“What about him? What time is it?”
“You must reach him immediately,” said the voice. “Tell him to call his friend Juan, in Mexico City.”
33
OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
President Dellenbaugh stared out at a particularly bright red rose blooming at the edge of the Rose Garden, a few drops of dew clinging to petals that looked as if they’d been painted by Georgia O’Keeffe.
It was 6:15
A.M.
and Dellenbaugh had been awake since four. He’d gone for a run on the treadmill in the private residence, trying to clear his mind, but he’d quit after only two miles.
Dellenbaugh turned and went back to his desk. For the third time, he attempted to read the front-page story, right-hand column, above the fold in
The New York Times
, announcing Jessica’s death.
U.S. NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISOR
TANZER KILLED IN ARGENTINA
(
Córdoba, Argentina
)—Jessica Tanzer, America’s top national security official, was killed yesterday while vacationing in Argentina. According to sources, Tanzer, 37, was shot to death at a remote ranch near the Andes …
Dellenbaugh had been president for only four months. Other than bringing in his own communications director, he hadn’t made any changes to the senior staff at the White House or any of the agencies. Starting from scratch, he wouldn’t have necessarily selected the exact same group, but he’d decided that, midterm, he wasn’t going to change a thing.
Some cabinet members, of course, had been more helpful than others. But no one had done more for Dellenbaugh than Jessica.
In her no-nonsense, smiling, confident way, she’d cut through the tangled, subterranean web of interlocking moving parts that was America’s national security infrastructure. She’d saved him time, so much time, by arguing, forcefully at times, when he was wrong.
Now she was gone.
He took the paper and held it up in front of him. He stared at the large color photo of Jessica that was spread across three columns, above the fold. The photo showed Jessica in the White House Briefing Room, conducting a press conference. She was wearing an elegant Burberry sleeveless dress, tan plaid, a bright string of pearls around her neck. Her auburn hair was brushed neatly back, parted in the middle, with her trademark bangs.
Dellenbaugh shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on not feeling overwhelmed by the loss, not to mention by the questions of who did it and why. He knew the implications were huge and that the country and the world—friend and foe alike—were now looking at the United States, and at him in particular, to see how Jessica’s death would be avenged.
The other question that ate at him: Who the hell would he get to fill Jessica’s shoes? The value of a president’s national security advisor was directly correlated to his or her willingness to be brutally honest, to be unafraid to hit the boss between the eyes with a proverbial two-by-four. The only other individual Dellenbaugh trusted to do this was Hector Calibrisi, but Dellenbaugh needed him across the river at Langley.
Dellenbaugh pushed his chair away. He got down on his knees, behind the desk. He leaned forward and folded his hands together in front of his face. He shut his eyes. And for the second time that morning, he prayed for Jessica.
When finally he opened his eyes, the door to the Oval Office was open. Hector Calibrisi was standing in the door.
“Mr. President,” said Calibrisi, “I apologize. Cecily wasn’t here—”
“Come in,” said Dellenbaugh, standing up, pointing at one of the tan chesterfield sofas in the center of the Oval Office.
Dellenbaugh and Calibrisi sat down across from one another. They shared a long, pregnant moment of silence.
“Time to get back on the horse?”
“Something like that,” said Calibrisi.
“From the
Times
article, it appears someone inside AFP is talking.”
“It’s unavoidable, Mr. President. The news is out. I don’t think it matters, though. This is not a Poirot mystery.”
“What do you mean?”
“We found a body.”
“When?”
“An hour ago. Lying on a hill, near a sniper nest.”
Calibrisi popped the latches of his briefcase. He removed a stack of photos. They showed a corpse, in various positions; prostrate on the ground, from the back, close-ups. The anterior of the man’s head was badly decomposed. Black and dark maroon from dried blood surrounded a crater at the back of the skull. The next photo showed what was left of the front of the man’s face, mostly gone now.
“He looks Asian,” said Dellenbaugh. “What does it mean?”
“We don’t know yet. My guess is, they were after Dewey. Perhaps Iran or someone affiliated with the Fortunas. The autopsy is happening as we speak. We need to know who this guy is before we draw any conclusions.”
