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box, shipped him to Hong Kong. They could have kept Dillman alive and used him, as Bhang would have, to penetrate back into Beijing and the ministry, to try to learn who Dillman’s handlers were, perhaps even tried to blackmail Dillman. They didn’t. Instead, Dillman’s killers not only sent him back, they did so in a particularly interesting and provocative way.
    Their target was Bhang himself.
    It was unmistakable. This thrust was aimed at him. There could be no other explanation.
    Not bad, thought Bhang.
    They were smart enough to know they would never be able to get at Bhang themselves. He was too well guarded, his movements too unpredictable, his activities too secret. His enemies would attempt to get at those surrounding Bhang. Premier Li, the most powerful man in China, would be furious over what had happened to his granddaughter. Much worse was the subtle effect Dillman’s corpse—and its flamboyant delivery—would have on everyone surrounding Bhang. It was a dagger, sent to pierce the shroud of invincibility that Bhang had built and enforced over a decade atop the ministry, through terror, force, and fear. If Dillman’s corpse could be delivered in such an ostentatious, unexpected, and undetected manner, well, then, someone out there, perhaps one of the three men seated in his office, might develop the confidence to strike at Bhang as well.
    “And so the game begins,” said Bhang quietly, to himself, as he stared at the burning ember atop his cigarette.
    “Minister?”
    Bhang stood up. He reached for Dillman’s Star of David, which was on his desk. He picked it up and held it, examining it.
    “Who outside of the ministry was aware of Dillman?” asked Bhang.
    One of the men handed a single sheet of paper to Bhang. The list was short, only four names. Bhang studied it, then nodded his head slowly up and down.
    “Aziz,” said Bhang.
    “The Iran station chief? He’s not on the list, sir.”
    “Please see that he’s here, in my office, as soon as possible.”
    “Yes, Minister.”
    “Then see that the first three gentlemen on this list are killed, in a manner that is quiet, and, if possible, dignified.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Bhang stubbed out his cigarette. He removed his blazer from the back of his chair.
    “Tell the premier I’ll be there in ten minutes. Also, have gifts sent to his granddaughter; wonderful gifts—a large teddy bear, flowers, sweets. I want you to personally oversee the wrapping of the presents as well as their delivery. Is that understood?”
    “Yes, Minister Bhang.”

 
    5
    WHEATON ICE ARENA
WHEATON, MARYLAND
    Dewey Andreas climbed out of his Ford F-150 and glanced up at the sky, still dark at 4:55 A.M. It was cold out, not Maine cold, but cold enough to see his breath. He reached into the back of the pickup and grabbed his equipment bag and a pair of hockey sticks.
    “You must be the ringer Jessica was bragging about,” said a brown-haired man walking by, carrying his equipment.
    Dewey nodded and smiled but said nothing. He recognized the speaker; Mark Hastings, chief justice of the United States Supreme Court. Hastings, Dewey knew, had played goalie at Harvard. His equipment bag was twice as big as Dewey’s.
    “You need a hand?” Dewey asked.
    “Do I really look that old?” Hastings laughed.
    “Let me get your stick.”
    Dewey took Hastings’s goalie stick and walked with him toward the rink doors.
    It was the most exclusive pickup hockey game in Washington. It was probably the most exclusive pickup hockey game in the world. After all, where else on a cold Saturday morning at five o’clock could you find three members of the cabinet, a Supreme Court justice, four U.S. senators, half a dozen congressmen, a few assorted Pentagon officials, and a variety of other denizens of the Washington elite gathering to lace up their old pairs of CCM Super Tacks, pull on equipment last used in high school or college, and play an hour of hockey?
    Of course, the main attraction was