Eye for an Eye (6 page)

“Who was this dead man?”

Bhang remained silent.

“Who was this man?” bellowed Li.

“I’m here to apologize,” said Bhang. “There is nothing more I can say, with all due respect, sir.”

“I am ordering you to tell me who this dead man was,” seethed Li.

Bhang returned Li’s angry glare with a calm, kindly expression.

“Mr. Premier,” said Bhang, “there are aspects to every job that do not necessarily bring clarity or edification to the world. This question would fall into a category of what I would call unnecessary detail.”

Li sat back, considering his next words.

“You’re not going to tell me?” he asked, taken aback, his voice rising. “What have you exposed China to, you insolent bastard? Your arrogance knows no boundaries, Bhang.”

Li pointed at the soldier. The soldier, standing at the door, looked nervously at Li. Then he reached to his holster and removed his gun. He targeted it at Bhang.

Bhang registered the sight of the muzzle, now aimed at his head. He nodded calmly, pondering what to say, remaining silent for several seconds. Then he cleared his throat.

“Mr. Premier,” said Bhang, “his name was Dillman. He was an Israeli. He provided China with much information over many years.”

“And why was his corpse sent to my granddaughter?”

Bhang swallowed, saying nothing. He stared meekly at Li for several seconds, letting the premier vent his anger. Finally, Li waved a finger at the soldier, ordering him to put the pistol away.

Bhang bowed.

“I must reiterate my humblest apologies to you and your family. This afternoon, a bounty of gifts is being delivered to your granddaughter, sir, and I can assure you, because my own deputy was responsible for their purchase, their packing, and their delivery, that there will be no similar mishap. Good day to you, sir.”

Li said nothing, looking toward the window. He waved his hand dismissively, telling Bhang to get out, then made eye contact with the soldier, letting him know he was to escort Bhang out of the residence.

Bhang turned and walked toward the door. He walked quickly down the corridor, with the soldier trailing him. Outside, he crossed the brick walkway in front of the residence. He climbed into the back of the idling sedan.

The soldier followed Bhang to the sedan and stood watching as Bhang shut the door quietly. After a moment, the black tinted window lowered a few inches.

“Well done, Lieutenant,” said Bhang, quietly looking at the soldier who minutes before had aimed his sidearm at Bhang’s head. “Your performance was most convincing.”

“Thank you, Minister Bhang.”

Bhang raised the window and looked in the rearview mirror.

“Drive,” he said.

The sedan moved slowly away from the house as Bhang removed a cigarette from his suit-coat pocket and lit it. He took a long drag on the cigarette, staring at the burning ember, feeling new emotions: embarrassment, shame, and humiliation. Even the harsh burn of the nicotine could not quell the taste of bitterness in his mouth.

“You’ll pay,” he whispered to himself.

But he wasn’t thinking of Li. Li was a sideshow. Rather, Bhang pictured nothing but a figure, a dark, featureless face, the anonymous one who’d found Dillman. “Yes, you’ll pay, my friend, whoever you are.”

7

OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.

As national security advisor, Jessica Tanzer had carte blanche to enter the president’s office whenever she wanted to, but on this particular morning she’d made an appointment. Jessica checked her watch, then walked to the door that led to the Oval Office.

She knocked lightly on the door.

“Yeah,” came the voice of J. P. Dellenbaugh from inside.

Jessica opened the door and popped her head in.

“Hi, Mr. President.”

“Come in, Jess.”

Jessica closed the door behind her. Dellenbaugh looked up from a document he was reading, returned to the document, then looked up again, scanning Jessica from head to toe.

Her auburn hair was braided back in a thick, neat ponytail. She wore a diamond necklace, a blue sleeveless Prada dress that clung tightly to her body and came barely halfway down her thighs, and shiny brown riding boots that climbed to her knees.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Dellenbaugh, “but you could get arrested for wearing that in some places.”

“Are you harassing me, Mr. President?” Jessica laughed. She walked across the office and took a seat on one of the chesterfield sofas at the center of the room.

“Trust me,” said Dellenbaugh, laughing, “after I saw what your future husband is capable of doing, I’m the last person who’d harass you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dewey didn’t tell you what happened at the rink?”

