by Ben Coes
“What time is it? Did you not hear me?”
“How do you know?”
“I was testing a listening device. I had placed it in a bathroom on the seventh floor. The minister himself spoke. He must have gone into the bathroom near the cabinet room. He was alone, on a phone call. He has cancer. He is to resign within the year.”
“Did he say who he would pick as his successor?”
“Xiangou.”
A wave of electricity went down Bhang’s spine. Xiangou was Bhang’s boss, the head of the ministry’s clandestine paramilitary services bureau. He ran the kill teams. In its own way, this was good news. It meant the minister would be selecting a killer over a functionary as the next head of the ministry.
Unfortunately, Xiangou was only forty-eight years old. He would have a long career as minister, which meant Bhang’s chances of running the ministry would effectively be over.
A stark realization occurred to him then. This whole thing was, in fact, his death knell. For while Bhang was Xiangou’s protégé and the most effective assassin within the clandestine bureau’s ranks, Xiangou feared him. There wasn’t a more vicious man alive than Xiangou. As soon as he found out he was to become China’s next minister of State Security, Bhang would be dead within the hour.
“When will it happen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t tell anyone. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Fao.”
And so it had begun.
* * *
Bhang knew he would have to design the operation outside of the architecture of the ministry. The ministry was everywhere, and any action he might contemplate involving Xiangou would be detected.
Bhang realized as he sat in that Cairo hotel room that next morning, he would need to do this one off the grid.
He picked up the phone.
“Dillman.”
“Mikal, it is me, Fao.”
“Good morning, Fao. Who will the ministry be putting a bullet in today?”
“I need to see you. It’s urgent.”
“I’ll be in Brussels tomorrow. Meet me at noon at the Metropole. The room will be under Seidenberg.”
In an opulent suite at the Metropole, Bhang laid out his dilemma to Dillman. Not only did Bhang need Dillman’s ideas on how to remove Xiangou, he needed Dillman to actually do it. He needed Mossad to terminate Xiangou. Bhang couldn’t be involved. He’d asked many people to do many things over the years, but always with the threat of violence or the promise of money behind the request. It was the first time Bhang had ever asked anyone for a favor.
“I’ll do it for you,” Dillman had said, placing his hand on Bhang’s knee and patting it. “Anything for you, my good friend.”
* * *
Dillman fabricated a cover story to explain why Israel needed to assassinate Xiangou. He doctored a photograph of Xiangou dining with a high-level Hamas operative in Budapest. For his madhouse compatriots, that was more than enough paper to approve the kill.
Mossad began by infiltrating Xiangou’s personal life and looking for vulnerabilities. He was married but kept a mistress in Macau. He liked to gamble. It was decided that they would strike Xiangou during one of his monthly visits to the sprawling city, China’s version of Las Vegas.
Macau, Dillman knew, would be a challenge. Chinese intelligence was everywhere, particularly inside the big casinos, layered throughout the staffs and monitoring cameras, looking for suspicious or even just interesting Westerners to spy on. The casino where Xiangou would be gambling was the most logical place to hit him. But there were thirty-two casinos in Macau, and trying to guess which one Xiangou would throw away his money at was like trying to find a needle in a haystack.
Then there was the building where his mistress lived, a modern glass skyscraper in the central business district. Her apartment was on the penthouse floor, fifty-six stories up. The building was highly secure, with armed guards at the entrance. More important, Xiangou always brought a two- or three-man detail with him. If the casinos were going to be difficult, the apartment building would be next to impossible.
Dillman’s overarching concern was the possibility Xiangou’s death might be traced back to Mossad. It had to look like an accident.
From public construction records, they studied the apartment building at its various stages. A British structural engineering firm had been hired as a subcontractor, and part of their purview had been the scope and plan for the elevators. A phone call to London was made.
