Eye for an Eye (42 page)

Bhang stared for several moments at the radio, feeling an emotion he hadn’t felt in so long that at first he couldn’t recognize it: sorrow. He felt his eyes become wet, and then he began to cry, a high-pitched, childlike cry, his head bobbing up and down as tears fell to the floor.

As he was driven back to the ministry, his composure reestablished, Bhang listened to his voice mail, a number that only three people possessed, two of whom—Bo and Ming-huá—were now dead. He dialed the third.

“General Qingchen,” said Bhang, after he’d answered.

“We must talk,” said Qingchen. “Time is moving faster than I anticipated. Events are occurring.”

“I’ll be right there.”

*   *   *

Dewey saw Calibrisi standing alone on the terrace. He went outside.

Calibrisi turned. He put his hand on Dewey’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry for slugging you earlier.”

“It’s all right. Sorry for choking you. Now, what are you not telling me?”

Calibrisi paused.

“Let’s go back inside,” said Calibrisi.

The rest of the group had reconvened in the library.

Dewey sat down.

“We need to hurry,” said Chalmers, looking at his watch. “We’re going to start running into time issues.”

“Next steps,” said Smythson. “You’re shot. You’re down on the ground. You’ll be taken from the Bristol in an ambulance. The ambulance is going to take you to a garage near Luxembourg Gardens. It’s near where Koo lives and where we believe he’ll be exfiltrated from.”

Dewey listened without reacting.

“I’ll meet you there,” continued Smythson. “Your hair will be dyed and cut. Then a cast of Xiua Koo will be attached to your face.”

Smythson nodded at the screen. The photo of Xiua Koo appeared.

“I’m six-four.”

“Koo is six-three,” said Smythson. “As for the cast, you won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“I don’t speak Mandarin,” said Dewey, his doubt starting to show.

“You only need to know one word,” said Smythson. “
Téngtòng.
It means, ‘pain.’ Remember, you just got shot. Everyone will understand if you don’t say anything for a while.”

“They’ll examine my shoulder,” said Dewey.

Smythson looked at Dewey, then to Calibrisi and Chalmers. Dewey’s eyes followed hers.

“That part will be real.”

Dewey sat back, saying nothing.

“You’ll take the place of Xiua Koo,” said Smythson. “You’ll be exfiltrated today and flown to China. That’s the part of the operation you’ll have to architect, Dewey. It is our belief that soon after your arrival, either at the airport or when you get to the hospital, Bhang will visit you. Of course, he’ll think he’s visiting Koo, the ministry hero who killed his nemesis. What you do at that point, what tools or weapons you may or may not improvise, that will be solely up to you to innovate. Perhaps break his neck or strangle him.”

“What if he doesn’t visit?” asked Dewey.

“He will,” said Chalmers. “The agent who succeeds in assassinating you receives the highest award the ministry has. Bhang is awarding it in person. This is all going to go down quickly—right when you arrive or soon thereafter. But if you miss the opportunity, they’re going to find out sooner rather than later. Then you’re dead, and Bhang lives on.”

Dewey leaned back.

“Sounds like I’m dead no matter what.”

“You wanted your shot at Fao Bhang,” said Calibrisi. “Now you’ve got it.”

“You can still back out,” said Katie. “You don’t have to do it.”

“She’s right,” said Chalmers. “We’re going to do everything we can to figure out how to get you out of China. But there are no guarantees, and I would be lying if I said the odds of rescuing you are good.”

Dewey thought of Jessica. She wouldn’t want him to do it, of course. Were she alive, the operation would’ve been killed in its infancy. But she wasn’t alive, and Hector was right: he did want a shot at Bhang. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t take it, even if the odds were low and the aftermath fatal.

Deep down, it wasn’t about Jessica anymore, it was about him. It was about being a man. Dewey knew he’d rather die than spend the rest of his life knowing what it felt like to be a coward.

Dewey stood up. “Let’s go.”

*   *   *

Chalmers and Smythson led Dewey into the kitchen. Lacey James was standing next to the island, sleeves rolled up.

“Take a seat.”

James’s steel trunk lay open on the ground. Inside, it was lined with bottles and canisters of various sizes, shapes, and colors.

“What are you doing?” asked Dewey.

“We need to make a mold of your face,” said James.

