Eye for an Eye (33 page)

Inside the parking garage, he sprinted down an aisle of cars, Glock clutched in his right hand, searching for an escape vehicle. Dewey came upon a large man climbing into a white Mercedes E63 AMG.

“Keys,” said Dewey.

The man turned, shocked, saw Dewey’s sidearm, then tossed Dewey the keys.

He climbed inside the sedan, jammed the key in the ignition, started the car, then peeled out of the parking space. He turned the wheel and headed toward the garage entrance, quickly removing his sunglasses and hat. Dewey fell into the airport exit line, driving cautiously, scanning for more agents.

At least half a dozen police cars descended upon the terminal, their blue and red lights flashing, their sirens blasting the air, as they barreled past buses, taxis, and cars, all of whom pulled over to let them pass by, including Dewey.

He drove through the airport exit. He kept a calm eye on the rearview mirror, looking for trailers. He saw nothing. Dewey moved onto the freeway, heading for downtown. He glanced up at a large green sign:

BEM-VINDO A PORTUGAL.

65

NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

Jesus June sat in front of two large computer screens, angled in front of him, watching, waiting. Thirty-one separate applications were running on the SID mainframe, all of them visible and accessible on his two screens, icons layered like tiles on a checkerboard.

ThinThread had still not produced anything on Dewey. June had strategized with one of the other analysts inside SID about other programs that might possibly be able to trace Dewey’s whereabouts. June’s main hope, at the moment, rested on a facial-recognition program that allowed Dewey’s photo to be analyzed by ThinThread and compared to the database’s massive electronic warehouse. If a security camera anywhere in the world was tied into any sort of network that NSA had access to—legally or not—and Dewey stepped in front of the camera, ThinThread would call it out, and they would have their location.

So far, however, only four sightings had occurred, and none were Dewey. Two of them had been photos of the same man, someone in Kiev, videotaped twice at a train station in Kiev.

Like all successful NSA hackers, June was patient. Patience was perhaps the most important quality in an NSA employee. That, curiosity, and persistence. June, like Pacheco and Bruckheimer himself, had all three qualities, along with a big brain.

On the right-hand plasma screen, a small red-and-gold triangle abruptly lit up on the screen, signifying activity of some sort, then made a short burst of chiming noises. The program wasn’t related to ThinThread. In fact, it was an old program called FireBite, developed in the 1970s, which allowed NSA programmers to wiretap within the United States but not listen to the calls. In other words, if NSA was monitoring a phone number, and that number received a call, the number of the caller was immediately cataloged. Beyond that, the program was “dumb”; FireBite couldn’t eavesdrop.

He double-clicked the triangle, and the FireBite user interface appeared on the screen. June had set the program up to monitor a handful of phone numbers he thought Dewey might call. The home, cell, and work numbers of Calibrisi, Katie, Tacoma; his parents’ home in Castine; his brother’s home in Blue Hill.

On the screen, one of the numbers was boldened and had two messages. The calls had just occurred. June clicked the number. Then he did a double take. It was a number he’d stuck into FireBite as an after-thought; after all, Jessica Tanzer was dead.

His eyes bulged as he looked at the numbers, then hit the trace feature. A few moments later, the location of the calls appeared.

“I found him!” screamed June. “I got Dewey!”

*   *   *

At MI6, June’s yelling boomed over the speakerphone.

“Where is he?” asked Calibrisi.

“Lisbon. Hard location four minutes ago. He made two calls from a public pay phone at Lisbon Portela Airport.”

Smythson snapped her fingers, ordering one of her staffers to run down the hall and retrieve Chalmers.

“How do we know it was Dewey?” asked Calibrisi.

“We don’t,” said June. “But who else would call Jessica Tanzer twice in a row from halfway around the world?”

“Nice work,” said Calibrisi. “Langley, patch in Polk.”

Chalmers entered the glass conference room.

“What do we got?”

“Lisbon,” said Smythson.

Polk, the head of Special Operations Group, came on speaker.

“Hi, guys,” he said. “Whaddya got?”

“Lisbon,” said Calibrisi.

“Let me see what I have in theater. Hold on.”

