“What the hell, what could she be supplying to the Chinese? Payroll data? What did she tell you after you picked her up?”

  There’s a change of tone in Noa’s voice. “She didn’t. She was quiet, seemed unsurprised that we were there. Otterson asked to brush her teeth and get dressed. While in the bathroom, she suicided. Cyanide in a closed toothpaste tube.”

  “Shit,” Liam says. “That’s when you wanted to dig deeper.”

  “Yeah, and this is what I found out. I had one of my team members call in some favors…look at these photos.”

  Noa flips through the phone and there’s the same photo as the first one, except that the Chinese woman with the baby carriage has been replaced—

  Oh, shit.

  “Noa! I told you to ghost your way here…is that a burner?”

  “No, I—Oh, shit. I was in a goddamn hurry.”

  She switches off her phone, starts tugging at the rear plastic plate to remove the SIM card, just as Liam starts up the Jeep’s engine.

  The engine just clicks.

  Disabled.

  Too late.

  All four windows and the windshield to the Jeep Wrangler implode, showering Liam and Noa with shattered glass, smoke, and a shock wave that pushes both of them back into their seats.

  CHAPTER 70

  IN THE SCIF in the subbasement of the Chinese Embassy to the United States, Xi Dejiang of the Ministry of State Security crisply says, “Xiānshēng zàijiàn,” and then hangs up the phone, connecting him to a secure line to Ministry headquarters in Beijing.

  He sits still for a moment, as his assistant, Sun Zheng, looks at him questioningly.

  It’s so quiet in the SCIF that Dejiang imagines he can hear his heartbeat, as well as Zheng’s.

  “Sir?” Zheng asks.

  “Wait,” Dejiang says in disgust. “I am to wait for further instructions from Beijing. Bah.”

  His hand reaches for the familiar Marlboro cigarette box and then he pulls it back. Too much lately, smoking the American tobacco, wondering and thinking of what’s going on in the American White House, barely a fifteen-minute drive away.

  He says, “You know what will happen. It’s very late in Beijing. That means phone calls must be made, superiors must be woken up, and they will have to be briefed. In turn, they will call their respective bosses, there will be committee meetings until someone decides that the president himself must be informed…all while hours pass and who knows what President Barrett might do next.”

  Sun stays silent. Dejiang knows that Zheng one day wants this job, but he’s fairly certain Zheng doesn’t feel that way at this moment.

  Dejiang says, “The president has asked for my presence, specifically. With every minute that passes, each hour that goes by without a response, what do you believe he is thinking?”

  “One would hope he would realize scheduling such a meeting takes time.”

  With irritation in his voice, Dejiang says, “In normal times, yes. But these are not normal times. President Barrett is what the locals here like to call a lone wolf. Check the past briefings on the White House inner workings. He has no close circle of advisers, of men to advise him and control his impulses. A bad way of doing business.”

  He shakes his head, succumbs to temptation, takes the Marlboro package and removes a cigarette.

  “No, I think the president is there, mostly alone, wondering why his request for our nation’s rezident to visit him is being ignored. He’s not seeing it as a delay for typical reasons, no, he is a man of action, a former general, used to having his orders and requests instantly obeyed. Trust me on this, Barrett is sitting over in that White House, feeling humiliated and ignored. A dangerous combination.”

  Zheng says, “What do you propose, sir? A phone call to the White House, perhaps?”

  Dejiang shakes his head. “No. A phone call will not do.”

  He reaches for his lighter, given to him last year from his son. It is maroon in color and has the symbol of Harvard on its side, and was made by his son and the fellow members of his social club—whatever that means—as some sort of joke.

  From his small, framed portrait, Admiral Zheng He stares out with cool composure and courage.

  Dejiang says, “I will go to see him myself at the White House, as soon as it can be arranged.”

  His assistant is stunned. “That’s too dangerous, sir. Going against Beijing’s instructions…extremely dangerous.”