Three weeks later, on a sun-splashed Thursday afternoon, Xiangou landed at Macau International Airport. He went directly to the StarWorld Casino, where he spent several hours playing craps and drinking vodka, with three ministry agents hovering over his shoulders. At dinnertime, he went to his mistress’s apartment. At just before 9:00 P.M., Xiangou and his mistress stepped into the elevator. As the doors shut, Xiangou winked at the young girl, reaching for her hand. Then, as a pair of cables attached to the roof of the cabin failed, the elevator dropped fifty-six stories. Screams from Xiangou’s mistress could be heard at various points by people waiting for an elevator, as the couple rocketed down the air shaft to their violent deaths.
The following June, after the current minister of State Security surprised almost everyone with his resignation, for personal reasons, Fao Bhang was named China’s next minister of State Security.
He owed Dillman his job. He owed Dillman his life.
* * *
Bhang reached into the trunk, grabbed the Star of David from Dillman’s neck, ripped it off, then turned and walked out of the morgue.
Back in his office, Bhang assembled his three deputies; Ming-húa, head of clandestine operations; Quan, who ran the ministry’s intelligence-gathering unit; and Wuzhou, Bhang’s chief of staff.
“Where did the trunk come from?” asked Bhang.
“Hong Kong. It arrived yesterday.”
“And the girl saw it?”
“Yes. She opened the trunk herself. Premier Li was present as well, as was the first lady.”
Bhang’s nostrils flared.
“Do we know who it was actually sent from?” he demanded.
The two aides looked at each other, neither wanting to be the one to answer Bhang’s question. Finally, one spoke.
“The origin on the manifest was Hong Kong. That’s all we have.”
Bhang sat down. He leaned back in silence, then lit a cigarette.
“Minister Bhang,” said one of the men, “Premier Li insisted you see him immediately.”
“Please,” said Bhang, holding his index finger up for silence.
Bhang took several deep drags without speaking. His mind raced. He processed what had happened. There was a strategy here. Whoever found Mikal Dillman—presumably Mossad—was up to something.
He took several hard puffs, looking for inspiration in the rush of nicotine.
If terminating Dillman was the objective, they could have simply done so, then deposited the corpse in a landfill. When Dillman missed his weekly check-in, the ministry would have assumed he’d been found out. But Mossad had done no such thing. Dillman checked in three days ago and then they put the ax into his skull. The Israelis could have—should have—brought him in and interrogated him. But they didn’t. They killed him, stuffed him into a box, shipped him to Hong Kong. They could have kept Dillman alive and used him, as Bhang would have, to penetrate back into Beijing and the ministry, to try to learn who Dillman’s handlers were, perhaps even tried to blackmail Dillman. They didn’t. Instead, Dillman’s killers not only sent him back, they did so in a particularly interesting and provocative way.
Their target was Bhang himself.
It was unmistakable. This thrust was aimed at him. There could be no other explanation.
Not bad, thought Bhang.
They were smart enough to know they would never be able to get at Bhang themselves. He was too well guarded, his movements too unpredictable, his activities too secret. His enemies would attempt to get
at those surrounding Bhang. Premier Li, the most powerful man in China, would be furious over what had happened to his granddaughter. Much worse was the subtle effect Dillman’s corpse—and its flamboyant delivery—would have on everyone surrounding Bhang. It was a dagger, sent to pierce the shroud of invincibility that Bhang had built and enforced over a decade atop the ministry, through terror, force, and fear. If Dillman’s corpse could be delivered in such an ostentatious, unexpected, and undetected manner, well, then, someone out there, perhaps one of the three men seated in his office, might develop the confidence to strike at Bhang as well.
“And so the game begins,” said Bhang quietly, to himself, as he stared at the burning ember atop his cigarette.
“Minister?”
Bhang stood up. He reached for Dillman’s Star of David, which was on his desk. He picked it up and held it, examining it.
“Who outside of the ministry was aware of Dillman?” asked Bhang.
One of the men handed a single sheet of paper to Bhang. The list was short, only four names. Bhang studied it, then nodded his head slowly up and down.
“Aziz,” said Bhang.
“The Iran station chief? He’s not on the list, sir.”
