Dewey nodded.

“Okay,” continued Calibrisi, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, you’re a hard man to please. Third, finally, there’s Langley. You can come and work for me. We could send you into the field, you can train guys at the farm, whatever you want. The money isn’t great, but I think you’d enjoy it.”

Dewey said nothing.

“To be honest,” continued Calibrisi, “that’s what I think you should do. I think you should work in an environment where the guy you’re reporting to understands what you’ve been through.”

Calibrisi paused.

“Dewey, I think you need to talk to someone. I’m talking about lying down on a couch somewhere and reflecting, rebuilding a little. I’ve done it. You’d be an incredibly valuable CIA asset, but on a personal level, I’m worried about you. I think you need to talk to someone. No one person can go through what you just went through and be fine. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way.”

Dewey smiled.

“Not at all.”

Just then, Daisy approached from across the field. She was carrying two beers, which she handed to Dewey and her father.

“Mom made me bring these out to you,” she said, smiling at Dewey, then her dad.

“Thanks, kiddo,” said Calibrisi.

“Yeah, thanks, kiddo,” said Dewey.

Daisy had showered and was now dressed in a tight brown sweater and white jeans which may have been a size too small but were unlikely to garner any criticism, except perhaps from her parents.

“You look nice,” said Calibrisi, looking at his daughter, then at Dewey, who was trying not to look. “What’s the big occasion?”

“It’s Thanksgiving, Dad,” she said, smiling at Dewey. “Can’t I put on something nice?”

Daisy stuck out her tongue at her father, then turned.

“By the way, Mom wants to know what time you two idiots are coming inside.”

“Soon,” said Calibrisi. “Give us a few more minutes.”

“Okay,” she said. She glanced at Dewey, then turned and headed back inside.

Dewey watched her walk away, then looked at Calibrisi.

“She’s too young for you,” said Calibrisi.

“Please,” said Dewey, “give me a little credit, will you? The last thing I’m looking for is a twenty-one-year-old girlfriend.”

“She’s twenty-three,” said Calibrisi.

“She is?”

Calibrisi smiled.

“Anyway, back to reality. Those are your choices, at least the ones I can help you out with. But I want you to know I’ll do anything for you. At the end of the day, you deserve to be happy.”

Dewey said nothing. He picked a log and tossed it on the fire.

“So what are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Nothing? Trust me, I’ve heard some weird shit over the years.”

“Okay, you want to know what I’m thinking?” asked Dewey.

Dewey leaned down, grabbed another large piece of wood, and threw it into the fire. He crouched down and held his hands up toward the warmth of the burning wood.

“I think I only have two choices, Hector,” said Dewey. “And to be honest, I’m not sure which one I should go with.”

“Well, talk to me,” said Calibrisi.

“I’m just not sure you’re the right one to talk to.”

“Dewey, trust me. You can tell me anything. You’re not going to upset me.”

“I know I’m not. I just think it’s a very personal decision.”

“Let me guess. Langley or Katie and Rob? Let’s go though the pros and cons.”

“That’s not the choice, Hector,” said Dewey.

“Bragg or Langley? Bragg or Katie and Rob?”

“No. I hate to break it to you, but I’m not thinking about any of those things you talked about.”

Calibrisi said nothing. For a brief moment, he appeared crestfallen. He stirred the syrup. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Okay,” said Calibrisi. “What’s the choice?”

“I think the choice is, white or dark meat,” said Dewey. “Which one should I eat first? I like ’em both. What are you going to go with?”

Dewey glanced at Calibrisi, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Asshole,” said Calibrisi.

BEIJING

General Qingchen sat in his normal position, on the wooden bench, alone, atop the Ministry of Defense building. It was a rare day in Beijing, clear, without smog or clouds. Qingchen could see the roof of the Forbidden Palace in the distance. He made eye contact with the white pigeon who sat on the far arm of the bench, staring politely at Qingchen’s sandwich, waiting for his usual reward. After an hour, Qingchen still had not taken a bite. Finally, he took the sandwich and ripped it into small pieces, then placed the plate on the ground. The pigeon hopped down, picked up a small piece of bread, and began eating what would undoubtedly be the biggest feast of his life.

He looked around the rooftop. The grass had been his late wife’s idea. Qingchen had been to many places in his life, all over the world, but this was his favorite.

It had been a long month, a month whose repercussions inside Beijing, and in particular the Ministry of Defense, were still being felt. Li had begun his purges within a day of Fao Bhang’s death, and the upper ranks of the military, Chinese intelligence, the Communist Party, and the State Council, were but shadows of their former selves. Dozens of officers had been rounded up and now awaited military tribunal. It had all come crashing down, as violently, as suddenly, as the dagger that tore through Bhang himself, though far more blood would be spilled in the days and weeks to come than anything Bhang left on the white marble floor at Beijing Hospital.

Qingchen had yet to be touched. Part of him believed it was because they hadn’t gotten to him yet. But he knew that wasn’t the case. The truth is, as much as Li might have suspected him, he didn’t have proof. How, after all, can you prove a man guilty when the only witnesses—Bhang, and Kai-wen, Qingchen’s deputy—were both dead; Bhang by the American, and Kai-wen by Qingchen himself, with poison, less than fifteen minutes after Bhang was killed and the wily general figured out that unless he killed his loyal deputy, he himself would swing from the gallows.

The pigeon chomped away at the sandwich, and then heard a noise. The bird abruptly flew off into the clear sky as, at the far side of the rooftop, the door opened.

One man stepped onto the rooftop and started to walk toward Qingchen. He kept walking until he came face-to-face with Qingchen.

“Good afternoon, General.”

“Premier Li. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I would have been more than happy to make the trip to Zhongnanhai.”

“On such a beautiful day, I thought it would be nice to visit you here. I would like to speak candidly with you, General. May I do that?”

“Yes, of course.”

Li and Qingchen began a stroll across the lawn, toward the edge of the roof, where boxes of white lilacs were growing.

“I believe it’s time to announce your retirement, General Qingchen,” said Li, as they arrived at roof’s edge. Ten stories below, the city traffic teemed.

“My retirement?” asked Qingchen. “I had assumed that was a decision that would be made by the State Council. Please don’t take that the wrong way. But that is not only customary, it is in fact the law.”

“Yes,” said Li, “I assumed you would take that approach. There have been rumors, General.”

“Rumors?”

“Of your involvement. You know what I refer to.”

“Ah, yes, the purported elevation of Bhang,” said Qingchen.

Li put his shoe up on the knee-high brick balustrade that ran along the edge of the roof. He looked out at Beijing.

“Were you involved?” asked Li.

Qingchen paused, then, after a moment, nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Premier.”

“Thank you for your candor,” said Li, “but now I am left with the challenge of having to conduct an investigation, charge you, that sort of thing. The alternative would seem much more appealing to everyone concerned.”