by Ben Coes
With calm, he walked back to the bar, pushing his hand up through his thick, slightly perspiring hair. As he arrived at the bar, two females were standing behind his empty chair. They were in their twenties; one was blond, the other, brunette; both had long, straight hair and wore short, stylish dresses.
“Excuse me,” said Dewey, reaching for his drink. “Would you like the chair? I was just getting ready to leave.”
Both women smiled, gazing up at Dewey. The brunette grabbed Dewey’s bourbon and handed it to him.
“No, I’ve decided, you can’t leave yet.”
She handed Dewey the glass, rubbing his chest with the back of her hand after he took it from her.
“Thank you,” said Dewey.
He took the glass and downed it, nodding to the bartender for another. When it came, the bartender handed it to him. Dewey downed it as quickly as the first.
The bartender watched him, as did the women.
“Another?” said the bartender.
Dewey looked for the first time at the blonde, his eyes meeting hers, green eyes that invited Dewey to speak to her. Then he looked at the brunette, whose brown eyes were like warm pools; she moved a half step closer, smiling seductively up at Dewey.
Dewey met their looks with a cold, emotionless glance, neither affectionate nor arrogant. It was a blank look, Dewey’s blue eyes like the cold Maine ocean in winter. He glanced at his watch. He still had a few minutes.
“One more,” said Dewey, looking at the bartender. “And whatever these two would like.”
23
BELVERDSHIRE MANOR HOUSE
ENGLAND
Chalmers’s AgustaWestland AW101 descended upon a square rectangle of green manicured British lawn, its big rotors swirling the chilly spring evening, blowing gusts in every direction.
The estate—Belverdshire—was massive, limestone in a three-story spread out of picture books about England, a castle really.
Chalmers, the head of British intelligence, watched the landing through a window. At age fifty-one, the Eton-educated Brit had thick blond hair, a sharp nose, and a handsome face. He had on a neatly fitting business suit, a subtle Savile Row plaid in double-breasted style. Chalmers was six-foot-four. He wore a blue-striped button-down shirt with no tie; a pair of brown, slightly worn John Lobb wingtips on his feet. He didn’t look all that dissimilar to what he looked like twenty years before, when he was MI6’s top spy in the Middle East, perhaps slightly more confident—and ten pounds heavier.
Chalmers held a leather valise as he climbed from the door of the big chopper. He crossed the lawn and was met by a man in a suit.
“Sir Derek?”
“Good evening.”
“I’m William.”
The man extended a phone.
“Please, your left thumb, sir.”
“Of course,” said Chalmers.
A moment later, the phone beeped.
“Follow me, sir.”
* * *
Chalmers walked in stride with the man across a pebbled driveway before the mansion’s limestone portico. Ivy covered many of the walls. This was an old estate.
Chalmers barely noted the mansion’s grand façade. He’d been here before.
He was ushered through the entrance foyer, around a round table atop which sat a large bouquet of red peonies and the day’s newspapers. They went straight ahead. After passing through a high-ceilinged hallway with walls adorned with framed photographs and portraits, Chalmers was ushered through a set of double doors into an enormous living room, with a twenty-foot ceiling, walls lined with bookshelves, paintings both modern and old—Picassos, Damien Hirsts, and several Rembrandts—all in ornate gold frames. There were two different seating areas, each generally focused on opposite ends of the room, where tall, fanciful stone fireplaces contained roaring fires. One of the two seating areas had sofas and chairs in old, burnished leather. Above the mantel was a massive, ancient-looking taxidermy of a buffalo’s head, shot by the great-great-great-great-grandfather of the current occupant of Belverdshire while on a hunting trip to America in 1765. The other seating area was more formal-looking, with chintz-covered George Smith Chesterfield sofas and overstuffed chairs.
Chalmers crossed the length of the room to the far seating area, usually referred to as the “buffalo end.”
A man with a mane of gray-and-black hair was seated on a leather sofa. He had a thick crystal glass in his hand, which was a quarter filled with whiskey. The man wore a stylish red button-down shirt and gray flannels. His legs were crossed. He was smoking a cigarette, somehow making it look elegant, even appetizing, his drags refined, his exhales blown with grace.
