The ambulance siren turned off as it pushed through the city’s streets. At the back of the Musée d’Orsay, the ambulance pulled into an underground unloading dock and stopped beside a white van, which was idling. Dewey and Katie followed the EMT to the van then got inside. The van sped back up the ramp and out of the loading dock.

A few minutes later, they pulled onto rue de Fleurus. The van stopped in front of a set of green garage doors.

*   *   *

Bhang watched the video sequence six more times, not saying a word. Then he performed the same exercise with the other feeds, watching as his two agents, Chong and Lijun, were killed, both by the same woman, obviously, along with the long-haired man that Koo shot, CIA or some other agency, there with Andreas. That fact alone told Bhang that the killing of Bo Minh had probably been executed by the intelligence agency. It also told him that they would need to expect reprisals; France, though amoral, was a U.S. ally. They would quickly ID Chong and Lijun.

“Shall I attempt to do anything regarding the dead agents?” asked Dheng. “We could, perhaps, alter certain aspects of their backgrounds—”

“No,” said Bhang. “Don’t bother. We should expect a healthy counterstrike from Langley.”

“I’ll send out a warning.”

“Yes,” said Bhang. “Standard rules of engagement. I want to cool things off. The mission has been completed. Make arrangements as per usual protocol regarding pension for the two dead agents. See that their records reflect their part in this mission.”

Bhang picked up his coat from the back of a chair.

“One more thing,” said Bhang. “Please call the Bureau of Central Supplies. We will need to cast a new medal; the Order of the Lotus is to be awarded. Tell them it is their top priority.”

Bhang walked toward the door, then turned.

“Thank you, everyone,” he added, his words barely above a whisper. “I appreciate your work today.”

*   *   *

Smythson met Dewey at the door.

“Follow me,” she said.

They moved across the garage bay, which looked like an operating room.

Dewey climbed onto an elevated stainless-steel platform as two nurses pulled the hospital gown from him. He stood naked atop the table. Dewey wasn’t shy; everyone there knew it was business.

The two nurses, looking at photos of Koo on a large plasma to the right of Dewey, shaved his chest and legs. One of the nurses took out a small glass dish, which she placed on the stainless steel table next to Dewey. She took a paintbrush and painted Dewey’s pubic hair, staining it black. After she finished, the other nurse handed him a towel to wrap around his waist.

“Here, Mr. Andreas,” said a man in a white surgeon’s uniform. He pointed at a large chair in the center of the room, similar to a dentist chair. “Sit.”

The man jabbed a needle into Dewey’s shoulder, as another man started cutting Dewey’s hair to resemble Koo’s.

“This will numb it up,” he said. “It’s still going to hurt.”

They dyed his hair black, then dried it.

“We’re twenty minutes out,” said Smythson, her voice stern and loud. “We need to get moving.”

Lacey James, the makeup artist, approached.

Dewey looked left. Xiua Koo was standing next to Smythson, watching with a blank look on his face.

“Lean, back. Contacts first.”

James put brown-tinted contacts in each of Dewey’s eyes.

“Okay, now I need you to shut your eyes,” said James. “Hold your breath for the first minute or so, or you’re going to get really stoned.”

Dewey shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt a warm, rubbery substance moosh into his eyes, like clay but with a synthetic feel. Dewey felt pressure against his right eyelid for more than a minute, then the same pressure on the other eyelid. Then he heard what sounded like a blow-dryer, and felt heat on his forehead, cheeks, and around his eyes.

“We have to hurry up,” said Smythson.

“Eyebrows,” he heard, then moments later, felt a hand rubbing across his eyelids.

“Okay, I need you to hold really still,” said James. “And I mean really bloody still. Whatever you do, don’t open your eyes.”

He felt coldness, like ice, then hard pressure against his nose, cheeks, and forehead.

“Eyes closed now, until I say open.”

Dewey felt pressure against his right eye, followed by the same sensation above the left eye. He heard a suction device, then felt suction at each eye. Finally, warm liquid was poured over his eyes, which was then vacuumed out.

“Okay, open up,” said James. “It’ll sting, but that should be gone soon.”

Dewey opened his eyes. It was a strange sensation, as if he were numb around his eyes, nose, and forehead. But he could see perfectly.

“Can you see?”

“Yeah.”

“Blink. Fast.”

Dewey blinked.

“Well, I won’t win another Oscar for it, but it should do. By the way, it’ll last a week. Then it’ll harden and start to flake off.”

Dewey felt another needle jam into his shoulder, to the left of his neck.

“A little more anesthetic,” said the doctor.

“Let’s go,” said Smythson. “We’re down to minutes here.”

“Stand up,” said the nurse. “Put this clothing on.”

Dewey dressed quickly: white underwear, black slacks, socks, black shoes, belt, white sleeveless undershirt, shirt. Someone handed him a tan Burberry trench coat.

Behind him, he heard wheels squeaking. He turned to see a large portable wall being moved into the lights. The wall looked like some sort of thick corkboard.

“Dewey,” said the surgeon, “the pain shots will help, but you’re going to feel this. I injected a six-hour anesthetic. Anything more powerful and it will leave a trace when they read your blood. In about five hours or so, it’s going to start hurting. In six, you’re going to be in real pain.”

Dewey said nothing.

“Stand in front of the wall,” said Smythson.

Dewey moved to the corkboard wall.

Smythson stepped in front of Dewey, a suppressed SIG P226 in her hand. She stepped to a piece of blue tape that had been put on the floor, replicating the distance from which Tacoma had fired at Koo in the lounge. She raised the weapon and fired.

A slug tore into Dewey’s shoulder. He was kicked back, into the wall, and he grimaced as a ripping burn kicked out from his shoulder, like fire. His hand shot to the bullet wound. He held his hand up. His fingers were coated in blood.

The surgeon pulled the trench coat aside and examined the wound.

“Clean exit,” he said. “Couldn’t be any less harmful, even though I’m sure it kills.”

“What was in that needle, doc?” Dewey asked, looking down at his shoulder and grimacing. “That fucking hurt.”

“I might’ve injected you with estrogen,” said the surgeon, smiling.

Dewey grinned, through the pain.

“Why are you smiling?” asked Dewey, looking at Smythson. “You enjoyed that a little too much.”

One of the nurses handed Dewey a mirror. He looked into it. For a moment, he thought it was Koo. He held it closer to see the artificial skin around his eye sockets.

“We need to move,” Smythson said. “We need to beat the recon team.”

Smythson showed Dewey a map, telling him where the apartment was. She gave him a key.

Dewey was having a hard time concentrating as his shoulder wracked him in waves of sharp pain.

“Third floor, unit twelve. Remember: téngtòng.”

*   *   *

Dewey slipped out of the garage.

His shoulder hurt badly. He remembered the feeling in Cali, when he’d been struck by the cartridge from the Kalashnikov. That slug had remained inside him. He was grateful for that experience now; the 9x19mm from the SIG SAUER was smaller. It was embedded in the cork back at the garage, not inside him. Still, the pain was excruciating, making him breathe hard and fast. The trench coat was covered in blood.

Dewey stepped into the apartment building, climbed the stairs, then entered the apartment.