The train pulled into Gare Saint-Lazare at 11:00 A.M.

Dewey was led from the train directly into a waiting sedan, one of three onyx Mercedes S550s, windows tinted black, waiting at the station. Dewey had a dark hood over his head and his arms shackled behind his back. No one—no security personnel, no camera, not even his own mother—could have recognized him.

The three-car convoy took Calibrisi, Dewey, and a half dozen other CIA staffers and security personnel away from the station, north. Calibrisi went in a separate car from Dewey. There wasn’t room in Dewey’s sedan, not with the driver and two operatives from CIA Special Operations Group, weapons loaded and trained on Dewey at all times. Not that Dewey necessarily wanted to run, but Calibrisi wasn’t taking any chances.

The small convoy drove through Paris to Neuilly-sur-Seine, a wealthy, quiet neighborhood just outside the city. There was a large black iron gate at the end of the driveway. The sedans rolled through the gates and sped down the long gravel driveway, lined on each side by massive, ancient elm trees.

At the end of the driveway sat a beautiful rambling limestone mansion, with large black wooden shutters. The front of the house was half covered in ivy, which had grown and spread in pretty bunches up toward the copper gutters and slate roof. The lawn was neatly manicured. The gardens were ornate, more than two acres of carefully trimmed alders, dogwoods, cherry trees, and rare pines, intercut with ordered rows of boxwoods.

They parked near the front door of the house, three abreast, in front of a round fountain, which had long ago been shut off and filled with boxwoods. To the right of the house, an old swimming pool stood out in the middle of the acreage, brick-tiled gunite, with water a tempting light blue. A helipad sat just beyond it, with a black chopper at rest, just before deep woods that bordered the land.

The Neuilly safe house was the epicenter of what would be an MI6-designed operation to assassinate Fao Bhang.

When the three cars emptied, Calibrisi made a quick hand signal to one of the agents, instructing him to remove Dewey’s hood and cuffs. When the hood was removed, Dewey’s hair was messed up, his face sweating and red, his expression emotionless and blank.

As Dewey followed Calibrisi toward the front door, it didn’t take much to guess the general mood in regard to him. He already knew Calibrisi’s state of mind; his slightly sore cheek was testament to his anger. Dewey already understood CIA paramilitary from experience; they were mostly ex-Delta or ex-SEAL, so it wouldn’t have surprised Dewey if they knew the American who died on the highway back in Lisbon.

As for the British, Dewey could immediately see anger in the eyes of the two plainclothed agents, suppressed carbines strapped around their necks, standing at the large green door. They eyed Dewey like the soldiers at Buckingham Palace might. Dewey looked back without reacting, ignoring them, and entered the house.

Through an entrance foyer filled with antiques, Dewey and Calibrisi walked into a spacious, high-ceilinged living room, with bookshelves, dark blue walls, and a back wall that was filled with French windows, giving a sweeping view down into the gardens. The doors were open, and the sound of birds was the only noise that could be heard. More agents with machine guns stood outside the doors in back of the house; Dewey quickly counted three gunmen.

In the center of the large room, a glass chandelier was hung. Four long sofas in dark maroon velvet were squared around a modern wooden coffee table. Seated on the sofas already was a group of five people.

On the right, next to each other on one side of the seating area, were Katie and Tacoma. On the sofa opposite them sat a middle-aged woman with brown hair and a dignified but stern, even harsh, demeanor. Next to her sat a bald man with round gold-rimmed glasses, young, perhaps only thirty years old, with a laptop open on his lap.

The last man faced the gardens, his back to Dewey and Calibrisi as they entered the room. The man saw the heads of the four others look up when they walked in. He stood up and looked at them. He had slightly messed-up, slightly long blond-and-gray hair, an angular nose, and was the only person, other than Calibrisi, wearing a tie.

He eyed Dewey without saying anything, scanning him head to toe then back up.

“Hi, Hector,” he said. “This must be Dewey.”

“Dewey, this is Derek Chalmers,” said Calibrisi, introducing him. “He runs British intelligence.”

Chalmers extended his hand, but Dewey ignored it. He looked at Chalmers icily, then glanced at Katie and Tacoma. Katie revealed nothing, said nothing, and didn’t move. Tacoma had a poker face as well.

“Sit down,” said Chalmers, looking at Dewey, nodding at the far sofa.

Calibrisi took a seat next to Chalmers. Dewey walked to the far sofa and sat down.

“What do you want?” asked Dewey calmly, looking at Chalmers, then Calibrisi.

Chalmers spoke first.

“The first thing I’d like to do is apologize,” said Chalmers. “It was my idea, not Hector’s, not anybody else’s, that resulted in the death of Jessica Tanzer. There is an unwritten code in this line of work: people who are innocent bystanders should be left alone. Fao Bhang crossed that line. That said, it was my operation that brought him there. And all I can say to you is that I am sorry.”

Chalmers looked at Dewey for several tense moments.

“I’m not looking for an apology,” said Dewey. “What do you want?”

“It’s not what we want,” said Chalmers. “It’s what you want. You want Fao Bhang dead, am I correct?”

Dewey didn’t answer.

“Is this going to be a one-way conversation?” asked Chalmers.

“I didn’t ask for this meeting. Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll tell you if I’m willing to do it.”

Dewey looked around the room.

“Yeah, sure, I want Bhang dead, but I don’t need your help.”

“That’s where I beg to differ, Dewey,” said Chalmers. “I can tell you, there is no man who can single-handedly take down Fao Bhang. It can’t be done. I know what you are, Dewey. I know what you’re made of. You’re programmed to act alone, to improvise. Theoretically, you’re the best. But there are some mountains that are, quite simply, too high to climb, even for you.”