Zhu rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he rang it a second time. Finally, he heard footsteps. The door opened. Standing in the doorway, dressed in a blue bathrobe, wearing a pair of worn-out Timberland construction boots, his curly blond hair in a wildish Afro, was Wood Uhlrich.

“You’re two hours early,” said Uhlrich.

“The plane was faster than I anticipated, Mr. Secretary,” said Zhu. “May I come in?”

Uhlrich opened the door.

“Why not.”

Zhu followed Uhlrich into a spacious, light-filled apartment, its windows overlooking the treetops of Rock Creek Park.

“I’ll be right back,” said Uhlrich. “Do you want coffee?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be here long enough to enjoy it.”

Uhlrich disappeared into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. He returned to the living room.

Zhu scanned Uhlrich’s outfit as Uhlrich stood staring at the much-shorter Zhu, who was neatly attired in a plain-looking black business suit and tie.

“You gonna say something?” asked Uhlrich.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” said Zhu.

Uhlrich took a sip of coffee but didn’t say anything.

“This concerns our last conversation,” said Zhu.

“Yeah, I figured that. The one where you told me, and the United States, to go to hell.”

“That’s not exactly what I said, Wood. I said that China will not lend you any more money.”

“It’s the same thing,” said Uhlrich, “and you know it.”

Zhu smiled, then looked at the window.

“Such a nice view, Wood. I am very jealous. It must be such a joy to wake up every day and see the trees.”

“Cut the bullshit.”

“I said we’d be in touch. The conditions for China’s continued lending to the United States. Remember?”

Uhlrich sipped, staring at Zhu with a blank stare.

“What do you want?” asked Uhlrich.

“There’s an American citizen,” said Zhu. “He is wanted by my country. He has committed certain crimes against my country.”

“What the fuck does this have to do with the United States Treasury or the People’s Bank?” asked Uhlrich, turning red.

“Nothing, except that unless he’s handed over, we will not lend America any more money. So I suppose it has very much to do with you and me, yes, Wood?”

Uhlrich stared into Zhu’s eyes for several pregnant moments.

“He’s a criminal,” added Zhu, smiling. “A common criminal. A thug. You will be happy, I’m quite sure, to be rid of him.”

“What’s his name?” asked Uhlrich.

“Andreas. Dewey Andreas. Have you heard of him, Mr. Secretary?”

A smile crossed Uhlrich’s lips as he nodded to Zhu.

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Perhaps that will make it easier to find him.”

Uhlrich said nothing as he watched Zhu smile, then squirm uncomfortably. Finally, after taking another sip from his coffee cup, Uhlrich pointed to the door.

“Get the hell out,” said Uhlrich, calmly. “American heroes aren’t for sale.”

79

CASTINE

Sam descended the tree in silence, each step a delicate, slow-motion progression toward the forest floor. He needed to act before it was too late. In his hand, he held his red Swiss Army knife, blade out.

Could he stab someone? He couldn’t imagine actually doing it, and yet it was the only option he had.

The knife abruptly fell from Sam’s hand. He watched it as it plunged toward the ground. But it didn’t make a sound. The knife handle jutted up in the air. The blade had stabbed straight into an exposed root of the big tree. His temporary relief was ruined, however, by the realization that he didn’t have a weapon. He kept going.

When he reached the bottom branch of the tree, Sam was at the point of no return. His next step would be on the ground, atop dried leaves. Noise was inevitable.

Sam arched his head around the trunk, spying. The gunman was no more than ten or twelve feet away, motionless, clothing blending perfectly into the green and brown forest floor. The gunman was tight against the sniper rifle, eye to the scope, right hand gripping the trigger.

There was only one option left. He had to jump and run, then try to tackle the gunman before he turned and shot him.

You’ll never make it.

*   *   *

“Should you call Hobey?” asked Margaret Andreas.

Sam’s grandmother was kneeling on the ground next to a tomato plant, kneepads strapped on, clutching a pair of hand trimmers.

She looked at her husband. He was at the corner of the garden and had his right boot on top of a shovel, about to push down and lift another pile of dirt out of the ground. Perspiration covered his face.

“Stop worrying, Marge. He’ll be along.”

*   *   *

Dao breathed slowly in and out, staring at John Andreas through the scope. His chest was dead center in the crosshairs of the scope. She preferred a head shot, but his digging, which caused him to move up and down, made this more difficult. A chest-tap would have to do.

The sequence was obvious. Shoot John Andreas, swivel the weapon slightly right, then take out the woman. Drive to the brother’s house and kill him too. Get out of Castine—out of Maine—out of the United States—as quickly as possible.

Without moving her eye from the scope, Dao moved the safety off. She put her right index finger on the trigger. She pulled it back.

*   *   *

Sam sat on the lowest branch of the maple tree, just a few feet above the ground. Suddenly, like a gymnast, he fell backward, letting his arms, head, and torso fall down toward the ground, so that he was upside down, his legs still over the branch, keeping him from tumbling to the ground below. Sam’s head was inches from the ground. He stretched out his right arm. He grabbed his golf club, which was resting on the leaves. He lifted it gently up, then pulled himself back up to the branch.

Sam stood on the branch and leaned around the trunk of the tree, studying the gunman. The ground surrounding the gunman was a carpet of dried leaves, which he knew would make noise no matter how delicately he tried to tiptoe across them.

He looked up and studied a large branch at least fifteen or twenty feet in the air, which extended out directly over the gunman. Sam climbed to the branch as quietly as he could, as he felt the adrenaline charging through every part of his body.

He put the golf club between his teeth, biting down. He reached up and grabbed the big branch with his right hand, then his left. Slowly, quietly, Sam moved down the branch, hand over hand, out into the air above the gunman.

When he was directly over the gunman, he could feel his arms burning in pain. It was a pain unlike anything he’d ever felt before, a pain he would remember for the rest of his life. It was the pain of the fight, the pain that came when you risked everything, when you challenged death itself.

Sam let go with his left hand, holding himself aloft with his stronger right arm. He dangled silently in the air. He took the golf club into his left hand.

Sam began a slow, deliberate swinging motion, his feet and legs moving back and forth in the air above the killer. As his momentum picked up, he suddenly kicked his feet. Both flip-flops went sailing through the air, over the gunman, landing atop dead leaves just in front of the muzzle of the rifle.

Clutching the branch in his right hand and the golf club in his left, Sam watched from above as the gunman raised up from the weapon, frantically searching for whatever had caused the noise. Sam let go of the branch, falling through the air, swinging his right hand to the club, where it joined the left. By the time his bare feet landed on the ground, he was already swinging the nine iron through the air with every ounce of strength he had in his thirteen-year-old body. He clubbed the gunman—who was searching in the opposite direction—in the back of the head. A loud scream came from the ski mask as the gunman fell to the ground. It was a woman. She hit the ground, rolled over, then tried to stand up. Sam swung again, whiffing completely as she ripped off the ski mask, revealing short black hair and the eyes of a Chinese woman.