Eye for an Eye (20 page)

“According to my figures, our current balances show that the U.S. owes China almost two trillion dollars,” said Zhu. “How much of the five hundred billion do you expect us to take?”

“All of it.”

“All five hundred?”

“That’s right.”

Zhu sat back, crossed his legs, and said nothing for at least a dozen seconds. He reached up and brushed his hand back through his hair.

“Will there be more after this, Mr. Secretary?”

“We’re going to need another trillion dollars by the end of next year,” said Uhlrich. “Above and beyond the current issue.”

Zhu nodded.

“I appreciate your visiting us first, Mr. Secretary,” said Zhu. “I would feel very bad if you were to have waited and then learned of our disinterest only after exhausting all other avenues.”

“What are you saying, Mr. Zhu?”

“I suggest you spend some time in Riyadh,” said Zhu. “The Saudis might very well have some appetite for the U.S. bonds, though I highly doubt it will be to a level that meets your needs.”

“Both of us know China is our only option.”

“But we’re not going to buy them,” said Zhu. “Do we have the financial capacity? Yes, of course. But for reasons which I shall not be sharing with you this afternoon, we are fully allocated in terms of our exposure to U.S. risk.”

“Governor Zhu, do you understand the ramifications if we’re unable to sell these treasuries?”

Zhu stared at Uhlrich but remained silent.

“If America can’t borrow money, we’ll either stop paying foreign interest, or the Fed will start printing money. When inflation comes, it won’t just hurt us. The world will go into recession.”

“Let me be very clear,” said Zhu calmly, leaning toward Uhlrich. “If the United States halts interest payments or in any way materially alters its obligations to China, I will order my treasury to start selling on the free market from our current inventory of U.S. bonds. I will start at par and then move pricing down as fast as possible. My guess is, once my counterparts are aware of what I’m doing, the price will drop precipitously. By my own estimates, we would end up liquidating the entire portfolio at between forty-five and fifty cents on the dollar.”

Uhlrich’s smile disappeared. It took him less than a second to calculate the implications of Zhu’s threat. America would still owe the full amount of each bond, but by selling them for half price, China would in effect destroy the market for U.S. bonds. No one would ever buy another bond, certainly not for a full dollar when they could get the same thing for fifty cents from China.

Zhu stood up.

“Now, Mr. Secretary, I must get back to Beijing,” said Zhu, extending his hand. “Thank you once again for making the trip. And best of luck with the sale.”

Uhlrich sat silently on the couch. He stared at Zhu’s extended hand until Zhu, after not receiving any response, started walking to the door.

“Your message has been delivered,” said Uhlrich, standing, an angry look in his eyes. “What the hell do you want?”

Zhu turned. He paused, then walked back across the room to Uhlrich. He was shorter than the American. He stood just inches away from Uhlrich, uncomfortably close. He craned his neck to look up at him.

“Perhaps there is a way for us to reconsider our decision,” said Zhu. “I will be in touch.”

39

RUMIANA FARM
MIDDLEBURG, VIRGINIA

A set of headlights moved down a long dark gravel driveway. On each side of the simple drive was low white picket fence, behind which lay fields of freshly cut grass.

Katie and Tacoma owned the farm, tucked away in the rolling horse country of Middleburg. It housed their consulting firm, which provided various services to government and private industries alike. Those services tended to be top-secret, clandestine activities, categorized under the broad rubric of security.

Until two years before, both Katie and Tacoma had worked at Langley. Katie was the deputy director of Special Operations Group, running covert paramilitary operations across the globe. Tacoma, a former Navy SEAL, who was recruited by Katie to the CIA, had been her deputy.

Their firm didn’t have a Web site, glossy brochures, or a listed phone number. What they did have was the backing of Hector Calibrisi and a reputation for being able to do almost anything, in any country, using its extensive network of former spies, former Special Forces soldiers, and a willingness to bend the rules. But Katie and Tacoma had one overarching rule: they considered themselves proxies for the United States of America. They didn’t do anything that was not in the best interests of the United States. Calibrisi usually had them on retainer, often calling on them when the bureaucracy of Langley threatened to slow him down.

In the circle outside the main house, Dewey, Katie, and Tacoma climbed out of Tacoma’s orange BMW M5, after a hair-raising drive from Andrews Air Force Base. It was almost midnight. The sky was awash in stars as they crossed the driveway toward the front door.

“Listen for it,” said Tacoma, pointing to the sky.

All Dewey could hear was the sound of crickets. A few seconds later, the faint rhythm of a helicopter hit his ears.

“Good ears.”

“You’re just getting old, Dewey.”

“What’s with all the insults?” asked Dewey, grumpily. “I’m really not in the mood for kicking your ass, but I will.”

“You could try,” said Tacoma.

Katie shook her head.

“You two are like children,” said Katie. “I should get babysitting pay.”

The sound of the chopper grew louder. Flashing lights moved across the sky. The wind picked up as a jet-black Bell 525 descended from the sky and landed on the grass next to the driveway. The door opened and Calibrisi climbed out. He walked toward them carrying a steel briefcase.

“Well, look who it is,” Calibrisi yelled, above the din.

Dewey walked toward Calibrisi, putting his hand out, but Calibrisi wrapped his arms around him and hugged him.

“Hi, kid.”

“Hi, Hector.”

“How you feeling?” asked Calibrisi.

“Okay,” said Dewey.

Calibrisi lifted Dewey’s hand and inspected his gashed knuckles.

“That doesn’t look too bad,” said Calibrisi. “Rob told me you beat the shit out of a mirror.”

Dewey laughed, then looked at Tacoma.

Katie and Tacoma walked toward the door and went inside.

