Eye for an Eye (27 page)

“If that’s true, they’ll look for the flight plan too,” said Katie. “They’ll know the plane hasn’t landed in Moscow.”

“We took care of it,” said Smythson. “We altered a tail number on a Moscow-bound BA flight out of Heathrow. If they’re tracking Borchardt’s plane, they’ll believe it actually landed. It should hold.”

“Why the hell is Dewey not coordinating with Langley?” asked Chalmers.

Calibrisi looked at Chalmers with an icy stare.

“Because we got his fiancée killed,” said Calibrisi. “Why is that so hard for you to understand, Derek? It was our goddamn operation that led to Jessica’s death. Dewey wants nothing to do with Langley, MI6, or anyone else. Can you blame him?”

Chalmers paused, considering his response.

“No, of course I can’t blame him,” said Chalmers, calmly. “I feel terrible. But I have a job to do. The removal of Fao Bhang has to be our top priority, now more so than ever.”

“President Dellenbaugh authorized us to take action,” said Calibrisi. “America is going to hit China back. But Dewey Andreas isn’t the one who’s going to do it. He’s in no condition to execute a black-on-black right now. It will be a suicide mission, and it will fail.”

“If we want Jessica’s death to mean something, let’s figure out how to help Dewey kill Fao Bhang,” said Chalmers.

“I’m all for killing Bhang,” yelled Calibrisi, slamming his fist on the conference table. “But we’re not using Dewey. We’re finding him, then I’m bringing him home. If I have to have President Dellenbaugh call the prime minister to tell you to back the fuck off, I will. I’m not going to kill Dewey too!”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence in the conference room. The anger and emotion between Calibrisi and Chalmers was palpable.

Chalmers had a blank look on his face. He scanned Calibrisi’s eyes for several moments.

“How long have we known each other, Hector?”

“Too long.”

“Twenty-five years this December. Cape Town. Remember?”

Calibrisi calmed down. A small grin even appeared on his face.

“Yeah, I remember. A couple of rubes, huh?”

“Speak for yourself,” said Chalmers.

“Okay, one American rube and a Cambridge dilettante.”

“That’s more like it,” said Chalmers. “You taught me something important in South Africa. Remember the girl, the Danish girl, at the consulate?”

“Annika.”

“You said, ‘Don’t get emotional.’ She ended up being KGB. My career at MI6 would have been over.”

“I was young and naïve,” said Calibrisi.

“Do you at least want to hear what we have in mind?”

Calibrisi took a sip from his cup and sat back.

“Why not.”

Chalmers nodded to Smythson.

“We have the rough architecture of a structured assassination of Fao Bhang,” said Smythson. “MI6 has an asset inside the ministry hierarchy; a high-level agent who was recruited six years ago. This agent has been an important source for the UK, and the West, for some time. MI6 is willing to sacrifice that asset in order to strike at Fao Bhang. The operation is code-named ‘Eye for an Eye.’”

“Revenge,” said Calibrisi.

“It’s a double meaning,” said Smythson. “The obvious one: revenge. But we will also attempt to deceive Fao Bhang, to make him believe that what he is seeing is something different than it actually is and not, in fact, a drama, a play, an orchestrated fiction whose final act is his very own death. We will be, in a sense, replacing Bhang’s eyes with our own, at least for a few hours.”

Calibrisi poured another cup of coffee, intrigued. He glanced at Katie, then Tacoma, both of whom were also rapt at attention, fascinated by Smythson’s words.

“But,” said Smythson.

“But what?”

“But we’re missing a key element. And without that element, the operation simply will not work.”

“What is it?” asked Calibrisi.

Smythson looked across the table at Chalmers. Chalmers turned to Calibrisi.

“We need Dewey.”

53

MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE COMPOUND
AUGUST 1ST BUILDING
BEIJING

Xu Qingchen, the top general in the People’s Liberation Army and the second-highest-ranking official in the Chinese military, was seated on a wooden bench. He finished a sandwich, then tossed the last piece of crust to the lawn. A pigeon pounced.

The red wooden bench sat at the center of a private lawn atop the roof of the Ministry of Defense building. Except when he was traveling or during inclement weather, Qingchen ate lunch every day on the roof, usually alone. Today, he was not alone. Seated next to him was Fao Bhang.

