Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Utopia Experiment (A Covert-One novel)

by Kyle Mills

  As he watched a man in a gray coat emerge from the vehicle, a phone icon in the colors of the North Korean flag appeared in his peripheral vision. He picked up immediately.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Dresner?” came the thickly accented voice. Not General Park’s. His assistant’s. The man he used when a failure needed to be reported.

  “What’s happened?”

  “The facility has been completely destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? You mean dismantled.”

  “Our leader sent the military and they accomplished their goal with magnificent efficiency.”

  “You used the military?” Dresner said, turning away from the window and trying to control the anger welling up inside him. Even in the North Korean hinterlands, that kind of action wouldn’t escape the American intelligence community. Once again the North Korean leadership had proved itself to be a tantrum-prone child trying to display its power and relevance.

  “And the people I wanted captured?”

  “We have the German.”

  Dresner found himself unable to respond. Was it possible? Was it possible that a military force sufficient to destroy a fifty-thousand-square-meter bunker had managed to let Smith and Russell escape? That all they had accomplished was to trap a single aging scientist?

  He glanced through the window beside him and saw James Whitfield stride through the rain as though he wasn’t aware of it.

  “And the others?”

  “They escaped in a jeep. Our leader is extremely busy, but you will be honored to know that he is giving this his personal attention. We expect to have them in a short time.”

  “You expect—” Dresner started, but the man cut him off.

  “You must excuse me. I have things to attend to. We will contact you when the situation changes.”

  The line went dead and Dresner pushed himself to his feet, stalking to the empty rear of the plane and entering the elaborate bathroom there. He stood over the sink staring into the mirror, trying to construct the facade of control that would be necessary for his meeting with Whitfield. He constantly tried to remind himself of the seriousness of the path he’d taken but sometimes it was impossible not to be overwhelmed by the emotional satisfaction of knowing that one day soon, the world would be free of men like the ones who ran North Korea.

  Perhaps his carefully laid plans to disappear after all this would be unnecessary. There were literally billions of people in the world who would thank him for what he’d done and some might even offer him asylum. The starving, oppressed population of North Korea would certainly have no reason to do anything but laud his actions.

  He heard the door in the side of the plane open and took a deep, cleansing breath. His resources inside the CIA and army could find no extraordinary power base behind the two Americans, but questions remained—particularly about Smith. His history was especially murky.

  The danger they posed could not be underestimated. In all likelihood, the North Koreans would put an end to this. They were two whites and at the center of a manhunt by a regime whose only area of competence was making people disappear. But he would be foolish to count on it. Smith and Russell had proved their resourcefulness too many times.

  When he emerged, Whitfield was already sitting at the small conference table in the center of the plane. He didn’t speak until Dresner had taken a seat across from him.

  “It’s my understanding that the North Korean facility has been leveled. In as obvious a way as possible.”

  “And it’s my understanding that Smith and Russell were there at the time. They’ve now escaped into the countryside.”

  No surprise registered on Whitfield’s face but it was impossible to know if it was because he’d already known of their presence in Korea or if it was a result of the mask he wore so comfortably.

  “They’re no longer a threat.”

  “Are you saying they’re dead?”

  “I’m saying that they’re no longer a threat.”

  “And I should just leave it at that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must think I’m much more trusting than I am, Major. I have no idea how involved the CIA or military intelligence is in their actions but it’s impossible to believe that they’re working alone. The time when you could just make pronouncements and have me accept them has been over for quite a while. Your record doesn’t warrant that kind of confidence.”

  Whitfield just stared at him and Dresner settled back to return the stare. It was a childish battle of wills, he knew, but not one he would permit himself to lose. There was too much at stake.

  “The CIA and military intelligence aren’t involved,” Whitfield said finally. “This was isolated to Randi Russell and Jon Smith. She has a history of going out on her own and she recruited Smith because of their personal history and his position working on the Merge.”

  “How can you be certain they haven’t told anyone about their suspicions? And if they’re still alive, how do we know that they won’t continue their investigation?”

  Again, he didn’t immediately answer. And again Dresner waited him out.

  “Because I spoke to the president.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Smith and Russell are notoriously hard to deal with and this was escalating out of control. I met with the president and told him everything.”

  “What do you mean ‘everything’?” Dresner said, trying to keep the shock from reading on his face.

  “I mean how the Merge was developed and about my involvement in its financing.”

  Dresner tried to process what he was hearing, beating back the growing sensation of panic as Whitfield continued.

  “For obvious reasons, Castilla agreed that none of this can ever see the light of day. He’s personally going to call off Smith and Russell and I’m coordinating with him to make certain that every aspect of this is permanently swept under the rug.”

  As dangerous as the situation was, what Whitfield was saying rang true. Castilla’s motivations were clear here: He wanted to remain in the White House and he wanted the American military to dominate the world. Ironic how much the politician would risk to protect a device that had been designed to destroy the very malignant power structure he sat atop.

