Eye for an Eye (43 page)

Clutching the branch in his right hand and the golf club in his left, Sam watched from above as the gunman raised up from the weapon, frantically searching for whatever had caused the noise. Sam let go of the branch, falling through the air, swinging his right hand to the club, where it joined the left. By the time his bare feet landed on the ground, he was already swinging the nine iron through the air with every ounce of strength he had in his thirteen-year-old body. He clubbed the gunman—who was searching in the opposite direction—in the back of the head. A loud scream came from the ski mask as the gunman fell to the ground. It was a woman. She hit the ground, rolled over, then tried to stand up. Sam swung again, whiffing completely as she ripped off the ski mask, revealing short black hair and the eyes of a Chinese woman.

The killer touched the back of her skull, then looked at her fingers. They were drenched in blood. She said something in a language Sam couldn’t understand, then ran at him.

He swung again just as she leapt. The club landed with a brutal thud on the side of her head. Blood shot from her face as she fell to the ground, screaming. Sam stepped closer and raised the club again. He brought it down in a fierce axing motion. The club struck the woman’s forehead. Her eyes shut as she went limp, blood suddenly gushing from a small crack in her skull.

Sam stood, drenched in sweat, staring at the woman. He raised the club again but didn’t swing. He stared at her limp body for almost a minute, club raised over his head in case he needed to use it again.

“Sam?”

Sam’s eyes glanced right. Standing at the edge of the woods was his grandfather.

“We heard screaming. What the hell is going on?”

His grandfather ran toward him. His eyes bulged as he saw the blood-covered skull of the Chinese woman lying on the ground. Then he registered the rifle on the rock, aimed up at the farmhouse, and did a double take. He followed the trajectory of the muzzle and realized it had been aimed at the garden.

He turned to look at Sam. They were both quiet for a few seconds, then the older man spoke.

“That was very brave of you, Sam.”

80

HÔTEL LE BRISTOL
RUE DU FAUBOURG SAINT-HONORÉ
PARIS

Dewey climbed out of the taxi in front of the hotel. He walked a few feet from the door and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat.

In the distance, he could see soldiers guarding the Élysée Palace, home of France’s president.

A parking valet was milling about the entrance to the hotel. It wasn’t Vonnes, the informant.

“
Un feu
?” he asked.

The man pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit Dewey’s cigarette.

It looked like it was going to rain, with dark, gray clouds creating a foreboding roof over the Paris afternoon.

Dewey glanced about, looking for the man. Finally, he finished the cigarette, just as a white Maybach pulled up to the hotel’s entrance. A man in a black uniform climbed from the front seat; another parking valet, bringing someone’s car around. Dewey recognized him. He made eye contact, then looked away, watching from the corner of his eye as the man pulled a cell phone from his pocket and started typing.

*   *   *

“May I use your restroom?” Koo asked the woman.

She looked at him with a snobby sneer. All of the people at Hermès were like that.

“The restrooms are reserved for customers,” she replied.

Koo held up a small orange bag, inside of which was a tie Koo had just purchased for two hundred euros. The last thing he would ever buy in Paris, he realized.

In the restroom, Koo locked the door. He pulled out his QSZ-92, a suppressor jutting from the muzzle, inspecting it. He looked at the small camera near the site.

He felt his iPhone vibrating. He pulled it from his pocket.

“Il est ici.”
He’s here.

Koo put the QSZ back in his trench coat. He checked his watch, unlocked the door, then walked unhurriedly out from the back of the store and up rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

*   *   *

Dewey stepped through the glass entrance door of the Bristol Hotel. He glanced at his watch: 3:58
P.M.

“
Bonjour, monsieur,
” a concierge said as he stepped inside the lobby. “Welcome to the Bristol.”

Dewey scanned the lobby, then stepped to the front desk.

“Checking in?” asked a young woman, smiling at Dewey.

“Yes,” said Dewey. He pulled a wallet out and took a black American Express card and handed it to the woman.

“Welcome to the Bristol Hotel, Mr. Walker. I have you here for six nights, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“City view suite.”

The woman reached into a file and pulled out a piece of paper. She placed it down in front of Dewey, handing him a pen to sign.

“Does this look correct, sir?” she asked.