“Where’s Dewey?” asked the president.
“He was dropped off in Miami last night.”
Dellenbaugh nodded.
“I sent some people down there to find him. From what the pilots say, he’s not doing well.”
“Can you blame him?”
“No,” said Calibrisi. “I know how I feel right now, and I can’t even imagine what he’s going through.”
“Did we bring the body back here for the autopsy?”
Calibrisi shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“No, sir. AFP has jurisdiction.”
“Can they be trusted? Should I call President Salazar?”
“I don’t trust anyone,” said Calibrisi, “certainly not the Argentinians. That said, we’re getting complete access to the investigation. They’ve allowed us to have our forensics team at all stages of the investigation. We have guys in on the autopsy. I don’t trust them, but I also don’t see any reason for them to fuck around. And if they try to fuck around, we’ll know immediately.”
“What if Jessica was the target?” asked Dellenbaugh.
Calibrisi sat back, joining his fingers behind his head.
“First of all, regardless of whether they were after Dewey or Jessica, the fact is, our national security advisor was murdered. There needs to be payback. It needs to be significant. Significant enough to let the world understand that America will not tolerate the assassination of our leaders. In my opinion, once we determine who did this, we have two choices. We can either make all of the evidence public, bring it to the United Nations, the media, et cetera, and let justice take its course. Or, we can take it off balance sheet.”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, you do whatever the hell you want,” said Dellenbaugh, his voice inflecting. “America has to punch back hard. Hell, give me a gun and I’ll go do it.”
“That shouldn’t be necessary, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “But the offer is appreciated.”
34
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Calibrisi sat alone in his office, reading an intelligence report from his Moscow chief of station. But try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate.
He reached for a different file and stared for the umpteenth time at photos of Jessica, dead on the floor of the ranch bedroom. It hurt to look at them, but then he would return to the photos. Calibrisi felt like he was staring at a puzzle.
Usually, when he was stuck on something that didn’t feel right, something he couldn’t figure out, he called Jessica. But now he was alone. His mind felt disheveled and unorganized. He was exhausted.
There was a knock on his door.
“Derek Chalmers called twice,” his assistant, Missy, said, referring to the head of British intelligence. “He said it’s very important.”
“You mind getting me a coffee?”
“Sure.”
Calibrisi hit a speed-dial button on his phone.
“Hi, Hector,” came the proper British accent of Chalmers, head of MI6. “What took you so long?”
“Sorry. I just got your messages.”
“I heard what happened,” said Chalmers. “I’m very sorry. You have my thoughts and prayers.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t think it would happen so soon,” said Chalmers. “We should have known. I blame myself.”
“Should’ve known what?” asked Calibrisi.
“Fao Bhang,” said Chalmers. “Obviously, he was behind this. We’ve drawn him out, just as we wanted. Unfortunately, his response was much more lethal than we anticipated.”
“Forgive me, Derek, it’s been a long day. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Take me off speaker,” said Chalmers.
Calibrisi picked up the handset.
“Jessica was assassinated by Fao Bhang,” said Chalmers, his voice sharp with impatience. “It’s clear. Our little package to Li’s granddaughter had an impact, just as we intended it to. This was revenge for Dillman. He wanted Dewey Andreas dead.”
A feeling of uneasiness came over Calibrisi. Had their operation resulted in Jessica’s death? There was no way. He pushed aside the thought. But a pang of guilt washed over him. The thought that he might have inadvertently done something that led to her death was too terrible to even contemplate.
“We don’t have anything linking Beijing to this,” Calibrisi said. “Dewey Andreas has a lot of enemies. China isn’t one of them. What evidence do you have?”
“Our sources inside Beijing say the premier’s granddaughter has been under medical care for three days now, and Li is extremely angry at Bhang. In addition, we’re seeing heightened activity out of the clandestine service. Ming-húa has canceled all vacation for his agents across the Eurasian theater. He’s exercised the retainers on an army of mercenaries they keep at the ready. Beijing is preparing for something.”
Calibrisi stared at the photos of Jessica.
