"It gets better," continued Polk. "They'll put you to work in a uranium mine or they'll use you for drug trials. If they determine you're a flight risk, they'll just kill you."

Dewey's eyes found Calibrisi's. He was like a father to Dewey. He could see it in his eyes. Dewey watched as, almost unconsciously, Calibrisi's eyes moved away from him to the photo of Jessica.

"I'm taking you off the operation," said Calibrisi, breathing deeply. "I think Bill is right. I think you need a little more time."

Dewey felt a sharp kick to his stomach. He tried not to show any emotion. Only his hand betrayed him; it reached back and clutched the door handle, which he gripped tightly, trying to control his anger, frustration and, most of all, self-loathing. He knew they were right. He had only himself to blame.

"I understand," said Dewey. He turned to leave.

"One more thing," said Polk. "I'm placing you on a six-month internal administrative drop. You'll be paid. We'll call it a director's project. I want you to go out to the clinic in Sedona. I'm not going to send you back into the field until you pass a psychological evaluation from Dr. Goldston."

"You're not actually serious?" Dewey asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, I'm serious," said Polk. "I want you back, but you're not ready. You need some help to deal with this."

"You call this bringing me back into the fold?" asked Dewey, looking at Calibrisi. "Protecting me? Is this what you had planned all along?"

"No," said Calibrisi.

"I don't need a fucking doctor. I need a gun and a mission."

Calibrisi bit his lip.

"Go out to Andrews and get a jet," said Polk. "I'll have Mary make sure one of the Gulfstreams is ready when you get there."

Dewey nodded and pulled the door open. He turned one more time and looked at Calibrisi and Polk.

"Good luck with the operation."

24.

LANGLEY.

Dewey walked down the hallway toward the elevators, scanning each office, passing various members of Calibrisi's staff. Halfway down, he found an empty office. He looked up and down, then stepped inside. Dewey moved to the desk, quickly opening drawers until he found a set of car keys. He went back out, looking both ways, seeing no one.

Dewey took the elevator to the basement, entering the cloister of rooms that housed Special Operations Group. From his locker, he picked up his backpack, which contained his mission gear for Saint Petersburg.

He saw Bond, who was getting ready for the flight to Saint Petersburg.

"You coming?" asked Bond.

"No," said Dewey.

Bond stared at him for an extra second, a surprised look on his face.

"You had to tell the truth," said Dewey. "I would've done the same thing. Good luck over there. And thanks for asking for me."

Dewey exited CIA headquarters through the south entrance, approaching the massive parking lot on the opposite side of the building where his pickup truck was parked. He stood in the shadow of the alcove, watching for several minutes, waiting. Other than a few people coming and going to their cars, he saw nothing unusual. He took out a thermal optical scope and scanned the area near his truck. There were two trackers, one seated in a car two cars away, the other in a different car several rows back and to the left of his truck.

Bill's not fucking around.

Dewey took the set of stolen keys. He hit the Unlock button, but nothing happened. He stooped and moved along the edge of the first row of cars, banging his thumb at the button. Finally, he heard a dull click. Turning, he eyed the flashing lights of a minivan. He walked to it, climbed in, then drove slowly to the exit, studying the rearview mirror for the trackers.

He didn't know what to expect as he handed his ID to a uniformed guard at the exit, but it didn't matter; he didn't have a choice.

The guard swiped it, then handed it back.

Suddenly, in the rearview mirror, Dewey eyed movement. One of the cars pulled out. It was soon followed by the other.

"Officer, can I ask you a question?" asked Dewey.

"Sure."

"If I saw a guy drinking in his car just now-"

"Drinking what?"

"It looked like a bottle of Jack Daniel's," said Dewey. "I don't mean to be a tattletale, but I'd hate to have an Agency employee get a DUI or God forbid hurt someone. That's the kind of publicity we could do without."

"I couldn't agree more," said the officer, waving Dewey through.

Dewey pulled through the gates of the CIA, watching in his mirror as the guard stepped out of the booth along with two other guards. All three held their hands up, stopping the car. Dewey registered blond hair, sunglasses, a mustache, and a frustrated punch against the steering wheel as he sped left onto Colonial Farm Road.

The trackers would expect him to take one of two busy routes out of the area, Dolley Madison Boulevard or the Georgetown Pike.

At the end of Colonial Farm Road, he went straight, passing signs that said THE POTOMAC SCHOOL, driving up through the verdant grass lawns that formed the campus. As he drove, he reached into the backpack and removed his SOG Escape Knife. He parked the minivan in a row of cars near the school, climbed out, and looked for the oldest car he could find, a red Dodge Charger. He smashed the hilt of the knife against the back window, then popped the lock and climbed in the front seat. Working quickly, he tore the plastic cover off the steering column, then found the harness connector and, inside it, a bundle of wires. He separated the battery, ignition, and starter wires from the bundle, then connected the ignition wire to the battery wire, twisting them together. Last, he touched the starter wire to the other wires. The engine rumbled to life. Dewey cranked the steering wheel hard in both directions, breaking the steering lock. Within two minutes, he was on the Beltway, heading north.

