Eye for an Eye (48 page)

Dewey took the wooden spoon and stirred as they both stood next to the fire.

“So you going to stay the night? Vivian made up a bed for you.”

“Sure,” said Dewey. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“So have you thought about things?” asked Calibrisi.

“No.”

“You want to know what your options are?” asked Calibrisi.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No,” said Calibrisi. “I spoke to Giles Smith down at Fort Bragg. You’d be welcomed back with open arms. You could be part of the training team, new Deltas. He said they could really use you.”

Dewey nodded.

“Don’t get too excited,” said Calibrisi.

“I’m honored.”

“Then there’s Katie and Rob. They’d make you a partner. If you ask me, that would be a lot of fun. You’d make a shitload of money, travel all over the place.”

Dewey nodded.

“Okay,” continued Calibrisi, shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, you’re a hard man to please. Third, finally, there’s Langley. You can come and work for me. We could send you into the field, you can train guys at the farm, whatever you want. The money isn’t great, but I think you’d enjoy it.”

Dewey said nothing.

“To be honest,” continued Calibrisi, “that’s what I think you should do. I think you should work in an environment where the guy you’re reporting to understands what you’ve been through.”

Calibrisi paused.

“Dewey, I think you need to talk to someone. I’m talking about lying down on a couch somewhere and reflecting, rebuilding a little. I’ve done it. You’d be an incredibly valuable CIA asset, but on a personal level, I’m worried about you. I think you need to talk to someone. No one person can go through what you just went through and be fine. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way.”

Dewey smiled.

“Not at all.”

Just then, Daisy approached from across the field. She was carrying two beers, which she handed to Dewey and her father.

“Mom made me bring these out to you,” she said, smiling at Dewey, then her dad.

“Thanks, kiddo,” said Calibrisi.

“Yeah, thanks, kiddo,” said Dewey.

Daisy had showered and was now dressed in a tight brown sweater and white jeans which may have been a size too small but were unlikely to garner any criticism, except perhaps from her parents.

“You look nice,” said Calibrisi, looking at his daughter, then at Dewey, who was trying not to look. “What’s the big occasion?”

“It’s Thanksgiving, Dad,” she said, smiling at Dewey. “Can’t I put on something nice?”

Daisy stuck out her tongue at her father, then turned.

“By the way, Mom wants to know what time you two idiots are coming inside.”

“Soon,” said Calibrisi. “Give us a few more minutes.”

“Okay,” she said. She glanced at Dewey, then turned and headed back inside.

Dewey watched her walk away, then looked at Calibrisi.

“She’s too young for you,” said Calibrisi.

“Please,” said Dewey, “give me a little credit, will you? The last thing I’m looking for is a twenty-one-year-old girlfriend.”

“She’s twenty-three,” said Calibrisi.

“She is?”

Calibrisi smiled.

“Anyway, back to reality. Those are your choices, at least the ones I can help you out with. But I want you to know I’ll do anything for you. At the end of the day, you deserve to be happy.”

Dewey said nothing. He picked a log and tossed it on the fire.

“So what are you thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Nothing? Trust me, I’ve heard some weird shit over the years.”

“Okay, you want to know what I’m thinking?” asked Dewey.

Dewey leaned down, grabbed another large piece of wood, and threw it into the fire. He crouched down and held his hands up toward the warmth of the burning wood.

“I think I only have two choices, Hector,” said Dewey. “And to be honest, I’m not sure which one I should go with.”

“Well, talk to me,” said Calibrisi.

“I’m just not sure you’re the right one to talk to.”

“Dewey, trust me. You can tell me anything. You’re not going to upset me.”

“I know I’m not. I just think it’s a very personal decision.”

“Let me guess. Langley or Katie and Rob? Let’s go though the pros and cons.”

“That’s not the choice, Hector,” said Dewey.

“Bragg or Langley? Bragg or Katie and Rob?”

“No. I hate to break it to you, but I’m not thinking about any of those things you talked about.”

Calibrisi said nothing. For a brief moment, he appeared crestfallen. He stirred the syrup. Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke.

“Okay,” said Calibrisi. “What’s the choice?”

