Eye for an Eye: A Dewey Andreas Novel

by Ben Coes

  “When would you like to meet?” asked Minh.

  * * *

  Borchardt looked at Dewey, who was leaning over, cheek to cheek with him, holding the SAT phone between them, eavesdropping.

  Dewey held up a single finger.

  “One hour,” said Borchardt, into the phone. “The private terminal, near Terminal Three.”

  When Dewey heard Minh’s phone click, he stood and hung up the phone.

  “Not bad,” he said to Borchardt. “You’re an unusually good liar. Almost like you’ve done it before. By the way, you need a shower, dude.”

  “I thought that was you.”

  “It could be,” said Dewey. “Who knows. Maybe we can take a shower together when we get back to London? My back could use a nice loofah.”

  Borchardt started giggling.

  “You’re not funny.”

  “Everyone always says that but then they laugh at my jokes.”

  The plane abruptly arced left and one of the copilots came on the intercom.

  “Buckle up, we’re on approach to Beijing. We land in about fifteen minutes.”

  Dewey used the restroom, then sat down across from Borchardt.

  “You need to uncuff me,” said Borchardt.

  “Why?”

  “How will I get off the plane?”

  “That’s not my problem, Rolf,” said Dewey. “If I untied you you’d run screaming from the plane like a little girl.”

  “What the hell do you expect me to do?”

  “Honestly? I expect you to blow up. Then again, I haven’t used SEMTEX in a while. For all I know I made a chocolate soufflé down there.”

  Borchardt screamed.

  “Help!”

  Dewey took the tape and wrapped it across his mouth. Borchardt squirmed and fought against the cuffs, his screams muted by the tape.

  Dewey sat and stared at Borchardt for a few minutes. Finally, he stood and walked to the galley. He searched through drawers until he found some tools. He removed wire cutters, then returned to the seat. He held up the tool.

  “Wire cutters,” he said, putting them down on Borchardt’s lap. “They should be able to cut through the flex cuffs.”

  The plane’s landing gear went down and the plane shook.

  “As much as I’d like to continue this enlightening discussion,” said Dewey, “this is my stop. Good luck.”

  57

  BEIJING CAPITAL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  BEIJING

  Borchardt sat in the same seat he’d been seated in, with the exception of one bathroom break, for twelve hours straight.

  He was alone. His hands and feet remained tethered to the seat. On his lap sat a pair of wire cutters, taunting him with their proximity and their stillness. He calculated that once his hands were free, it would take him less than ten seconds to clip the flex cuffs from his ankles, then run down the aisle to the open cabin door and down the stairs. The reality, he knew, was a little different. Right now, he was one itchy American finger away from being immolated in the white-hot hell of a SEMTEX explosion.

  Out the window, to Borchardt’s right, two hundred yards across the empty tarmac, was another plane, a white Gulfstream G250. Fortunately, Gulfstream had it in Hong Kong, a short flight away. The plane had already been sold to a Chinese coal tycoon named Junbei. It had cost Borchardt twenty-five million dollars over the asking price of the jet to convince the CEO of Gulfstream to break the contract with Junbei and force the thirty-six-year-old to wait two extra days for another G250.

  Borchardt stared at his new plane, wondering if he would ever actually get to use it.

  Over time, Borchardt knew, his weapons had been used to kill thousands, perhaps even tens of thousands of people, on every continent and in almost every country in the world.

  But Borchardt had never actually killed someone.

  Borchardt’s eye was suddenly drawn to the door of the private terminal building, behind the Gulfstream. The door opened and a man emerged, alone. Borchardt recognized Minh immediately. He was short and thin, and he walked with a stoop. His hair was down to his shoulders.

  Minh surveyed the tarmac suspiciously, then started walking toward Borchardt’s plane.

  In his hand he carried a large briefcase. He wore the typical uniform of seemingly half the men in China, a dark plain Windbreaker and dark plain pants.

  * * *

  Dewey leaned to the porthole window of the Gulfstream, as a small man—who he assumed was Bo Minh—stepped from a blue corrugated-steel building and started walking across the tarmac toward Borchardt’s brightly lit plane.

