Eye for an Eye (38 page)

Zhu shook his head and continued walking. As he got to the door, he turned to get one last look at the man. As he did, the man, as if sensing Zhu’s eyes, turned. It was Fao Bhang. An unnatural shudder vibrated down Zhu’s spine as he stared at the spymaster.

“Fao, how are you?” asked Zhu, waving awkwardly.

Bhang continued to stare at Zhu.

“I must go,” said Zhu. “I … I have a dinner appointment.”

Zhu turned to leave and found himself standing face-to-face with two large men in suits, guarding the entrance.

Zhu turned and walked back to Bhang, who was smoking and looking out at the Bund. He had a small pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes.

“The Bund is so beautiful at night, don’t you think?” asked Bhang, looking through the binoculars. “I particularly love the Pearl Tower. So ugly during the day, but so pretty at night.”

“I did what you asked,” said Zhu quietly.

“No, you did not,” said Bhang, turning.

“We cleaned up the situation with the White House for you,” said Zhu. “We expended considerable political capital to do so, I might add.”

“That was only part of it,” said Bhang, icily.

“It is not my position to demand that the United States turn over a citizen for extradition,” said Zhu.

“I can certainly understand your hesitancy, Governor.”

“I am the top official of the largest financial institution in the world,” said Zhu, stammering. “The public face of China’s fiscal policy. This man, Andreas, I don’t even know who he is. You must seek the legal avenues. There is a process for this, I’m sure of it. I am not a prosecutor, a judge, or a special agent, Fao. I’m an accountant.”

“Ah, so I’m told,” said Bhang, smiling. “So perhaps you can help me with a math problem?”

Zhu’s face turned red. He stared at Bhang.

“What is it? Is it some kind of joke?”

“No,” said Bhang, “a simple mathematics problem.”

“Fine, ask your question, then I must go. I am late.”

“Thank you for indulging me, Ji-tao. Here is my question: If one were to drop something from the top of the Pearl Tower, which is a thousand feet high, and it landed on top of the lower floor, which is two hundred feet, how far would the object drop?”

Zhu’s eyes shot across the water to the Pearl Tower, lit up in the distance. He grabbed Bhang’s binoculars. He searched the Pearl Tower until he found the round upper pearl. There, he saw the silhouette of a woman whom he knew immediately was Tai-lin. She was hanging by one foot, upside down.

“Keep watching,” said Bhang.

“No!”

Suddenly the woman fell from the sky, dropping quickly and silently to the lower pearl, which she slammed into with an awful force, bouncing visibly. Her limp corpse then slid down the curvature of the ball and fell to the ground below.

Zhu’s mouth went agape. He couldn’t say anything. He had a hard time even breathing. A pained, terrible expression wrinkled his face as tears came to his eyes.

“There is a plane waiting for you at the airport,” said Bhang, standing up and flicking his cigarette to the ground. “It will take you to Washington, D.C. I have gone ahead and taken the liberty of having the chef at Sir Elly’s prepare your favorite meal, diver scallops, which was sent ahead to the plane, along with a bottle of wine, which I asked the sommelier himself to select on your behalf.”

Bhang stared at Zhu as he cried. He leaned closer to Zhu, a look of pity on his face.

“Do you need help remembering his name, Ji-tao?”

“Andreas,” whispered Zhu. “Dewey Andreas.”

72

MILL CREEK ROD & GUN
ORRINGTON, MAINE

Dao took a right off Route 15 and parked in front of a sign that read
MILL CREEK ROD & GUN
. The shop looked like an old house whose bottom floor had been converted into a gun shop a long time ago.

Inside, the shop was empty except for an older gray-haired man who wore a flannel shirt, clip-on suspenders, and Carhartts. He had a long thick beard and mustache. He was smoking a pipe. He looked at her as she stepped into the shop, scanning Dao from head to toe.

“What can I do you for?” he asked in a hard Down East accent.

Dao quickly scanned the small shop. Gun racks lined the walls and were filled with dozens of shotguns and rifles, new and used. The wall behind the counter was a checkerboard of handguns of all types and calibers, also new and used. The glass counter case had a variety of new handguns.

“I’m in the market for a rifle,” Dao said. “I’d like to do some target practice. Long-range.”

“New or used?”

“I don’t care.”

“You are aware of Maine gun laws, young lady?” the shopkeeper asked.

“That there aren’t any?” she replied.

The man grinned.