“Are you there, Hector?” asked Chalmers. “Look, I know this is a hard time for you, but you need to keep your head. Jessica was, tragically, collateral damage in a larger war. It’s terrible. But this is our opening. We can’t lose sight of the objective. Bhang has popped his head out of the hole. We need to figure out how to chop it off. And we have to be careful. As Jessica’s death demonstrates, Bhang doesn’t play nice.”
Calibrisi’s door opened and Missy entered, placing a coffee down on his desk.
“Katie Foxx is on hold,” she whispered. “They found Dewey.”
“Derek, I have to call you back,” said Calibrisi.
35
MOTEL TRASO
LIMA
Pascal clicked send. His intended recipient, Raul, had yet to return even one of his texts. Not to mention the phone calls. Pascal had left so many voice mails on Raul’s cell phone that eventually the automated voice of a female came on and told him the mailbox was full.
With each passing minute, Pascal became more vulnerable. Pascal had information, valuable information. It was China who was behind Jessica Tanzer’s death. Properly leveraged, that information was worth a great deal. But that knowledge could also be his death knell.
Pascal walked to the window. In the distance, he could see the lights of downtown Lima. The motel room he stood in was disgusting. It reeked of old cigarettes, sex with prostitutes who wore cheap perfume, johns who sprayed on too much cologne, and room deodorizer. The bed was small. He’d slept most of the night on the filthy carpet because he could feel the springs pressing into his back as he’d tried to sleep. Sure, he could have stayed at the Four Seasons, but that’s what Ming-húa would be expecting. Ming-húa knew Pascal had expensive tastes, and that’s the first place he’d think to look for him. Pascal knew he needed to lay low.
Pascal had begun the slow, ineluctable realization that he had to run. Through the evening, he tried to convince himself that he could reach out to Beijing, to Ming-húa, and appeal to them to trust him. But it was a naïve illusion. He had to run. He had more than forty million dollars squirreled away, and he could afford to go wherever he wanted.
He heard the chime from his computer.
It was from Raul. Finally.
Help. Need to talk
Pascal double-clicked the chat icon on his laptop. A small video box popped up.
Where are you
Pascal waited for the photo to sharpen. He didn’t get a response from Raul. He typed in again.
WHERE ARE YOU
Finally, letters appeared:
Beijing
Suddenly, the video focused and became lighter. It was a live feed showing a hallway. Someone was holding a camera as they walked. Pascal stared into the screen. A door appeared, the number
6
on it.
“Fuck,” he said to himself, staring at the video.
Pascal reached for his pack of cigarettes. Behind him, he suddenly heard the sound of the door being opened.
“Maid,” came a female voice from behind him.
“Stay out,” he barked.
Pascal’s eye moved from the computer screen to a red plastic room key on the desk. A gold
6
was etched into the plastic.
In the same moment that the video feed showed a black boot kicking a door, the motel-room door behind him exploded violently, kicked in from the outside.
Turning, Pascal saw a woman. She was Chinese, with a camera on her forehead, and tight black shirt and pants. She clutched a PP-19 Bizon submachine gun, suppressor jutting from the muzzle.
Pascal charged the assassin, but she triggered the weapon. A spray of bullets sliced horizontally across his torso, stopping his forward progress, then catapulting Pascal backward. The assassin stepped forward, stood above him, then watched as Pascal’s eyes rolled back in his head. She sprayed another suppressed hail of slugs down at his head, grabbed his laptop, then turned and walked quickly out of the room, leaving the door open and Pascal’s cigarette burning on the carpet next to his destroyed skull.
36
DISTRICT 7 REGIONAL HEADQUARTERS
ARGENTINE FEDERAL POLICE
CÓRDOBA
Colonel Arman Marti closed the door to his temporary office on the third and top floor of AFP’s regional headquarters. The room was dark. He did not turn on the lights. Instead, he groped through the large bottom drawer of his desk, feeling for a pair of night-vision goggles. He pulled them out, then flipped on the power button.
On the desk in front of him was a small manila envelope.
It was 3:00
A.M.
It had been four hours since he’d left Charlie Couture, the CIA chief of station, at the hotel bar, where the entire team was staked out for the duration of the investigation into Jessica Tanzer’s death.