“I think the choice is, white or dark meat,” said Dewey. “Which one should I eat first? I like ’em both. What are you going to go with?”

Dewey glanced at Calibrisi, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Asshole,” said Calibrisi.

BEIJING

General Qingchen sat in his normal position, on the wooden bench, alone, atop the Ministry of Defense building. It was a rare day in Beijing, clear, without smog or clouds. Qingchen could see the roof of the Forbidden Palace in the distance. He made eye contact with the white pigeon who sat on the far arm of the bench, staring politely at Qingchen’s sandwich, waiting for his usual reward. After an hour, Qingchen still had not taken a bite. Finally, he took the sandwich and ripped it into small pieces, then placed the plate on the ground. The pigeon hopped down, picked up a small piece of bread, and began eating what would undoubtedly be the biggest feast of his life.

He looked around the rooftop. The grass had been his late wife’s idea. Qingchen had been to many places in his life, all over the world, but this was his favorite.

It had been a long month, a month whose repercussions inside Beijing, and in particular the Ministry of Defense, were still being felt. Li had begun his purges within a day of Fao Bhang’s death, and the upper ranks of the military, Chinese intelligence, the Communist Party, and the State Council, were but shadows of their former selves. Dozens of officers had been rounded up and now awaited military tribunal. It had all come crashing down, as violently, as suddenly, as the dagger that tore through Bhang himself, though far more blood would be spilled in the days and weeks to come than anything Bhang left on the white marble floor at Beijing Hospital.

Qingchen had yet to be touched. Part of him believed it was because they hadn’t gotten to him yet. But he knew that wasn’t the case. The truth is, as much as Li might have suspected him, he didn’t have proof. How, after all, can you prove a man guilty when the only witnesses—Bhang, and Kai-wen, Qingchen’s deputy—were both dead; Bhang by the American, and Kai-wen by Qingchen himself, with poison, less than fifteen minutes after Bhang was killed and the wily general figured out that unless he killed his loyal deputy, he himself would swing from the gallows.

The pigeon chomped away at the sandwich, and then heard a noise. The bird abruptly flew off into the clear sky as, at the far side of the rooftop, the door opened.

One man stepped onto the rooftop and started to walk toward Qingchen. He kept walking until he came face-to-face with Qingchen.

“Good afternoon, General.”

“Premier Li. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I would have been more than happy to make the trip to Zhongnanhai.”

“On such a beautiful day, I thought it would be nice to visit you here. I would like to speak candidly with you, General. May I do that?”

“Yes, of course.”

Li and Qingchen began a stroll across the lawn, toward the edge of the roof, where boxes of white lilacs were growing.

“I believe it’s time to announce your retirement, General Qingchen,” said Li, as they arrived at roof’s edge. Ten stories below, the city traffic teemed.

“My retirement?” asked Qingchen. “I had assumed that was a decision that would be made by the State Council. Please don’t take that the wrong way. But that is not only customary, it is in fact the law.”

“Yes,” said Li, “I assumed you would take that approach. There have been rumors, General.”

“Rumors?”

“Of your involvement. You know what I refer to.”

“Ah, yes, the purported elevation of Bhang,” said Qingchen.

Li put his shoe up on the knee-high brick balustrade that ran along the edge of the roof. He looked out at Beijing.

“Were you involved?” asked Li.

Qingchen paused, then, after a moment, nodded.

“Yes, Mr. Premier.”

“Thank you for your candor,” said Li, “but now I am left with the challenge of having to conduct an investigation, charge you, that sort of thing. The alternative would seem much more appealing to everyone concerned.”

Qingchen stared for several moments at the shorter Li. Just then, the door opened and a soldier stepped onto the roof. It was one of the members of the general’s personal security detail. Qingchen nodded to him, then subtly waved him over. Li glanced at the soldier as he approached. He held a carbine, which he had strapped across his chest, aimed at the ground.

“Mr. Premier, I have a riddle for you,” said Qingchen as the soldier approached. The soldier stopped a few feet away from them, then trained the muzzle of the rifle at Li.

Li was silent.

“What is more powerful,” asked Qingchen, a smile appearing on his face, “information or strength?”

“I don’t know,” said Li.

Qingchen’s face adopted a sinister stare.

