by Ben Coes
They moved two by two, with one man trailing, down a dark hallway to a stairwell, then climbed quietly, one step at a time, up the stairs. At the third floor, the lead agent halted the others with a hand signal. They listened for more than a minute, hearing nothing except the occasional clink of glasses or a faint voice from downstairs.
* * *
Dewey stood next to the bed. He was drenched in sweat and breathing hard.
He untied the sling from around his neck, then the shoelace, putting the Glock between his jeans and his back.
He went to the bed and stuffed pillows under the sheets to make it look like he was asleep.
He moved to the corner, feeling the wall for a light switch. Just before the corner of the room, he found it.
To his left, six feet away, was the door. In front of him was the bed. He checked the magazine on the MP7, then moved the safety off. He set the fire selector to full auto. He spread his feet and waited.
He gripped the SMG in his hands, right finger on the ceramic trigger, and thought of Jessica. He could never get her back. But tonight would begin the healing process. He heard his own breathing, counting as he breathed in and out, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.
He heard a noise from the hallway. The distant creaking of wood, like someone had stepped on a loose board. Dewey suddenly heard the metal of the doorknob as it turned. Dim light came in through the crack as the door opened.
He counted the first man, then another, and still a third. They moved in silence, like ghosts. He saw the outline of suppressors sticking out from machine guns, then the telltale geometrics of the night optics on their heads.
The three agents moved to the end of the bed, raising their weapons, preparing to fire.
A fourth man entered and stood at the door.
It’s all you can do, Dewey. It’s all you could ever do.
Dewey put his left hand to the light switch. One of the gunman, at the back of the bed, nodded to the others. The metallic thuds of suppressed submachine-gun fire echoed softly in the room as they triggered their weapons at the bed, full auto, sweeping across the mattress, leaving no area unscathed.
Dewey flipped the switch. The room burst yellow as light filled the room.
He pulled the trigger. The MP7 didn’t have a suppressor. The staccato peal of submachine-gun fire was shocking. Dewey took down the agent at the door, then swept the MP7 right, head-high, across the three gunman, who, in the confusion and in the sudden light, started pelting the walls with slugs. The three men tumbled to the ground amid the sound of shattering glass and gunfire.
Dewey sprinted to the door and, clutching the butt of the MP7, reached around the doorframe, trigger depressed, firing on full auto. He caught the last killer at the end of the hallway, ripping slugs through his legs, sending him tumbling to the ground.
He stepped into the hallway and walked to the fallen agent, who lay on his back groaning, trying to clutch at his legs. Dewey stood over him. He leaned forward and, with his left foot, kicked the night-vision goggles from the man’s head. He was Chinese. Dewey triggered the gun one more time, sending a quick burst into his neck, killing him instantly.
Dewey walked back down the hallway, past his room, to the service stairwell. He descended two flights, then moved down a thin back hallway to the library. The door was slightly ajar. He could see Borchardt seated inside the room. There were two other men with him. One Dewey recognized from his last trip, a member of Borchardt’s security detail. The other man was Chinese, dressed in a tuxedo.
Dewey pushed the door in with his left hand, MP7 trained in front of him.
Borchardt was seated at the far side of the large room. The guard stood in the middle of the room. The Chinese man was at the bar, to the right, mixing a drink.
For a moment or two, none of the men noticed Dewey.
Dewey stepped forward. He caught the eye of the security man, who turned, made eye contact with him, then reached for his shoulder holster. Dewey waited a split second, long enough for the guard to get the handgun out of the holster, long enough for him to begin the sweep of the weapon across the room, toward Dewey. Dewey watched it all. Then, as the muzzle moved closer, he fired. A hail of slugs from the MP7 ripped the man across the chest and pummeled him back against the wall.
The Chinese man jerked around from the bar, dropping a glass on the ground. Borchardt merely looked up, a calm, slightly bemused look on his pale face.
“Hi, Rolf,” said Dewey.
