“I will present it personally to him tomorrow. What time does he land?”

“Early,” said Xiao. “Around six.”

“Good.” Bhang smiled. “The Order of the Lotus, Xiao. It has been far too long.”

After Xiao left, Bhang had one more task to do before leaving for the night. He picked up his phone and dialed.

“Yes,” said Qingchen.

“Good evening, General Qingchen.”

“Hello, Fao. It’s midnight.”

“I’m sorry. I had to inform you: the matter is cleaned up. The interruption is now behind us all. I’m ready to lead, though I would reiterate my sincere belief that you would be a better leader than me.”

“Your flattery is as unnecessary as it is fictitious,” said Qingchen.

“I am as sincere as it is possible for me to be, sir.”

“Then thank you,” said Qingchen, “but now it’s time to put away the mutual admiration society and discuss next steps. The military is now solidly behind you and is prepared to act. In addition, we have made all necessary preparations as it relates to getting support from a quorum of party leadership and the State Council. Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, the premier has called another meeting of his inner circle. I’ve once again been invited. We will detain them all until a peaceful transition has occurred.”

“Good,” said Bhang. On his desk, he saw the mahogany box, inside of which was the Order of the Lotus. Bhang smiled. “I have something that I must attend to first. It will be completed by eight, general.”

“Excellent. We can ride over to to Zhongnanhai together. Come by my office, Premier Bhang. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

84

IN THE AIR

Several hours after take off, Dewey awoke. His shoulder throbbed.

He looked up to see the blond agent, seated across from him. Dewey looked around nervously; part of him expected to see a gun, aimed at him. But the agent simply smiled. When he saw Dewey wake up and stir, he said something, in Mandarin.

“Téngtòng,” said Dewey.

The man reached to his left and opened the first-aid kit, removing a needle.

Dewey held up his hand, shaking his head no. As much as he wanted more pain medication, he needed to wake up, to become sharp again. Now more than ever, he had to endure the pain.

You wanted your shot at Fao Bhang.

He would have, at most, one chance to take that shot.

He stood and went to the restroom. He examined first his face. It was remarkable, even scary, to see how much like Koo he looked. He pulled aside his blood-soaked shirt. Just doing that caused him to moan loudly. He examined the wound. It had sealed up, but he needed stitches. A large-diameter radius encircled the wound, its color black-and-blue, bruising from the trauma of the bullet.

Dewey went to the bathroom, then returned to the seat. As he sat down, the three agents all looked at him. Then the two copilots came out of the cockpit. One of the pilots said something that Dewey again couldn’t understand. Then all five men began to clap loudly and bow repeatedly as they acknowledged the apparently now well-known actions of their illustrious passenger, Xiua Koo.

Dewey sat down, barely nodding, and shut his eyes.

*   *   *

The Embraer landed six hours later, coming into Beijing Capital International Airport at dawn.

By the time the plane landed, Dewey felt stronger, though the shoulder still ached.

An ambulance, two police cars, and two black sedans with agents were waiting on the tarmac at the airport when the jet touched down. A steady rain fell from gray clouds overhead. At least a dozen people were standing on the tarmac. As Dewey descended the stairs, the group started clapping and cheering.

A wheelchair was waiting for him at the bottom of the jet’s stairs, but Dewey chose instead to walk slowly to a waiting ambulance. Inside, he lay down on a gurney as a female EMT strapped an oxygen mask to his face. When she went to insert an IV into his forearm to deliver fluid and antibiotics and, Dewey feared, painkillers, he pushed her away and shook his head.

They drove to Beijing Hospital, through the crowded city, escorted by two police cruisers. Dewey remained silent as the EMT spoke in rapid Mandarin to him.

The hospital was a massive complex of white concrete that spread for several city blocks. They pulled in front of the main entrance, beneath a large glass-and-steel canopy adorned with the flag of the People’s Republic of China.

Through the ambulance window, beneath the canopy, a large group of people awaited his arrival.

It was happening quickly. Too quickly. The pain in his shoulder seemed to go away as adrenaline abruptly warmed him.

The back doors of the ambulance swung open, and he was face-to-face with a crowd of at least fifty people; doctors, nurses, police officers, and others, who clapped wildly as the doors opened.

*   *   *

Bhang climbed into the back of a long black limousine. It was the vehicle reserved for special occasions. Today there would be two.

The window behind the driver lowered.

“The ministry, sir?”

“No,” said Bhang. “Beijing Hospital.”

“Very good, sir.”

The window lifted back up.

As Bhang sat alone in the back of the large limousine, driving through Beijing, he considered what was now upon him.

He’d avenged the death of his brother, a death, he now realized, that had been caused inadvertently by his own vanity and paranoia. As much as he didn’t like Premier Li, the fact is, as paramount leader, a different set of responsibilities existed. Li was well within his rights to be upset at the appearance of the dead double agent, Dillman. Li was also justified, Bhang now realized, in his horror at the violence in Lisbon and England.

The leader of a country was supposed to set a moral example; could he himself set a moral example?

Bhang shut his eyes as he thought of Zhu. His expression had been so pathetic and sad as he watched his mistress fall to her death. He was embarrassed by what he’d done to Zhu, the cruelty he’d exhibited. Could he put aside that quality and lead a country? Could he react in a different, more-measured way when faced with the sort of challenges that would undoubtedly face him as China’s next leader?

Bhang smoked a cigarette as he stared out at the Beijing morning. He realized how absurd his self-doubt was.

It was, after all, his viciousness, his savageness, that had given him power in the first place. His willingness to kill Xiangou, so many years ago, was what had not only given him the ministry, but also saved his own life. Saved it from Xiangou, another man just as vicious as he. Even Li himself had paved his way to power with the corpses of those who would have prevented it.

Yes, Bhang realized, as the limousine pulled into Beijing Hospital, the very qualities that worried him most—his viciousness, duplicity, and cunning—were the only reason he now stood at the precipice of leading the world’s largest country.

Any self-doubt washed away as he saw his security detail waiting at the hospital door. In a way, the ceremony this morning was the very culmination of his time at the ministry; he would present China’s highest intelligence award to a man who had avenged the cruelest of deaths. It would be, he now realized as a smile crossed his lips, his final act as minister.

85

BEIJING HOSPITAL

BEIJING

The lobby of Beijing Hospital was a cavernous, light-filled atrium, its walls adorned with colorful murals.

A large crowd had gathered, hundreds of people—nurses, doctors, hospital administrators, even some patients. When Dewey appeared at the door, the crowd started clapping enthusiastically, and many started shouting.

The entire left side of Dewey’s shirt was stained with blood. He walked slowly into the atrium as the crowd cheered.