James reached into the trunk and pulled out a see-through polycarbonate case. Inside was a mask of a Chinese man. Other than the fact that it had no eyes, hair, ears, or teeth, it looked exactly like Koo.

“We need something to adhere the life cast of the Chinese agent to,” said James, holding up the mask of Koo. “Otherwise, it will fall off. The cast of your face lets me build a positive of your features. Then I attach the mask to it. It’s the same thing as wearing a mask on Halloween, only this time the mask looks and feels like it’s real. We glue it to your face and,
voilà
, you’ll be Chinese, at least for a few days.”

“What’s it made of?”

“Silicone,” said James. “We use medical adhesive. It’s safe, and perhaps more important, has the same texture as skin. Now sit down.”

James pulled out two gallon-sized canisters, both labeled
BODY DOUBLE.
He unscrewed the lids. Inside the first canister was a thick, gooey pink liquid; the other held a similar-looking liquid, only it was blue. He poured equal amounts into a bowl and mixed them. The liquid turned purple.

Next, James immersed a small stack of damp plaster strips in the purple liquid. He waited a few seconds, then lifted a strip into the air.

“This is going to feel somewhat disgusting,” said James. “I apologize in advance.”

He leaned over and wrapped the wet strip across Dewey’s forehead. Working quickly, he covered Dewey’s entire face with wet purple plaster strips.

James then removed a pair of specially designed blow dryers, plugged them in, and blow-dried Dewey’s face until the color was gone, indicating the strips were dry, replaced by a dull, translucent hue. He took a small plastic tool that looked like a spatula and inserted it between the dried cast and Dewey’s chin. He gently worked the end of the tool around the edge of the cast. When he finished a full circle, he popped the cast from Dewey’s face.

Smythson nodded to Dewey.

“Let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time.”

78

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The limousine carrying Ji-tao Zhu sped quickly along Rock Creek Parkway. It exited at Connecticut Avenue, then moved up Connecticut until it was in front of a large art deco apartment complex called the Kennedy-Warren. Zhu’s driver pulled into an underground parking garage. Zhu climbed out the back of the limousine alone and took the elevator to the top floor. He walked to the door marked 1809.

Zhu rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he rang it a second time. Finally, he heard footsteps. The door opened. Standing in the doorway, dressed in a blue bathrobe, wearing a pair of worn-out Timberland construction boots, his curly blond hair in a wildish Afro, was Wood Uhlrich.

“You’re two hours early,” said Uhlrich.

“The plane was faster than I anticipated, Mr. Secretary,” said Zhu. “May I come in?”

Uhlrich opened the door.

“Why not.”

Zhu followed Uhlrich into a spacious, light-filled apartment, its windows overlooking the treetops of Rock Creek Park.

“I’ll be right back,” said Uhlrich. “Do you want coffee?”

“No, thank you. I won’t be here long enough to enjoy it.”

Uhlrich disappeared into the kitchen, where he poured himself a cup of coffee. He returned to the living room.

Zhu scanned Uhlrich’s outfit as Uhlrich stood staring at the much-shorter Zhu, who was neatly attired in a plain-looking black business suit and tie.

“You gonna say something?” asked Uhlrich.

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” said Zhu.

Uhlrich took a sip of coffee but didn’t say anything.

“This concerns our last conversation,” said Zhu.

“Yeah, I figured that. The one where you told me, and the United States, to go to hell.”

“That’s not exactly what I said, Wood. I said that China will not lend you any more money.”

“It’s the same thing,” said Uhlrich, “and you know it.”

Zhu smiled, then looked at the window.

“Such a nice view, Wood. I am very jealous. It must be such a joy to wake up every day and see the trees.”

“Cut the bullshit.”

“I said we’d be in touch. The conditions for China’s continued lending to the United States. Remember?”

Uhlrich sipped, staring at Zhu with a blank stare.

“What do you want?” asked Uhlrich.

“There’s an American citizen,” said Zhu. “He is wanted by my country. He has committed certain crimes against my country.”

“What the fuck does this have to do with the United States Treasury or the People’s Bank?” asked Uhlrich, turning red.

“Nothing, except that unless he’s handed over, we will not lend America any more money. So I suppose it has very much to do with you and me, yes, Wood?”

Uhlrich stared into Zhu’s eyes for several pregnant moments.

