The screen suddenly exploded in bright yellow light, as if a light switch had been turned on.

The view was grainy, a fish-eye lens that provided a wide picture of the entire suite.

Four men, clad in black, stood front and center; three at the foot of the bed, weapons trained at the bed, night optics on, and a fourth commando just behind them, near the door.

As the light went on, the agents appeared frantic, swinging their weapons around.

Bhang lurched for the screen, pointing at the corner of the live video feed.

“Watch out!” he screamed, to no one, pointing at a large figure in the corner of the room, who Bhang realized was Andreas.

Bhang and Ming-huá watched in silence and horror as Dewey stepped forward, toward the unsuspecting commando at the door, and the muzzle of his machine gun sparked black and silver. The agent at the door was kicked by bullets. The American swung the weapon right, slashing a hail of lead across the three agents at the foot of the bed, all of them collapsing to the ground.

Bhang and Ming-huá watched, transfixed, as Dewey ran to the door, then disappeared around the corner.

Bhang’s face turned beet red, but he remained calm. For a long time, he stared at the picture. He even lit another cigarette. The scene was grisly. The light-colored carpet was quickly overtaken in dark as the four dead agents bled out.

When Bhang completed the cigarette, he dropped it to the ground and stepped on it with his shoe, then stepped to the plasma screen. He placed his hands on the top edge of the screen and yanked. The screen came tumbling to the ground and smashed.

Bhang looked at Ming-huá.

“Could Borchardt have betrayed us?” Ming-huá asked quietly.

“No,” snapped Bhang.

“There is no other explanation, Minister.”

“Yes, there is,” said Bhang, storming toward the door. “Andreas is smarter than we anticipated. I want leadership in my office immediately.”

In his office, Bhang removed his coat and tossed it on his desk. He went to the credenza and opened the doors. Inside was a whiteboard. He picked up a marker and removed the cap.

Ming-huá trailed Bhang, taking a seat at the table. Several other members of the ministry’s senior leadership team arrived soon thereafter.

Bhang wrote three things on the whiteboard:

1. SANITIZE LONDON: XIAO

2. FIND BORCHARDT: MING-HUÁ

3. WARN: DHENG

“Is this clear?” asked Bhang, looking at the table. “Top priority is cleaning up London. Xiao, coordinate with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. We want to get those bodies out of there or, failing that, cut off any connection these men had to the ministry.”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Second, find Borchardt,” said Bhang, pointing at Ming-huá. “Find out if he’s dead. If not, track him down. Planes, cars, homes, credit cards—everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Third, Dheng, get a warning out to all personnel in the UK, Europe, and Russia. Include a photo. He could be going for more of our people. They need to be warned.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bhang scanned the table.

“Go,” he barked, “except you.” Bhang pointed at Ming-huá.

After the others left, he looked at Ming-huá.

“I want a security detail on Bo,” said Bhang. “Two men. Good men.”

“Yes, Minister. It will be done immediately.”

49

LONDON

Dewey and Borchardt arrived at Heathrow just after midnight. They climbed aboard the plane and were greeted by Borchardt’s two copilots. Dewey still held the MP7, which he kept trained on Borchardt as they passed the men, who were seated in the cockpit with the door open.

Both pilots were ex–Israeli Air Force, and they knew their boss and the rough world he ran in. They were paid many times more than any typical pilot, in exchange for their silence and discretion and, of course, their loyalty. Still, a look of stunned shock hit their faces when they saw Borchardt at gunpoint, walking up the airstairs.

“It’s okay,” said Borchardt as they climbed aboard, smiling at the two men. “This is Dewey. Do what he says.”

Borchardt’s Boeing 757 was a flying fortress of luxury. There was no other way to describe the customized jet. It had cost Borchardt next to nothing, except for the three million dollars he’d spent on the cosmetic aspects of the jet, including removing more than a dozen different murals of Saddam Hussein, painted on the ceiling and on various walls throughout the plane.

It was no secret to anyone that Borchardt had sold many things to Hussein over the years, including centrifuges and more than a half ton of low-grade enriched uranium; both of which had gone relatively unused and had ultimately been sold by Hussein—through Borchardt—to Iran. Hussein’s appetite, Borchardt always said, was bigger than his bite. While he liked many people in Iraq, including one of Hussein’s sons, Borchardt privately believed the Iraqis were too undisciplined and unfocused to develop nuclear weapons. He was more than willing to profit from their ambitions, however.

When the United States invaded Iraq the second time, the government of Iraq owed Borchardt fifty-five million dollars. Borchardt knew that when Hussein went on the lam, as the Americans got close to capturing him, he’d lost any chance of collecting on his debt. So instead, Borchardt had simply appropriated one of Hussein’s many planes.

The plane had two staterooms, which looked like suites at a Four Seasons Hotel, including marble-tiled bathrooms with showers and bathtubs. There was a state-of-the-art media room with several large plasma screens built into the walls. The plane had a small but luxurious general seating area, similar to the first-class section of a normal airliner, with spacious black leather captain’s chairs and a large wet bar. The galley kitchen was small but adequate.

The cargo area below was used for weapons. Hussein stocked it with enough firepower for a small war—with dozens of machine guns, carbines, shoulder-fired missiles, grenade launchers, handguns, stores of ammunition, explosives, first-aid equipment, in-theater communications gear, parachutes, even a small portable field surgical unit, with basic life-monitoring systems, oxygen, and a retinue of surgical equipment for basic battle-theater fixes and repairs.

Borchardt had left it all alone. As with many of Hussein’s weapons, the cache aboard the jet was shiny and unused, like a spoiled child’s toys.

Dewey pushed Borchardt into the passenger section, then tethered him to one of the leather seats, flex-cuffing his skinny wrists and ankles to the seat. He started to wrap tape around his mouth to gag him, but Borchardt protested.

“That’s not necessary,” said Borchardt. “Please. I can understand the cuffs, but do you really need to gag me? I won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”

Dewey wrapped the tape around his mouth anyway.

“I’m not doing it to shut you up, Rolf,” said Dewey. “I’m doing it to make you uncomfortable.”

When he finished a couple of turns of the tape, Dewey walked back to the cockpit.

“Hi, guys,” he said, leaning into the cockpit.

The pilots shared a glance, then looked at Dewey.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” said Dewey. “Borchardt either. Just get this thing in the air and aim for China.”

“Why China?” asked one of the men.

Dewey didn’t respond.

“I know you guys are ex-IDF. I was part of the team that got Kohl Meir out of Iran.”

The pilots nodded, saying nothing.

“I’m not telling you this because I expect you to betray your boss,” continued Dewey. “I don’t. I expect Borchardt to do what I say and you guys to just do your jobs. Got it?”

“Yes,” said the pilot on the left.

“I know you guys are smart, ex-military, all that. I know you could make things difficult for me. You need to understand that if you do that, I will kill Borchardt and then I will kill you. Capiche?”