“Then let’s kill that son of a bitch too.”

“Nothing would please me more, but we’ve never had a shot at him,” said Calibrisi. “Bhang doesn’t travel outside the People’s Republic of China. He hasn’t been seen in the West since 1998. Inside PRC, forget it. He’s as well guarded as the premier.”

“Let’s cut our losses and kill Dillman,” said Dayan. “I’m not a fan of fancy intelligence operations—double agents, disinformation, whatnot. They never work. We’re seeing firsthand how they get all fucked up. It’s time to clean up this mess and tie it off. As for Bhang, we’re wasting our time. The man’s a ghost. Let’s focus on what we can do, namely kill what has to be the most important intelligence asset Bhang possesses in the West. That’s at least something.”

“I have an idea,” said Chalmers.

“Go ahead, Derek,” said Lavine, picking up an unlit cigar stub from his desk and sticking it in his mouth, then looking at Dayan.

“Even before this Dillman episode, Fao Bhang has done damage to all of us. Bhang and the ministry are a country unto themselves. He’s the third-highest ranking member of the Chinese State Council, but he’s the most powerful by far. Premier Li fears him, as does the country’s military. His tentacles extend into China’s economic affairs. He’s been an instrumental part of the currency manipulation that has plagued Britain and, on a much more dramatic scale, the United States, for years. For all I know, his hackers are listening in right now.”

“They’re not,” said Cooperman. “I assure you of this.”

“Forgive me, but your assurances mean nothing.”

“What’s your point?” asked Lavine.

“Bhang is rising,” said Chalmers. “His malevolence grows. This is simply another chapter in a very dark book.”

There was silence in the room and over the intercom as Chalmers paused.

“My question is, when are we going to do something about it?” he asked.

“So what’s your idea?” asked Calibrisi.

“We have to find Dillman,” said Chalmers. “Obviously. Then, my suggestion is, we use him. But not in the way you’re thinking, Hector. No, instead of using him for disinformation then killing him, we’re going to switch the order around. Kill him, then use him. We’re going to lure Fao Bhang out of his hole, and Dillman is going to be our bait.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Rolber.

“Bhang won’t care about the loss of one human being, even his most treasured asset in the West, but he will care if the loss of Dillman exposes him as weak, as not in control,” said Chalmers. “If we can undermine him in the terribly cutthroat drama that is Chinese leadership, it will endanger him. It will, potentially, signal those who fear Bhang or who covet his power. It’s time to destabilize Fao Bhang and let his enemies move against him. Otherwise, there will be no end to his reach and the damage he inflicts upon the West.”

Cooperman suddenly reached for his chest pocket and pulled out a vibrating cell phone.

“What?” he whispered into the cell.

Cooperman listened, then signaled at the phone, indicating to Lavine to mute the conference call.

“We found him,” whispered Cooperman, looking at Lavine, then Dayan and Rolber. “He’s in Haifa.”

Lavine pressed the mute button on the speakerphone.

“Haifa?” asked Lavine. “What do we have there?”

“I have a kill team in the city,” said Rolber. “Boroshevsky, Malayim. They’re good to go.”

“No,” said Dayan. “This is not Mossad’s kill.”

“You don’t trust us now, General?” demanded Rolber.

“It has nothing to do with whether or not I trust you,” said Dayan, his gravelly voice rising. “I gave my word to Andreas; it’s Kohl Meir’s kill. Get Meir up to Haifa, brief him en route, get him whatever weapons he wants. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the meantime, Fritz and I will coordinate with MI6 and Langley. I’m not sure I understand what the hell Derek Chalmers is talking about, but I like it. These British always have brilliant ideas, even if their food does suck.”

2

DAN CARMEL HOTEL

HAIFA, ISRAEL

Dillman walked through the lobby of the hotel, stopping outside the sliding glass doors. He stared at the rising sun, then glanced around. Like all Mossad agents, he’d been looking over his shoulder for so long it was second nature.

He was dressed in blue tennis shorts, a white shirt, and black-and-white Adidas tennis sneakers. In his hand, he held a yellow Babolat racket.

Dillman began his morning jog in the hotel driveway. He ran down the steep, winding road toward the neighborhood called Carmeliya. He ran past large stucco homes until he came to a school, then ran across the parking lot to the public tennis court. There he would hit the ball against the backboard for an hour or so, then jog back to the hotel.

As he came around the corner of the school, he was surprised to find somebody already at the backboard, hitting tennis balls. Dillman thought about turning around and heading back. He didn’t feel like waiting God knows how long for the court.

Instead, Dillman approached the man. He was young, bearded, and scraggly-looking. He was dressed in red sweatpants, a long-sleeve gray T-shirt, topped with a yellow baseball cap and mirrored sunglasses.

The man tossed the ball up and swatted it toward the backboard. Dillman could tell by the rhythm and pace that the player was decent.

“How long will you be, my friend?” asked Dillman in Hebrew.

The player turned, raising his hands.

“I only just arrived,” the man said, slightly annoyed.

“No worries,” said Dillman. “I’ll go for a run instead.”

As Dillman started to walk away, he heard a whistle. He turned around. The tennis player waved him over.

“Would you like to hit some?” the man called from the court.

Dillman shrugged.

“Sure,” he said.

They played for the better part of an hour. The stranger was good. His strokes were a little unnatural, but he was fast and was able to get to everything, despite a slight limp. He beat Dillman 6–3 in the first set. Dillman took the second 7–5. Then, in the third, the bearded stranger jumped to a 4–0 lead.

In the middle of the fifth game, they both heard the string break, after the young man ripped a particularly nice backhand up the line, out of Dillman’s reach. Dillman welcomed the interruption. Not only was the younger man beating the crap out of him, but Dillman was sweating like a pig and hungry for breakfast.

“That’s too bad,” said Dillman, breathing heavily. “I guess that means I win, yes?”

Dillman had been kidding, an attempt at a joke, but the stranger either didn’t hear the joke or, if he had, didn’t think it was funny.

“I have another racket,” the man said, walking to the bench at the side of the court. Other than the score, it was the first thing the young man had said the entire match.

He unzipped his racket bag.

Dillman walked toward him as he reached into his bag.

“Are you from the area?” asked Dillman as he came up behind the stranger.

The man kept his back to Dillman as he searched inside his bag.

“No,” he answered. “Tel Aviv.”

“Are you a student? Do you play at the university? You’re very good.”

The stranger turned around and removed his sunglasses.

“No, I’m not a student,” he said. “I’m in the military.”

Dillman stared into the stranger’s eyes. Something in his dark, brown eyes triggered Dillman’s memory. Then, slowly, Dillman looked to the man’s right hand. Instead of a graphite shaft there was a thick piece of wood; instead of a racket head and strings, there was the dull steel of a large ax, the kind of ax you could chop down a tree with.

“Your second serve needs some work,” said the man, who Dillman now recognized: Kohl Meir. “Other than that, you’re actually not bad.”