Borchardt stared in disbelief. His eyes drifted down to the muzzle of the MP7.
“I take it this is the Chinese ambassador?” asked Dewey.
“Yes,” said the Chinese man, indignant. “I am Sūn Mă.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Dewey fired. Bullets ripped into Mă’s chest, knocking him off his feet, kicking him backward.
He stepped toward Borchardt, weapon trained on his skull.
“Ready to stop fucking around?”
Borchardt’s lips moved, but no words came out.
“Let me give you the correct answer,” said Dewey: “Yes, Dewey, I’m ready to stop fucking around.”
“I’m ready to stop fucking around, Dewey.”
“Attaboy. Now go get your Depends and your toupée glue. And wake up your pilots. Tell them to fuel up the plane. We’re leaving town tonight.”
“Where are we going?”
“You know damn well where we’re going.”
48
BEIJING
Bhang and Ming-huá stared at the screen in anticipation, trying to control their excitement as they awaited the arrival of the kill team.
Ming-huá had punched the picture up for better viewing, and the view of the dark bedroom in Borchardt’s mansion occupied the entire screen, like a movie.
For several tense minutes, they watched in silence, both men standing, both smoking. The audio had been shut down by the lead agent, only adding to a sense of unease.
Then it started.
A furious spray of red, orange, yellow, and silver abruptly appeared, like firecrackers at night, as the muzzles of the machine guns erupted in a fusillade of sparks.
The screen suddenly exploded in bright yellow light, as if a light switch had been turned on.
The view was grainy, a fish-eye lens that provided a wide picture of the entire suite.
Four men, clad in black, stood front and center; three at the foot of the bed, weapons trained at the bed, night optics on, and a fourth commando just behind them, near the door.
As the light went on, the agents appeared frantic, swinging their weapons around.
Bhang lurched for the screen, pointing at the corner of the live video feed.
“Watch out!” he screamed, to no one, pointing at a large figure in the corner of the room, who Bhang realized was Andreas.
Bhang and Ming-huá watched in silence and horror as Dewey stepped forward, toward the unsuspecting commando at the door, and the muzzle of his machine gun sparked black and silver. The agent at the door was kicked by bullets. The American swung the weapon right, slashing a hail of lead across the three agents at the foot of the bed, all of them collapsing to the ground.
Bhang and Ming-huá watched, transfixed, as Dewey ran to the door, then disappeared around the corner.
Bhang’s face turned beet red, but he remained calm. For a long time, he stared at the picture. He even lit another cigarette. The scene was grisly. The light-colored carpet was quickly overtaken in dark as the four dead agents bled out.
When Bhang completed the cigarette, he dropped it to the ground and stepped on it with his shoe, then stepped to the plasma screen. He placed his hands on the top edge of the screen and yanked. The screen came tumbling to the ground and smashed.
Bhang looked at Ming-huá.
“Could Borchardt have betrayed us?” Ming-huá asked quietly.
“No,” snapped Bhang.
“There is no other explanation, Minister.”
“Yes, ther
e is,” said Bhang, storming toward the door. “Andreas is smarter than we anticipated. I want leadership in my office immediately.”
In his office, Bhang removed his coat and tossed it on his desk. He went to the credenza and opened the doors. Inside was a whiteboard. He picked up a marker and removed the cap.
Ming-huá trailed Bhang, taking a seat at the table. Several other members of the ministry’s senior leadership team arrived soon thereafter.
Bhang wrote three things on the whiteboard:
1. SANITIZE LONDON: XIAO
2. FIND BORCHARDT: MING-HUÁ
3. WARN: DHENG
“Is this clear?” asked Bhang, looking at the table. “Top priority is cleaning up London. Xiao, coordinate with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We want to get those bodies out of there or, failing that, cut off any connection these men had to the ministry.”
“Yes, Minister.”
