The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2)

by Chester D. Campbell

  Nate outlined the plan. The new association, to be called the American Council for Business in Korea, would hire Worldwide Communications Consultants to represent it in Seoul. Worldwide would produce a public relations campaign geared to promote goodwill toward American interests among the Korean public. It was something the business community sorely needed, with the government of President Kwak putting the damper on what were euphemistically called "outside influences." It would give the Amber Group an excuse to make a wide range of contacts, including government and industry, where clues would be sought to what South Korea was doing in the field of nuclear weapons and their delivery systems.

  "The White House has given it the code name HANGOVER."

  Burke grinned. "I suppose that's what they expect if we don't come up with the right answers. Sounds like you have things well underway, though. I'll need to look into the staffing situation, work up some costs for personnel and facilities."

  Nate nodded as he thumbed through the blue folder. "Accounting should have some preliminary figures for you. We'll start with an account executive, a media person, and one from research. As soon as we can wrap up this business council and get Jerry ready to take over, I want you to go with him and help get things established. You can handle the banking and financial arrangements. While Jerry's working on getting his office in operation, you should have time for some preliminary snooping into their governmental setup. We need to know where to start digging for a weapons project."

  The kind of "snooping" Nate referred to was strictly out-in-the-open stuff. Innocuous questions. Carefully considered observations. As the President had pointed out in that first meeting, the company's personnel would operate on foreign soil without diplomatic immunity. In fact, they would be totally deniable by the United States Government. Anyway, Burke was primarily a desk man, not a field man. The trip would likely come in early November, he figured. Lori's due date was around Christmas. No doubt it would take several weeks to get everything into operation in Seoul. That would be cutting it pretty thin.

  "You do realize the stockings on our mantel this Christmas will be booties?" Burke asked. "Lori and I have a date with the stork instead of Santa this year."

  Nate leaned back in his chair and smiled. "Don't worry. We'll get you back in time." He added, as if an afterthought, "I've chosen Duane Elliston to be the account executive."

  Burke stiffened. He was hardly thrilled at the prospect of flying off to the Far East at this juncture in his life. Factoring Duane Elliston into the equation qualified as taking a bad situation and making it worse. Duane was a PR professional, probably as knowledgeable as anybody in the agency. Additionally, thanks to Nate's persuasive powers, he was now a professional intelligence officer. He was also the only person in the organization that Burke could not stomach.

  The youngest son of Nate's old friend Joshua Elliston, Duane had worked for a PR firm affiliated with the Elliston Advertising Agency, the company Nate had saved from an early grave. A glib, outspoken young man, he had been the key contact on a large automobile account. Nate had hired him as one of Worldwide's first professional public relations employees. As with all newcomers, he had been given the standard briefing about Worldwide's "peculiar relationship." According to the official line, some of its personnel were quietly affiliated with an international organization involved in combating terrorism around the globe. There were vague hints, too broad for anyone to pin down, that it could be connected with NATO or the UN or some other alphabet-soup multinational body. That provided the rationale for thorough investigations, a provision in the employment agreement permitting polygraph examinations, and cautions about revealing anything except PR activities approved for public release.

  Duane wasn't satisfied at being merely a "blue" employee. He wanted to be on the inside. Burke had objected strongly. All of the Amber Group members were people with backgrounds in intelligence or related fields who possessed talents or skills that allowed for rapid upgrading to public relations positions. But as Nate explained it, he had known Duane since he was a boy. Duane had a sharp mind and the ability to learn quickly. Nate thought he had the makings of a good intelligence officer and, equally as persuasive, he felt it unwise to have someone with his kind of persistence and astuteness digging about the fringes of the Amber Group. After appropriate investigation and testing, Nate convinced Kingsley Marshall to admit Duane to the CIA's training program at "The Farm" near Williamsburg, Virginia.

  Burke had no doubts about the young man's capabilities. What turned him off was his Mr. Tough Guy attitude and his oddball style. For a sophisticated person, he seemed to enjoy pushing his way around rather than using finesse. And Duane loved to flaunt his contrarian philosophy. Whatever direction most people took, he chose the opposite. His clothes were out of fashion, his musical tastes bizarre, he drove a re-built Edsel, and when somebody suggested he take up an outdoor sport, he chose croquet. To Burke, he was all show and no substance. How he might react in the field when things got really tough was a big, fat question mark.

  "This is a critical operation, Nate," he said quietly, the tension showing in his voice. "I'd feel a helluva lot better with somebody more solid in that spot."

  "He's probably the brightest guy we have."

  "And the most outrageous. If this was the sixties, he'd no doubt be a hippie."

  Nate frowned thoughtfully. "Duane came out of the mass culture of the seventies. Rich kid, everything he wanted, still feeling unfulfilled. He was obsessed with that 'is this all there is?' outlook. I think his style is really a protest against what he sees as the hollowness of his generation."

  Something was hollow all right. Burke wasn't sure whether it was Duane's head or his heart. Intelligence worked like a military operation. You had to be able to count on every man carrying out his assignment. He didn't relish the idea of depending upon Duane Elliston to cover his flank. He wasn't convinced Duane could subordinate himself to the requirements of the operation. But it was obvious from the look on Nate's face that he was not about to change his mind.

