Tears coursed down Mrs. Szabo's anguished face. She dabbed at them with a small kerchief. "Gyorgy is gone, too. My husband, all of my family are gone. What do you want of me? Why did you come here to torment me with these painful memories so long put to rest?"
Lori was suddenly on her knees at Margit Szabo's feet. She spoke in a pleading voice. "But I am your granddaughter. I must be. My stepfather told me what happened after my mother...my stepmother's death. She was in the same hospital as Istvan's wife, on the same floor for a hysterectomy. Istvan was afraid the AVO might take some action against his wife. He asked Cameron Quinn to look after the baby if anything happened. When they came for my real mother, he arranged with the doctor and a hospital official to switch the records to show that I had been born to Julia Quinn. They indicated my real mother had a stillborn. The AVO probably changed the records to say my mother died during childbirth. But she was alive when they took her from the hospital."
The old woman had closed her eyes as soon as Lori approached, as if, not seeing, she could safely deny something she was unprepared to accept. She shook her head. "I have no granddaughter," she said in a choking voice. "My family is all gone. I am alone. Please go and leave me with what memories I still possess."
Lori looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. She could not get through to this tragic, aging figure. It had all been in vain, the trip over here, the day of digging through the AVO files, a fruitless search for a past that must remain forever buried in the graveyard of Margit Szabo's splintered dreams.
Then Mrs. Szabo's wrinkled lids cracked open, like an ancient turtle preparing to peer out of its shell. Lori saw the weary eyes stare down at her, as if really seeing her for the first time. A frail hand reached out, a shaky finger traced the line of her nose, touched her lips.
"You are a reincarnation of my son, Istvan," she murmured.
Lori buried her face in her grandmother's lap as the old woman leaned down and kissed her cheek.
Beijing International Airport
Chapter 2
When the clocks showed 3:00 p.m. in Budapest, it was ten o'clock at night in the Chinese capital. A small army of mechanics had just finished a maintenance inspection in a special hangar at the Beijing International Airport on the northeast outskirts of the city. The Yun-7 aircraft, modeled after a popular airliner from the West, would transport Vice Premier Yip Mun Tong and a precious cargo to Pyongyang, North Korea the following morning.
Although the Cold War might have been merely a lingering bad memory across the continent of Europe, it had continued to maintain its chilling grip on the Korean peninsula. The simultaneous requests for United Nations membership by both North and South in the fall of 1991 had been hailed as a hopeful sign, but periodic attempts to reach some sort of understanding on a variety of issues had achieved little more than a lingering mutual suspicion. Old memories, unlike old soldiers, did not simply fade away. The South could not forget the penchant for dirty tricks exhibited in the past by the northern Democratic People's Republic's wily old dictator, Kim Il-sung. In one of the worst outrages, Kim's agents staged a terrorist attack on a presidential delegation in Rangoon, Burma, slaughtering four South Korean cabinet ministers and thirteen other government officials.
Following the collapse of communism in Eastern Europe and the breakup of the Soviet Union, the Democratic People's Republic of Korea found itself one of the few remaining communist dictatorships. Kim was hands down the longest reigning despot, though he had turned over daily operation of the Party and government to his son and heir apparent, Kim Jong-il. Because of his age, now past eighty, Kim made only an occasional public appearance designed to show the world that the crown of power still rested comfortably upon his thinning gray hair.
After the new Democratic Unity Party scored a shocking upset victory in the South with special elections following vote rigging charges, retired General Kwak Sung-kyo had become president of the Republic of Korea. The party's platform was centered around two main objectives—unification of the Korean peninsula and a reduction of outside influences, apparently directed in large part toward the United States. Kim Jong-il decided it was time to stage a grand appearance of the old warrior, Kim Il-sung, to mark the forty-fifth anniversary of his installation by the Russians as North Korean premier. The tribute to the suryong, "great leader," a title Kim had chosen for himself, would take place at Pyongyang's Presidential Palace.