“Second, find Borchardt,” said Bhang, pointing at Ming-huá. “Find out if he’s dead. If not, track him down. Planes, cars, homes, credit cards—everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Third, Dheng, get a warning out to all personnel in the UK, Europe, and Russia. Include a photo. He could be going for more of our people. They need to be warned.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bhang scanned the table.
“Go,” he barked, “except you.” Bhang pointed at Ming-huá.
After the others left, he looked at Ming-huá.
“I want a security detail on Bo,” said Bhang. “Two men. Good men.”
“Yes, Minister. It will be done immediately.”
49
LONDON
Dewey and Borchardt arrived at Heathrow just after midnight. They climbed aboard the plane and were greeted by Borchardt’s two copilots. Dewey still held the MP7, which he kept trained on Borchardt as they passed the men, who were seated in the cockpit with the door open.
Both pilots were ex–Israeli Air Force, and they knew their boss and the rough world he ran in. They were paid many times more than any typical pilot, in exchange for their silence and discretion and, of course, their loyalty. Still, a look of stunned shock hit their faces when they saw Borchardt at gunpoint, walking up the airstairs.
“It’s okay,” said Borchardt as they climbed aboard, smiling at the two men. “This is Dewey. Do what he says.”
Borchardt’s Boeing 757 was a flying fortress of luxury. There was no other way to describe the customized jet. It had cost Borchardt next to nothing, except for the three million dollars he’d spent on the cosmetic aspects of the jet, including removing more than a dozen different murals of Saddam Hussein, painted on the ceiling and on various walls throughout the plane.
It was no secret to anyone that Borchardt had sold many things to Hussein over the years, including centrifuges and more than a half ton of low-grade enriched uranium; both of which had gone relatively unused and had ultimately been sold by Hussein—through Borchardt—to Iran. Hussein’s appetite, Borchardt always said, was bigger than his bite. While he liked many people in Iraq, including one of Hussein’s sons, Borchardt privately believed the Iraqis were too undisciplined and unfocused to develop nuclear weapons. He was more than willing to profit from their ambitions, however.
When the United States invaded Iraq the second time, the government of Iraq owed Borchardt fifty-five million dollars. Borchardt knew that when Hussein went on the lam, as the Americans got close to capturing him, he’d lost any chance of collecting on his debt. So instead, Borchardt had simply appropriated one of Hussein’s many planes.
The plane had two staterooms, which looked like suites at a Four Seasons Hotel, including marble-tiled bathrooms with showers and bathtubs. There was a state-of-the-art media room with several large plasma screens built into the walls. The plane had a small but luxurious general seating area, similar to the first-class section of a normal airliner, with spacious black leather captain’s chairs and a large wet bar. The galley kitchen was small but adequate.
The cargo area below was used for weapons. Hussein stocked it with enough firepower for a small war—with dozens of machine guns, carbines, shoulder-fired missiles, grenade launchers, handguns, stores of ammunition, explosives, first-aid equipment, in-theater communications gear, parachutes, even a small portable field surgical unit, with basic life-monitoring systems, oxygen, and a retinue of surgical equipment for basic battle-theater fixes and repairs.
Borchardt had left it all alone. As with many of Hussein’s weapons, the cache aboard the jet was shiny and unused, like a spoiled child’s toys.
Dewey pushed Borchardt into the passenger section, then tethered him to one of the leather seats, flex-cuffing his skinny wrists and ankles to the seat. He started to wrap tape around his mouth to gag him, but Borchardt protested.
“That’s not necessary,” said Borchardt. “Please. I can understand the cuffs, but do you really need to gag me? I won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”
Dewey wrapped the tape around his mouth anyway.
“I’m not doing it to shut you up, Rolf,” said Dewey. “I’m doing it to make you uncomfortable.”
When he finished a couple of turns of the tape, Dewey walked back to the cockpit.
“Hi, guys,” he said, leaning into the cockpit.
The pilots shared a glance, then looked at Dewey.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” said Dewey. “Borchardt either. Just get this thing in the air and aim for China.”