“If you can’t answer my riddles, Mr. Premier, what good are you to me?” asked Qingchen, nodding at the soldier.

“Wait,” said Li, eyeing the muzzle of the soldier’s rifle. “The answer is neither.”

“What do you mean, neither?” asked Qingchen.

“Neither information nor strength, General, is as powerful as luck.”

“This meeting only becomes more amusing,” said Qingchen, laughing. “Your weakness and stupidity confirm whatever plans I had to remove you from power, Qishan. The answer is strength. After all, you have enough information to hang me, and yet, it is my strength that will now determine not only my fate, but yours as well.”

“It’s luck,” said Li. “If you don’t believe me, ask the soldier.”

Li pointed at the young soldier, then reached out and politely moved the muzzle of his weapon so that it was aimed at Qingchen.

“How else could you possibly explain how my nephew came to serve on your personal security staff?” asked Li, smiling. “Is it not luck, General? In fact, I feel so lucky I think I’ll go to Macau this weekend and play some blackjack.”

Li walked away as the sound of a gunshot echoed across the rooftop.

MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

Dewey was brushing his teeth when the door to the bathroom opened ever so slightly. He pulled it open as he brushed, looking around. He saw nothing. He looked down. Sitting there was the Calibrisis’ German shepherd, Lizzie. She looked up at him with a kindly look, her tongue out, a dog’s version of a smile.

He finished brushing, then walked down the hall to the guest bedroom. When he went to shut the door, Lizzie was standing there. Dewey leaned down and scratched her gently. She was an old dog, and some of the hair around her eyes and mouth was gray.

“Good dog.”

The old German shepherd put her nose in the crack of the door when he went to shut it. Dewey smiled and let her in. He climbed into the king-size bed. When he went to turn out the lamp on the bedside table, Lizzie was lying on the floor, next to the bed, curled up.

Dewey was tired. He’d eaten three helpings of turkey, two pieces of pecan pie, and drank down a respectable amount of beer along with a glass or three of whiskey. He’d watched football, gotten mauled several times by Daisy in Scrabble, and taken his revenge on the basement Ping-Pong table.

He put his hand behind his neck, smiling, staring at the moonlight-crossed ceiling.

Suddenly, he heard Lizzie rustling beside the bed. He turned on the bedside light. The dog was sitting obediently next to the bed, looking at him. She took her paw and reached up to the bed.

Dewey smiled. He pulled the covers aside and climbed out of bed. He lifted Lizzie onto the bed, then climbed back under the covers and turned out the light. He again lay down, his arm behind his head. Lizzie inspected the bed for a minute or two, then found a spot next to Dewey. She curled up against him.

“So what do you think I should do?” Dewey asked the old dog.

He put his arm under the dog’s head, patting her chest. He looked up at the white and black pattern made by the moonlight across the ceiling. Soon, he heard the soft wheezing of the old German shepherd as she drifted off to sleep.

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Dewey.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing the acknowledgments is one of the best parts of writing a book. It means you’re done. All that’s left now is to sit back and wait for the book to hit the bookstores, then cross your fingers and hope everyone likes reading it as much as you enjoyed writing it. So let me start by thanking some people without whom I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, be writing.

First, there’s you, my readers. As I write this, I’m on a plane, heading out west for a few weeks with my family. Out the window, I can see the green and blue land of America, spreading so perfectly to a black line at the horizon. I know many of you are down there. Knowing that makes the land, seen from up here, five miles up in the sky, feel like I’m looking across the town square in my hometown. Thank you for doing that, wherever you happen to be. Let me tell you, it’s an amazing feeling for me to look down and know I’m among friends.

Next, I want to thank America’s veterans. A gentleman wrote to me a few months ago and asked if I’d send a signed copy of one of my books to his son, who is at a veterans’ hospital; he lost his right arm in Afghanistan. His father was worried about him, and thought I might be able to cheer him up. He said I was his son’s favorite author. Though that should’ve made me happy, I found myself picturing a young soldier, a kid really, lying in a bed somewhere, his arm gone, his spirits, too, and it took every ounce of strength I had not to lose it. I’m not sure you could ever adequately thank our veterans, but for what it’s worth, I write these books for you guys.