Those invited to the celebration were the trusted elite, including members of the Politburo and Central Committee of the Workers' Party of Korea, the Administration Council, the Supreme People's Assembly, the General Staff and key military leaders, plus guests from the two remaining communist powers of significance, China and Cuba.
Eager to further their growing influence in Pyongyang following the Soviets' withdrawal as North Korea's chief military and economic supplier, the Chinese decided upon an impressive gift for the occasion. Vice Premier Yip Mun Tong would present Kim with a magnificent fifteenth century Ming Dynasty vase. Measuring over two feet in height, it was a peach-colored thing of beauty, with designs fashioned by an ancient potter in bright green, red, and yellow enamel.
Others to the south were equally pleased and set in motion their own plans to take advantage of China's magnanimity. With the Pyongyang celebration scheduled for the following day, the prized piece of ceramic art was delivered, carefully packed and crated, to a storage room in the hangar that housed the Yun-7 aircraft at Beijing International Airport.
When the maintenance crew left, a lone security guard with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder walked a solitary post outside the locked and darkened building. His orders included periodic checks around the sparsely illuminated rear of the hangar. It was a routine assignment that carried about as much excitement as a game of ping-pong with a cross-eyed opponent. This was a long way from Tiananmen Square. There had never been anything remotely resembling a problem out here. On this night, however, a shadowy figure lurked behind a large truck parked near the hangar.
The phantomlike observer checked the sentry's movements for an hour and a half. The soldier's periodic treks to the rear of the metal-roofed structure, spaced at regular twenty-minute intervals, were timed with the luminous-dial watch on the intruder's right wrist. The dark-clad figure had chosen to make his move a little past midnight. The operation had been planned with surgical precision. There would be no overt moves, no causes for alarm, not even the slightest evidence that anyone but the young sentry had been here.
The elusive man was Hwang Sang-sol. Though Korean by birth, he had spent the last dozen of his thirty-five years traveling constantly about the nations of East Asia, a successful entrepreneur whose stock in trade was death and destruction. The major terrorists of Europe and the Middle East bore widely recognized names like Carlos the Jackal and Abu Nidal. They were media celebrities, men with consuming hatreds who relished seeing their misdeeds chronicled on front pages and in newscasts around the globe. Hwang, by contrast, cared no more about publicity than a politician who had been caught with his hand in the public till. He was slave to no ideology, sought no cause to promote. He was a smooth, polished, behind-the-scenes manipulator, as adept as any operator on the Washington political scene.
From a comfortable hideaway in Hong Kong's New Territories, he ranged the area on freelance assignments for a variety of masters. His price was high, but his performance was exceptional. A man with more faces than a Swiss diamond cutter, he could slip in and out of nearly any location with virtual anonymity. He prepared himself meticulously, worked from his own strengths against his adversaries' weaknesses, and analyzed each operation with the thoroughness of a surgeon.
The guard had remained out of sight for eight to ten minutes on each of his patrols. Hwang waited exactly four minutes following the man's disappearance around the far corner before crossing swiftly to the nearby office door. He carried a cloth bag with handles, designed to make no sound should it brush against anything metallic. It was no larger tha
n a shopping bag. In the chill of the night air, he felt the dampness of nervous perspiration collecting around his collar and at the wrists of the black sweater he wore. A little fear never hurt, he reflected. It pumped the adrenalin, provided incentive for a constant state of alert. Using the key that had been supplied, he quickly unlocked the door and stepped into the darkness inside.
Hwang had memorized the plan of the building. Using a small, powerful penlight, he hurried into the open area of the hangar. After a glance at the sleek outline of the jet, he moved along the near wall until he found the door bearing the Chinese characters for "Storage." His key opened this one as well.
Inside the windowless room, he glanced about, located a pile of rags and stuffed them against the bottom of the door. Then he turned on the overhead light.
