Eye for an Eye (46 page)

You wanted your shot at Fao Bhang.

He would have, at most, one chance to take that shot.

He stood and went to the restroom. He examined first his face. It was remarkable, even scary, to see how much like Koo he looked. He pulled aside his blood-soaked shirt. Just doing that caused him to moan loudly. He examined the wound. It had sealed up, but he needed stitches. A large-diameter radius encircled the wound, its color black-and-blue, bruising from the trauma of the bullet.

Dewey went to the bathroom, then returned to the seat. As he sat down, the three agents all looked at him. Then the two copilots came out of the cockpit. One of the pilots said something that Dewey again couldn’t understand. Then all five men began to clap loudly and bow repeatedly as they acknowledged the apparently now well-known actions of their illustrious passenger, Xiua Koo.

Dewey sat down, barely nodding, and shut his eyes.

*   *   *

The Embraer landed six hours later, coming into Beijing Capital International Airport at dawn.

By the time the plane landed, Dewey felt stronger, though the shoulder still ached.

An ambulance, two police cars, and two black sedans with agents were waiting on the tarmac at the airport when the jet touched down. A steady rain fell from gray clouds overhead. At least a dozen people were standing on the tarmac. As Dewey descended the stairs, the group started clapping and cheering.

A wheelchair was waiting for him at the bottom of the jet’s stairs, but Dewey chose instead to walk slowly to a waiting ambulance. Inside, he lay down on a gurney as a female EMT strapped an oxygen mask to his face. When she went to insert an IV into his forearm to deliver fluid and antibiotics and, Dewey feared, painkillers, he pushed her away and shook his head.

They drove to Beijing Hospital, through the crowded city, escorted by two police cruisers. Dewey remained silent as the EMT spoke in rapid Mandarin to him.

The hospital was a massive complex of white concrete that spread for several city blocks. They pulled in front of the main entrance, beneath a large glass-and-steel canopy adorned with the flag of the People’s Republic of China.

Through the ambulance window, beneath the canopy, a large group of people awaited his arrival.

It was happening quickly. Too quickly. The pain in his shoulder seemed to go away as adrenaline abruptly warmed him.

The back doors of the ambulance swung open, and he was face-to-face with a crowd of at least fifty people; doctors, nurses, police officers, and others, who clapped wildly as the doors opened.

*   *   *

Bhang climbed into the back of a long black limousine. It was the vehicle reserved for special occasions. Today there would be two.

The window behind the driver lowered.

“The ministry, sir?”

“No,” said Bhang. “Beijing Hospital.”

“Very good, sir.”

The window lifted back up.

As Bhang sat alone in the back of the large limousine, driving through Beijing, he considered what was now upon him.

He’d avenged the death of his brother, a death, he now realized, that had been caused inadvertently by his own vanity and paranoia. As much as he didn’t like Premier Li, the fact is, as paramount leader, a different set of responsibilities existed. Li was well within his rights to be upset at the appearance of the dead double agent, Dillman. Li was also justified, Bhang now realized, in his horror at the violence in Lisbon and England.

The leader of a country was supposed to set a moral example; could he himself set a moral example?

Bhang shut his eyes as he thought of Zhu. His expression had been so pathetic and sad as he watched his mistress fall to her death. He was embarrassed by what he’d done to Zhu, the cruelty he’d exhibited. Could he put aside that quality and lead a country? Could he react in a different, more-measured way when faced with the sort of challenges that would undoubtedly face him as China’s next leader?

Bhang smoked a cigarette as he stared out at the Beijing morning. He realized how absurd his self-doubt was.

It was, after all, his viciousness, his savageness, that had given him power in the first place. His willingness to kill Xiangou, so many years ago, was what had not only given him the ministry, but also saved his own life. Saved it from Xiangou, another man just as vicious as he. Even Li himself had paved his way to power with the corpses of those who would have prevented it.

Yes, Bhang realized, as the limousine pulled into Beijing Hospital, the very qualities that worried him most—his viciousness, duplicity, and cunning—were the only reason he now stood at the precipice of leading the world’s largest country.

Any self-doubt washed away as he saw his security detail waiting at the hospital door. In a way, the ceremony this morning was the very culmination of his time at the ministry; he would present China’s highest intelligence award to a man who had avenged the cruelest of deaths. It would be, he now realized as a smile crossed his lips, his final act as minister.