Between the two men was a yellow pad. Except for the occasional innocuous chitchat, Qingchen and Bhang communicated by writing notes. Bhang knew what eavesdropping technology was capable of.

“X met with council this morning,” wrote Qingchen.

“X” was shorthand for Premier Li.

“You were a subject,” Qingchen continued, “of discussion.”

“What about?” scribbled Bhang on the pad.

“The ministry budget. X proposes slashing it. This led to bigger discussion. It became agitated.”

“Continue.”

“Photos were produced.”

Bhang looked up from the pad, nostrils flaring.

“Photos?” he said aloud, barely above a whisper, yet seething with anger.

“A corpse,” said Qingchen. “An ax in the skull.”

Bhang abandoned any concern he might have had about speaking aloud.

“Gruesome,” said Qingchen, continuing.

“Mossad did it,” said Bhang.

“Who was the dead man?”

“It doesn’t matter. An asset.”

“What happened in London?” asked Qingchen.

Bhang stood up.

“How do you know about London?”

Qingchen stared at Bhang, a calm anger in his eyes. He remained silent.

“An operation,” said Bhang, defensively. “They don’t always go well. You should know that. It’s nothing, a trifle. A person we’re trying to remove.”

“Sit down,” ordered Qingchen. “And calm down.”

Bhang remained standing, taking a cigarette from his jacket.

“You know I dislike smoke, Fao.”

“What was Li’s objective in all this?” asked Bhang, ignoring him.

“He had no objective, other than cutting the budget, but that is a ruse,” said Qingchen. “It seems clear to me, you’ve upset him. He has started to politicize his paranoia about you.”

“I can handle him.”

“Not if he moves to quell a perceived threat from you. If the premier senses a threat, a real threat, you are in danger. The council favors you, but more important to the council is rule of law. Political hierarchy. To the extent he politicizes his paranoia, you risk losing support within the council. It’s only a matter of time. He’s very good at politics.”

“What should I do?” asked Bhang, taking a hard drag on his cigarette.

“You have two choices,” replied Qingchen.

“What are they?”

“Appease him. Apologize. Do something to make him—how shall we say?—less concerned about your ambitions. Politicians also like flattery.”

“What’s the other choice?”

“Move on him.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“What is the condition of your support within PLA?”

“As always, it is nearly unanimous,” said Qingchen. “Those generals loyal to Li are well known to me and would be easily removed. But…”

“But what?” asked Bhang.

“You must want to be premier,” said Qingchen. “I’m too old. You know this. And there is nobody else capable.”

Bhang sat back down. General Qingchen’s words were surprising but not unexpected.

Bhang had pledged his loyalty to Qingchen many years ago. Both men, and a sizable piece of the upper ranks of the PLA, didn’t trust Li. Like all leadership changes in China, the outside world would know little of the internal machinations that ended up paving the way for a new leader. The elevation of someone new, like Qingchen or Bhang, would be seen as yet another mysterious though placid transition by the West. But in China, power was taken. It had been that way since the beginning.

The general’s words represented the culmination of a decade’s worth of work.

Bhang had correctly guessed that Qingchen would not want to rule when the time came. Like many military leaders, politics was a business he wanted little to do with. It was enough for the old general to have his man at the helm, in this case, Bhang.

Bhang attempted to control his excitement. He knew he could never be the one to suggest it. It had to be Qingchen. Ironically, it was Li who’d pushed him to it. He would have to remember to thank Li someday.

“With your support, I would do it,” said Bhang.

Qingchen stood.

“Clean up this London affair,” said Qingchen. “You give him needless ammunition. Clean it up.”

“It is a mosquito,” said Bhang. “I swung and missed. Next time, I’ll not miss.”

54

IN THE AIR

Dewey wrapped tape around Borchardt’s mouth again. He went to the back of the plane, opening doors until he found the entrance to a small circular stairwell that led belowdecks. There, he found another door. Inside was the weapons hold. The storage area seemed endless: like a low-ceilinged warehouse, the shelves of various firearms, explosives, and ammunition-lined walls that ran to the front of the plane

Over the next hour, Dewey wired up a large block of SEMTEX, which he knew was not only effective but idiotproof, hence the reason it was popular with terrorists. It was forgiving and resilient to the accidental bumping or grinding that might trigger an explosion in other materials.

