“The SID code breaker couldn’t figure it out.”

“They know where he is,” said Katie, urgency in her voice. “They have a location on him.”

Calibrisi opened his phone.

“Get me Jim Bruckheimer again,” he told the CIA operator.

A few moments later, Bruckheimer came on the line.

“How can I miss you if you won’t leave?” asked Bruckheimer.

Calibrisi didn’t laugh.

“I need you to find out where that location is. This termination order went out more than two hours ago. We’re behind here. Dewey is a sitting duck.”

“If it didn’t decrypt, it means it won’t, Hector,” said Bruckheimer. “That thing went through the mainframe. They formatted the document into five different versions. Each version was the same except for the code. It’s different on each version. We also opened the document that was attached to other e-mail accounts. Again, all the codes were different. I can’t explain it other than to say, we can’t decrypt the locale.”

“That doesn’t do much for me,” said Calibrisi. “What about ThinThread?”

“We need an electronic event. You know that. He needs to buy something. But he hasn’t done that. Until he does, we got nothing.”

“What about Borchardt?”

“Same. Try and be patient.”

“I can’t,” said Calibrisi. “Let’s keep a line open here. I’ll have control set up the bridge.”

Calibrisi pointed at the phone console in the center of the table. Smythson hit the conference button, and the CIA operator created a secure bridge between MI6 and Fort Meade.

Calibrisi then had the CIA operator connect him with Bill Polk in Virginia.

“Hi, Bill,” said Calibrisi, stepping into the corner of the conference room, away from the larger group.

“What’ve you got?”

“Where are you?”

“Langley.”

“We’ve got a situation,” said Calibrisi.

“Dewey?”

“Yeah.”

“I talked to Katie a couple hours ago.”

“China has a termination order out on him,” said Calibrisi. “They have a hard location.”

“Where?”

“We have no idea.”

“What can I do? I’ve got a tac team waiting here. As soon as we get a location, we’ll redeploy whatever assets we have in the theater. I’ve got every operative I have on standby. If you want, I can call JSOC and see about getting some Deltas and SEALs good to go.”

“Do it.”

“Hector, one more thing. If they do succeed in killing Dewey, I’d like permission to change the rules of engagement, at least for a day or two. Let my guys clear some of these Chinese motherfuckers off the face of the earth.”

“They won’t succeed,” said Calibrisi.

“But if they do.”

“They won’t.”

63

GUINCHO BREAK

OFF THE COAST OF LISBON, PORTUGAL

A quarter mile off the coast of Lisbon, Huong lay winded atop his surfboard, an Al Merrick 6´2´ Tangent, his most prized possession, floating in the cold ocean, catching his breath. His arms and legs, after a morning of surfing, were sore and aching.

Huong was surfing his favorite spot, Guincho, an exposed, west-facing beach that picked up some of the first and thus biggest of the fast-moving swells coming off the Atlantic Ocean. Guincho was not for the faint of heart nor the technically challenged. Add the occasional shark to the mix, and it was not a mystery as to why most of the people on this warm autumn day were watching from the beach or from the crumbling rock jetty next to it, rather than trying to tame one of the double-overhead sets that came like rolling thunder from the open ocean.

Huong was paddling just a few feet behind the notorious, intimidating Guincho break when he felt a sharp vibration at his wrist. It was coming from his ministry-issued wristwatch. He pulled his wet-suit sleeve up. The face of the watch displayed a red light that flickered on and off. It meant one thing and one thing only: get in.

Something was going down inside his station, meaning Lisbon proper. He nearly screamed with excitement. But he didn’t. In fact, Huong didn’t show any emotion.

Huong saw an oncoming wave and paddled hard to get into position. He dropped onto what turned into a vicious, eighteen-foot-high wall of deep blue, which he caught a tad late. But once he was atop it, he knew what to do, shaping the front of his board into the wave’s sharp upper edge. Huong and board were thrown forward and down. He slashed like a dagger across a hard wall of blue water, just inches from the foaming white barrel that wanted to rip into him from behind and pummel him into the oblivion. He crouched, skimming his fingers along the wall of blue, as, in the distance, he could hear excited screams from onlookers atop the jetty, cheering him on. He emerged from the chute as the wave collapsed like a falling building, and he popped out the side, unscathed. He let the massive wave’s remnants fire him gently onto the sandy beach.

At the beach, Huong dried off, took off his wet suit, then sprinted up the hill to his car, carrying his board. He strapped his board to the roof of his car, then climbed in the front seat. He ripped the bright blue Porsche 911 out of the parking area, nearly hitting a woman, as he fumbled for his phone.

“Where have you been?” It was Huong’s team leader, somewhere in Beijing.

“Surfing.”

“Get to the airport, now.”

“What terminal?”

“The private terminal. You’ll get further instructions when you get there.”

64

LISBON PORTELA AIRPORT

LISBON

It was late morning as the Gulfstream made its approach into Lisbon.

Borchardt was still out. He’d be unconscious for a few more hours at least. Borchardt was going to no doubt require a few days in the hospital. Then a month or two of psychotherapy.

Out the window, Dewey saw the curvilinear slope of the Portuguese coast, Lisbon like a white-and-red patch at the northern apex. Lisbon was one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and from the sky, the dark, muted ocean behind the green curvature of the land was like a painting.

“Buckle up,” said one of the pilots from the cockpit.

Dewey ignored the suggestion.

As the plane arced down toward the tarmac and the city of Lisbon drew closer, its rich panoply of low red-roofed buildings, Dewey pondered his next steps.

The Chinese would be looking for him, but they would have no idea where he was, unless they had somehow tracked the plane. Dewey knew that was possible, though highly doubtful.

Lisbon was a random decision, just as he’d been trained to make. He thought back to his training:

Move quickly. Never stay in the same place for long. Stay in crowded areas. Seek crowds. Blend in. Don’t hide. Avoid locations where you’ve been in the past or where they assume you will go. Move with speed. Know when you are found. Always know what your weapon is, and have it within reach at all times.

The smartest thing for Dewey to do would be to simply take a taxicab to the American embassy. There, he would be beyond the reach of Bhang. He could do what he should have done already: call Hector. Go back and figure out a way to get at Bhang.

The jet’s wheels kissed the tarmac. The plane sped down the landing strip, then slowed.

Dewey checked the calf sheath on his left leg, making sure his knife was there. He stood up. He checked the magazines on the two Glocks he’d taken from the weapons cache in the other plane. He tucked one of the guns into his belt, in front. He took the other Glock and holstered it beneath his left armpit.

Dewey leaned into the cockpit.

“Move it around so the stairs face away from the building,” he said, pointing at the modern glass building that served as the entrance area for the private terminal.

Dewey hit the door lever. The stair hydraulic vibrated as the stairs lowered. He stepped down the stairs. His eyes darted from side to side as he scanned the tarmac. He peered beneath the fuselage. In the distance stood the private aviation building. Dewey started walking in the opposite direction, toward the main terminal. There was a long strip of hardtop he would have to cross. He started a fast walk across it. After a hundred yards, he was near a line of commercial jets. He fell in with a line of passengers disembarking down a set of stairs. He walked into the terminal building, his eyes scanning, the hard steel of the Glocks pressing, in an uncomfortable but familiar way, into his torso and side.