85

BEIJING HOSPITAL
BEIJING

The lobby of Beijing Hospital was a cavernous, light-filled atrium, its walls adorned with colorful murals.

A large crowd had gathered, hundreds of people—nurses, doctors, hospital administrators, even some patients. When Dewey appeared at the door, the crowd started clapping enthusiastically, and many started shouting.

The entire left side of Dewey’s shirt was stained with blood. He walked slowly into the atrium as the crowd cheered.

A photographer approached. He took several photos of Dewey as he walked to a podium that had been set up. Did they want him to say something?

He walked closer, nodding politely to the crowd, who cheered his every step. A man in a suit approached him and bowed before him, then shook his hand. Dewey guessed he ran the place.

There was a sudden commotion as, at the far side of the lobby, the doors opened and in stepped four men in paramilitary attire, walking two by two, shoulder holsters visible. One of the men held a carbine, which Dewey recognized: Beretta CX4 Storm, with Picatinny rails, forward grip, red-dot sight, and tactical light. The man had the deadlylooking firearm trained at the ground.

Dewey’s eyes shot left, then right, looking for an escape route. The four members of the security detail parted, and a short man in a black suit emerged from behind them.

The man was clapping as he entered the lobby and walked toward Dewey. He was shorter than Dewey expected, thinner, older, more frail-looking. But his eyes told a different story. He stared at Dewey as he drew closer; in their blackness, their focus, their cold assessment of Dewey, he saw the man who’d murdered Jessica.

Dewey’s heart raced. He scanned the lobby as, around him, the crowd began to applaud even louder, watching as Bhang approached. He was looking straight at Dewey as he walked across the shiny white floor. A wide smile was plastered across his lips. Under his arm was a beautiful mahogany box.

Bhang bowed as he stopped before him and looked up into his eyes.

Dewey eyed the gunmen with the carbine. The gunman was studying Dewey as hard as Dewey was studying him; Dewey registered the man’s finger was on the trigger of the Beretta.

Fight, Dewey. It’s all you can do. It’s all you could ever do.

You died doing something you believed in. You died for Jessica.

He didn’t want to die, but he knew he would never be able to live knowing he’d let the evil creature in front of him get away with it.

Bhang stepped in front of Dewey. The applause grew louder. Bhang opened the wooden box to the cacophonous cheering of the crowd. Inside the box was a large gold medallion attached to a beautiful red ribbon.

Dewey’s hair was soaking wet; his face was covered in perspiration. He stepped toward Bhang as Bhang held out the medal to wrap around his neck.

Dewey looked down at the medal, admiring it as Bhang smiled and started clapping. Slowly, Dewey leaned forward, bowing before Bhang. Pain shot from his shoulder. Time stood still.

Dewey remained bowed and reached to his ankle as the crowd continued to clap and cheer. He ripped his knife from the ankle holster, then stood up.

Bhang’s smile disappeared. A confused look shot across his face as he alone could see the black steel of the Gerber combat blade in Dewey’s hand. Bhang scanned Dewey’s eyes, his clothing, his shirt. Then Bhang’s black eyes flashed anger.

Bhang pointed at Dewey and started yelling in Mandarin.

Dewey lifted his arm above his head. He lurched for Bhang as Bhang turned to run, ripping the knife down, swinging with all his strength, slashing into the center of Bhang’s chest. Dewey felt the blade puncture Bhang’s tissue just as he was tackled from behind. They were too late. The strike ripped deep into Bhang’s chest as the two men went down, Dewey on top of him, beneath a horde of people, which pushed the Gerber straight through Bhang’s chest. Dewey felt the tip of the blade hit the hard marble of the hospital floor beneath Bhang.

Dewey’s face was above Bhang’s. Their eyes were just inches apart. Dewey watched as Bhang’s eyes fluttered. Their anger seemed to dissipate, replaced by calm, even resignation. Blood started pouring in thick, dark bursts from his nostrils, ears, and mouth. They stared at each other, eyes locked, as chaos gripped the hospital lobby and screams filled the air.