  "I'll try to get along with him as best I can," Burke said.

  "Good." It was the voice of a man who had just closed a door. Nate returned to the folder. "I have something for you to take care of while we're putting the rest of this package together. Wentworth Industries, my friend Hollis's firm, has been making contributions to the Korean-American Education Foundation. He figured it was a worthy group that would help improve his image over there. It provides scholarships to American universities for deserving students from Korea, most of them with one American parent. He'd like to have the business council make future contributions instead of his company. We're talking about a pretty good chunk of money. Before we do anything, I want you to go take a look at this foundation, make sure it's something we'd want to get involved with. We can't afford to get snared in some deal that spends half its money on fund-raising."

  "Where is it located?"

  Nate glanced back at the folder. "San Francisco. The director is a Dr. Kim Vickers." He handed Burke an information sheet on the organization.

  "I'll give him a call. I'd better start digging into some other areas, too, like nuclear weapons and the Republic of Korea."

  "General Thatcher pointed out that we've lost our leverage with the Koreans. They first started working on a nuclear capability back in the seventies. We forced them to drop it by threatening to reduce our troop level. That was back in the days when they were scared as hell of invasion from the North."

  Nate closed the blue folder as Burke got up to leave.

  "If we confronted them now, I suppose they'd simply deny everything," Burke said.

  Nate nodded. "The Israelis as well. Until we can come up with something concrete on this situation, it looks like we're stymied. I've asked the people in research to put some background together for you. I'll check my contacts at Foggy Bottom and see if we can set up a briefing on the country for you and Jerry."

  As he reached the door, Bur
ke turned back. "Did Kingsley Marshall have any feel for what all this means?"

  "His analysts say if the Koreans were to demonstrate a weapon and the capability to deliver it, the whole Pacific Rim could be destabilized. The President is really worried. He's faced with growing friction with the Japanese. This idea of a future conflict between us and Japan is getting increased play in the media. He was counting on the Koreans to be a moderating influence. Now this. It has a much greater potential for disaster than the Persian Gulf."

  Seoul, South Korea

  Chapter 10

  Captain Yun waited for the security guard to open the gate, then drove up the roadway toward the Yi house. It was a typical example of shutting off the stream after the dam had been breeched. There was an adjacent gatehouse occupied by a caretaker and his family, but there had been no monitoring of the gate at the time of Yi's murder. Now a guard checked all visitors, a precaution Yun considered useless. He did not believe Yi's family faced any danger now that the industrialist's voice had been silenced.

  Yi's connection with the family chaebol had come through his wife. She was the daughter of President Kwak's half-sister. The house was large, likely quite old, built in traditional Korean style with a wandering tile roofline that separated the men's quarters and women's quarters. Along the winding road leading to the house were neat gardens that would blaze with fragrant blossoms in the spring. He was ushered into a parlor furnished with a low, lacquered table inlaid with an elaborate design, floor cushions embroidered in bright reds and greens, an elaborately painted folding screen at one side, and a pair of tall wooden chests decorated with brass. After tea and the obligatory chat with the widow and her older son, Yun asked to speak with one of the ajumma, literally "aunt," but normally used for live-in maids who were treated as part of the family. She was a petite gray-haired woman who had found it difficult to look at him during their first interview.

  "Mrs. Song," he said, attempting to look a bit less stern than normal, "please be at ease. I merely want you to tell me again about your experience with the telephone repairman the morning of Mr. Yi's death."

  She looked down at her hands. "I told you everything I know."

  "Yes, you did, and I appreciate that. Please go over it again for me, if you would be so kind. Perhaps you will remember something that slipped your mind before." He opened his notebook and read from the first interview. "Just start where you met him at the door."

  "He said he was Mr. Han, from the telephone system." She rubbed her hands nervously.

  "And how was he dressed?"

  "A dark blue jacket, gray trousers, a blue cap."

  "Anything else you remember about him?"

  She looked thoughtful, then nodded. "Oh, yes. He wore black gloves. Work gloves, I think."

  "Did he carry tools?"

  "Yes, he had something attached to his belt with tools stuck in it. And he had some sort of telephone-looking device hanging from his belt."

  "Did you get a look at his truck?"

  "Oh, yes. It was the same kind of telephone truck you see on the streets."

  And it was one of the oldest gimmicks in the business, thought the Captain. But the man named Hwang, if it was really him, had been more resourceful than most. Exhaustive questioning of telephone supervisors and employees had determined the so-called Mr. Han was not a repairman as he claimed. But no truck had been reported missing. He had evidently stolen the truck and returned it promptly before anyone realized it had been taken. The black gloves, of course, had left no telltale prints.

  "Now let's go over what he did after he identified himself." Yun watched her closely.

  "He said there had been some trouble with the lines in the area and he wanted to check ours. I saw him go around the house to where the telephone line comes down from the pole."

  When she paused, he prompted her. "Could you see what he did there?"

  She shook her head slowly, gave him a brief glance, then looked back at her hands. "No. I went back to my work in the kitchen."