“Why China?” asked one of the men.
Dewey didn’t respond.
“I know you guys are ex-IDF. I was part of the team that got Kohl Meir out of Iran.”
The pilots nodded, saying nothing.
“I’m not telling you this because I expect you to betray your boss,” continued Dewey. “I don’t. I expect Borchardt to do what I say and you guys to just do your jobs. Got it?”
“Yes,” said the pilot on the left.
“I know you guys are smart, ex-military, all that. I know you could make things difficult for me. You need to understand that if you do that, I will kill Borchardt and then I will kill you. Capiche?”
“Yeah,” said the pilot on the right.
“Got it,” said the other.
“We’ll need to file a flight plan,” said the pilot on the right.
“No you don’t,” said Dewey.
“Yes, we do. You want to pop this thing on an INTERPOL screen, the best way to do that is for us to leave Heathrow without filing a flight plan.”
“Fine, file a flight plan.”
“Where to?”
Dewey thought for a moment.
“Moscow,” said Dewey.
“What’s the final destination?”
“You’ll be the first to know,” said Dewey. “One more thing. Don’t close the door. Don’t lock the door. Trust me, you don’t want to be on that side of the door if I have to break it down.”
The two pilots nodded; the one on the right grinned.
“Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”
50
LONDON
It was three in the morning London time when Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma landed at Heathrow.
A black Range Rover waited on the tarmac, its parking lights on and engine running.
The back door of the SUV opened as they crossed the blacktop. A tall man in a blue suit, no tie, with longish, slightly unruly blond hair moved toward the three Americans. This was Derek Chalmers, director of Britain’s MI6, England’s foreign intelligence service.
“Hector,” he said, reaching his hand out toward Calibrisi as they met under the wan yellow lights of the Gulfstream. “Good to see you.”
“Hi, Derek,” said Calibrisi, shaking Chalmers’s hand. “You remember Katie and Rob.”
“Sure, of course.”
Chalmers shook their hands. They followed him to the Range Rover and climbed in.
Chalmers tapped the back of the driver’s seat, telling his driver to move. They shot down
the tarmac toward the airport exit.
“Well?” asked Calibrisi. “We got anything?”
Chalmers nodded.
“It’s a bloody mess.”
“Why didn’t you call?” asked Calibrisi.
Chalmers stared at Calibrisi, a slightly annoyed look on his face.
“Because there are five dead Chinese commandos at Borchardt’s house and one dead Chinese ambassador,” said Chalmers. “I have no idea if they’re listening in, and I don’t want to find out.”
“When did it go down?” asked Tacoma.
“Sometime late last night. The team we sent in last night found the bodies. They were still warm. We haven’t pulled them out.”
“Have you run any of the prints?”
“Yes. They were all MSS. This was a kill team.”
“They’re all dead?” asked Calibrisi.
Chalmers nodded.
“As doornails. Your man Andreas redecorated the bedroom with them.”
“Does China know about their dead ambassador?” asked Calibrisi.
“I assume,” said Chalmers. “Borchardt’s security team was coordinating with Beijing. The entire operation was run out of Beijing. They had live video of the OP.”
“So it’s escalating.”
“Yes,” agreed Chalmers. “Bhang is now fully engaged. It’s going to get violent, but we can work with it. I know you don’t want to hear this, Hector, but Dewey is proving to be a rather tempting morsel for our friend in Beijing.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, the Range Rover pulled into the alleyway behind Upper Phillimore Gardens and extinguished its lights. A plainclothes agent, hand against his ear, was standing near an iron gate at the back of Borchardt’s darkened gardens. He flicked a quick thumbs-up at the driver. Chalmers, Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma climbed out, then moved through the gate, meeting another agent who was waiting for them beneath the shadow of a Japanese maple tree.
Inside, they followed Chalmers into the library, whose curtains were drawn. A woman in a black bodysuit, a MI6 coroner, with blue rubber gloves on, was waiting.