“Please see that he’s here, in my office, as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Minister.”
“Then see that the first three gentlemen on this list are killed, in a manner that is quiet, and, if possible, dignified.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bhang stubbed out his cigarette. He removed his blazer from the back of his chair.
“Tell the premier I’ll be there in ten minutes. Also, have gifts sent to his granddaughter; wonderful gifts—a large teddy bear, flowers, sweets. I want you to personally oversee the wrapping of the presents as well as their delivery. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Minister Bhang.”
5
WHEATON ICE ARENA
WHEATON, MARYLAND
Dewey Andreas climbed out of his Ford F-150 and glanced up at the sky, still dark at 4:55 A.M. It was cold out, not Maine cold, but cold enough to see his breath. He reached into the back of the pickup and grabbed his equipment bag and a pair of hockey sticks.
“You must be the ringer Jessica was bragging about,” said a brown-haired man walking by, carrying his equipment.
Dewey nodded and smiled but said nothing. He recognized the speaker; Mark Hastings, chief justice of the United States Supreme Court. Hastings, Dewey knew, had played goalie at Harvard. His equipment bag was twice as big as Dewey’s.
“You need a hand?” Dewey asked.
“Do I really look that old?” Hastings laughed.
“Let me get your stick.”
Dewey took Hastings’s goalie stick and walked with him toward the rink doors.
It was the most exclusive pickup hockey game in Washington. It was probably the most exclusive pickup hockey game in the world. After all, where else on a cold Saturday morning at five o’clock could you find three members of the cabinet, a Supreme Court justice, four U.S. senators, half a dozen congressmen, a few assorted Pentagon officials, and a variety of other denizens of the Washington elite gathering to lace up their old pairs of CCM Super Tacks, pull on equipment last used in high school or college, and play an hour of hockey?
Of course, the main attraction was the occupant of the black limousine now pulling into the rink’s parking lot, with small American flags waving from the front and rear corners of the vehicle, flanked by a convoy of Chevy Suburbans: The president of the United States, J. P. Dellenbaugh.
Dellenbaugh and Senator Anthony DiNovi were the only participants in the weekly pickup game to have actually played professional hockey, Dellenbaugh for the Detroit Red Wings, DiNovi for the Boston Bruins. Most of the other players played hockey in college. A few only made it to high school. The only requirement was that a player played through high school and that Dellenbaugh like them. There was also a no-business rule—no talking politics, legislation, poll numbers, upcoming elections, nothing political whatsoever. Also, no lobbyists.
Originally, the game was Dellenbaugh’s idea, begun when he was a freshman senator. It became a slightly more exclusive ticket when Dellenbaugh was selected as Rob Allaire’s running mate. When Allaire was elected president, and Dellenbaugh became vice president of the United States, it became still harder to get an invite to the game. After Rob Allaire’s untimely death, and J. P. Dellenbaugh’s swearing in as president of the United States, everyone assumed Dellenbaugh wouldn’t be able to continue the game. But they were wrong. Except for the occasional vacation, foreign trip, or crisis, Dellenbaugh had kept it up.
Now it was next to impossible to get an invite to the game, played every Saturday morning at the blue-roofed Wheaton Ice Arena. Dellenbaugh himself needed to approve everyone invited. The Secret Service screened the names of all participants. Every week, FBI bomb dogs came out to the rink at 3:00 A.M. to sweep the facility.
If you were an ex–hockey player, you probably knew about the game. That was the way the hockey world worked. Even if they were despised opponents in college, after the rivalry was over and the skates were off, hockey players reunited, like a tribe. Ex–hockey players didn’t like to brag or call attention to themselves. They were secretive too. Until recently, few people outside of the tight-knit D.C. community of former hockey players knew about the game. That is, until one of the players—still unidentified—leaked word of the weekly pickup game to a female reporter for The Washington Post. The reporter, a long-legged, beautiful sports reporter named Summer Swenson, wrote a piece entitled “The Pickup Artists,” with an old photograph of Dellenbaugh, showing him beating the daylights out of some unfortunate member of the New York Rangers. The article detailed the ins and outs of the president’s weekly game. It caused the Secret Service to move the time and location of the game.