There were several types of detonators, and he rigged one that would allow for remote detonation, testing it before inserting it, feeling the slightly painful tickle of the electric pulse between his fingers.

He carried the detonator, a pair of Glocks, and an Alcotán-100 back upstairs and sat down.

Borchardt had nodded off.

“Wake up, Mary Poppins,” said Dewey. “Rise and shine.”

Borchardt opened his eyes. He groaned from behind the tape. Dewey grabbed a piece, then ripped it off.

“Fuck!” yelled Borchardt.

“That never gets old,” said Dewey.

“You really are a mean son of a bitch, aren’t you? Can I please get something to drink?”

“Like what?”

“Like water. I’ve been sitting here for at least six hours.”

“Clean or dirty?”

Borchardt chuckled.

Dewey stood up, went to the galley, and got a bottle of water, then returned and held the bottle up to Borchardt’s lips. He chugged down the entire bottle.

“So, two things,” said Dewey.

“What?”

“First, we need another plane.”

“Another plane?”

“Yes. It needs to be in Beijing, near where we’re landing this monstrosity.”

“Monstrosity?”

“This flying homage to greed, barbarism, and ego. This gaudy symbol of what happens when you’re willing to sell weapons to terrorists.”

“Why do we need another plane?”

“The answer is, none of your fucking business. Number two. You need to call Bo Minh.”

“Why Bo Minh?”

“Because you’d like to meet with him in,” said Dewey, pausing, looking at his watch, “three hours. At the airport.”

“Beijing Airport?”

“On the plane. I don’t care what you have to offer him. What you have to give him, promise him, threaten him—whatever. But you need to think of something, and it better be good. He’s going to visit you on this plane.”

“They found the dead bodies by now,” said Borchardt, pleading. “They’ll know the team failed. They’ll know Ambassador M
ă
is dead. They’ll know, Dewey. They’ll assume I’m with you.”

“Well, now, that’s the most insightful thing you’ve said all day. Which means you better be pretty fucking clever when you call the little retard.”

Borchardt glanced at the shoulder-fired missile. Then his eyes moved to the remote detonator. His eyes grew wider.

“What’s that?” asked Borchardt.

“It’s a detonator. I thought you knew about weapons?”

“I know very well what it
is.
What’s it
for
?”

“Oh, yeah, I did a little art project downstairs while you were napping.”

Borchardt’s face flushed red.

“I made a sculpture out of some orange plastic stuff. It was like Play-Doh. I felt like I was back in kindergarten. I forget what it’s called.”

“You!” screamed Borchardt. “You fucking idiot, Dewey!”

“SEMTEX. That’s it. I hope I did it right. Anyway, according to the instructions, if I press this little button here, it’ll make the orange stuff change colors and get all hot. Doesn’t that sound friggin’ awesome, man? Then again, the instructions were in German, so who knows? Only one way to find out.”

Borchardt became frantic, his face turning red, sweat appearing on his forehead and upper lip.

“You’re a fucking maniac!” he screamed. “What have you done?”

Borchardt kept yelling and pulling at his cuffs. Finally, Dewey took the roll of tape and wrapped another piece across his mouth to shut him up.

“Can I bounce a few ideas off you?” asked Dewey. “You don’t need to talk, just grunt if you agree, okay? So here’s what I’m thinking.”

Dewey stood up and started pacing the aisle next to the frantic Borchardt.

“When we get to Beijing, me and those pilots of yours are getting off the plane. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to keep this with me.”

Dewey held up the remote detonator.

“You, on the other hand, should probably stay to meet your guest, don’t you think? Catch up on old times. I think it would be bad etiquette to not be here when he arrives. By the way, is that what you’re wearing? Do you have anything more colorful? Maybe a light blue or yellow, something that would complement that tape across your mouth?”

Borchardt yelled hysterically and yanked at his cuffs.

“Sorry, it was just a suggestion. Wear what you have on.”

Dewey walked to the galley and opened the refrigerator. He took a bottle of beer and twisted off the cap, took a large gulp, then walked casually back to Borchardt.

“Can you behave?”

Borchardt nodded yes.

Dewey leaned over and ripped the tape off Borchardt’s face.