“Was he hit?”

“No.”

“Was he with someone?”

“Yes. A woman.”

“Did Raul shoot the woman?”

“Yes.”

*   *   *

In a small windowless room deep in the bowels of the ministry, which looked like the control room on a nuclear submarine, Bhang stood with his arms crossed, a cigarette dangling in his right hand. With him was Quan, who directed the ministry’s intelligence-gathering unit, and Bo Minh, his half brother, the inventor of the lie detector, who was managing the controls of the device.

All three men stared at the small plasma screen on the wall, which displayed a live feed of Chang.

At Chang’s last words, Bhang leaned forward and hit the mute button.

“Did he just say what I think he said?” asked Bhang, shock and anger in his voice.

On the screen, Chang’s bloodshot, nearly lifeless eyes stared into the camera.

Quan shrugged his shoulders.

Bhang lifted his finger from the mute button.

“Please repeat what you just said.”

“Fuck you,” moaned Chang, delirious.

Bhang nodded to Minh, who grabbed a dial beneath the screen and turned. Blood burst at different points on Chang’s body as the probes, with Minh’s assistance, pressed in tighter, crushing him.

“Please, Mr. Chang, repeat what you said,” ordered Bhang.

“Raul shot her. He killed her. He hit her in the back.”

Bhang looked at Minh.

“End the feed, if you would, Bo,” he said. “Cut him down. Get rid of him.”

Bhang walked to the door. At the door, he turned.

“Please find Ming-húa,” he said to Quan. “Tell him to be in my office in exactly thirty seconds. Then take care of Raul’s body, the pilots, the plane, everything. Erase all evidence.”

25

PROVINCIAL POLICE DEPARTMENT

CÓRDOBA

Two men walked briskly into the provincial police department headquarters. One of the men was in his fifties, tall, with dark skin and a thick head of black hair. This was Colonel Arman Marti, director general of Argentina Federal Police, the country’s top law-enforcement agency, Argentina’s equivalent to the FBI. The other man was much younger, in his early thirties, had curly brown hair, and was shorter. This was Charlie Couture, Argentina chief of station for the CIA.

It was five in the morning.

Marti and Couture walked past the front desk without slowing. They entered a hallway that ran along the cellblock. At the last cell, Marti swiped a small steel card in front of a scanner. There was a loud click as the dead bolt popped open.

The two men stepped inside. The cell was dimly lit, humid, and smelled of body odor.

Seated on the ground was a shirtless man. He had on jeans and boots. His brown hair was disheveled, and he had several days’ worth of stubble on his face. Marti’s head jerked back as he looked at the man, an involuntary gesture as he realized the man was not only awake, but waiting, with a blank, hateful look.

The man was seated against the wall, staring at the two men as they entered the cell.

Couture spoke first.

“Hi, Dewey,” he said. “I’m Charlie Couture from Langley. This is Colonel Marti, who runs AFP. First things first: How are you?”

Couture and Marti waited for Dewey to respond, but he remained silent.

“We have the ranch cordoned off,” said Marti. “Is there any information you can provide to us? Did you see anything?”

Dewey stared impassively at Marti.

“I can have someone get your stuff,” said Couture. “You don’t need to go back there if you don’t feel like it.”

Dewey stared past the two men. He had a distant look, like he was staring at something a thousand miles away.

“We have a jet over at the airport that’ll fly you back to the U.S.”

Dewey still didn’t move or say anything.

Marti glanced at Couture, who returned the look.

Couture pulled a phone from his pocket and hit a button.

“It’s me,” Couture said into the phone. A moment later, he handed the phone to Dewey. “It’s Hector.”

Dewey hesitated, then took the phone.

“Dewey,” said Calibrisi.

Dewey took a deep breath but remained quiet.

“I’ve got a forensics team heading down there,” continued Calibrisi. “Six of my best guys. Jim Bruckheimer at NSA has a group charging hard as well. We’re going to find out who did this.”

There was a long moment of silence as Calibrisi paused, waiting for Dewey to talk.

“You there?”

“Yeah.”

“I know it’s tough, but right now, we need your help.”

“I know.”

“Did you see anyone? Do you think it was Iran?”

Dewey looked up at Couture, then at Marti. Both men were staring down at him. Couture nodded at Dewey, understanding that he wanted some privacy. He took Marti gently by the elbow and pushed him toward the cell door.

“It was a kill team,” said Dewey.

“How do you know?” asked Calibrisi.

“It was a three-man team. I found the sniper nest, five or six hundred yards out. I found someone in the field beyond the nest. He was already dead. The body was cold. Most of his head was shot off. But he looked Asian.”

“Did you tell Marti?”

“No. I don’t trust anyone down here. They knew we were here.”

“There are a ton of ways to track someone. We need to find that body and look at it.”

“Hector, I’m asking you, don’t tell AFP yet. Let me go look at the body in the daylight.”

“Fine.”

“Who runs the autopsy?” asked Dewey.

“AFP has jurisdiction,” said Calibrisi. “We’ll get access to the findings and we’ll sit in on the autopsy. The president of Argentina waived protocol and is letting us take Jess home this morning.”

“Why would someone…?”

“It could mean anything,” said Calibrisi. “You know that. There are a million possible explanations, with Iran being right there at the top of the list. Let’s get the body and look at it.”

“I have to go.”

“Were you in the room when Jessica was shot?” asked Calibrisi.

The question caused a pained expression to shoot across Dewey’s face, as he thought of that last sight of Jessica, standing in the French doors.

“Yeah. I watched it happen. They shot her in the back.”

“I think you should come back up here. Let us do our job down there.”

Dewey tasted salt as tears ran down his cheek into his mouth.

“Her body’s at the airport,” added Calibrisi. “We’ll bring her back to Andrews. Her parents are devastated.”

Dewey held the phone against his ear, staring at Couture and Marti, who stood, patiently, outside the cell, out of earshot.

“How will it be announced?”

Calibrisi exhaled deeply.

“I don’t know. I’m headed over to the White House in a few minutes to talk about that. It’ll happen today.”

Dewey felt a sudden wave of nausea.

“I have to go,” said Dewey.

“Hold on,” said Calibrisi. “I want to say something. I know you want to hit back. I want revenge too. I loved her like a daughter. Heads are going to fucking roll over this.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, let’s find out who the hell did this then design a proper retaliation, together.”

“There’s no amount of people we could kill to get even,” said Dewey. “There’s no way to bring Jessica back.”

“I know we can’t bring her back. But we can make anyone and everyone who was involved pay dearly.”

Dewey didn’t say anything more. He hung up the phone.

*   *   *

Behind police headquarters, Dewey climbed into the back of a dark green AFP Chevy Suburban. They drove in silence back to Estancia el Colibri. Dewey tried to focus on the road ahead, tried to avoid the dark thoughts that kept recurring.

He reached down and felt for his knife. The sheath was gone. Then he remembered being tackled on the tarmac. Hitting the ground as the two police officers strong-armed him down. Watching the Gulfstream lift off.