Eye for an Eye (23 page)

“You got it.”

Calibrisi leaned forward. He hit the button on the phone console atop the brass-and-glass coffee table, then quickly dialed a number he knew by heart.

“Foxx.”

“Katie?”

“Hi, Hector.”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, let’s see. I just finished adjusting the locks on the vault, so Dewey can’t lock us in again.”

“Speaking of Dewey,” said Calibrisi, “we found him.”

“Congratulations,” said Katie. “Say hi to him for me, will you?”

“He’s in London.”

“That’s really exciting. Maybe he’ll send me a postcard? I’ll be waiting by the mailbox. If you talk to him, would you mind relaying a message for me?”

Calibrisi breathed in deeply, grinned, then shook his head.

“And what is that?”

“Tell him to fuck off.”

“I will. Anything else?”

“Don’t ever ask for Rob and me to help that ungrateful son of a bitch ever again. What a jerk. What if that room didn’t have an oxygen circuit?”

Calibrisi let Katie finish blowing off steam.

“You done?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Rob?”

“Shooting things in the backyard.”

“Well … so … the reason I called.”

“Yeah?”

“I got you two into this whole thing, and I feel sort of bad. I’d like to make it up to you.”

Katie was silent.

“Something special,” added Calibrisi.

“That’s nice. What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking it might be fun to go on a trip.”

“Oh, no, Hector,” said Katie, warily. “You’re not serious.”

“London is so pretty this time of year,” said Calibrisi. “The rain. The clouds. The rain. The drizzle. Then there’s the fog. Harrods. Buckingham Palace. Changing of the Guard. What do you say? Throw a few shrimps on the barbie?”

“That’s Australia, jackass.”

“We can go there afterward,” added Calibrisi, enthusiastically.

Katie was silent.

“I take off from Andrews in twenty minutes,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll swing by Dulles private.”

“Do we have a choice in the matter?”

“No,” said Calibrisi, standing up. “And tell Rob to bring something nice to wear, in case we get to meet the queen.”

*   *   *

The black Sikorsky S-76C chopper picked up Calibrisi on the roof helipad at Langley, then delivered him, ten minutes later, to the tarmac at Andrews. He climbed down the airstairs then walked 150 feet to the waiting CIA-owned black-and-silver Gulfstream G150, whose turbines were already buzzing as the pilots prepared for takeoff.

Twelve minutes later, after landing at the private terminal at Dulles, Katie and Tacoma climbed up the jet’s stairs, each carrying a small duffel bag.

Tacoma had a wide smile on his face. His hair was a mess. He had on cutoff khaki shorts with paint stains and a faded yellow T-shirt with a trident shield stamped on the chest—symbol of the Navy SEALs. He had on a pair of heavily beat-up cowboy boots.

Katie, as usual, looked slightly more elegant than Tacoma. She had on knee-high brown leather boots with a silver Gucci insignia on the sides. She wore short green-and-white flower-print shorts, which showed off her legs, and a thin white cotton sweater with a black stripe across it. Her hair was braided into a ponytail. Unlike Tacoma, there was no smile on her face.

“Hi, guys,” said Calibrisi. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it, chief,” said Tacoma, sitting down in one of the white leather captain’s chairs, diagonally across from Calibrisi. “I hear Polky found my Beemer.”

Katie sat down across from Calibrisi but remained silent.

The plane taxied down the long tarmac, turned, then roared down the runway, lifting smoothly into the sunny Virginia sky.

Calibrisi briefed Katie and Tacoma on his meeting at the White House with Adrian King and Secretary of State Lindsay.

“So basically, we’re going to ask China to turn over their top intelligence official so that he can be prosecuted at The Hague?” asked Katie, incredulous.

“That’s the plan.”

“Did you speak with the president?”

“Not yet. King is meeting with the Chinese ambassador as we speak. We’re going to get on the phone after that.”

“Why don’t they let you deal with it?”

“That’s not off the table yet,” said Calibrisi. “Look, if China will hand over Fao Bhang, that would be adequate for me. He should pay. If going the official route is what gets that done, then so be it, I’m happy.”

“Happy?” asked Tacoma.