“He’s a criminal,” added Zhu, smiling. “A common criminal. A thug. You will be happy, I’m quite sure, to be rid of him.”

“What’s his name?” asked Uhlrich.

“Andreas. Dewey Andreas. Have you heard of him, Mr. Secretary?”

A smile crossed Uhlrich’s lips as he nodded to Zhu.

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Perhaps that will make it easier to find him.”

Uhlrich said nothing as he watched Zhu smile, then squirm uncomfortably. Finally, after taking another sip from his coffee cup, Uhlrich pointed to the door.

“Get the hell out,” said Uhlrich, calmly. “American heroes aren’t for sale.”

79

CASTINE

Sam descended the tree in silence, each step a delicate, slow-motion progression toward the forest floor. He needed to act before it was too late. In his hand, he held his red Swiss Army knife, blade out.

Could he stab someone? He couldn’t imagine actually doing it, and yet it was the only option he had.

The knife abruptly fell from Sam’s hand. He watched it as it plunged toward the ground. But it didn’t make a sound. The knife handle jutted up in the air. The blade had stabbed straight into an exposed root of the big tree. His temporary relief was ruined, however, by the realization that he didn’t have a weapon. He kept going.

When he reached the bottom branch of the tree, Sam was at the point of no return. His next step would be on the ground, atop dried leaves. Noise was inevitable.

Sam arched his head around the trunk, spying. The gunman was no more than ten or twelve feet away, motionless, clothing blending perfectly into the green and brown forest floor. The gunman was tight against the sniper rifle, eye to the scope, right hand gripping the trigger.

There was only one option left. He had to jump and run, then try to tackle the gunman before he turned and shot him.

You’ll never make it.

*   *   *

“Should you call Hobey?” asked Margaret Andreas.

Sam’s grandmother was kneeling on the ground next to a tomato plant, kneepads strapped on, clutching a pair of hand trimmers.

She looked at her husband. He was at the corner of the garden and had his right boot on top of a shovel, about to push down and lift another pile of dirt out of the ground. Perspiration covered his face.

“Stop worrying, Marge. He’ll be along.”

*   *   *

Dao breathed slowly in and out, staring at John Andreas through the scope. His chest was dead center in the crosshairs of the scope. She preferred a head shot, but his digging, which caused him to move up and down, made this more difficult. A chest-tap would have to do.

The sequence was obvious. Shoot John Andreas, swivel the weapon slightly right, then take out the woman. Drive to the brother’s house and kill him too. Get out of Castine—out of Maine—out of the United States—as quickly as possible.

Without moving her eye from the scope, Dao moved the safety off. She put her right index finger on the trigger. She pulled it back.

*   *   *

Sam sat on the lowest branch of the maple tree, just a few feet above the ground. Suddenly, like a gymnast, he fell backward, letting his arms, head, and torso fall down toward the ground, so that he was upside down, his legs still over the branch, keeping him from tumbling to the ground below. Sam’s head was inches from the ground. He stretched out his right arm. He grabbed his golf club, which was resting on the leaves. He lifted it gently up, then pulled himself back up to the branch.

Sam stood on the branch and leaned around the trunk of the tree, studying the gunman. The ground surrounding the gunman was a carpet of dried leaves, which he knew would make noise no matter how delicately he tried to tiptoe across them.

He looked up and studied a large branch at least fifteen or twenty feet in the air, which extended out directly over the gunman. Sam climbed to the branch as quietly as he could, as he felt the adrenaline charging through every part of his body.

He put the golf club between his teeth, biting down. He reached up and grabbed the big branch with his right hand, then his left. Slowly, quietly, Sam moved down the branch, hand over hand, out into the air above the gunman.

When he was directly over the gunman, he could feel his arms burning in pain. It was a pain unlike anything he’d ever felt before, a pain he would remember for the rest of his life. It was the pain of the fight, the pain that came when you risked everything, when you challenged death itself.

Sam let go with his left hand, holding himself aloft with his stronger right arm. He dangled silently in the air. He took the golf club into his left hand.

Sam began a slow, deliberate swinging motion, his feet and legs moving back and forth in the air above the killer. As his momentum picked up, he suddenly kicked his feet. Both flip-flops went sailing through the air, over the gunman, landing atop dead leaves just in front of the muzzle of the rifle.