Dewey flashed his eyes to the paper without reading it, then took the pen and signed.

“Looks good.”

Over the woman’s shoulder, to her right, ran a sweeping set of marble stairs. A little past the stairs was the lounge. It was filled with people, seated at luxurious sofas and chairs—couples, a few businessmen, a family; drinking espresso, tea, or coffee as the afternoon sun splayed cuts of soft yellow through a massive window.

Back against the far wall, sitting down, Dewey saw a woman with short blond hair wearing a bright orange blouse, her arms bare; turning quickly, teacup in hand, their eyes met: Katie.

The woman swiped Dewey’s Amex, then handed it back to him.

“There you are.”

“Thank you.”

“How many keys would you like, Mr. Walker?”

“One.”

*   *   *

“Premier Li was using me as a messenger,” said Qingchen, looking at the ground but speaking to Bhang. They were seated in their usual place, atop the roof of the Ministry of Defense. “He is savvy enough to know I am an ally of yours. He is also savvy enough to understand I will deliver a message, which I’m doing.”

“That I am to be pushed into retirement?” asked Bhang, calmly enraged.

“He was extending an olive branch. The next time it won’t be an olive branch.”

“So what are you saying, General?” asked Bhang. “Is this what you think I should do? I would never resign. Li and his minions will have to kill me first.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Qingchen. “You’re still too impatient. No, I see today’s meeting as a grave error on the part of our leader. Today he revealed his weakness. He let us know that he has become aware of the impending transition away from him to you. He is less worthy an adversary than I had expected. He abandoned politics today, his field of expertise, and now would like to engage us on the battlefield of deception and power. In my opinion, power is now ours; all that’s left is for you to take it.”

“How long will it require?” asked Bhang.

“Hours.”

“I’m ready when the PLA is ready.”

“Good,” said Qingchen. “I would ask one favor of you as I move ahead with the preparations. Please, whatever happened in Portugal, as with London, the sloppiness of your activities only makes it harder. Understand, Fao, you are but a vehicle for a change which must take place no matter what. I would like it to be you, but it doesn’t have to be.”

“I understand, General,” said Bhang.

Just then a steady beeping noise came from Bhang’s phone. Emergency. Bhang pulled the phone from his jacket, then read the coded text:

16/339-2

G1-y

Andreas had been found; he’d triggered an alias, using a credit card in Paris, and every ministry asset in the city had been notified, nine in all.

Bhang put the phone away.

“That little problem is about to go away,” said Bhang, trying to contain his excitement. “I can promise you there will be no further interruptions. Now, if you’ll forgive me, General, I must go.”

*   *   *

Dewey opened the door to room 1011. He went inside, bolted the door, then threw the leather bag to the bed. He pulled off his sweater and T-shirt. He put on the blue from the bag. He took the small ceramic ring and put it on his left thumb.

Dewey went to a large mirror. He stared for a moment at his week of stubble, coating his cheeks and chin. His heart was starting to beat faster, he could feel that now for the first time. He stared into the mirror, into his blue eyes. The man who looked back at him looked tired, sad, but mostly just blank and emotionless. Inside, Dewey felt a combination of emotions—anger, grief, nervousness, fear, excitement—which he allowed to build, pool up, to grow into a single feeling: desire. Desire for vengeance.

He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, then moved to the door.

*   *   *

Katie held a newspaper, a copy of
Le Figaro,
as she scanned the lounge with trained calm. Her legs were crossed in front of her.

On the blue-green chintz sofa cushion next to her, her slightly worn toffee-colored Hermès Birkin bag sat on its side. For all pretenses and purposes, she looked like any other young, stunning, wealthy French woman, out for an afternoon espresso.

Inside the bag was an MP7A1. It had been sanitized by MI6, in case the operation went south. A snub-nosed suppressor jutted from the muzzle. The MP7 was a terrific close-quarters combat firearm, with lethal kill power, accuracy, and reliability. She also had a Glock 30, in case she burned through the MP7’s magazine.

Katie checked her watch. In the reflection off the face of the watch, she saw Tacoma’s unmanageable hair. He was seated a few tables away, sipping water.