“Mr. Home Secretary,” said Chalmers as he approached.
“Get yourself a drink,” said Lord Radcliff. He didn’t need to tell Chalmers where the liquor was kept.
Chalmers crossed to a bookcase and pushed it in slightly. The entire bookcase swung out. Behind it was a dimly lit copper bar, small but lined with bottles, glasses, a silver ice bucket, and a copper sink and faucet.
“Try the Irish, Derek,” said Radcliff.
Chalmers grabbed an ancient-looking bottle of Jameson’s, the label partially worn off and brown with age. He poured a glass and turned the sink on ever so slightly, creating a few small drips of water. He let one hit the liquid in the glass, turned the water off, and walked to a big club chair across from where Radcliff was seated.
Chalmers took a small sip and looked at Radcliff.
“Well?”
“Rather decent,” said Chalmers.
“I would hope so,” said Radcliff. “That bottle cost me fifteen thousand pounds at auction.”
Chalmers stared at the glass.
“I would’ve been more aggressive with my pour.”
Radcliff chuckled, leaned forward, and stubbed out his cigarette.
“You wanted to see me, Derek?” said Radcliff.
“Yes,” said Chalmers. “It’s about your niece.”
“Jenna?”
“Yes.”
Radcliff lifted his glass to his lips, paused, then took a sip. He smiled.
“Jenna,” Radcliff said. “Your star pupil. Do you miss her?”
Chalmers looked into the hearth.
“Very much so,” said Chalmers.
“And how’s she getting on with the Americans?”
“From what I’ve heard, no complaints, though she hasn’t done much. People are wondering why she’s even there.”
“Is that why you wanted to see me?”
“No,” said Chalmers. “I spoke with Hector Calibrisi earlier today. They’re running an operation in North Korea. It was her design. They need to expose Talmadge.”
“Did they ask permission?” said Radcliff.
“In a manner, yes. If successful, the price will have been worth it.”
Radcliff took a silver case from his pocket and opened it. He grabbed a cigarette and lit it.
“But that isn’t why you’re here,” said Radcliff.
Chalmers shook his head. “No,” he said, taking a sip of whiskey. “I’ve come to talk about the final report on the death of Jenna’s husband, Charles.”
“I read it,” said Lord Radcliff. “Jenna’s Range Rover was blown up with a generic form of Semtex. A government who wanted her dead, or perhaps mercenaries. Spotless, except they killed the wrong person. It was a terrible report. Superficial, without possible explanations or reasons as to why someone should want to kill Jenna. Inconclusive. As for motive, the report was disappointingly vague.”
“That’s the official version, yes,” said Chalmers.
“Is there an unofficial version, Sir Derek?”
“Lord Secretary, I hired an outside firm, unconnected to MI6 and the British government. Israelis I know.”
“Interesting,” said Radcliff, taking a puff of his cigarette. “And what did they find?”
“Charles Hartford was the target of the bombing, Lord Radcliff,” said Chalmers, “not Jenna.”
Radcliff took a puff and exhaled, then took a sip of whiskey. His face contorted with disbelief.
“Charles?” said Radcliff. “Nonsense! I’ve known the boy since he was born. It was Jenna’s bloody Rover!”
“Charles’s cell was destroyed in the bombing, but the Israelis were able to penetrate the SBC database and find the last week’s worth of text messages on his phone. The man Charles was supposed to meet, his business partner, Billy Thompson, made sure Charles would pick him up in the Rover that day,” said Chalmers. “After his partner’s death, Mr. Thompson liquidated the partnership’s assets and disappeared. Interestingly, he wired Charles’s partner’s half to Jenna. He could’ve easily kept it all.”
Radcliff leaned forward and grabbed another cigarette, then nodded to a servant, indicating he would need a refreshment on his beverage. He lit the cigarette, puffed, put the lighter down, leaned forward, deep in thought, then leaned back until he reached leather.
“I don’t like where this story is going, Derek.”