“Well, you need a permit to carry a handgun, although you can still buy one, of course. Not sure I understand the distinction on that one, but that’s politicians for ya. Other than that, there’s just the instant background check.”

Dao stared at him.

“I’m not buying a handgun,” she said. “I want a rifle.”

“All right. I hear ya.”

The man nodded at the wall behind her. A gun rack held a line of rifles, locked behind a steel bar.

He walked out from behind the counter and unlocked the bar. He swept his arm across the air, pointing at the line of firearms.

“Other than the Browning there on the right, which ain’t for sale, those’ll all do fine.”

He lifted a rifle up, then handed it to her.

“Kimber Classic,” he said. “Used by a fella up in Winterport.”

Dao picked up the rifle. It was light, about five pounds, with a handsome walnut stock. She swung it up, aiming at the corner of the ceiling.

“What else do you have?” she asked.

“We have the SuperAmerica, also by Kimber,” he said, pointing. “Brand-new. Beautiful rifle. To be perfectly honest, it’s pretty much the same rifle as that other one. The America’s more of a collector’s item. We also got a few Remingtons, the Woodmaster, which I think is a decent gun, especially for the price.”

“What’s that one?” asked Dao, pointing toward a rifle that was hanging on the wall alone, above the others, although she already knew the answer. It looked heavily used, even beat-up, with a patina of scratched metal and wear. A worn sling dangled beneath it.

He glanced up at the rifle.

“That there’s a Panther,” he said, reaching up and lifting it from the wall. “That was my nephew’s. That’s a military rifle right there. Great rifle. I’d have to sell you the ten-round mag. Lawman won’t let me sell the nineteen, which is what it was designed for.”

He handed the rifle to Dao. It was heavy, but Dao already knew that. The DPMS Panther LR-308 was the rifle she’d been trained on. It was an easy-to-use, incredibly reliable sniper rifle, ideal for medium-range precision shooting that required speedy setup and pickup.

Dao took it to the counter. She made sure it wasn’t loaded, then quickly fieldstripped the weapon; shutting the bolt assembly, pressing the rear takedown pin and pulling it out the other side, pivoting the upper receiver and barrel assembly away from each other, pressing the front pin, pulling it out the other side, separating the upper and lower receivers, pulling the charging handle back, removing the bolt assembly, then removing the charging handle until it fell free. She laid the parts neatly on the counter.

Dao did the fieldstrip in exactly five seconds, her long fingers dancing over the steel of the firearm with dizzying speed. The shopkeeper watched her do it, his eyes bulging in awe. She inspected the weapon, then reassembled it. When she was finished, she handed it back to him.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

73

NORTHERN SPAIN

The steady rhythm of the train was familiar and comforting. Clickity-clack, clickity-clack. Feeling the slow swaying of the car beneath him was the first sensation Dewey had, and it calmed him. He tried to open his eyes but couldn’t; he was still deeply groggy, drugged. He tried to move his hand, but it was fastened down. Then he slipped back into unconsciousness.

A distant train horn is what awakened him the next time. How much later was it, where he was, he didn’t know. The rhythm of the train soothed him, the steady bouncing of the wheels, steel turning atop steel. This time he opened his eyes.

It was, at first, blurry and dark. It was nighttime. His eyes were trained at the window, which was black. He was lying down. His throat hurt, and he tried to move his arm up to feel it but could not. His right arm was shackled to something; looking down, he saw the black synthetic band of the flex cuffs, tight around his wrist. He tried the same with his left hand, but it too was shackled down. He tested his legs. They were shackled tight. He couldn’t move.

The light in the compartment was out, and it was pitch-black. He tried to keep his eyes open, tried to achieve a level of lucidity, but without the light, it was hard to stay awake. He willed himself to.

The horn sounded again as the TGV approached a town somewhere, not slowing one iota. The lights from the station cast soft yellow patches into the compartment. In the wan light, Dewey looked around. That was when he saw a figure—seated across from him, dark slacks, a striped shirt, suit coat. Dewey’s eyes drifted up to his face. Where he expected to find the closed lids of a man sleeping, he found himself staring into eyes as dark, as blank, as angry as he’d ever seen, staring back at him. Their eyes met and locked for several still, quiet moments, the man communicating in those moments his anger.

“Hi, Hector,” Dewey said.

Calibrisi didn’t move. He didn’t respond.

“Why am I cuffed?”

“So you don’t run away.”