The crated vase sat on the floor in the center of the room. He examined the padded wood strips that held it in a gentle but firm grip. They had been bolted together tightly. Reaching into his bag, he removed two adjustable wrenches secured with velcro strips and quickly dismantled the crating, careful to place each piece to the side in the order that he had removed it. Then he unwound the padding from around the vase and lifted out enough finely spun wooden packing material to fill a large bucket. Shining his light inside, he confirmed the vase was now empty.
Hwang took a package from his bag and opened it, removing a block of pliable plastic explosive. Next he retrieved two delicate devices that had been taped inside the bag. One was a small blasting cap, the other a tiny though highly sensitive radio receiver. The radio circuitry was all contained on a microchip that fed the signal into another chip which was, in effect, a minuscule computer. It would decode the received signal and, if it found the proper code, trigger a small battery-produced electrical charge. Connecting the blasting cap to the receiver device produced a radio-controlled detonator. Reaching in with his left hand, he placed the detonator in the bottom of the vase, then pressed the plastic explosive down over it. Fishing around inside the bag, he found a flat, circular piece of ceramic material painted to match the inside of the vase. He seated it firmly against the plastic.
Satisfied with his handiwork, Hwang moved quickly to re-pack the vase, carefully returning the crate to its original appearance. Then he swept up all evidence of his presence, switched off the light and gathered up the rags from beneath the door. Checking his watch, he found he had taken exactly eighteen minutes. It was almost time for the guard to make another swing to the rear of the hangar.
When he reached the office, the sound of nearby voices froze him in his tracks beside the doorway.
Hwang had been assured the morning work crew would not arrive before daybreak. Had there been a change in plan? It was essential that he maintain a strict schedule to rendezvous with the fuel truck that would provide his escape route. He strained to pick up the conversation, finally determining that it was only a security officer checking on the guard. Soon he heard a vehicle start up and move away. As he peeked through the window in the door, the guard was pacing toward the corner of the hangar.
Exactly four minutes later, Hwang slipped silently through the doorway and faded into the night.
Budapest, Hungary
Chapter 3
Lunch patrons crowded the restaurant at the fashionable Hilton Hotel. It was located on Castle Hill near the Fishermen's Bastion, its striking combination of old and new architecture incorporating the tower and surviving wall of a thirteenth century church built by Dominican friars.
Lori and Burke Hill stopped by the Hilton for lunch with a neighbor from their Washington suburb of Falls Church, Virginia. A computer expert, Will Arnold worked for a large defense contractor involved in missile work for the Air Force. He was on the program of a convention at the Hilton that attracted computer professionals from across Europe and the Middle East.
Lori and Burke arrived early and were escorted to a table.
"Do you want to order something to drink while we wait for Will?" Burke asked.
"I'd like a cup of espresso," Lori said, glancing up at the waiter.
Burke nodded. "I'll have the same."
After the waiter left, she contemplated her husband with an elevated eyebrow. "You've been awfully quiet since we left our hotel. Something bugging you?"
He shrugged. "You could say that."
"Like what?"
"Like your search for your grandmother."
That brought a frown. "Why should that bug you?"
He folded his hands and tapped his thumbs together. "It reminded me of something I should have been more diligent about, something I failed to tell you."
She grinned. "Some deep, dark secret? We've only known each other what, sixteen months now? I'm sure I have a few skeletons in my closet I haven't shaken out yet."
"This one is the sort of thing I shouldn't have overlooked. Remember when we were on that flight to Hong Kong, just before Cam died? We shared our pasts with each other, including our failed marriages."
Lori nodded.
"I told you how Peg had gotten a divorce because of all the long absences while I was flitting about the country on FBI assignments. And I mentioned about breaking off all contact with her when I went undercover, trying to crack the Mafia. I knew if my cover got blown, they'd go after any family I was close to."
"I remember," Lori said.