“I don’t either, Mr. Home Secretary,” said Chalmers.
“Who is this Thompson character?”
“Precisely,” said Chalmers. “He’s American, at least that was his cover. He met Charles at Harvard Business School. That’s how he reconnected with him two years ago, an alumni group. It appears he may have paid off certain people in the business school IT department to manufacture his having gone there.”
Chalmers paused.
“And?” said Lord Radcliff. “His background? Where is he from? Who are his parents?”
“There’s nothing there,” said Chalmers. “An only child, both parents now dead, no relatives. There’s quite literally not enough there to fill an ashtray. Either he was a ghost or it’s been wiped clean.”
“What do the Israelis think?”
“They don’t know, but their suspicion is Thompson is a Russian operative.”
Chalmers paused, becoming slightly emotional. He took a sip of whiskey.
“For Christ sake, Derek, if you’re going to tell me Charles somehow got himself mixed up with Moscow—”
“Jenna,” interrupted Chalmers. “That’s why I’m here. What if the bombing was intended to send a message to Jenna?”
“Well, now, that’s a muddy bog, isn’t it?” whispered Lord Radcliff. “But how? You recruited her. She’s my niece.”
Chalmers said nothing.
“That doesn’t seem to impress you,” said Radcliff.
“Lord Radcliff, I don’t believe she’s mixed up in anything, but we need to make sure.”
“She obviously is mixed up in something, Derek.”
“I’m not willing to go to that conclusion yet.”
“So why not ask her?”
“You know the answer to that, Mr. Home Secretary,” said Chalmers.
“You’d tip her off, that is, if there’s a connection.”
“Which I believe is not even a remote possibility,” said Chalmers. “Still, we need to run this down, and yes, we don’t want to tip her off.”
“Do you inform the Americans?”
“No. Not yet. Not until we know more. I trust Hector, but no.”
“What do you need from me?”
“I need authorization to run a Cambridge Protocol,” said Chalmers.
Radcliff looked up. The ask was unusual—and significant. Chalmers wanted permission to investigate Jenna’s father, Sir Bobby Farragut, the Earl of Ipswich, a member of the royal family, the brother of Radcliff’s wife. By British law, only the home secretary and the prime minister could allow a Cambridge protocol, and both needed to agree.
“Why do you need it?” said Lord Radcliff.
“Because she’s a former Circus employee, we’re allowed to investigate Jenna. But not her parents.”
Lord Radcliff stood up and walked to the hearth. He threw another log onto the fire. He remained standing in front of the fireplace.
“It seems there should be more substance before the prime minister and I allow you to start rooting around in Sir Bobby’s affairs.”
“I’m not talking about a full-blown investigation,” said Chalmers. “This is strictly sub rosa, off the books. I would bet my life Jenna is clean. She’s like a daughter to me and I think I know her. If Jenna knew I was suspicious it would destroy her. But we cannot be governed by emotion.”
“And certainly not trust,” said Radcliff.
“If there’s a connection backup into Moscow, we need to know. That includes everything back through birth.”
“Would you use the same firm?” said Radcliff, walking to the large coffee table and picking up a cigarette, then lighting it. “The Israelis?”
“No. This is a REPO. We need to find Billy Thompson, whoever he is. To do that will require a degree of brute force. We’re talking about Russia. This isn’t going to be delicate.”
“Who then?”
“I want to hire a firm out of Virginia,” said Chalmers. “It’s a Langley shop. Katie Foxx and Rob Tacoma, both ex–Special Operations Group. They have deep Agency ties and if this thing gets out of control I want Langley there. Also, Tacoma is fluent in Russian.”
“And?”
“They’re expensive.”
“How expensive?”
“Two million dollars a week. They don’t negotiate.”
“Well, Sir Derek, that’s why we pay you,” said Radcliff, “to make those decisions. It seems exorbitant but I trust your instincts. I know you’ll protect Jenna.”
“So do I have your support, Lord Radcliff?” said Chalmers.
“Yes. I’ll call the prime minister later and brief him. Assume he’ll agree with my assessment. If not, I’ll call you—but you’re to proceed.”