Bhang’s lips moved, but no sound came out, just blood, which poured from his lips in dark crimson. He coughed, struggling to get out his final words:

“Well done, Mr. Andreas,” he whispered, in English. Then his eyes shut.

86

BEIJING HOSPITAL
BEIJING

The hard staccato of automatic-weapon fire cracked the air. People dispersed, running in terror. More screams echoed through the atrium.

Dewey turned his head in time to see the gunman sprinting toward him, the muzzle of the Beretta CX4 trained at his head, the red laser beam from the red-dot sight flashing across his eyes. Terror enveloped the room. The man fired.

Dewey ducked as slugs tore out of the carbine, but he felt nothing except sharp pain in his shoulder. He looked behind him; one of the other guards was pummeled backward by the slugs.

A third gunman, to the right, charged at Dewey, pulling a sidearm from his shoulder holster. The gunman with the Beretta swiveled and pumped more slugs, which struck the other gunman in the forehead and kicked him backward in the air.

“If you want to live,” the gunman shouted at Dewey, “get the fuck up.”

*   *   *

Dewey followed the gunman, sprinting, through the lobby. Outside, a white Toyota Land Cruiser idled. The gunman sprinted to the back passenger door and opened it for Dewey.

“Hurry up,” shouted the gunman.

Dewey climbed in back as the gunman covered the SUV. He slammed the door and climbed into the front passenger seat. They sped away.

Seated in the front seat was another man, young and tall, dressed in paramilitary gear. In the backseat, next to Dewey, was a man in a suit. He had slightly longish black hair and was smoking a cigarette.

“Who are you?” asked Dewey.

The man stared forward, not responding, then took another drag from the cigarette.

“Where am I going?” asked Dewey. “Where are you taking me?”

Dewey reached up and touched his shoulder. His fingers came back red.

The Chinese man in the suit slapped the back of the passenger seat. He said something in Mandarin. The gunman reached into the center console and found a small box of tissue, which he handed to Dewey.

Dewey sat back, for the first time noticing a dark sedan just in front of them. He turned and saw another just behind them.

They moved through the crowded city center of Beijing, then climbed onto the highway. They moved fast, at least a hundred miles per hour, in the left lane.

They drove for an hour in total silence. Throughout the trip, none of the men so much as glanced at Dewey.

Somewhere in the country, where the highway cut through endless hills of green trees with seemingly no inhabitants, they exited the highway. They drove for several more miles. At some point, Dewey’s eyes caught the sight of tall, foreboding metal fencing with large cables of razor wire unfurled across the top. They drove alongside the fencing for what felt like an eternity. Finally they came to gates and passed through. Two soldiers saluted as they swept inside. Past the gates was an enormous military base that looked as if it ran to the horizon, crowded with soldiers, camouflaged troop carriers, and barracks.

On a tarmac deep inside the base, the Land Cruiser stopped beneath the wing of an old medium-sized tan-and-blue four-prop transport plane, which Dewey knew was a Shaanxi Y-8. The plane’s engines were already running.

A soldier opened Dewey’s door. He followed him to the plane and climbed aboard the plane. Before he even had time to sit down, the Shaanxi was moving down the runway. They were airborne a few moments later. Other than the two pilots, Dewey was alone.

Dewey found a restroom. For more than an hour, he peeled silicone and glue from his eyes, nose, and forehead. He scrubbed his face, then sat down in one of the plane’s canvas seats.

It wasn’t until then that he let himself try to figure out what had happened. It had to have been Calibrisi or Chalmers; and yet, he was brought to a military base. It didn’t add up.

It doesn’t matter. You did what you came to do. It’s over. Walk away.

Dewey didn’t feel happy or satisfied. He’d killed Bhang, and yet he would have traded a million Bhangs for Jessica. It was an unfair trade. But it was all he could do. It was all he could ever do.

Four hours later, the Shaanxi began its descent. He looked out the window. The hills were pitched in lush, bright green jungle. In the distance was the low, sprawling chaos of a city. Behind it were dark blue pockets of water, which he guessed were lakes.

Dewey stepped into the cockpit as the plane arced lower.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Hanoi,” said one of the pilots.

It was humid and hot as Dewey climbed down from the plane onto the tarmac. Standing at the base of the stairs were Calibrisi, Katie, and Tacoma.