He paused while the waiter set their drinks on the table. He dipped a spoonful of whipped cream into the dainty cup of espresso, having learned the strong black coffee took a bit of getting used to. He exhaled a deep breath. Confession might be good for the soul, but it could be damned wrenching to the mind and body.
"What I failed to mention was the son I left behind."
"You had a child with your first wife?" Lori knitted her brows.
"I should have told you when I talked about Peg, but I haven't had any contact with him in over twenty years. That's what I alluded to yesterday when I told you there were lots of reasons why some people would be reluctant to confront a long, lost relative. He was hardly five years old the last time I saw him. It was right before I went undercover. I told Peg it could be dangerous for both of us if she even mentioned my name. She agreed she should take back her maiden name and give it to young Cliff, too."
Lori shook her head. "I can't believe you didn't tell me about your son."
"I'm sorry. I apologize. It was a stupid lapse in judgment."
"I can understand why you distanced yourself from him back then, but after you left the Bureau?"
"Remember, I was on their shit list after Hoover disowned me," he said. "They were harassing the hell out of me at every turn. About the time I left for Alaska to get away from it, I contacted Peg and found that she had remarried and told Cliff his father died in an accident. I was so confused, I didn't know what to do. When I came back south to Tennessee, I learned that Cliff was in college. Evidently the money I'd sent her took care of that."
"You sent money? When?"
"While I was working undercover. I sent it anonymously, but with instructions to set up a fund for Cliff's education. I did it in a way she'd know where it came from."
Burke saw Will Arnold sauntering toward their table, his strapping athletic build topped by a broad smile that began to dim as he looked down at them.
"Hey, am I interrupting something serious?" he asked in his usual jaunty manner.
"Just airing out a little dirty linen," Lori said. Her face softened into the beginning of a smile.
Burke pushed his cup back. "We've just had a little espresso while we waited for you, Will. Sit down and we'll order."
Will gave Lori the once-over as he pulled up his chair. "You look positively radiant, lady. There's no doubt pregnancy agrees with you. What have you been up to since you arrived in Budapest?"
"This has been a mission of discovery," Burke said.
"That sounds intriguing."
Will's arrival and his buoyant spirit seemed to have defused Lori's anger at Burke's revelation. "It
has been exciting," she said. "I met a grandmother I never knew about."
As soon as the waiter took their orders, Lorie launched into the story of her meeting with Margit Szabo. Will listened in fascination. It was unusual for him to remain silent this long, Burke thought. He was a talker, never at a loss for words.
"That's unbelievable," Will said when Lori finished. "Maggie told me you were coming over here on some kind of genealogical kick, but I had no idea it was anything like that. A famous actress? I figured one of these days I'd be able to boast that I hobnobbed around with celebrities. You going to bring her back to the States?"
"I'd like to," Lori said. "That dark old house gives me the creeps. But she didn't want to even talk about going to America. I guess if I were almost ninety, I'd be reluctant to start all over somewhere else, too."
"At least she's got her freedom now. Things must be a lot different since they lifted the Curtain."
"Some things are better, for sure," Lori said. "No more Big Brother looking over your shoulder. But things were fairly liberal here before, compared to most other communist countries. The Hungarians are a pretty resilient people."
Will glanced across at Burke. "What have you discovered in Hungary, neighbor?"
As she listened to the men chat, Lori looked around and spotted the curious young man she had seen watching Burke at the airport the day they arrived. He sat a few tables away. At the moment, his head was turned so she caught only a profile view, but she was positive of the identification. After her intelligence career, she no longer believed in coincidences. With Will at the table, though, she said nothing.
Pyongyang, North Korea
Chapter 4
Most of the somber crowd was already in their seats when the short, stocky man with graying hair showed his party credentials and stepped through the metal detector into the cavernous hall of Pyongyang's Presidential Palace. He was late for a very good reason. Earlier arrivals would have been forced to take the closest available seats to the stage. He wanted to be assured of a place at the rear of the audience.
The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2) Page 2