*   *   *

Katie held a newspaper, a copy of Le Figaro, as she scanned the lounge with trained calm. Her legs were crossed in front of her.

On the blue-green chintz sofa cushion next to her, her slightly worn toffee-colored Hermès Birkin bag sat on its side. For all pretenses and purposes, she looked like any other young, stunning, wealthy French woman, out for an afternoon espresso.

Inside the bag was an MP7A1. It had been sanitized by MI6, in case the operation went south. A snub-nosed suppressor jutted from the muzzle. The MP7 was a terrific close-quarters combat firearm, with lethal kill power, accuracy, and reliability. She also had a Glock 30, in case she burned through the MP7’s magazine.

Katie checked her watch. In the reflection off the face of the watch, she saw Tacoma’s unmanageable hair. He was seated a few tables away, sipping water.

*   *   *

Lijun—along with eight other ministry agents assigned to Paris—received the text as he was in the middle of a bite of a ham sandwich at a café on Montparnasse.

8U 8U Di7

Lijun jumped up so fast that he knocked over the table, sending dishes, glasses, and silverware crashing to the sidewalk.

Two minutes later he was in the back of a Citroën taxicab as it moved across the Pont Neuf, the black water of the Seine underneath. A few minutes later, the Louvre’s signature glass and steel pyramid appeared to the right. To his left spread the ordered birches, gardens, and walking paths of the Tuileries Gardens. But he wasn’t admiring the scenery.

Lijun made sure the driver wasn’t looking, then popped open his briefcase. Inside was Lijun’s Steyr TMP, a select-fire 9x19mm machine pistol, in essence a handheld, extremely compact submachine gun. He attached a custom snub-nosed suppressor, upon which was attached a small camera, then inserted a thirty-round magazine.

He checked his watch. Finally, he removed his cell phone. He typed in:

R5 999

That told Beijing he was approximately four minutes from the target. It also engaged the small camera at the end of his weapon. He tucked the Steyr TMP against his chest, then zipped up his Windbreaker.

*   *   *

Dewey took the elevator to the lobby, where it opened to the left of the lounge. He walked across the marble floor and stepped to the entrance of the lounge. A tuxedoed waiter approached him, held his arm out, and pointed to a table in the middle of the crowded lounge.

To the right, against a far wall, Dewey saw Katie.

Next to Dewey’s table, where the waiter now held out a seat, was Tacoma, drinking water, reading the International Herald Tribune. Their eyes met briefly; Tacoma looked calm.

“May I get you an aperitif?” asked the waiter. “Perhaps a coffee or glass of wine?”

“Coffee,” said Dewey.

*   *   *

Koo received the text from the ministry as he crossed rue de Miromesnil. He waited for a large group of schoolchildren to pass by before replying. In the distance, he could see the entrance to the Bristol Hotel, the flag of France, of the EU, and of several other countries, all billowing in the wind above the entrance.

He removed the Hermès tie from its bag, folded it, and stuffed it in his pants pocket. He threw the bag in a trash can. Then Koo typed into his iPhone:

P+ KK1 8U

The code activated the camera on the end of his QSZ, which he felt sticking into his side. His words also communicated something to Beijing: “I am within one minute of target.”

Koo put the iPhone back in his coat pocket, crossed Miromesnil, and walked toward the Bristol.

*   *   *

As the cab moved up Avenue Matignon, Lijun was sweating, his body a live wire, filled with tension and nervous energy. In the distance, he saw soldiers standing at the gates of the Élysée Palace.

The taxi turned onto Faubourg Saint-Honoré. To the left, a short line of cabs sat waiting in front of the Bristol. Multicolored flags, tossed by a breeze, waved above the majestic entrance canopy. Then Lijun saw someone he recognized: Cao Chong, another agent, running down the sidewalk from the opposite direction toward the hotel door. In Chong’s hand, swinging in the air, was a black steel handgun, a suppressor sticking from the end.

Lijun did not wait for the taxi to get to the hotel, instead he ripped the door open and leapt from the back, leaving the briefcase behind, going into a hard sprint toward the hotel entrance.

*   *   *

The waiter walked toward Dewey with a tray in his hand. As he was about to arrive at the table, Dewey’s eyes were drawn across the lobby to the glass doors at the hotel’s entrance.

Through them walked a man with dark hair in a tan trench coat. He was tall. His eyes scanned the lobby. There was no question: it was Koo.

“Monsieur—”

“I changed my mind,” said Dewey, raising his hand to stop the waiter. “A glass of wine.”

From the corner of his eye, Dewey watched as Koo crossed the lobby quickly, moving like an athlete. As he descended the marble steps near the lounge, his arm reached inside his trench coat. He ripped a sidearm from inside the coat, walking with it at his side as he approached.

Dewey felt the small button on the thumb ring.

“Very good, monsieur,” said the waiter. “What kind of wine would you like?”

“Anything,” said Dewey, impatiently. “Red.”

Koo came to the lounge entrance. His dark eyes scanned the room. In his right hand he clutched a suppressed QSZ-92.

“Bordeaux, monsieur? Beaujolais?”

“Anything,” said Dewey. “I trust you.”

“Very good.”

As the waiter moved from in front of Dewey, Koo’s eyes scanned a moment longer, then found him, then locked. Koo’s arm flew up, the black suppressor swung in line, and found Dewey.

*   *   *

Bhang stood before the plasma screen, which was divided into three separate views: the live shots from the cameras on the weapons of Koo, Chong, and Lijun.

Bhang’s suit jacket was removed, as was his tie. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He was smoking a cigarette. The room was filled with at least a dozen other men, all transfixed on the plasma.

On another screen was a map of Paris with live GPS locations on all nine ministry agents in the city, indicated by flashing green lights. Bhang studied the map quickly. The three green lights—Koo, Chong, Lijun—were clustered in and around the Bristol.

“Tell the others to hold back,” said Bhang calmly. “Three agents should be enough.”

Bhang, recalling his meeting with Qingchen, didn’t want to create any more violence than necessary.

“Don’t enter the hotel unless we tell them to.”

Bhang went back to the screen showing the live video feeds. Koo was on the left. He was now inside the hotel, walking across the lobby. The view was grainy but clear. He came to a stop at the front of a lounge full of people, seated at tables.

In the middle screen, Chong was entering quickly through the door. To the right, Lijun’s view was dark; he still had his weapon concealed, but he’d activated it. Suddenly, his section of the plasma lit up. The back of Chong, running across the hotel lobby, was plainly visible.

*   *   *

Dewey lurched forward, tossing the table over, lunging in the direction of Koo, as a woman to Dewey’s left suddenly started screaming. Dewey leapt at Koo, his arms outstretched. But before he could reach him, Koo fired.

The mechanical staccato of the suppressed weapon played low, beneath the screams, in the same moment Dewey pressed the button on the thumb ring twice. Dewey’s shirt exploded in a riot of dark red above his heart. His forward motion was halted. He tumbled sideways, down to the ground, onto his back, chest sopped in crimson.

Tacoma leapt up from his chair, pulling his P226 from his shoulder holster. In one fluid motion, he swung it toward Koo and fired, missing, the sound of Tacoma’s unsuppressed sidearm only adding to the screams, the sense of chaos, that now filled the lounge.