Back inside the apartment, Bhang walked one last time through the rooms. He’d already had all of Bhang’s computers and technical equipment shipped back to the ministry. Furniture, such that it was, would be picked up in a few days and donated to a local orphanage. As for Bhang’s personal effects, such as clothing and dishes, Bhang had it thrown away. He’d boxed up the photos, and they now sat in a cardboard container near the door.

Bhang walked one last time through the apartment. He looked in the closet, off the bedroom, finding it empty. Then he stared at the bed for a few moments. He crouched and peered beneath it. There, he saw a small object tucked away, near the wall. He crawled on his stomach and grabbed its edges. He pulled it out, then set it on the bed. It was a homemade radio, the radio Bo had made, with help from their father, when he was all of seven years old. He touched the wires to the old battery, and the radio made a faint static noise. He moved a small wooden dial until he could hear the sound of a man, coming through the small speaker. He was giving a weather report. After a few seconds, the battery died out.

Bhang stared for several moments at the radio, feeling an emotion he hadn’t felt in so long that at first he couldn’t recognize it: sorrow. He felt his eyes become wet, and then he began to cry, a high-pitched, childlike cry, his head bobbing up and down as tears fell to the floor.

As he was driven back to the ministry, his composure reestablished, Bhang listened to his voice mail, a number that only three people possessed, two of whom—Bo and Ming-huá—were now dead. He dialed the third.

“General Qingchen,” said Bhang, after he’d answered.

“We must talk,” said Qingchen. “Time is moving faster than I anticipated. Events are occurring.”

“I’ll be right there.”

*   *   *

Dewey saw Calibrisi standing alone on the terrace. He went outside.

Calibrisi turned. He put his hand on Dewey’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry for slugging you earlier.”

“It’s all right. Sorry for choking you. Now, what are you not telling me?”

Calibrisi paused.

“Let’s go back inside,” said Calibrisi.

The rest of the group had reconvened in the library.

Dewey sat down.

“We need to hurry,” said Chalmers, looking at his watch. “We’re going to start running into time issues.”

“Next steps,” said Smythson. “You’re shot. You’re down on the ground. You’ll be taken from the Bristol in an ambulance. The ambulance is going to take you to a garage near Luxembourg Gardens. It’s near where Koo lives and where we believe he’ll be exfiltrated from.”

Dewey listened without reacting.

“I’ll meet you there,” continued Smythson. “Your hair will be dyed and cut. Then a cast of Xiua Koo will be attached to your face.”

Smythson nodded at the screen. The photo of Xiua Koo appeared.

“I’m six-four.”

“Koo is six-three,” said Smythson. “As for the cast, you won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“I don’t speak Mandarin,” said Dewey, his doubt starting to show.

“You only need to know one word,” said Smythson. “Téngtòng. It means, ‘pain.’ Remember, you just got shot. Everyone will understand if you don’t say anything for a while.”

“They’ll examine my shoulder,” said Dewey.

Smythson looked at Dewey, then to Calibrisi and Chalmers. Dewey’s eyes followed hers.

“That part will be real.”

Dewey sat back, saying nothing.

“You’ll take the place of Xiua Koo,” said Smythson. “You’ll be exfiltrated today and flown to China. That’s the part of the operation you’ll have to architect, Dewey. It is our belief that soon after your arrival, either at the airport or when you get to the hospital, Bhang will visit you. Of course, he’ll think he’s visiting Koo, the ministry hero who killed his nemesis. What you do at that point, what tools or weapons you may or may not improvise, that will be solely up to you to innovate. Perhaps break his neck or strangle him.”

“What if he doesn’t visit?” asked Dewey.

“He will,” said Chalmers. “The agent who succeeds in assassinating you receives the highest award the ministry has. Bhang is awarding it in person. This is all going to go down quickly—right when you arrive or soon thereafter. But if you miss the opportunity, they’re going to find out sooner rather than later. Then you’re dead, and Bhang lives on.”

Dewey leaned back.

“Sounds like I’m dead no matter what.”

“You wanted your shot at Fao Bhang,” said Calibrisi. “Now you’ve got it.”

“You can still back out,” said Katie. “You don’t have to do it.”

“She’s right,” said Chalmers. “We’re going to do everything we can to figure out how to get you out of China. But there are no guarantees, and I would be lying if I said the odds of rescuing you are good.”

Dewey thought of Jessica. She wouldn’t want him to do it, of course. Were she alive, the operation would’ve been killed in its infancy. But she wasn’t alive, and Hector was right: he did want a shot at Bhang. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t take it, even if the odds were low and the aftermath fatal.

Deep down, it wasn’t about Jessica anymore, it was about him. It was about being a man. Dewey knew he’d rather die than spend the rest of his life knowing what it felt like to be a coward.

Dewey stood up. “Let’s go.”

*   *   *

Chalmers and Smythson led Dewey into the kitchen. Lacey James was standing next to the island, sleeves rolled up.

“Take a seat.”

James’s steel trunk lay open on the ground. Inside, it was lined with bottles and canisters of various sizes, shapes, and colors.

“What are you doing?” asked Dewey.

“We need to make a mold of your face,” said James.

James reached into the trunk and pulled out a see-through polycarbonate case. Inside was a mask of a Chinese man. Other than the fact that it had no eyes, hair, ears, or teeth, it looked exactly like Koo.

“We need something to adhere the life cast of the Chinese agent to,” said James, holding up the mask of Koo. “Otherwise, it will fall off. The cast of your face lets me build a positive of your features. Then I attach the mask to it. It’s the same thing as wearing a mask on Halloween, only this time the mask looks and feels like it’s real. We glue it to your face and, voilà, you’ll be Chinese, at least for a few days.”

“What’s it made of?”

“Silicone,” said James. “We use medical adhesive. It’s safe, and perhaps more important, has the same texture as skin. Now sit down.”

James pulled out two gallon-sized canisters, both labeled BODY DOUBLE. He unscrewed the lids. Inside the first canister was a thick, gooey pink liquid; the other held a similar-looking liquid, only it was blue. He poured equal amounts into a bowl and mixed them. The liquid turned purple.

Next, James immersed a small stack of damp plaster strips in the purple liquid. He waited a few seconds, then lifted a strip into the air.

“This is going to feel somewhat disgusting,” said James. “I apologize in advance.”

He leaned over and wrapped the wet strip across Dewey’s forehead. Working quickly, he covered Dewey’s entire face with wet purple plaster strips.

James then removed a pair of specially designed blow dryers, plugged them in, and blow-dried Dewey’s face until the color was gone, indicating the strips were dry, replaced by a dull, translucent hue. He took a small plastic tool that looked like a spatula and inserted it between the dried cast and Dewey’s chin. He gently worked the end of the tool around the edge of the cast. When he finished a full circle, he popped the cast from Dewey’s face.

Smythson nodded to Dewey.

“Let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time.”

78

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The limousine carrying Ji-tao Zhu sped quickly along Rock Creek Parkway. It exited at Connecticut Avenue, then moved up Connecticut until it was in front of a large art deco apartment complex called the Kennedy-Warren. Zhu’s driver pulled into an underground parking garage. Zhu climbed out the back of the limousine alone and took the elevator to the top floor. He walked to the door marked 1809.