  “As dangerous as sitting on our fat asses, waiting for Beijing to respond?” He brings the cigarette to his lips, anticipating that first sweet inhalation of smoke and nicotine. “I can’t allow that. I’m here, I’m close by, and the American president has requested my presence. I will go and see what he wants. If we were to wait longer, he will get angrier and angrier, and if he has demands, they will increase proportionately.”

  Zheng’s face goes from shock to placidness. “A brave move, sir.”

  Dejiang says, “But just a few minutes ago, you said it was dangerous.”

  “You’ve convinced me otherwise.”

  “Fèihuà, comrade,” Dejiang says. “I’ve done no such thing. But a thought has crept into that busy mind of yours, Zheng, hasn’t it? Perhaps when I leave to see the president, you will cable Beijing, and tell them what I’m doing. Sabotage my efforts to learn the president’s mind and perhaps keep the peace. Leading to my dismissal and a trip back to Beijing.”

  Zheng’s expression doesn’t change.

  Dejiang takes the Harvard lighter, flicks it open, and with a steady flame, lights up the cigarette. He takes that satisfying drag and slowly lets it out.

  Dejiang says, “Don’t forget, my deputy, that this SCIF is entirely secure. What is said in here stays here. And if I find out otherwise, that what I’ve said here somehow finds its way out, and if I’m going to prison, why, you’ll be joining me. Right up to the point when we’re both marched out to a courtyard, forced to our knees, and dispatched with a bullet to the back of the head.”

  Another drag of the cigarette.

  “Do I make myself clear, Sun Zheng?”

  It seems a bit of perspiration is developing on his assistant’s forehead.

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Good,” Dejiang says. “Now make yourself useful and call the White House and tell them I’m ready to visit.”

  CHAPTER 71

  LIAM GREY IS sitting in a dark room, bound to a chair, his eyes still burning from whatever chemical or narcotic agent was sprayed into his eyes. He blinks a few times trying to get some tear action working to flush out what was used, which was professional and good indeed.

  After the engine to his Jeep was disabled and the windows were blown in, men dressed in black tactical gear swarmed them, spraying their faces. He instantly lost consciousness—the same for Noa, he’s sure—and when he woke up, here he is.

  And where is here?

  He tests the bonds holding him to the chair.

  Velcro straps, of course. Tight around his wrists, chest, and ankles. Not too tight but tight enough.

  The air smells clean.

  He can’t hear any outside noises.

  His eyes are still burning but they’re beginning to adjust to the darkness.

  Liam slowly rotates his head, using what astronomers call averted vision, because the human eye has more light-sensitive rods in the corners.

  Something is out there in the room.

  If he stares directly, there’s nothing.

  But a sideways glance…

  A shape.

  What kind of shape?

  Angular and curved.

  Time for a gamble.

  “Noa,” he says. “That you?”

  Her voice comes right back. “Sure is. I was wondering when you’d notice me.”

  Liam says, “How long have you known I was over here?”

  “Long enough,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” he says. “Sore. Eyes burning, getting better. You?”

  “The same,” she says. “Liam, it was my fault. I should have taken the time to transfer those surveillance photos to another device. I was in a hurry. I made a mistake.”

  Liam shifts and wiggles, but the damn Velcro straps won’t budge.

  “Well, at some point I’ll send a memo to your supervisor, advising you go for some fieldcraft retraining.”

  “My current supervisor is POTUS. I don’t think he’s in any mood to listen to either one of us.”

  True, he thinks, trying to think ahead to what words he might speak or action he might take once their captors enter this room, no doubt working under the direction of President Barrett.

  “Liam?”

  “Still here,” he says, trying to move the chair.

  No joy.

  Fastened to the floor.

  “I’ve been thinking of something,” she says.

  “If it’s an escape plan, I’m all ears,” he says. “But make it quick. No doubt we’re under surveillance in here.”

  She says, “The president used us, right from the beginning. He anticipated what we would do, how we would do it, until at some point, we were wounded, killed, or decided to rebel against his actions. But he knew we would both say yes when he asked us to set up the two teams, even if it was off the books.”