Chalmers drained the glass and stood. He nodded at Radcliff and turned. He started toward the door.
“Derek,” said Radcliff.
Chalmers stopped and turned back to Lord Radcliff.
“If, or I should say, when this turns out to be a goddam goose chase, we are to never talk of it again,” said Lord Radcliff. “She is my niece. This was part of our duty as government.”
“Yes, Lord Radcliff.”
24
CIA HEADQUARTERS
Calibrisi received Dewey’s photos of Abu Paria. They were grisly photos. Paria was lifeless and drenched in blood. Calibrisi stared at them for several moments.
When Calibrisi was an agent, he’d taken similar photos after killing. In a drawer at his home, he still had a photograph of himself holding a dead Pablo Escobar by the hair in the moments after he shot him. The killing of Paria was a major development and Calibrisi knew it. Paria had been one of America’s and Israel’s most formidable enemies, funding terror everywhere he could.
Two thoughts came to Calibrisi’s mind. First, why was Paria in Macau and at the same hotel as Yong-sik? Second, there would be a power vacuum inside the Iranian military and intelligence hierarchy.
Both were urgent, but the latter was less urgent. Yong-sik and North Korea took precedence.
He forwarded the photos to a number of individuals inside the Agency.
To the head of the Iran desk, he texted:
Paria dead. We need to know if this represents an opportunity to move on Suleiman.
Then he gathered Jenna, Polk, Perry, and a few others, passing around his phone.
“This adds a new element to what is going on in Pyongyang,” said Hector. “I know everyone is focused, but it’s time to double-down. Paria had to have been meeting with Yong-sik. We need to know why. We need to start worrying. Think outside the box.”
* * *
Jenna went to her briefcase, a beat-up leather case from Tanner Krolle, a gift from Charles. She removed a cell phone and powered it up. She found the number and hit Dial.
After several clicks and long silences, the phone started ringing.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jayson.”
There was a long pause.
“I heard you left,�
�� Fields said. “Went to the dark side.”
His accent was British but rough, a Cockney accent, from London’s East End.
“I did,” said Jenna.
“You could’ve said good-bye, you know. I was left to rumors. The entire field was left to rumors. Bitchy, if you ask me.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” said Jenna.
“What do you want?”
“Are you still stationed in Macau?” Jenna asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you working?”
“Yes,” he said. “We’re killing some Australians.”
“I need your help.”
“With what?”
“We’re running an operation in the city,” she said. “There might be some complications. I don’t trust anyone we have there, well, other than the agent running it.”
“Fuck off,” said Fields. “I work for England.”
Jenna paused.
“We both work for the same side, Jayson.”
“Jenna,” Fields said, his voice softening. “You know I’d do anything for you. I’m midstream in this.”
“I understand. I won’t call you unless it’s really, really, really important, okay?”
25
MANDARIN HOTEL
MACAU
“So, how do you like Macau?” said one of the women, the brunette.
Dewey tried to remember which alias he was supposed to be working under. Was he Escalante or was he a different Spaniard? He was a different guy, a veteran high-stakes dealer most recently in Monaco. He hadn’t even asked Jenna his name.
“It’s okay,” said Dewey.
The blonde perked up. The brunette was already smiling as she stood close to Dewey and took a sip of white wine. The blonde put her hand on Dewey’s shoulder.
Dewey looked at his watch. It was 10:44.
“I have to go.”
The brunette put her hand to Dewey’s torso.
“Mr. Yao sent us to retrieve you. He said you might be late.”
* * *
Dewey was led outside by the two women. Half a block away, a tall man was standing next to a long black Mercedes limousine. He opened the door as Dewey approached. Inside, Dewey sat on the backseat. Across from him was an Asian man, older, distinguished-looking, with an unhappy glare on his face. He was dressed in a blue button-down shirt with no tie along with stylish pants and leather boots. He had black-and-gray hair. He was fair skinned, smart-looking, with a wide face and a fearless, calm demeanor. He stared at Dewey as Dewey sat down across from him and the gunman shut the door to the limo.