“No.”

“Nothing,” said Dellenbaugh, who grinned, stood up, and walked to the sofa across from Jessica. “He got a goal and three assists. He’s good. He’s got a very graceful, almost gentle way about him out there.”

“Gentle?” she asked. “Are we talking about the same guy?”

“You look like you just stepped off a Hollywood set, Jessica.”

Jessica blushed light red.

“Thank you,” she said. “Dewey and I are leaving for Argentina at lunchtime. I thought I’d wear my travel outfit to work.”

The morning sun shone brightly through the French doors, creating a checkered, geometric pattern on the tan leather. Dellenbaugh reached forward and poured two cups of coffee from the silver service atop the table, handing one to Jessica.

Dellenbaugh raised the cup to his lips to take a sip.

“So what’s up?”

“I’m resigning,” said Jessica.

Dellenbaugh paused as he was about to take a sip. For a moment, he didn’t move.

“I know the timing isn’t great, sir. But I want you to know it has nothing to do with you or the team here. I love my job.”

The president put the coffee cup back down on the table. He leaned back, put his hand to his tie, loosened it, then unbuttoned the top of his shirt.

“Wow. I definitely was not expecting that. You and Hector are the linchpins of our national security team. You more than anyone. I need you here.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President.”

“Does Hector know?”

“Not even Dewey knows,” said Jessica. “I felt it was my duty to inform you first.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all. I love it here. And, President Dellenbaugh, I truly enjoy working with you. To be perfectly frank, I didn’t think I would. I thought after President Allaire died, I’d hate my job and resent you. But the opposite is true. You’re doing a fantastic job. Every day has been a blast. I understand now why Rob Allaire asked you to be his vice president. And, you’ve given me the freedom to do my work, and you’ve given me your trust. That’s all a national security advisor can ask for.”

Dellenbaugh ran his hand back through his hair.

“You didn’t answer me, Jess.”

“I’m thirty-seven years old,” said Jessica. “I’ve got a wedding to plan, and that’s just for starters. I also want to make some money, sir. I’ve never held a job outside of government.”

“There’s plenty of time for that,” said Dellenbaugh. “You are at the center of this administration. You are a critical component to our national security. This might sound corny, but we need you. America needs you.”

Jessica smiled.

“I can’t tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that. But I’ve made up my mind.”

Jessica’s eyes were red with emotion.

Dellenbaugh paused, then smiled. He stared at Jessica in silence for several moments. He sighed.

“I understand,” he whispered. “I understand, and, as sad as I am right now, I’m very proud of you. How much time do I have?”

“A while,” said Jessica. “I’d like to work with you to find the best possible individual to serve as your next national security advisor. Then, from the private sector somewhere, I’d like to remain your friend, as well as be a part of the team that gets you reelected in two years.”

Dellenbaugh laughed.

“Jessica, I can’t stop you. But I’m going to try and talk you out of it.”

“I’ll always listen to anything you have to say, President Dellenbaugh.”

Jessica stood up. She walked around the coffee table and put her hand out, but Dellenbaugh ignored her outstretched hand and wrapped his arms around her and gave her a hug.

“You have fun down there, will you?” he said.

“I will. Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll check in from the ranch.”

“Don’t do that,” said Dellenbaugh. “You’re on vacation. I’ve got things covered here. You go have fun with Dewey. Let him know I already ordered him a new helmet and a decent pair of skates.”

8

MINISTRY OF STATE SECURITY
BEIJING

Headquarters for the Ministry of State Security comprised six large buildings in a sprawling rectangular campus on the southern outskirts of Beijing, the buildings connected underground by tunnels and, on the ground floor, by concrete courtyards. Each of the six buildings was indistinguishable from the next: ten stories high, square, built of drab gray concrete and small windows, not so much ugly as boring and bureaucratic. The courtyards were largely empty except for a few people milling about. The occasional low rumble of the underground subway system, which ran in an internal circular loop connecting the six buildings, could be heard above the din of traffic beyond the unexpectedly ornate steel fence that enclosed the campus. The complex was guarded by armed soldiers stationed every few hundred feet.