  As he walked across the blacktop, Minh glanced in Dewey’s direction, in fact, for one brief second, into Dewey’s eyes, at least that’s what it felt like.

  Dewey walked to the cockpit. Inside, the two Israeli pilots were both seated. Their hair looked matted and slightly greasy. They were clearly exhausted.

  “Let’s start getting ready to go,” said Dewey. “And when I say ‘go,’ I mean we’re going to need to get the fuck out of here lickety-split.”

  “Okay,” said the pilot on his left.

  “What about Borchardt?” asked the other.

  “Jury’s still out on that one,” said Dewey.

  Dewey went back to the leather sofa and sat down. He watched as Bo Minh stopped at the bottom of the mobile airstairs that led up into the Boeing.

  * * *

  The rattle of Minh’s shoes on the steel stairs made Borchardt’s heart race. He felt like his heart was about to explode. He counted the steps as Minh climbed. Finally, Minh’s head popped into view. Long black hair with specks of gray; thick, square glasses. Minh had a fearful look on his face as he entered. Then, as he focused in on Borchardt, tethered to the seat, duct tape across his mouth, his head jerked forward in shock and his glasses tumbled to the ground.

  Borchardt yelled. The tape muffled the sound.

  Minh picked up his glasses, put them on, and gently placed the large briefcase on the floor. He walked quickly down the aisle to Borchardt.

  “Hold on, Mr. Borchardt.”

  Borchardt nodded at the wire cutters, still yelling.

  Minh grabbed the wire cutters and cut the flex cuff at Borchardt’s left arm. Borchardt reached up and pulled the tape from his mouth, panting.

  “Oh, thank God, you’re here,” Borchardt said, panting. “It was unbelievable.”

  Borchardt grabbed the wire cutters from Minh. He slashed them through the air, stabbing Minh in the neck, then again, two fierce blows that made blood abruptly flood from Minh’s neck. Minh dropped to the ground, screaming.

  Borchardt cut the cuff at his left wrist, then the cuffs at his feet.

  He dropped the wire cutters and ran to the galley kitchen, but fell down, his knees and legs weak from inactivity. He got back up, looking back to see Minh crawling after him, his front covered in crimson. At the galley, Borchardt pulled a drawer out and found a small knife. He grabbed it with his left hand, then turned, but Minh was already on him.

  The sharp points of the wire cutters struck Borchardt just behind the ear. Minh swung again, from Borchardt’s right, ripping a gash into Borchardt’s ear. Borchardt screamed as he fell to the aisle floor, covering his ear.

  Minh was screaming in Mandarin, a rabid, bloodcurdling yell, as he stabbed again, viciously, hitting Borchardt above the right eye. Blood spurted forward. Minh swung again as, from the ground, Borchardt stabbed the knife into Minh’s calf. Minh screamed but landed another blow to Borchardt’s forehead. Borchardt crawled toward the front of the plane, trying to get away, as Minh pulled the knife from his calf.

  Minh picked up the steel briefcase with both hands. He slammed it into Borchardt’s head as the German attempted to crawl away. After the second blow, Borchardt went cold. Minh hit him one more time, cursing him in Mandarin as he did so.

  Minh stared for several minutes at Borchardt, who was unconscious, bleeding badly on the ground. Minh tried to catch his breath. He reached his hand to
his neck, then looked at it. The fingers were covered in wet blood.

  Minh limped to the cabin door, clutching the briefcase.

  * * *

  The engines on the Gulfstream were fired up, and a smooth electric din permeated the cabin as the pilots prepared to take off.

  Dewey stared at the entrance door to the Boeing, watching the light, waiting for signs of life. He gripped the detonator. The first minute turned into a second, then a third. Then a shadow appeared in the Boeing door, at the top of the stairs.

  But where Dewey expected to see Borchardt, Bo Minh suddenly appeared. His head darted wildly about. He stepped into the light atop the stairs, and Dewey could see blood covering one of his hands and his neck. He was limping. He started descending the stairs.

  “Motherfucker,” said Dewey.