“Hold up,” said Calibrisi.

Dewey stopped and looked at Calibrisi.

“I’ve always known it’s part of this business we’re in,” said Calibrisi, putting his arm on Dewey’s shoulder. “I’ve had friends killed standing next to me. But I’ve never felt like this. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Dewey nodded but said nothing.

“If you need someone to talk to—”

“Let’s go inside, Hector.”

“Okay.”

They followed Katie and Tacoma inside. The entrance foyer looked like a weapons room at a large police station. The walls were crowded with gun racks that held a variety of high-powered rifles, assault weapons, submachine guns, and handguns.

They went to the basement, to a large steel door that looked like the door to a bank vault. Tacoma punched a code into the digital lock. The door opened.

Inside was a large windowless basement-level room that housed Katie and Tacoma’s computers, communications equipment, and more weapons. The room was enclosed in walls made of thick steel and was accessible only by the iris scanner outside the steel door. Katie and Tacoma were the only people capable of opening it.

The room itself was sprawling, eighty feet long by forty feet wide. It had been built by KBR, in conjunction with a team of electrical engineers from the CIA, and was linked to the CIA’s powerful mainframes. The room looked like mission control at Cape Canaveral, with walls of large plasma screens, all of which were dark. Long steel desks were lined with computers. But there was one big difference; unlike NASA, the back of the room had a red felt pool table, a Ping-Pong table, and several leather sofas.

On a table near the wall, Calibrisi opened the steel briefcase. He took out what looked like an oversized iPad with a pair of cords sticking out one end. Tacoma plugged one of the cords into the wall. The other he unfurled and plugged into a server in the middle of the room. Calibrisi turned on the biometric scanner. Six of the plasma screens suddenly came to life, lighting up the room.

Dewey handed Calibrisi the dead man’s finger. He took it and pressed it against the green screen. After a few moments, the plasma screens showed large photographs, all of the dead sniper. Two were grainy, in black-and-white. The other three were in color. The center photo showed the man, his face now familiar to them all, with the same thin mustache. He was very much alive. The photo was taken from a distance. He wore sunglasses. He was walking down a busy city street, the word
UTRECHT
stamped into the upper corner along with a date:
05/2004
.

The other photos were both black-and-white. Each was a military photo. The man appeared much younger and was wearing the starched gray uniform of Chinese defense forces.

On the last screen, which the four of them stared at in silence, were the results of the print analysis from the finger Dewey had cut off. The finger belonged to a high-ranking operative in the clandestine paramilitary bureau at China’s Ministry of State Security. His name was Hu-Shao.

Calibrisi stared stone-faced at the plasma screen.

He thought back to his conversation with Derek Chalmers. As much as he trusted his counterpart in London, he’d had a difficult time believing China was behind it. Now the truth was irrefutable. It all added up in a single moment, an instant, as if someone somewhere had flipped a switch.

It was China after all. And it was Dewey they were after.

“Why would China want Jessica dead?” asked Katie. “Or Dewey for that matter?”

Calibrisi’s mind raced as it all came together, like pieces of a puzzle suddenly falling into place.

By outing Dillman, Dewey had given Chalmers, Fritz Lavine, Menachem Dayan—and Calibrisi—the means by which to go after their shared nemesis, Fao Bhang. It was they who’d upped the ante, without Dewey’s permission or knowledge. It was they who, in the interest of trying to get at Bhang, had designed an operation that exposed Dewey and Jessica to reprisal. The ax in the head, the Louis Vuitton trunk, Premier Li’s granddaughter—all of it the brainchild of spies who’d failed to see the very simple human beings they had inadvertently placed in the crosshairs of one of the world’s most brutal men.

Calibrisi felt a sudden wave of guilt wash over him. He felt faint. He looked over at Dewey, who stood in front of the plasma screen, studying the dead agent’s background.

Dewey had done his job. He’d gotten the identity of the mole out of Amit Bhutta. They had returned the favor by starting a lethal blood feud against one of the most powerful and ruthless men in the world, which ultimately led back to Dewey.

As far as Dewey knew, Dillman was to be killed by Kohl Meir, then dropped in a Tel Aviv landfill. Clean and simple. Instead, the brightest minds in Western intelligence had used Dillman, just as they used Dewey, and now Jessica. It was their fault. By not seeing it ahead of time, it was his fault.

Calibrisi felt sick to his stomach. A sharp pain stabbed his chest. He put his hand out on the table to steady himself.

Dewey turned and looked at him.

“You okay, chief?” he asked.

Calibrisi knew that if he told Dewey the truth, Dewey would have every justification in the world to kill him, right then and there. He was the one who got Jessica murdered. But what was even worse, Calibrisi knew, was the fact that Dewey wouldn’t blame Calibrisi or Chalmers or Menachem Dayan. He’d blame himself.

It didn’t matter any longer. He had to come clean. Dewey deserved to know.

“It was my fault,” Calibrisi whispered. “I’m the one who got her killed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dillman.”

“Who?”

“The Israeli.”

“He’s dead,” said Dewey.

“We used the body. We used it to launch an operation inside China.”

Dewey stared at Calibrisi.

“You what?” he asked, incredulous, his anger suddenly flashing.

“We used the corpse to expose Fao Bhang. To bring him out of hiding so we could kill him.”

Dewey lurched at Calibrisi, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him hard against the wall.

“
He was supposed to be killed, then buried!
” screamed Dewey, clutching Calibrisi’s throat and holding him against the wall.
“You arrogant son of a bitch!”

Dewey felt nothing but anger and betrayal as he stared into Calibrisi’s eyes and listened to him cough. He heard the click of a round being chambered, next to his head.