*   *   *

Lijun—along with eight other ministry agents assigned to Paris—received the text as he was in the middle of a bite of a ham sandwich at a café on Montparnasse.

8U 8U Di7

Lijun jumped up so fast that he knocked over the table, sending dishes, glasses, and silverware crashing to the sidewalk.

Two minutes later he was in the back of a Citroën taxicab as it moved across the Pont Neuf, the black water of the Seine underneath. A few minutes later, the Louvre’s signature glass and steel pyramid appeared to the right. To his left spread the ordered birches, gardens, and walking paths of the Tuileries Gardens. But he wasn’t admiring the scenery.

Lijun made sure the driver wasn’t looking, then popped open his briefcase. Inside was Lijun’s Steyr TMP, a select-fire 9x19mm machine pistol, in essence a handheld, extremely compact submachine gun. He attached a custom snub-nosed suppressor, upon which was attached a small camera, then inserted a thirty-round magazine.

He checked his watch. Finally, he removed his cell phone. He typed in:

R5 999

That told Beijing he was approximately four minutes from the target. It also engaged the small camera at the end of his weapon. He tucked the Steyr TMP against his chest, then zipped up his Windbreaker.

*   *   *

Dewey took the elevator to the lobby, where it opened to the left of the lounge. He walked across the marble floor and stepped to the entrance of the lounge. A tuxedoed waiter approached him, held his arm out, and pointed to a table in the middle of the crowded lounge.

To the right, against a far wall, Dewey saw Katie.

Next to Dewey’s table, where the waiter now held out a seat, was Tacoma, drinking water, reading the
International Herald Tribune.
Their eyes met briefly; Tacoma looked calm.

“May I get you an aperitif?” asked the waiter. “Perhaps a coffee or glass of wine?”

“Coffee,” said Dewey.

*   *   *

Koo received the text from the ministry as he crossed rue de Miromesnil. He waited for a large group of schoolchildren to pass by before replying. In the distance, he could see the entrance to the Bristol Hotel, the flag of France, of the EU, and of several other countries, all billowing in the wind above the entrance.

He removed the Hermès tie from its bag, folded it, and stuffed it in his pants pocket. He threw the bag in a trash can. Then Koo typed into his iPhone:

P
+
KK1 8U

The code activated the camera on the end of his QSZ, which he felt sticking into his side. His words also communicated something to Beijing: “I am within one minute of target.”

Koo put the iPhone back in his coat pocket, crossed Miromesnil, and walked toward the Bristol.

*   *   *

As the cab moved up Avenue Matignon, Lijun was sweating, his body a live wire, filled with tension and nervous energy. In the distance, he saw soldiers standing at the gates of the Élysée Palace.

The taxi turned onto Faubourg Saint-Honoré. To the left, a short line of cabs sat waiting in front of the Bristol. Multicolored flags, tossed by a breeze, waved above the majestic entrance canopy. Then Lijun saw someone he recognized: Cao Chong, another agent, running down the sidewalk from the opposite direction toward the hotel door. In Chong’s hand, swinging in the air, was a black steel handgun, a suppressor sticking from the end.

Lijun did not wait for the taxi to get to the hotel, instead he ripped the door open and leapt from the back, leaving the briefcase behind, going into a hard sprint toward the hotel entrance.

*   *   *

The waiter walked toward Dewey with a tray in his hand. As he was about to arrive at the table, Dewey’s eyes were drawn across the lobby to the glass doors at the hotel’s entrance.

Through them walked a man with dark hair in a tan trench coat. He was tall. His eyes scanned the lobby. There was no question: it was Koo.

“Monsieur—”

“I changed my mind,” said Dewey, raising his hand to stop the waiter. “A glass of wine.”

From the corner of his eye, Dewey watched as Koo crossed the lobby quickly, moving like an athlete. As he descended the marble steps near the lounge, his arm reached inside his trench coat. He ripped a sidearm from inside the coat, walking with it at his side as he approached.

Dewey felt the small button on the thumb ring.

“Very good, monsieur,” said the waiter. “What kind of wine would you like?”

“Anything,” said Dewey, impatiently. “Red.”

Koo came to the lounge entrance. His dark eyes scanned the room. In his right hand he clutched a suppressed QSZ-92.