“Well, not happy. I’m still pissed. But the staging of something like a hit on Fao Bhang is not straightforward, guys. We need to let things run their course. Dellenbaugh isn’t going to go to DEFCON five right from the get-go. I don’t disagree with him either.”

“Understood.”

“Coffee anyone?” asked Tacoma.

“Sure,” said Calibrisi.

Katie held up two fingers, indicating she wanted one also.

Tacoma stood and walked to the galley kitchen at the aft of the jet. He made three cups of coffee, then returned to the seats.

“Why London?” asked Calibrisi, as Tacoma sat down.

“If I had to guess, he’s going to see Borchardt,” said Tacoma.

“Deep connections to Beijing,” agreed Calibrisi, nodding. “Whatever weapons Dewey wants. There’s a certain logic to it.”

“Dewey is asking him to help get back at Bhang,” said Katie.

“The problem is,” said Calibrisi, “Borchardt would flip Dewey in a heartbeat. China is his biggest client by far.”

“Do we have someone tracking him from Heathrow?” asked Katie.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to exacerbate the situation,” said Calibrisi. “He’s extremely pissed off. If I sent a spotter, he would’ve seen him. At that point, he’d feel even more betrayed than he does already. Then he’d shut us out permanently. I don’t think we want to be shut out.”

“We need to get a team over there,” said Katie. “Who do we have in London, Hector? Should I call Danny?”

Calibrisi unfolded the SAT phone. He pressed one of the speed-dial numbers, then put the phone to his ear.

“Who you calling?” asked Katie.

“Derek Chalmers,” said Calibrisi. “We need to find Dewey and bring him home before he gets in any deeper.”

46

THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.

When King walked back into his office, Zhai Jintao, China’s ambassador to the United States, was seated in front of his desk.

Jintao was fifty years old. He had a neatly coiffed head of black hair that was a tad long, and wore a stylish pair of round, tortoiseshell eyeglasses. Unlike many of his fellow Chinese government officials, he wore beautiful clothing, brightly striped button-down shirts, Hermès ties, Prada shoes, and suits that were made on Savile Row in London. Most unusual, however, was his smile. It was, in a word, infectious. That and his good looks had done much for him over the years, and there weren’t many people, inside or outside of diplomatic circles, who didn’t like Jintao.

Jintao was alone. As King entered, he stood up immediately. King took off his sports coat and hung it on the back of his door, then shut it.

“Adrian,” said Jintao, stepping toward him, “good to see you, my friend.”

King ignored his outstretched hand. He went behind his desk.

“Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, Mr. Ambassador.”

“It’s your meeting.”

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Not exactly, though I can probably guess.”

King pushed the manila dossier on Hu-Shao across the desk to Jintao. Jintao picked it up and leafed through it as King watched in silence. It took Jintao only a minute or two to pore through it. When he was done, he placed it back on the desk in front of King.

King stared at Jintao, who stared back.

“The question, Mr. Ambassador,” said King, with anger in his voice, “is not whether China was behind the assassination of our national security advisor. The question is, what the fuck is China going to do about it?”

Jintao remained calm.

“What do you mean, ‘What is China going to do about it?’” asked Jintao.

“I mean, what are you going to do about it? Simple fucking question. Hu-Shao was a high-level MSS operative. He killed Jessica Tanzer. This is an act of war.”

Jintao nodded, not in agreement but out of respect, acknowledging he had heard King’s words and was not ignoring them. But he said nothing.

“Do you deny it, Mr. Ambassador? Is that what you’re going to try and do? Deny this guy worked for you? Or maybe he was rogue, off on his own? Is that it?”

Jintao’s smile transformed into a kind, if icy stare.

“No, I don’t deny it,” said Jintao.

King stared, incredulous, at Jintao.

“As you said,” continued Jintao, “let’s dispense with the pleasantries, cut the bullshit, as you say.”

King leaned forward.

“Okay. Go.”

“You know as well as I do why he was there,” said Jintao. “Hu-Shao was part of a three-man team sent in for Andreas. Unfortunately, Jessica was shot by accident. She was not the intended target. Andreas was. I am being honest with you, Adrian. Do you think we would intentionally harm America’s national security advisor?”

“You did harm her,” yelled King. “You killed her.”