  He jerks the chair back and forth. Very safely secured.

  “Well, that was pretty apparent, right?”

  Noa says, “No, I don’t think either one of us picked up on it. Remember what he said, when we were first interviewed? He said, You have the perfect backgrounds and history of heartbreak to do what must be done. Remember?”

  “I do now,” Liam says.

  “No, I don’t think you do,” she snaps back. “Because it stuck with me. ‘History of heartbreak.’ Your heartbreak was your older brother, right? Killed in Afghanistan?”

  “Yeah,” Liam says. “My older brother Brian. A captain in the 10th Mountain Division. The Taliban did it. And you, it was a cousin, right?”

  “Yes,” comes the voice through the dark room. “My cousin Rebecca. She was an executive with Magen David Adom, part of the International Red Cross. Becky was meeting secretly with her counterparts in the Red Crescent Society in Beirut, but her presence there was uncovered by the usual tribe of bad actors. Becky died from a car bomb.”

  “Sorry,” Liam says.

  “Do you see it now?” she asks. “He praised us for our skills, our backgrounds, which operations we successfully achieved. But he wanted more from us. He knew we had revenge in our souls, enough so we wouldn’t ask the tough questions, or turn down the tough assignments. He baited us and reeled us right in, even though deep down, we both knew we were operating illegally.”

  Another tug of the straps.

  No joy.

  “Good call, Noa,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  “And if you can come up with a way to get us out of here, let me know.”

  Noa says, “I’m working on it.”

  CHAPTER 72

  Somewhere in South Africa

  THE DOOR TO his cell is unlocked, and Benjamin Lucas is resting on his right side, the aches and throbbing pain exhausting him. Whatever comfort the two Extra Strength Tylenol Chin gave to him earlier has worn off. His eyes flutter open and he sees two men walk in, and then he closes his eyes.

  To hell with them both.

  He’s not going to greet them, and if they want to talk to him, they can go first.

  They start talking in Mandarin and Benjamin recognizes the voices: Han Yuanchao, the Chinese intelligence officer who had first talked to him here, and Chang Wanquan, the little shit who had tuned him up yesterday with that thick cricket bat.

  Yuanchao says, Who gave you the authority to come in here and torture this prisoner? I couldn’t believe what I heard. Which is why I had to see for myself what you did.

  Wanquan replies, There was no torture. He attacked me and I responded. I know he is a trained CIA operative, quite dangerous. What else should I have done?

  Amazing coincidence that the surveillance system in this cell failed at that moment you entered.

  Wanquan says, It has its problems, you know that.

  And what was your intent in questioning the prisoner without my permission?

  You were unavailable. I wanted to see for myself a captured CIA operative.

  And did you get your questions answered? Yuanchao asks.

  No, the younger officer says smugly, but I got what I wanted.

  To hurt him? Perhaps to kill him?

  Wanquan says, If and when he is returned to the Americans, I want them to see what happens—personally—if you work against us.

  Fool, Yuanchao says. Suppose you had put him in a coma? Or killed him? What value would he have then to us?

  Benjamin keeps his eyes closed, his breathing regular.

  Wanquan says, Why are you babying this man? Why do you protect him so?

  Benjamin hears footsteps as Yuanchao heads to the door.

  Because he is vital to us, and to the Americans.

  Vital how? He’s just a spy, nothing notable about him.

  You are wrong, Yuanchao says, knocking at the door. He’s the key to it all.

  The key to what?

  Preventing World War Three, Yuanchao says. The door is opened and closed and locked, and Benjamin opens his eyes.

  Preventing World War Three.

  Him?

  How is that even possible?

  CHAPTER 73

  SOME TIME HAS passed in the near darkness, and Liam says, “You awake over there?”

  “I am,” Noa says.

  “You still working on our escape?”

  Noa says, “Somewhat. But due to ears and eyes on us at this moment, I’m keeping it secret.”