  Dewey held the remote detonator. He put his thumb to the red button. He was about to press it, then paused. He put it down on the seat.

  He bolted to the cabin door and jumped from the top step to the tarmac ten feet below. He sprinted toward Borchardt’s plane. As he ran, Dewey pulled a Glock from his shoulder holster. He closed in on Bo Minh, who was limping beneath the shadows of the Boeing.

  Minh saw Dewey sprinting toward him. He dropped the briefcase as Dewey closed in. Minh did not even have time to move as Dewey fired a round from point-blank range into his chest.

  Dewey caught Minh as he fell, throwing him over his shoulder, fireman style. He sprinted the last few yards to the Boeing, then climbed up, two steps at a time. At the top stair, he tossed Minh’s body to the floor. He saw Borchardt. Dewey grabbed him and lifted him up onto his shoulder. He ran back to the cabin door, then descended the airstairs, still clutching the handgun. He ran the last hundred yards to the Gulfstream, then climbed aboard. He tossed Borchardt onto one of the leather sofas, then turned and hit the door lever. The stairs began to rise.

  “Get this thing in the air,” yelled Dewey into the cockpit. “And I mean right fuckin’ now.”

  The Gulfstream’s engines flared and grew louder. The plane bounced into motion, then moved toward the end of the runway.

  “Hold on,” barked one of the Israeli pilots. “We’re goin’ hot.”

  The engines roared. The jet accelerated down the runway, to the right of the Boeing.

  Dewey went back to the sofa and picked up the detonator. As the front wheels lifted off the tarmac, he pressed the small red button.

  There was a pause of no more than half a second, then a tremendous thunderclap slammed the sky as the Boeing exploded.

  Dewey watched through the porthole window. White, red, orange, and black flames, along with billows of thick smoke, exploded up into the sky in a spectacular radius around the plane. Dewey had to turn his eyes away from the explosion.

  More loud thunder echoed across the sky as heat and flames from the explosion spread havoc within the plane’s explosive- and ammunition-laden cargo area.

  The Gulfstream was punched sideways, shaking and tilting as it lifted off into the sky. Dewey almost fell to the floor, but he held on to the seat. He forced himself to look again. The tarmac was a smoldering inferno of steel, inside of which was the now very charred remains of Fao Bhang’s beloved half brother, Bo Minh.

  Dewey looked above the burning jet. The lights of Beijing were visible in the distance.

  “You’re next, motherfucker,” Dewey whispered.

  58

  BEIJING CAPITAL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  BEIJING

  The black sedan reached the steel gates at the edge of the entrance to the private terminal. Dozens of flashing red and blue lights atop police cruisers made the scene look festive—until one moved past the gates and the line of soldiers and police officers standing guard. On the tarmac, the plane was still burning. It had been more than an hour since the blast. The object was was virtually unrecognizable, a destroyed carapace of charred steel, melted parts, atop a small crater torn into the tarmac.

  The line of soldiers and officers were held back at least 150 yards by the intense heat still emanating from the wreckage.

  Closer to the Boeing was a convoy of green and yellow fire trucks. Teams of firefighters in protective clothing sprayed water at the smoldering wreckage.

  Bhang’s sedan passed through the gates, then past soldiers and officers. It came to a stop between two of the fire trucks. The driver leapt from the front seat and opened the back door.

  It was 9:00 P.M. in China’s capital city.

  Bhang stepped from the sedan. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. Despite the heat, which at this distance still hovered at approximately one hundred degrees, Bhang wore a black suit. Not realizing the irony of the act, he took a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigarette.

  Bhang’s driver climbed back inside the air-conditioned limousine.

  Bhang stood alone smoking the cigarette, listening to the loud crackling of the plane burning, watching the torrents of water strike the flames, creating steam that made clouds climb into the sky along with the smoke.

  The chief investigator for the Beijing Fire Authority approached. Bhang saw him coming, from the corner of his eye, and held up his hand toward him without looking, telling him in no uncertain terms to stay away.

  He stared at the burning jet, trying to imagine where Bo Minh had been and what had happened. He already knew who did it.