  “I’m not confident in Russell,” Dresner said finally.

  “Explain.”

  “Don’t play stupid, Major. Smith is a good soldier. He can be counted on to follow orders. But her past paints a very different picture.”

  Whitfield’s expression lost its enigmatic neutrality for long enough to make it obvious that he was sympathetic to that particular concern.

  “It’s my understanding that you have a relationship with the political leaders in North Korea.”

  Dresner nodded.

  “Well, I don’t. As long as they’re in Asia, I have neither the ability to protect them nor the responsibility to do so.”

  The message was clear. He was unwilling to have anything to do with the killing, but if they never returned, it would be simpler for everyone. A modern Pontius Pilate.

  “Are we through?” Whitfield said.

  “I think so.”

  The former marine stood and headed for the front of the plane. Dresner watched him exit into the heavy rain and kept watching until the SUV disappeared. A moment later the calming rumble of the jet engines spooling up filled the cabin.

  Nothing that could be confused with serenity came to him, but the fear that had been building subsided a bit. In all likelihood, Russell and Smith would never leave North Korea. But even if they did, it was probable that they could be controlled—at least for the time frame important to him.

  It was conceivable that his position had just been strengthened—that instead of worrying about being discovered, he would now be able to operate under the protective umbrella not only of Whitfield’s organization, but of the White House itself. Perhaps the two-year window he’d planned on could be extended to three, possibly even five years. What if he could de
lay activation until there were a billion users? Two billion? And over that time, how much more sophisticated would LayerCake become at targeting those responsible for the unnecessary suffering of humanity and everything humanity touched?

  Grand dreams. But probably no more than that. Jon Smith and Randi Russell had motivations that were much more complex than the powerful men they answered to and it made them unpredictable.

  They would have to be dealt with. Until he had seen their dead bodies, he would not be safe.

  57

  Hamgyong-Namdo Province

  North Korea

  KYONG HADN’T SAID A WORD since the tank had passed, leaving them with lungs full of diesel smoke and a glimmer of hope that they might survive. Admittedly a faint glimmer, but a glimmer nonetheless.

  They walked up the overgrown dirt road with Randi and Smith keeping watch on the dense trees encroaching from either side. A startled water deer had caused a brief panic about a half a kilometer back, but since then everything had been quiet.

  “That tank will have reached Eichmann and the troop carrier by now,” Randi said. “They’ll know we got off the road somewhere.”

  The Korean, a few paces ahead, didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard. He clearly still didn’t fully trust them. And after what they’d seen at that facility, it was hard to blame him.

  “The soldiers won’t know about this road,” he said finally. “It hasn’t appeared on a map since many of them were children.”

  “Where does it lead?” Randi said.

  The Korean’s gait slowed a bit, suggesting that it was a more difficult question than it seemed. “To nowhere.”

  She wasn’t willing to leave it at that. “Roads that people go to this much trouble to hide always lead somewhere.”

  Kyong picked up his pace and Randi gave Smith a quizzical look. The message was clear—they knew nothing about this man and it was hardly a stretch to think he could be leading them into a trap. But he hadn’t yet and alternatives were limited. On their own, it was unlikely they’d last long.

  She frowned at his noncommittal shrug, jamming her hands in the pockets of her jacket and starting to watch the trees again.

  It was another fifteen minutes before Kyong came to a stop at the edge of a rolling, open meadow where the road dead-ended. Smith squinted into the sunlight, looking for something that distinguished it from every other rolling, open meadow in the area, but came up empty. He pulled out his satellite phone and looked down at the screen again, confirming that there was still no signal. It was likely that the North Koreans had started jamming and that the text from Fred had skidded in under the wire.

  “This was my village,” Kyong said. “I was born here. So were my parents and my grandparents. We were farmers. Very poor like all the workers in my country. Twenty years ago, the complex opened. They paid a little money to people willing to go there. A little bit of food.”

  “Go there?” Smith said, noting the interesting turn of phrase. “You mean ‘work there’?”

  Kyong shook his head. “The old people went first. They couldn’t farm anymore but they wanted to contribute. My grandmother never returned. My grandfather came back blinded, though there was nothing wrong with his eyes. When the weather turned bad, the crops failed and more of our people went there. I was small then, but I still remember. We were starving.”

  “I don’t mean to question you,” Randi said. “But are you sure we’re in the right place?”

  It was a valid question. There was no trace of irrigation ditches or crop rows. No paths or home foundations. If Kyong was telling the truth, someone had done a hell of a job of wiping his birthplace off the map.

  Their skepticism must have shown because the Korean started east toward the trees. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  He crashed into the dense forest with them lagging a bit behind, scanning the shadows for troops and secret police. When they finally caught up, they found Kyong standing in front of a tiny house with the remnants of white paint still clinging to rough-hewn boards. The glass was still intact in the only window, so Smith rubbed the dirt from it and peered into the gloomy interior. It looked like the people had just walked out and never come back. There was a sewing machine with a piece of cloth in it, metal cups on a makeshift table, a small bed left unmade. All that gave away the passage of time was the thick layer of dust and a few empty animal nests.

