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It doesn’t matter. You did what you came to do. It’s over. Walk away.

Dewey didn’t feel happy or satisfied. He’d killed Bhang, and yet he would have traded a million Bhangs for Jessica. It was an unfair trade. But it was all he could do. It was all he could ever do.

Four hours later, the Shaanxi began its descent. He looked out the window. The hills were pitched in lush, bright green jungle. In the distance was the low, sprawling chaos of a city. Behind it were dark blue pockets of water, which he guessed were lakes.

Dewey stepped into the cockpit as the plane arced lower.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Hanoi,” said one of the pilots.

It was humid and hot as Dewey climbed down from the plane onto the tarmac. Standing at the base of the stairs were Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma.

“Hi, Dewey,” said Calibrisi.

Dewey stepped toward Calibrisi and wrapped his arms around him.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Calibrisi. “Thank the captain of your hockey team.”

87

THE PRINCETON CEMETERY

PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY

FOUR DAYS LATER

More than a thousand people were gathered at the cemetery on what was a beautiful autumn day. The cemetery’s entrance had been secured. Armed FBI and Secret Service agents stood just inside the gates, checking names against a master list. Past the gates, the road ran through row after row of headstones. Near the center of the cemetery was a large meadow. Two metal detectors stood on the lawn just outside the rope cordon.

The memorial service was supposed to begin at eleven, but one of the guests, a guest deemed important enough to wait for, was running late.

At 11:15, a black limousine, with flags flying at each of the four corners of the vehicle, pulled through the entrance gates. The vehicle rolled slowly through the cemetery to a reserved parking area. The limousine’s red flags, with gold stars arrayed in one corner, ruffled lightly in the wind.

Three armed Secret Service agents, carbines out, stood guard along the perimeter of the marked-off parking area.

Waiting there, dressed in a navy blue suit, was President J. P. Dellenbaugh. With him was his wife, Amy, who wore a black dress with thin white stripes.

The limousine stopped a few feet from Dellenbaugh. The back door opened, and Qishan Li, the premier of China, climbed out.

“Mr. Premier,” said Dellenbaugh, reaching out and shaking Li’s hand, “we’re happy you’re here.”

“Mr. President,” said Li, a somber but kind smile on his face, “as I told you, I wouldn’t have missed it.”

*   *   *

As they crossed the grass, Dellenbaugh glanced at Li.

When Li had called him three days earlier, Dellenbaugh didn’t know quite what to expect.

“Mr. President,” the soft-voiced Chinese leader had said after listing out a series of transgressions committed by the Chinese government against the United States. “I am calling for a very simple reason. I am calling to apologize for the murder of Jessica Tanzer by employees of the Chinese government; for the attempted murder of an American citizen, Mr. Dewey Andreas, as well as his parents and brother; and for the unauthorized, illegal use of the People’s Bank of China in an attempt to extort your country. I did not sanction any of these actions, and I am deeply embarrassed that it required so long for me to reach out to you. The Chinese government accepts full responsibility. While we both know actions do occur in the world of covert operations that sometimes lead to death, on both sides, I am personally, ethically, and morally opposed to the taking of innocent life as part of that effort. I am also opposed to the use of our financial resources in a way that can only be called extortion.”

Dellenbaugh, in his typical blue-collar manner, hadn’t beaten around the bush.

“What does ‘accepts responsibility’ mean, Mr. Premier?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.”

Dellenbaugh’s next call, to someone who was quickly becoming his closest advisor in government, began what was to be Dellenbaugh’s first real exposure to a world he only vaguely knew about.

“I need to talk to you, Hector.”

“Mr. President, I’m in the middle of a shitstorm. Dewey is two hours from landing in Beijing, and there’s a decent chance he’s dead once he steps off the plane. I have no assets on the ground there, and I’m down to begging the Taiwanese government to lend a hand, which they will only do if I promise them the first two dozen F-35s to roll off the line at Lockheed. I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t talk.”

“The person I just spoke to might be able to help.”

“Unless it was the Chinese premier, I highly doubt it.”

*   *   *

The president and Amy Dellenbaugh walked with Li to the seating area, which was quiet except for a lone violin player, who played a concerto by Bach.

They moved down the hushed aisle, past dignitaries, business leaders, ambassadors; past congressmen and senators, governors and cabinet members, members of the Supreme Court, foreign leaders, journalists—there as attendees, not to cover the story—and family members; all of them there to celebrate the life of Jessica Tanzer.

As they reached the front row, Dellenbaugh stepped to the couple seated in the first two seats.

“Don’t get up,” said Dellenbaugh. “Mr. and Mrs. Tanzer, I would like to introduce you to Premier Li of the People’s Republic of China.”

Li reached his hand out.

“I am deeply sorry for what happened,” said Li. “The death of your daughter was the fault of people within my own government. Even though I abhor what these criminals did to Jessica, I cannot change what happened. What I can do is accept responsibility for it and apologize to you sincerely from the deepest springs of humility and sadness that, today and always, shall flow from my heart.”

*   *   *

Three rows back, Katie sat next to Tacoma. He was dressed in a gray Brooks Brothers suit, and was wearing a blue tie. It was the first time she’d ever seen the former UVA middie and Navy SEAL ever wear one. He pulled at his collar, which was too tight. Katie was dressed in a simple black sleeveless dress, her tan arms clutching a small bag of tissues, her blond hair parted neatly in the middle.

They were, like everyone else in the large crowd, silent, reverent, listening to the soft strains from the violin.

Down the row from Katie and Tacoma sat Calibrisi. His eyes were red and sad. Next to him was an older couple who’d traveled from Castine for the funeral of the woman who would have been their daughter-in-law. John Andreas looked distinguished, dressed in a new gray suit. Margaret was in a simple, pretty green dress. Beside her sat Reagan Andreas, then, to her right, her mother, Hobey’s wife, Barrett. Three seats sat empty at the end of the row.

At half past eleven, the minister gave an almost imperceptible nod to the woman playing the violin. He stepped slowly to the dais.

“Welcome to Princeton, and to a celebration of the remarkable life of a unique and special American, a daughter of Princeton, and someone I had the pleasure, some thirty-eight years ago, of baptizing. Today we cry, we mourn, and we rejoice the life of Jessica Cavendish Tanzer.”

*   *   *

Hobey and Sam stood just inside the gates to the cemetery. Despite the fact that the memorial service had begun, they remained at the gates, waiting for Dewey.

“Maybe it was just too hard,” said Hobey. “I don’t blame him.”

“He’s coming,” said Sam.

A few minutes later, Sam saw him first, walking down the road toward the gates. Dewey’s head was shaved. As he approached the gates, he pulled out his wallet to show ID.

“Please put it away,” said the agent. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

Dewey walked through the gates. He looked at Hobey, who stepped to Dewey and hugged him. Then Dewey looked at Sam, who could only stare up at Dewey. Dewey’s eyes were bloodshot, red with tears. He eyed his nephew’s mop of curly blond hair and grinned through his grief.