“Where am I?” Dewey asked.

“Spain.”

Dewey tried to turn his head, wincing in pain.

“What happened to the Delta?” Dewey asked. “Dowling?”

“He’s going to live. The bullet missed his heart by a quarter of an inch.”

Dewey pulled at the restraints.

“Is this really necessary?”

Calibrisi ignored him, not taking his dark eyes away, staring at him with cold fury.

“Well, if you’re not going to talk to me, could you at least get me a beer?” asked Dewey.

Calibrisi lurched forward and slammed the back of his right hand at Dewey’s face, hitting him hard enough to hurt, to jerk his head sideways. Dewey absorbed the punch, then looked back at Calibrisi.

“One Delta and one British intelligence officer died saving your motherfucking ass today,” said Calibrisi. “Athanasia. You know where he’s from? Well, I do. I spoke with his dad tonight. Montana. The British kid, Farber? From a little town outside London called St. Alban’s. They had nothing to do with this. You’re a selfish son of a fucking bitch.”

Dewey let Calibrisi burn through his point, his anger, listening.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” said Dewey. “I didn’t want it. I didn’t ask for it. You sent those men in, not me.”

Calibrisi’s nostrils flared, then he lurched out again, hitting him in the same exact spot, harder this time. Dewey absorbed it again.

“It was your fault, and you know it, Hector.”

“You would’ve died.”

“So what. That’s not your choice.”

“You think you’re so fucking tough, don’t you? ‘I don’t care if I live or die. I’m Dewey Andreas.’ The world is always out to get poor little Dewey Andreas.”

“Pretty easy to say that when you have me tied down, ain’t it, chief? Untie me and say it again.”

Calibrisi shook his head, more furious now than ever. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding combat knife. He stood, flipped it open, stepped to the other side of the compartment, leaned down, then cut the cuffs from Dewey’s hands and legs. Then he sat back down.

“Well, tough guy?” Calibrisi said.

Dewey slowly sat up.

“Cool down,” said Dewey.

“Don’t tell me to cool down.”

“Fine. Don’t cool down. I’m sorry they died. Obviously, I’m sorry they died. Is that what you want to hear? You’re the one—”

“Don’t say it.”

Dewey leaned back, wincing from pain in his neck.

The train horn made a distant blow. Dewey and Calibrisi sat in silence for more than an hour as the train pushed through the Spanish countryside.

“Where are we going?” asked Dewey.

“Paris.”

“Why Paris?”

“You’ll see.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have a job to do.”

“A job? I didn’t realize I work for you.”

“You don’t. But if you don’t do it, the SAS team down the hallway is dropping you off at the Chinese embassy when we get to Paris.”

Dewey looked out the window.

“You want Fao Bhang dead?” continued Calibrisi. “Well, you’re going to get your chance.”

Dewey tried to read Calibrisi’s stony, emotionless eyes.

“What’s the catch?”

“The catch? The catch is, the odds of it working are about one in a million. Oh, and after it’s done, whether it works or not, you’re either gonna spend the rest of your life in a Chinese prison or, more likely, you’re gonna get a nice slug right between those blue eyes of yours.”

Dewey nodded. “Sounds like fun,” said Dewey. “And please remind me, why would I do this?”

“Because you don’t have a choice.”

74

CASTINE GOLF CLUB
BATTLE AVENUE
CASTINE, MAINE

Eleven-year-old Reagan Andreas clutched the roof of the golf cart as it barreled toward a large grass-covered knoll at the side of the fairway. Reagan wore cutoff khaki shorts, a white polo shirt, and was barefoot. Her knees were green and brown with dirt and grass stains. Reagan was seated in the passenger seat.

“Not again, Sam,” she implored. “Your ball isn’t anywhere near here!”

The golf cart was speeding along as fast as it could go. Its driver, thirteen-year-old Sam Andreas, had a devilish smile on his face as he ignored his younger sister for the umpteenth time that day. Sam’s only thought was that he hated the fact that the cart couldn’t go faster.

Sam had on his favorite shirt, a blue Lacoste polo shirt with a large rip across the back, a hand-me-down from his Uncle Dewey. He wore bright red madras shorts and flip-flops. Sam had curly blond hair, which he hadn’t brushed or washed since the beginning of summer, letting the salt water of the ocean do the job for him. He wore sunglasses, was tan, and was as thin as a beanstalk, despite the fact that he ate at least five meals a day and snacked incessantly.