“Yes, we killed her. But it was an accident. And, yes, Premier Li will be coming to the funeral, but not because you threatened him, something which I did not pass on to him when we spoke. That would have only inflamed the situation.”

King sat back in his large red leather chair. Jintao’s honesty had caught him off guard. King had expected him to deny it, then to bow out, tail between his legs, and, ultimately, to help broker the deal that would appease an angry president and an even angrier chief of staff, not to mention CIA director.

“You are to leave the United States by tomorrow night,” said King. “All embassy staff are to leave America. The PRC mission to the United Nations, all staff, as well as any PRC regional missions located in U.S. territory: out. Then we’ll discuss what happens with China. At the very minimum, Fao Bhang is to be turned over to authorities for prosecution at The Hague, along with any ministry staff involved in Jessica Tanzer’s death. Do I make myself clear, Ambassador Jintao?”

“Perfectly clear,” said Jintao. “But there is one problem.”

“What is that?” asked King, leaning forward.

“China has no intention of withdrawing from the United States, nor of turning over Minister Bhang.”

King was starting to feel a little nervous.

“Mr. Ambassador, your diplomatic missions that are within U.S. sovereign territory are the purview of this country and, specifically, the president of the United States. I was with him approximately half an hour ago. Not only does he want you out of the country, I had to fight to get an extra day for you and your people. President Dellenbaugh wants you gone.”

Jintao smiled.

“I certainly understand,” said Jintao. “And I would never want to imply that our presence in your country is anything less than a privilege, determined and decided by your president. If you want us gone, we will be gone. Indeed, if President Dellenbaugh wants me gone today, that is something that could be arranged. But…”

King stared.

“But what?” he snapped.

“But then, who will buy the five hundred billion dollars’ worth of U.S. Treasury bonds which the People’s Bank of China is being asked to buy? And, in six months, when Secretary Uhlrich comes to us yet again with his hat in his hand and asks us to buy another trillion dollars’ worth of bonds, as he has already informed us he will do, what will happen then?”

King’s face flushed red. He sat back, loosened his tie, then ran his right hand back through his hair.

“Premier Li, myself, even, believe it or not, Minister Bhang all regret what happened to Jessica,” continued Jintao. “Perhaps nobody more so than me. I had a close relationship with Jessica, closer than anybody else in my government. I sincerely liked her. It is not an exaggeration to say that I’m embarrassed, and that Premier Li is embarrassed. And there will be people who suffer the consequences of this tragedy. But it will not be Fao Bhang. If you would still like China to withdraw, well, of course, we will do so immediately. But before you and your president make such a decision, I encourage you to speak with Secretary Uhlrich. You might also want to consult with the chairman of the Federal Reserve. And, while you’re at it, you should probably let your leaders in Congress know.”

“Know what?” whispered King, furious now.

“Let them know China will not be in a position to lend the United States another trillion and a half dollars. As they will no doubt tell you, without that money, the government of the United States will have to shut down, or, of course, you could stop paying Social Security benefits, or paying your hardworking U.S. soldiers, or paying hospital bills for the elderly. I could go on.”

“Fuck you,” said King.

Jintao stood.

“Is that your answer?” asked Jintao.

“That’s a question for the president,” said King. “The fuck you was from me.”

47

UPPER PHILLIMORE GARDENS
KENSINGTON
LONDON

Karina, one of Borchardt’s servants, led Dewey through a small door at the back of the library, which fed into a thin, windowless servants’ hallway. At the end of the hallway was a curving iron stairwell.

At the third floor, Karina led Dewey down a long corridor. She opened the door to a spacious bedroom, with a large living room and bathroom.

“If you need anything, please press four on your telephone, Mr. Andreas,” said Karina. “That will ring someone in the service wing.”

“Thank you.”

The bed was massive, with a large white canopy draped overhead. Two large windows looked over the gardens at the back of the house. A crowd of at least two hundred mingled in the gardens. Music drifted up to the window. Dewey opened one of the windows and stood watching the crowd, then yawned, raising his hands over his head. He lowered the curtain, shutting out any outside light.

He drained the last of the whiskey, went into the bathroom, stripped off his clothes, and took a shower. He brushed his teeth, then climbed into bed and turned out the lights.