  He stepped back, listening for a moment to the chirp of birds and wind-rustling leaves. The bomb blasts were silent now and Smith wondered if it was over. If the facility was a corpse-ridden pile of rubble.

  He turned back to Kyong. “Do you know what Division D was?”

  By way of an answer, the Korean started walking again, motioning for them to follow.

  It was less than a minute before they came upon the first mounds, their size and shape making it impossible to mistake them for anything but the unmarked graves they were. As they continued, the mounds grew in width: couples buried together. Then they expanded into what looked like whole families. A few of the graves had wooden markers with fading Korean lettering, but most of these people would face eternity in anonymity.

  Kyong pulled a flowering vine from one of the markers, looking down at it with a mix of sadness and anger. “I’m the only one left. The only one who remembers.”

  “What do you remember?” Randi prompted.

  “When the people stopped returning or were brought back to us dead, we no longer volunteered to go. Starvation was better. After that, they just took us. The trucks would come at night. Parents would stay in their homes and send their children to hide in the forest until the soldiers were gone. The worst time was going back to your house. Not knowing if anyone would be there.”

  He paused for a moment, lost in the past. “Eventually, I was the only one left. And they came for me too. But I knew the area and I had an ability with languages so I survived—but only if I worked for the people who destroyed everything I ever knew.”

  “When you buried the bodies,” Smith said. “Did you look at them? What killed them?”

  “Some had shaved heads and scars. Some had little holes in their skull that we didn’t understand. Others had nothing. They were just dead.”

  Kyong swept an arm around the improvised graveyard. “This is what you’re looking for, Dr. Smith. This is Division D.”

  58

  Hamgyong-Namdo Province

  North Korea

  ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, KYONG?” Jon Smith said.

  The Korean nodded weakly, using the question as an opportunity to bend at the waist and take in a few deep, ragged breaths.

  They’d been forced into the wilderness when the military’s search intensified and foot soldiers had been deployed to find where they’d turned off the road. According to Kyong, there was a large village twenty kilometers to the east where his last surviving relative—an aging aunt—lived. In the plus column, she apparently had no love for the government and would probably be willing to help to the degree she could. In the negative column, fifteen of the twenty kilometers were through a rocky, overgrown mountain range devoid of trails.

  The Korean started up the steep slope again, staying close to a stream flowing from the snow line in order to avoid the tangled foliage on either side. Randi gave him an optimistic grin that turned to an expression of deep concern once he’d passed.

  “We’re less than ten kilometers into this,” she said quietly to Smith. “And we haven’t even gotten to the hard terrain yet.”

  She was right, and it wasn’t just their less-than-athletic guide. Anticipating trouble, he and Randi had worn versatile shoes and jackets, but they weren’t suitable for a multiday expedition into the middle of nowhere. Their primary goal had been to pass for scientists, and showing up in full combat regalia would have looked a little suspicious.

  The sun was starting to sink toward the horizon and the warmth of the day was already starting to fade. With the altitude they were gaining, he guessed that temperatures woul
d dip well below freezing before sunrise.

  So no gloves, no hats, no food. No ability to build a fire with the army tracking them. And a team member who was completely unsuited to this kind of work.

  The rumble of a jet engine became audible and both he and Randi slipped into the trees as a Chinese-made attack aircraft swept low a few kilometers to the west. There was no need to warn Kyong to do the same. Staying clear of the government was hardwired into him.

  When the sound of the plane faded, Smith switched on his satellite phone again.

  “Anything?” Randi said, not sounding particularly hopeful.

  He shook his head. “Still no signal. If they’re jamming, we might be able to get something when we make it over the peak. But I don’t know how extensive their capability is. I’ve never operated here. You?”

  “Nope.”

  “It probably doesn’t even matter. Fred’s well connected around the world, but North Korea’s a black hole.”

  “I’ll bet your Merge would work,” she said sarcastically. “Too bad you left it at home.”

  “Don’t start, okay?”

  He squinted down the slope and at the distant clearing that had once contained Kyong’s village. Something seemed to move, but it was impossible to be sure. At this distance, vehicles would be visible but individual men in camo wouldn’t. Had the Koreans found the entrance to the road? Did they know they’d been there?

  What he wouldn’t give for a pair of binoculars. A sandwich. A rifle. And, despite Randi’s chiding, a little audiovisual enhancement wouldn’t be a bad thing either.

  “What do you think was going on in Division D?” she said as they started along the stream again.

  “Dunno. Might just be another aspect of the development of the technology.”

  “Then why not tell Eichmann about it? It wasn’t like that son of a bitch was squeamish about turning people into guinea pigs.”

  “I don’t know that either,” he said, deciding to return a little of her sarcasm from earlier. “But it’s going to be hard to ask him, isn’t it?”