  “Well, do pass it on when the time comes.”

  Liam is feeling better but he’s thirsty, and he says, “Hope they haven’t dumped us here and forgotten about us. Could use a drink.”

  “I could use something practical. Like a bucket.”

  “Oh.”

  “Thanks for saying ‘oh.’ Makes me feel a lot better.”

  “What’s going on? Need a bathroom?”

  Noa says, “I need something to eat. Sometimes I get a bout of hypoglycemia when I don’t eat and my blood sugar craters. Next up is a heavy bout of nausea, followed by vomiting.”

  Liam thinks for a moment and says, “Remember SERE training? In Virginia?”

  “Oh, yeah, one of my favorite memories when I was training for Operations.”

  Liam says, “Yep. Survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. Dumped into the wilderness of Virginia, brought into a mock prisoner-of-war camp, starved, and slapped around by our coworkers in the Agency. One day blending into another. Cold, little water, crappy, cold food, lots of shouting interrogations. Sometimes you could hear your fellow classmates screaming in pain or fear.”

  Noa says, “If you’re trying to buck me up, you’re failing.”

  “No, there’s a point,” Liam says. “One day pretend commandos raided the joint, shot our captors with paintball rounds, and we were freed. We were brought out to the compound, the flag of the terrorists was hauled down, Old Glory was run up the pole, and we all sang ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ Us and our pretend captors. Then there were hugs and handshakes and, hey, no hard feelings all around. You do that to the folks from the Agency who tortured you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Liam says, “I remember. I didn’t shake anybody’s hands. I had no feelings of love and forgiveness. I went up to one of the camp’s deputies—we called him Hardcase—and he was smiling at me and I punched him out and broke his nose.”

  “And yet you made it.”

  “Exigent circumstances,” Liam says. “I was under pressure, that kind of crap. But what I’m getting to is this: a price must be paid. These guys were doing an important job, prepping us in case we got captured, but some of them had too much fun, were too enthusiastic. Hardcase was one of them. I wanted him to hurt.”

  Noa says, “Please tell me there’s a point.”

  “Not to be vulgar, but if you can’t stand it anymore, let it go. Lean over and puke your guts out. It’ll be uncomfortable but you’ll be hitting back at those who captured us. You’ll make a smell, you’ll stain your surroundings, you’ll give them extra work to do. Not much but it’ll be something, Noa.”

  “And you?” she asks, skepticism in her voice.

  He’s about to say that he’ll come up with something, when lights overhead suddenly come on. Liam blinks his eyes hard and the room comes into focus. The room is carpeted beige and seems to be in a basement, with small casement windows before him and to the left. Other items are covered with white sheets, like this area is also a storeroom. At the right is a wooden door. The room is wood-paneled and Noa is about ten feet away, sitting in a leather chair fastened to the floor, strapped in with Velcro like Liam.

  She blinks, too, and Liam says, “Hold on, it’s going to get interesting.”

  Noa says, “Liam?”

  “Yes?”

  “Great working with you,” she says. “However this ends.”

  “Right back at you,” he replies, and the door opens.

  A woman comes in, accompanied by two large men with ill-fitting suits that say security to Liam, but his focus goes back to the angry woman coming in.

  CIA Director Hannah Abrams.

  She stops and looks at Noa, and then straight at Liam.

  “You two,” she says. “Can you think of any good reason why I shouldn’t put you both on a rendition flight right now and Gitmo your respective asses?”

  CHAPTER 74

  PRESIDENT KEEGAN BARRETT is in a living area on the second floor of the White House, sitting alone on a couch, a bowl of oatmeal in his hands as he watches the morning cable news, keeping the sound off.

  Coffee and low-sugar orange juice are on the table before him. He frowns as he eats his morning meal. Despite the addition of low-fat milk, organic strawberries, and imported Ceylonese cinnamon sugar, he still feels like he’s shoveling a tasteless lumpy sludge into his mouth.