The black limousine carrying Hasim Aziz, Iran’s highest-ranking intelligence official in China, turned through the main entrance at the northeast corner of the campus, then entered the subterranean parking garage. The vehicle stopped in front of a glass-enclosed lobby with yet more soldiers standing about, submachine guns held aimed at the ground. This was building 6.

Aziz had been to the ministry many times before. To say that Iran relied on the Chinese ministry of intelligence was an understatement. Annually, the ministry provided Iran with more than one billion dollars in covert aid in the form of cash payments. In addition, and more important, the ministry doled out intelligence about Iran’s enemies and allies alike, gleaned from ministry agents spread like flies across the Middle East. In return, China did not ask for anything specifically. Anything, that is, except to be obeyed at those times when they called.

They took the elevator to the tenth floor. Aziz followed one of Bhang’s staffers down a long corridor. At the corner of the building, two men in suits stood in front of a set of imposing steel double doors. As Aziz approached, the man on the right reached for the doorknob and opened the door.

Inside the office, to the left, the wall was covered in an ancient Chinese tapestry, which hung from the ceiling. Two green sofas faced each other across a simple glass coffee table. The other side of the office faced the outer part of the building; both walls had windows looking out on Beijing. Fao Bhang was seated behind a desk in the corner, his fingers interlocked, still. He stared at Aziz as he entered. Two other ministry officials stood to the left, next to the desk. A single chair sat unoccupied in front of Bhang’s desk.

“Minister Bhang,” said Aziz, bowing slightly, out of respect, then stepping toward Bhang, his right hand extended.

“Good evening,” said Bhang, ignoring the Iranian’s hand. He pointed to the chair. “How was your trip, Mr. Aziz?”

“Fine,” said Aziz, sitting down.

“Are you curious as to why you’re here?”

“My assumption is that you’ll tell me at some point, Minister Bhang.”

Bhang nodded his head up and down, then his lips spread in a forced smile.

“Does China ask much of you, Mr. Aziz?”

“What do you mean, sir?’

“Do we ask much of you? The question is self-explanatory.”

“Do you mean Iran?”

“I mean you, Hasim Aziz,” said Bhang.

Aziz shifted in the chair.

“China is very generous. It’s no secret that the ministry helped us acquire weapons-grade uranium. In addition, your financial aid has been very important. As for me, in my five years as station chief, I have always enjoyed my relationship with the ministry.”

Bhang was silent for several moments. Without taking his eyes away from Aziz, he reached with his left hand to the desk drawer, opened it, and pulled an object from the desk. It was a necklace. He tossed it onto the wood top of his desk so Aziz could see it.

Aziz looked at it. Then his eyes moved back to Bhang. He remained silent.

“For more than a decade, Iran has enjoyed the fruits that come from China’s friend inside Israeli intelligence. I pulled this from around his neck this morning. He was the unfortunate recipient of an ax to the skull.”

“This is most disturbing,” said Aziz, looking perplexed. “As you said, Iran benefited greatly from your man.”

“Do you know what his name was, Mr. Aziz?”

“No, sir. I knew of the existence of a man, of course, but his name was always a secret to me. Nor did I ever ask my contact for further information. As you said, his insights were a benefit to our republic.”

“His name was Dillman.”

Aziz was silent. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Two months ago, in a Shanghai restaurant, we provided photographs to you,” continued Bhang.

One of the men placed a pair of photos on the desk in front of Aziz. The first showed a tall Iranian, dressed in a suit, walking with a woman. The other photo showed an American, white shirt, blue blazer, stubble, big, tough-looking.

Aziz looked at the photos, sat back, then looked at Bhang.

“Lon Qassou,” said Aziz. “And the American.”

“Dewey Andreas,” said Bhang. He reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one.

“Yes.”

“It was Andreas who stole the Iranian nuclear bomb, correct?”

“Yes, he did, Minister.”

“And how did he do that?”

Aziz stared dumbfounded at Bhang. His eyes darted left and right.

“He infiltrated the Turkish border.”

“And replaced the bomb with a replica, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How did he know what it looked like? Its dimensions? Even I did not know, despite the fact that I provided the yellowcake, the trigger, and the money to build it.”