Smythson pointed at one of her staffers, seated at the table in front of his laptop.

“Hurry, James,” she said. “Tell me what sort of manpower we have down there.”

“I’m already on it, Ronny,” he said, staring into his screen.

He banged the enter button, then pointed at the large plasma in the corner of the room, which lit up with what looked like a lineup from the roster of a football team. There were four photographs in a grid and names, ranks, current operations beneath each photo.

Chalmers and Smythson stepped to the screen.

Polk returned on speaker.

“I got one paramilitary in Lisbon,” said Polk. “I have a full black squad in Madrid, but I assume we don’t have the time to haul them down there.”

“No. What about Delta or SEAL?”

“Hold on.”

Polk went off the line again.

“Gatewood, O’Toole, Farber, Mueller,” said Smythson, turning, barking over her shoulder. “Get them over to the airport right now. Brief them en route, get them Andreas’s photo, and tell them to watch the hell out for counterfire. They’ll be swarming.”

Polk came back on speaker.

“I got a couple Deltas,” said Polk. “Where do you want ’em?”

“Airport,” said Calibrisi. “CIA, patch those Deltas into the MI6 feed; same with Special Ops; we’ll brief all of them at the same time. Billy, get them moving, safeties off. We’re goin’ in hot.”

“On it, chief.”

“I have a ton of police activity coming out of the airport,” said Serena Pacheco from Fort Meade, on speaker. “Gunfire.”

Calibrisi took his blazer from the back of a chair. He looked at Katie and Tacoma.

“I’m getting on a plane,” said Calibrisi.

“Let’s go,” said Tacoma.

“Hector,” came Pacheco again, “ThinThread is hitting hard. There were at least two killings, both Asian males, just happened. It’s a mess. They’re shutting down the airport.”

Calibrisi looked at Smythson, then Chalmers.

“He won’t be at the airport,” said Smythson.

“You guys and Billy figure out where to send the Deltas. We’re heading for the plane. You got a chopper we can borrow, Derek?”

“Absolutely. I’ll walk you there.”

Chalmers opened the door and exited, followed by Katie, Tacoma, then Calibrisi, who stopped just before leaving and turned back to the room.

“Thank you, MI6, for your work,” Calibrisi said, smiling at Smythson and her staffers, before turning and hustling to catch up with the others, who were running toward the elevator.

66

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY
BEIJING

Bhang’s office phone buzzed. He put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then hit the button on the console.

“What?”

“First sighting, Minister.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Bhang hustled across his empty office, then through a door that connected to a conference room.

At least a dozen people were in the room, either looking at laptops around the conference table or staring at one of the two massive wall-sized plasma screens.

The left screen displayed a detailed live satellite shot of Lisbon, taken from a low-orbit Chinese military satellite in outer space. It was tied into the ministry network; flashing red lights indicated the precise location of every agent in the city. Already, eleven separate members of ministry paramilitary were in the area, along with four contractors.

On the second wall-sized screen, a grid displayed fifteen individual squares; inside of each one was live video, coming off each agent or contractor in Lisbon, video that was being shot at various source points, including gun-mounted microcameras, on the weapons of the agents, or from cameras clipped to clothing, belts, backpacks. Several of the feeds were black, meaning the weapons were holstered or the cameras hadn’t been turned on yet.

The room became hushed as Bhang entered.

“We have a live report from an agent at the airport,” said Cho, one of Bhang’s deputies. “Andreas killed two men, outside the main terminal. They positioned the van across from the taxi stand. He saw them, killed them, ran.”

Bhang took a long drag on his cigarette.

“Okay,” he said, surprisingly calm. “Do we have video?”

Cho nodded at one of his men, seated at the table, who punched some keys on his laptop. One of the fifteen squares on the right plasma screen enlarged; they were now looking at a live video feed from Huong’s camera. A late-model white van was sideways, its front smashed into a steel pole. A red taxi was perpendicular to the van and had collided into the front passenger side. Flashing police and ambulance lights were everywhere, along with various uniformed officers, security, EMTs. The shot was choppy, as Huong was jostled by others trying to get a better view. The scene was pandemonium.

