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Liam’s ears are ringing and the interior of the car smells of burnt gunpowder. Lin is shouting at him. He can’t quite hear her, but he doesn’t need to.
He slams the accelerator down and the Mercedes speeds out of the compound and takes a left on Killarney Street.
CHAPTER 111
IN THE SCIF in the subbasement of the Chinese Embassy on 3505 International Place NW in the District of Columbia, Xi Dejiang of the Ministry of State Intelligence feels like an utter and complete failure.
Sitting across from him, like an old wife who won’t leave you alone, is his assistant Sun Zheng. Dejiang knows that Zheng so desperately wants his job that he’s tempted to scribble out a letter of resignation and let the fat bastard take control.
The inside of the SCIF is thick with smoke, and Dejiang’s throat is raw from all the Marlboro cigarettes he has burned through. He’s out of smokes yet he doesn’t regret taking that bag full of cigarette cartons offered to him by President Barrett and throwing it at the stunned aide who escorted him out of the West Wing.
Zheng clears his throat. “Well, sir?”
He shrugs. “Failure. Complete and utter failure. Beijing has been trying other avenues of communication with that madman, and none are working. He is intent on giving us a punishment he thinks we deserve, and nothing is holding him back. Now Beijing is through with trying to talk to him.”
Dejiang checks his watch. “In approximately four hours, theattacks will begin. How and where they will start is still a guess … but I have failed. Terribly. I thought I could reach him personally, intelligence professional to intelligence professional, but I was a fool. He’s too far gone.”
He reaches for a cigarette pack, to see if he’s perhaps overlooked a cigarette, but it’s still empty. He crumples it and throws it to the floor.
Zheng says, “I wish it went otherwise.”
Dejiang nearly smiles. “I’m sure you do. No worries, Zheng. If and when they come for me here—because by this time tomorrow I doubt any airlines will be flying—I will say you were innocent, that it was my decision alone.”
A brief nod, nothing else, but Dejiang senses the relief from his deputy.
“In the meantime,” Dejiang says, “tell the Ambassador to commence theZhurongoperation immediately, before our embassy is ultimately breached. And get as many staffers as possible to go shopping. Batteries, freeze-dried or canned food, and plenty of bottled water. Tell them to try to be as discreet as possible, but to get as many supplies back to the embassy before noon.”
“Yes, sir,” his assistant says.
He lifts his right hand, fingers nicotine-stained.
“Go, now,” Dejiang says.
His assistant gets up, nods once more, and in a matter of seconds, is gone from the SCIF.
Dejiang rubs at his forehead. Not the place nor the time he imagined his career and his life would end, as he’s under no illusions. He has failed in stopping the madman in the White House, and he will pay the ultimate price.
He looks at the crumpled cigarette packs and ash over the table, next to the cigarette lighter that was a gift from his only son.
Dejiang picks up the phone. It is expressly forbidden to use the embassy’s secure phone system for a personal phone call, but sowhat. He will warn his son to leave Cambridge immediately and travel north, perhaps even across the Canadian border.
It is a day of reality. He knows that his wife and daughter in China will die in the upcoming attack, or be arrested and shot, and that there is no way to safely communicate with them from here in the United States.
But if his only son and his line is to survive, then that will be the sole blessing to come out of this day.
The confident face of Admiral Zheng He stares at him from the small, framed print, mocking him. He turns it away as the phone rings and rings.
CHAPTER 112
LIAM GREY IS speeding through the crowded streets of Johannesburg, sweaty and achy after hauling that air pack and Benjamin Lucas up three flights of stairs back at the consulate building, ears ringing from having his own pistol shot off right behind his head.
Right behind his head!
The interior of the Mercedes smells of burnt gunpowder and whatever happened back there, one thing was proven: this Chinese intelligence operative just demonstrated her love for Benjamin by blowing away two of her own.
In the rear of the car Lin and Benjamin are talking low to each other, which is perfectly fine with Liam.
Benjamin’s weak voice comes from the rear seat. “Liam … how did you …”