  Bhang realized, as he took a long drag on his cigarette, that he’d let his personal feelings affect his professional judgment. But he never could have foreseen this. In all his years of covert activities, of killing, assassinations, being the target of attempts on his life, this was the first time anyone had succeeded in hurting him.

  He stood in the intense heat. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He didn’t want his driver or anyone to see the tears that now flowed down his cheeks at the thought of his poor brother, his helpless brother, always the weakest one on the playground, always the one being picked on. The only person Bhang had ever truly loved. Now he was gone.

  The one thing Bhang was there to do and was capable of doing—protecting Bo—he’d failed at. There was no other way to look at it. At that moment, Bhang knew that the dark knot in his stomach, the bitter woe and paralyzing guilt, was a feeling worse than dying.

  He also knew what he had to do, the only thing he had to do, the only thing that mattered anymore.

  Bhang flicked his cigarette butt down on the ground. He opened the door of the sedan and climbed into the cool air.

  “Headquarters, Minister?”

  “Yes. Hurry.”

  * * *

  Ming-húa and a swarm of other senior-level ministry officers were already assembled in Bhang’s large corner office at the ministry when he entered. He said nothing to the six men standing around the conference table as he walked to his desk. He placed his briefcase on the desk, picked up a silver lighter, and lit another cigarette.

  “Minister Bhang,” said Ming-húa, bowing. “We are all deeply, deeply sorry for what happened to your brother.”

  Bhang did not look up. Instead, he removed his suit coat and hung it on the back of the chair. He opened the top drawer of his desk. Reaching in, he removed a small, stainless-steel handgun, a Walther PPK/S 380CP. Next to it was a long suppressor. Methodically, Bhang screwed the suppressor into the muzzle. When he was done, he raised the weapon in his right hand and aimed it at Ming-húa. He fired one shot. The bullet struck Ming-húa between the eyes, dropping him to the ground, as the other five men stared in horror.

  “Nobody leaves this building until Andreas is dead,” said Bhang. “His elimination is now the top priority of the ministry. Drop what you are doing. Delegate any projects you are currently working on.”

  None of the five men still standing at the table said anything, but all nodded yes.

  “We have learned something in the last few minutes, Minister,” said Dheng. “We found several Hong Kong–based accounts we know to be Borchardt’s at the Bank of China. This afternoon, Mr. Borchard
t wired seventy million dollars to the Gulfstream Aerospace Corporation of Savannah, Georgia, presumably for an aircraft.”

  “It could have been someone working for Borchardt,” said Bhang, “paying an old bill.”

  “Yes, but it was wired into a Gulfstream account at the Bank of Hong Kong,” said Dheng. “The account is designed so that when Gulfstream sells something in China, it can keep the profits in China and not have to repatriate the money and thus pay American taxes on the transaction.”

  “In other words,” said Bhang, “he bought a jet in China?”

  “Today,” added Dheng. “An hour and a half ago.”

  Bhang nodded. He lit another cigarette.

  “Excellent work.”

  “My team is now attempting to locate the plane,” said Dheng. “Gulfstream embeds standard tracking technology into all of its planes. But in order to do so, we must penetrate Gulfstream, and that’s not easy. The company is owned by General Dynamics. We need to access their internal servers to be able to access the GPS.”

  Bhang looked at a tall bearded man, Xiao.

  “I want the roster of every ministry operative, regardless of rank and regardless of current mission,” ordered Bhang. “I also want personal information on Andreas. Dig deeper. We know he was born in Castine, Maine. Does he have family?”

  “Did we not already kill his fiancée?” asked another man at the table, who immediately regretted asking it.

  Bhang glanced at him, nostrils flared.

  “It’s a fair question,” said Bhang, hatred and fury inflecting in his normally calm voice. “What you all want to know is, when will it end? It ends when Andreas is dead. Until then, we take as many pieces off the chessboard as we can.”

  59

  MI6 HEADQUARTERS

  VAUXHALL CROSS

  LONDON

  Chalmers stuck his head in the door of the conference room, interrupting Calibrisi, who was on a phone call. Katie and Tacoma were seated at the conference table, looking at their laptops.