During his year-and-a-half stay in the area, Xu had come to hope he could live there, though it would surprise his masters that he would leave behind the splendid apartment they’d given him near the Forbidden City. Perhaps in a year or two, when all of this was behind him, he could think about working for himself. He had a reputation in some important circles. He would see.

He honked at a driver who cut in front of him as he turned onto California Street. He knew the locals thought the traffic here was insane, and he snorted a laugh. Even L.A. couldn’t compete with Beijing, the traffic-snarl capital of the world, with its endless streams of bicycles weaving in and out of traffic on the overcrowded roads. Once he’d even seen a skinny little kid pedaling away on top of a thick stone wall.

He looked at the people walking on the sidewalks, most of them with phones attached to their ears, most of them busy with the little problems in their little lives. They had no idea what was going on in the world around them.

It was time to go back to Beijing and make his case. He hadn’t contacted them since he’d taken O’Rourke, and now he decided he’d wait. Best to do it in person.

Xu felt a taste of fear in his mouth. It was viscous, foul, like the pumping blood from Mickey’s throat spraying the walls of that miserable little shack.

He started whistling again. He’d be in and out of the Fairmont in ten minutes, no longer, and on his way to LaLa Land.

Fairmont Hotel

California Street

Xu left his Audi with the valet. He’d be back in ten minutes, he told her, pressing a ten-dollar bill into her hand. Pretty girl. He walked through the elegant hotel lobby, with its yellow granite columns, scattered huge palm trees, and sculpted seating arrangements spread throughout, and arrived at the elevators. He punched the button for the sixth and top floor. There were two couples in the car with him who obviously knew one another, the men carrying shopping bags, the women flushed and happy and chattering about lunch.

Both couples got off at the fifth floor. He wondered if they had views as incredible as his. He’d miss seeing the Golden Gate in the distance, and the downtown beneath him to the east, a tight knot of multifaceted buildings shining with reflected light in the bright afternoon sun.

He got off the elevator and walked down the beautifully carpeted hallway to his suite at the end of the wide corridor. He didn’t see a soul except a maid standing beside her cart in front of the door across from his suite. He didn’t recognize her, and he always made a point of knowing who was around him when he was in an unfamiliar place, staff included.

She looked up at him, smiled and nodded, then said, “Is there anything you need, sir?”

He shook his head and thanked her. He watched her sort through a stack of towels. There was something about her he couldn’t quite pinpoint that was a bit—off. Was she new? Was it simply because she was working a different shift? Or had he simply not seen her before? He smiled back at her. “You having a good day?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, it’s splendid today, after the rain,” she said, and turned her back to him to open the room across the hall.

Something was definitely off, but what was it? They couldn’t have found him, simply couldn’t have. But he hadn’t stayed alive for the past twelve years by taking chances. He carefully eased a small canister out of his jacket pocket, slipped his finger through the ring and pressed it against his thigh. When he slid his key card down the slot, the green light flashed and the door opened, quiet and smooth, as it always did. He let the door open a crack.

He stepped into the very modern living room of his suite, with its view of the city spreading out before him.

A man’s voice yelled, “FBI! Hands in the air! Now!”

“Don’t shoot me!” he yelled. He flung his hands into the air, and let the safety ring remain on his finger as the canister crashed to the floor. There was a deafening blast, and thick smoke billowed like a black curtain in front of him. A sheet of flames burst out hot and high, and Xu was down, rolling. He’d closed his eyes as he’d hurled the canister and turned his head away, but he still saw lights, felt his eardrums throb from the deafening noise.

He heard shouts, heard bullets flying around him through the flames and smoke. He knew they couldn’t see him any more than he could see them, even less if they were still blinded by the light with their ears ringing. But they’d know if they didn’t do something fast they’d burn to death. He felt a bullet sting his arm, ignored the shot of pain, crawled to the front door, and rolled out into the hall. His last view of his suite was through a wall of flames, the FBI agents yelling to one another from the other side.