“I have the others fanning out from the airport.”

Bhang stepped to the left screen. He studied the map.

“Get men to the American embassy and the train station.”

“Yes, Minister.”

Bhang stepped to the video, standing before it, studying it. He pointed with his lit cigarette at the upper left corner of the screen. A small cluster of people was standing away from the chaos of the van.

The video was silent; there was no audio.

“What is this?” asked Bhang.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Get Huong over there. Tell him to turn on his COMM.”

After a few moments, the picture focused in on the cluster of people.

*   *   *

As Huong approached, four people were standing in a group, three policemen and a large Portuguese man in a red shirt. Huong moved closer. One of the officers was explaining something to the Portuguese man as Huong approached.

“My guess is, he drove it somewhere and abandoned it, sir,” the officer said, as Huong approached from behind. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you have your car back by the end of the day.”

“Very well,” the man said. “Can someone give me a ride?”

The policeman nodded at the accident scene.

“You’d be better off getting a taxi, sir. We have your information. We’ll be in touch.”

The man started to walk away, across the street, toward the central terminal.

“Excuse me,” said Huong, approaching him. “Did something happen to your vehicle?”

“Yes,” said the big man, looking at Huong. “Someone stole it, at gunpoint.”

“Is this the man?”

Huong held up his iPhone with the photo of Dewey on the screen.

“Yes, that was him!” yelled the Portuguese man angrily, pointing at the phone. “How did you know? Show that to the policemen!”

“What kind of car was it?”

“A white Mercedes AMG.”

Huong turned away from the man, running toward the satellite lot where his 911 was parked.

*   *   *

Back in the ministry conference room, Cho leaned into the speaker.

“Why didn’t you shoot him when he stepped off the plane?” barked Cho at Huong.

“He went the other way. I never saw him.”

“Enough,” yelled Bhang, waving his arm in the air to shut Cho up. “It doesn’t matter what happened. Focus. Where is Andreas going? Why is he going there? What does he need? If we can figure that out, we will know where he’s going before even he does. And find that white Mercedes.”

*   *   *

Dewey moved the Mercedes at more than a hundred miles an hour along the A2 toward downtown Lisbon.

In America, his speed would have stood out. In Portugal, where there were no speed limits, he was just one of several other cars moving at more than a hundred. In fact, he was in the middle lane and was passed every half minute or so by a car moving much faster than he was.

He tried to think, to put the pieces together. He needed a plan. He needed it right now.

China had had a kill squad at the airport by the time they’d touched down. It was impressive and disconcerting. Dewey knew if they were able to find him in Lisbon, if they were able to figure out where he was going, they were doing things that even he couldn’t anticipate.

They might already have the make of car he was in. Maybe there were more men on the kill team than just the two he’d already gunned down.

Dewey kept an eye on the rearview mirror. He didn’t see anything suspicious. Twice, he exited the freeway then made abrupt cross-lane U-turns, swerving, then got back on the road; standard countersurveillance. He saw nothing suspicious.

Still, act as if they know.
Doing just that had saved his life back at the airport.

The American embassy was the most logical destination. Next in line, train stations, then bus stations.

He felt in his pocket for the phone card. He needed an exfiltration. He could evade Bhang for only so long. With the technology they were using, the sort of tracing and hacking Dewey only vaguely understood, he knew it was only a matter of time before they found him.

He needed to get ahold of Hector.

*   *   *

Johnny Dowling had on a black motorcycle helmet with a black glass visor. It wasn’t a normal helmet that you could buy from a motorcycle shop, however. It had been modified by someone at the Pentagon, DARPA to be exact.

In addition to being wired for audio and phone, the upper right corner of the helmet’s interior glass could, with a few clicks on a small ceramic ring around his thumb, ignite a graphical user interface that enabled Dowling to connect to a remote-network feed, including the Internet.

Dowling had the black BMW S1000RR ripping down the A8 at more than 120 miles per hour.

To Dowling’s right, a few yards behind him, was Dino Athanasia, his teammate from 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment—Delta. Athanasia straddled a bright red-and-white MV Agusta F4 RR.