Dewey felt a sense of warmth as he escaped his CIA followers. A sense of mission, almost primal. The feeling he had was like a fever, a compulsion: he had to go to Russia. Perhaps he'd only observe the operation from afar, but he could never live with himself if he sat on the sidelines while America was attacked.

He drove north on 95, staring at the endless monotony of cars in both directions, keeping an eye out for trackers.

Polk thought he was burned out and scared. Dewey didn't blame him for thinking that. Nor did he blame Calibrisi for removing him from the operation.

Dewey hadn't been able to protect Jessica. He thought by hunting down her killers-by getting revenge-he would be able to heal his wounds. But revenge was a temporary tonic at best. What Dewey sought was redemption. It wouldn't come by running away, or lying on a couch somewhere. Redemption meant fighting for those he loved and for the country he loved. But to do it, he would need to get to Russia. And right now, there was no way he could get on a plane without being snared at the first TSA checkpoint he hit. He needed help.

At a gas station outside Philadelphia, Dewey purchased a disposable international cell phone. He dialed as he steered the car back onto 95 North.

"Yes," came a German accent. "Who is this? It's four thirty in the morning."

"Hi, Rolf," said Dewey.

25.

LONDON.

"Dewey Andreas," said Borchardt, almost spitting the words out. "The last time I saw you, you were about to hit my head with the butt of your gun."

"That's weird," said Dewey. "Last time I saw you, you were unconscious and your head was bleeding."

Rolf Borchardt was the most powerful arms dealer in the world. From his London headquarters, he was involved in arms deals all over the world, with virtually every government. He bought and sold weapons, weapons systems, ammunition, and information. He dealt with democracies and with dictators. He even dealt with terrorists. It was the sale of information that had brought Dewey and Borchardt together. Borchardt had sold a photograph of Dewey to Aswan Fortuna. Borchardt had also betrayed Dewey to Chinese Intelligence, though Dewey had anticipated it.

Yet despite his perfidy, Borchardt had also helped Dewey on numerous occasions. It was a complicated relationship. Dewey could have killed Borchardt many times but had chosen not to. Borchardt possessed a unique set of tools that could occasionally be very helpful.

"I still have a scar," said Borchardt.

"I bet it makes you look tough," said Dewey.

Borchardt laughed.

"That Dewey sense of humor," he said. "You missed your calling. You should've been a stand-up comedian."

"Thanks."

"I heard you were on some sort of ... hiatus?" observed Borchardt. "Word on the street is you have psychological issues. PTSD. Is that true?"

"Yep," said Dewey. "I've gone batshit crazy. Which is why I need your help."

"My help? I thought you didn't trust me."

"I don't. But I don't have any other option."

"What do you need?"

"A ride."

"Where?"

"Russia."

"It's a big country."

"Saint Petersburg. It needs to be off grid, with a clean insertion and no facial recognition appliances. I also need some weapons."

"Why not hop aboard an Air America flight out of Andrews?" asked Borchardt, referring to the CIA's fleet of jets.

"Let's just say no one reserved me a seat."

"Interesting. The plot thickens. How much time do I have?"

"I get to JFK in two hours."

There was a long pause.

"Fine," said Borchardt. "The plane will be waiting at the private terminal. Look for Carlyle Aviation. It will be a red-and-black Gulfstream 100. Please don't kill anyone on board or, for that matter, throw any coffee cups. It's a brand-new plane."

"I'll be on my best behavior."

"There is a price," added Borchardt.

"I figured that. What is it?"

"I want to know why you need to get to Russia so urgently."

"You know I can't talk about it."

"Perhaps I can be of help," said Borchardt. "I have many friends in Russia."

"I'm sure you do," said Dewey. "Probably a real hip crowd. But I think I've got it covered."

"You don't seem to understand," said Borchardt. "I want to know what's happening. That's the price. Either tell me or find another way to Russia."

Dewey shook his head.

"You're a fucking asshole, Rolf," said Dewey. He hit Mute, pretending to hang up on Borchardt.

"Dewey?" asked Borchardt. "Calling me names will get you nowhere."

Dewey remained silent, listening.

"Dewey?" said Borchardt after a few moments. "Did you hang up? Dewey? Son of a bitch. If you're listening, fine, you don't have to tell me."

Dewey unmuted it.

"Hi, Rolf. Glad we worked that out."

"You really are a manipulative bastard," said Borchardt.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," said Dewey. "Oh, one more thing."

"What?"

"Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"What is it?"