He felt thirsty. He went to the kitchen and drank a large glass of water. The screech of brakes came from the street below.

Dewey went into the bathroom and glanced at himself in the mirror. A sheen of perspiration had now formed on his forehead. The patch of fresh blood had grown larger, down to his shoulder blade and across his chest. He peeled back the trench coat, which caused unbelievable pain, and he moaned but looked at the wound. Blood was everywhere. The hole pumped a small amount out every few seconds. He felt nauseated as chills ran through him. Most of all, he felt pain.

In one sense, however, it wasn’t a bad thing: he hurt too much to be nervous.

He stumbled back into the living room, feeling dizzy. He sat down in a leather armchair. He shut his eyes just as the recon team put the pick gun in Koo’s lock and opened the door.

81

OVAL OFFICE

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Dellenbaugh was seated at his desk. In front of him stood Wood Uhlrich, the treasury secretary, and Adrian King, his chief of staff.

Uhlrich had just finished briefing Dellenbaugh and King on the visit by Ji-tao Zhu, the head of the People’s Bank of China, and Zhu’s ultimatum: hand over Dewey Andreas or China stops lending the United States money.

Dellenbaugh and King were incredulous.

“What did you say?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“I used some words which may not have been in the spirit of China-U.S. relations,” said Uhlrich.

“What’d you say, Wood?”

“I told him to go to hell,” said Uhlrich.

“You reacted emotionally,” said Dellenbaugh.

“Yes, Mr. President. I wasn’t thinking about the financial implications.”

Dellenbaugh sat back. He looked up at Uhlrich, a blank expression on his face.

“Good,” said the president, finally. “I would’ve punched the son of a bitch in the nose.”

“If we can’t borrow the money, sir, we will be in a very precarious spot,” said King.

“What are you suggesting?” asked Dellenbaugh. “You wouldn’t actually consider handing over Dewey, would you?”

“No, sir,” said King. “But it’s time to elevate this. If Premier Li is aware of what occurred today, we need to know that. If he isn’t aware, it means something entirely different. It’s time to pick up the phone, Mr. President.”

82

PARIS

Two men entered the apartment. They shut the door and moved silently to Dewey.

One of the men gently slapped Dewey’s cheek, but Dewey didn’t open his eyes. He heard a zipper, then his nostrils were abruptly stung by smelling salts.

He opened his eyes and looked at the two men. Both were Chinese, one in a suit, the other in jeans and a dark Windbreaker.

One of them said something to Dewey in Mandarin, but Dewey didn’t respond. The two men looked at each other, then whispered back and forth, speaking rapidly.

“Téngtòng,” whispered Dewey.

The man in the suit pulled the trench coat aside and stared at the wound. He leaned down and patted Dewey’s head, then said something in Mandarin; but Dewey knew it was something along the lines of “It’ll be okay,” or “Good job.”

Dewey shut his eyes.

They lifted him up and wrapped his arms around their shoulders. Dewey acted as if he could barely move, though the truth was, it wasn’t much of an act; the wound was increasingly degenerating his ability to function and think properly. He groaned, and it was a real groan. He was losing a lot of blood.

They moved through the door, then, step-by-step, as fast as possible, down the three flights of stairs. Both men were smaller than Dewey, but they were strong and athletic.

In the lobby stood a third man. He was also Chinese, with dyed blond hair. He was smoking a cigarette. He wore a dark green trench coat. Inside, Dewey could see, he clutched some sort of weapon, ready to be drawn.

The gunman glanced through the lace curtain that hung over the front door. He turned, nodded, said something, then opened the door.

They carried Dewey down the front steps of the apartment building. A blue minivan idled, and the side door opened as they came closer. They lifted Dewey up into the minivan and laid him down on the first bench seat. The team climbed in, gunman in the front passenger seat, the other two behind Dewey.

Dewey shut his eyes. He felt weak. The pain was abating. He knew the signs. He was going into shock.

Again, one of the men attempted to speak to him. But Dewey didn’t say anything. This time, he didn’t even open his eyes.

“Téngtòng,” he whispered.

The driver moved out into traffic.

*   *   *

They carried Dewey into a large unmarked private jet, an Embraer Lineage 1000. Dewey was laid out on a long leather sofa near the front of the cabin. Within minutes, the jet taxied down the runway, then took off.

Dewey willed himself to hold off going into shock, at least for a little while. He’d walked through, in his mind, how the operation would unfold, but what he hadn’t anticipated was the deleterious effects of the gunshot. He knew how to handle pain. It was one of his greatest strengths, an asset that enabled him to reach a little deeper than most men, to fight through situations. But it wasn’t the pain that worried him now. It was the shock that was coming. Unconsciousness. With it could come anything. One of the operatives could somehow cut into the skin around his eyes. They could take his fingerprints, which would reveal immediately who he was.

Dewey realized that his desire for vengeance had caused him to jump on board what was a suicide mission. Had Calibrisi really wanted to just get rid of him? Had he caused too many problems for him, for Langley, and for the United States?

Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re not dead yet.

A gauzy, numb feeling made the ceiling spin and blur. Then Dewey drifted into unconsciousness.

*   *   *

One of the men removed Dewey’s trench coat, unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. Another man brought a stack of towels from the bathroom, along with a first-aid kit. The agent cleaned the wound with alcohol, then applied pressure to it. He sat next to Dewey’s head, pressing the towel into his shoulder.

The other agent prepared a needle with painkiller and injected it near the wound. He also injected Dewey with an antibiotic to prevent infection.

After pushing against the wound for more than an hour, the bleeding had abated somewhat. The man placed a large bandage on the wound, then wrapped gauze and tape over the bandage and around Dewey’s armpit.

“Hold on,” said the man, speaking in Mandarin to the unconscious Dewey.

83

BEIJING

At midnight, Bhang was still at his desk. Although he didn’t normally drink, he had a glass of vodka in his hand. He’d been sitting and staring out his large window at the Beijing evening, thinking not of Andreas but of his father, his mother, but mostly of Bo. It had been a long if memorable day. He’d expected to feel more elation when they finally succeeded in killing Andreas. Instead, he felt something altogether different and better, a happiness that was deeper than mere excitement. The guilt from Bo’s death was gone, replaced by a sense of personal satisfaction and closure.

Suddenly there was a knock on his door, and Xiao stepped into Bhang’s office.

“I thought you would be interested,” said Xiao. “Koo lands in the morning. He is to be taken to Beijing Hospital.”

“How is he?”

“In a great deal of pain. He’s not saying much.”

“He should receive a hero’s welcome,” said Bhang. “The best room at the hospital, that sort of thing.”

“When would you like to present him the award, sir? Of course, if you’d like, we can handle it for you, if you’re too busy.”