Checking wasn’t allowed, though that didn’t stop the game from occasionally getting chippy. Usually, it was Dellenbaugh himself who was the instigator. One thing about hockey players was that once they laced the skates on, each player invariably reverted to his habits and ways of old. The former puck hogs still hogged the puck, the former playmakers still set up plays, and the former fighters, such as Dellenbaugh, well, they caused trouble.
Dewey hadn’t asked to be invited to the game. In fact, as he followed Hastings inside the rink, bag slung over his shoulder, he cursed Jessica under his breath. He hadn’t skated since his senior year at Castine High School. At Boston College, given the choice of football or hockey, he’d decided to play football. Dewey had been captain of his high school team. Back then, more than two decades ago, Dewey could handle himself on the rink pretty well. He played defense, scored the occasional goal, led the team in assists. But what he’d really been known for, the quality that caused his coach, a gruff old Mainer named Mark Blood, to nickname him “Mad Dog,” was his ability to hit.
A slight tinge of adrenaline spiked in his blood as he walked through the door and caught the sight of a rusted blue-and-white Zamboni chugging around the ice.
Dewey followed Hastings into the locker room. Inside, the benches on both sides of the room were filled with men getting dressed. Dewey didn’t recognize many of them; he couldn’t have told most U.S. senators apart from the guy driving the Zamboni. But he did recognize a few. In addition to Hastings, there was Attorney General Rickards, and DiNovi, the senior senator from New Jersey.
Dewey glanced quickly around the room at the senators, congressmen, and other officials in various stages of undress.
“I heard we had a new guy in town,” said a tall, black-haired man, who walked over to Dewey. “I’m Tony DiNovi.” He extended his hand.
“Hi,” said Dewey, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Senator.”
“Call me Tony. So I hear you’re the lucky guy who’s marrying Jessica Tanzer. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“When’s the wedding?”
“We haven’t set a date yet
.”
“I’ve known Jessica since she worked on Capitol Hill,” said DiNovi. “She worked on the Intelligence Committee before she went over to the FBI.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“She has one of the best strategic minds I’ve ever known. Most effective national security advisor we’ve had in a long, long time, certainly since I’ve been around. You’re a very lucky man, Dewey.”
“Thanks, Senator.”
Dewey pulled his shirt over his head, then leaned down and unzipped his hockey bag.
“That’s one hell of a scar,” said DiNovi, looking at Dewey’s left shoulder. The scar had that effect; it was two inches wide and ran from the apex of his shoulder down to the midpoint of his biceps, like an ugly ribbon. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened?”
Dewey looked at DiNovi without answering.
Just then, the door swung open and the president of the United States, J. P. Dellenbaugh, walked in. His brown hair was slightly messed up, and he had a big grin on his face. His hockey bag was slung over his shoulder. He was wearing red sweatpants and a faded blue-and-yellow University of Michigan sweatshirt. He threw his bag down next to Dewey’s.
“Hi, Dewey,” said the president. Dellenbaugh reached out and shook his hand. Everyone was watching. Dellenbaugh glanced around the room. “Hi, boys. What’s the matter, haven’t any of you ever seen an American hero?”
Dellenbaugh kept his eyes on Dewey as he shook his hand.
“Tony,” continued Dellenbaugh, “he got the scar fighting terrorists. Now let’s stop giving the guy the third degree and play a little hockey. Sorry I’m late, everyone.”
Dellenbaugh took the seat next to Dewey and got undressed. It was refreshing to see the U.S. president in this unrehearsed, raw light; seeing him as just one of the guys.
“You and I are probably the only guys in this room who went to public high school,” whispered Dellenbaugh, smiling at Dewey. The implication was clear: the rest of them, at least for the next hour, were all a bunch of prep-school pussies.
“Where did you go?” asked Dewey.