  Yun checked his notes. "I believe you said he came to the kitchen door after that."

  "Yes, he asked for a drink of water."

  "And you gave it to him?"

  "Yes."

  Yun knew that would be no help. A Korean would offer or receive a cup with both hands. "And then what did he do?"

  "He said he had lost his pen, asked if I had one he could borrow. Then he began to talk about Mr. Yi. Said he had heard a lot about him, that he was a great man. Asked if he was one of those businessmen who worked late every night. I told him—"

  "Just a moment, Mrs. Song." She was passing up the crucial point. "Did you give him a pen?"

  She looked up at Captain Yun, confusion on her face. "Of course. I had no reason—"

  "Yes, yes, I understand," said Yun, closing the note pad. He leaned forward for emphasis. "I want you to think very carefully before you answer. When you held out the pen to him, which hand did he take it with?"

  She bowed her head again, eyes closed, and rested her fingertips against her temples. Yun knew she was trying to picture it in her mind, just as it had happened that day nearly a month ago. She moved her right hand out, as if holding the pen. After a long moment, she looked up, a deep frown on her face. "I...I don't know." She shook her head. "Maybe...no, I just can't remember. It isn't something I would notice."

  Yun took a deep breath, trying to cover the deflation he felt. It had been his best chance to link Hwang Sang-sol to the murder. Highly circumstantial, to be sure, but enough to justify digging deeper into the assassin's movements.

  The disappointment in his face seemed to distress Mrs. Song, then she blurted, "Mr. Kim, the caretaker, he came through the kitchen while I was talking to the man. Maybe he would remember."

  Yun knitted his brow, quickly flipping back to his notes. "You made no mention of Mr. Kim when we talked before."

  She averted her eyes. "I forgot. I'm sorry."

  Yun looked across at Mr. Yi's widow, who had been listening in silence. "Is Mr. Kim around?"

  "Yes, my son will go find him."

  When the caretaker arrived a few minutes later, he bowed to Captain Yun and squatted down opposite him. He was a raw-boned man of the soil, and it showed in the brown smudges that discolored his traditional baggy pants, which were tied at the ankles. He clearly was not comfortable facing anyone in plain clothes identified as a police officer.

  Yun made no attempt to allay the caretaker's fears. A policeman was expected to be intimidating in both appearance and demeanor. It helped that he had found no joy, up to this moment, in the progress of his interrogation. He recounted Mrs. Song's story about the telephone repairman, moving to the point where she related that Mr. Kim had been passing through the kitchen.

  "Do you recall Mrs. Song handing the repairman a pen?" Yun asked.

  Mr. Kim rubbed a hand over his unshaven face, creating a sound like sandpaper on the rough side of a piece of leather. "Yes, I was there."

  "I know you were there," Yun said. "But did you see her hand over the pen?"

  Mr. Kim nodded.

  "Think very carefully. Did he take it with his left hand, or his right?"

  "Left," said Mr. Kim without hesitation.

  Now it was Yun's turn to register consternation. "Why are you so certain it was his left hand?"

  Mr. Kim smiled. "Because I am left-handed. I rarely find another left-handed person."

  Yun was elated. He carefully controlled his feelings, however, as he wrapped up the interview hastily and left the Yi house. He would go back to the case of the hotel owner murdered in March and try to determine if anyone resembling Hwang had been seen at that time. It would mean slow, painful, laborious questioning, but that was one advantage, maybe the only one, to having a task force. Manpower was not a problem. The critical fact to determine, if it got that far, was who had hired Hwang?

  San Francisco, California

  Chapter 11

  It was late afternoon when Burke arrive
d outside his hotel. A bright autumn sun beamed down on him, but the blustery wind made the square across the way sound like a shooting gallery, colorful nylon banners attached to the lamp posts snapping and cracking constantly. He settled down in his room with the phone book to make a few preliminary checks before his meeting the following morning at the Korean-American Education Foundation. The Better Business Bureau reported receiving no complaints. As far as the governmental agency that registered organizations involved in charitable solicitations was concerned, everything appeared in order.

  Troubled by a growing concern about Lori, he called home before heading out for dinner. Dr. Chloe Brackin had laid down the law after examining her following their return from vacation. She warned that Lori was overextending herself. She ordered her to work no more than half a day and stay off her feet as much as possible. With only two months to go, the godmother cautioned against taking any chances.

  "How was your day?" Burke asked when she came on the line.

  "Uneventful. You'd think I was an invalid the way they treat me at the office."

  "Good," Burke said. "When I leave for Korea, you ought to let Marilee run the show and just stay at home."

  A tall, statuesque woman as crusty and cool as an ice sculpture, Marilee Breckinridge managed the Clipper Cruise & Travel office on Pennsylvania Avenue. She would take charge of the business while Lori was out having her babies.

  "I'm all right," she said. "Just a little tired after two weeks on the run in Budapest."

  "I know, you're Superwoman," he said, a slight irritation in his voice. "Never spent a day in the hospital." Several months earlier, when a flu bug had sidelined her for a couple of days, she had informed him that no illness had ever managed to put her in a hospital bed.