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

by Chester D. Campbell

  "No offense meant," Jerry said, sobering.

  Burke's look softened. "None taken. Hopefully I haven't been a general long enough to lose the common touch." Then a big yawn caught him suddenly, and he reached a hand up to cover his mouth. "I'd better get on up to my room. This wine'll have me so relaxed I'll go to sleep on the table. See you in the morning."

  Back in his room, Burke put in a call to Falls Church. Lori was just getting started with breakfast.

  "How do you feel?" he asked.

  "My problem at the moment is I dropped an egg on the kitchen floor, and these two animated spirits kicking around inside aren't making the cleanup too easy. Plus it's too quiet. You should have left me a tape. One with a few good shouts, like, 'What happened to my blue-checked shirt?' Or, 'Did you wash my black socks?' Or, 'What time are we having dinner tonight?'"

  Was she joking, or did he usually sound that demanding? "I'll have to remember that next time," he said.

  "Did you tell everybody I'd be a helpless waif after you left?"

  Boy, was she ever on his case. "What do you mean?"

  "Nate called last night, anxious as an old maid. Wanted to know if I needed anything."

  "He knows how concerned I was about leaving you at this particular point. You ought to appreciate his thoughtfulness."

  "Oh, I do," she said, her voice a bit too flippant.

  "Look, I'm tired as hell, Lori." He gave in to the fatigue he'd been fighting off the past hour or so. "It was a damned long flight. Don't give me a hard time, okay? I called to see how you and the twins were doing. I'm sorry if it upset you."

  He could hear the tears in her voice as she mumbled, "Who's upset?"

  He regretted immediately having said it but was past thinking clearly enough to know how to rectify it. "I guess I'd better get to bed," he said. "Tomorrow's going to be a busy day. I'll call you later when we're both in a better mood."

  He didn't waste any time getting to bed, but after he had pulled up the covers, it took awhile for him to doze off. It disturbed him that they had hung up on a sour note. Whenever they had argued before, they had always made up before going to sleep. Now they were half a world apart, and he was too bushed to try and figure out what had gone wrong.

  Chapter 22

  A discordant din of traffic noises, accompanied by the foul aroma of diesel exhaust being belched from green and white buses, welcomed Burke and Jerry to Monday morning in downtown Seoul. The sidewalks bustled with people scurrying about like penguins on an Antarctic beach. Most were well dressed in Western style. They seemed to be propelled along by a chilling breeze that gusted beneath a leaden November sky. Burke and Jerry left the Chosun armed with directions supplied by the hotel information desk. They headed down the stairs into a pedestrian underpass beneath the broad boulevard that flanked the City Hall. Small shops and vendors selling everything from food to footwear lined the underground passageway. They soon emerged at the entrance that would take them over to Taepyong-ro. After several minutes of brisk walking, they came to two almost identical buildings. Fluttering outside the first was a large American flag, marking it as the U.S. Embassy. The second building housed the Ministry of Culture and Information.

  At the Embassy, they were told Ambassador Shearing would be involved in a meeting for the next hour or so. He was expecting their arrival, however, having been alerted by the senior undersecretary. He had left instructions for them to see his cultural attaché. They were directed to a small, sparely furnished office where they found a towering young black man with short-cropped hair. He appeared all arms and legs when he stood to greet them. The attaché leaned forward and reached a long arm across the desk, leaving the impression he could have bent over a little farther and tied Burke's shoes.

  As they shook hands, he smiled warmly and said in a deep baritone, "I'm Damon Mansfield. Make yourselves at home." He gestured toward the chairs beyond his desk. "Welcome to the Land of the Morning Calm. What can I do for you?"

  Burke eyed him for a moment, a questioning frown on his face. "The Damon Mansfield?"

  The diplomat asked with feigned innocence, "Which one would that be?"

  "Demon Damon, All American, Georgetown?"

  He nodded. "You must be an alumnus. I never played in the NBA, you know."

  "Bum knee, wasn't it?" Burke said.

  "Right. I was in a car accident. Did you graduate from Georgetown?"

  "No, I went to GWU. I was up in Alaska when you were playing, though. In the winter time, there wasn't much to do but watch TV or listen to tapes. One of the channels carried the Georgetown games. As I recall, you were a holy terror."

  Mansfield touched a long, slender cautioning finger to his lips. "Don't let Ambassador Shearing hear you say that. He thinks I'm a model of diplomatic decorum." When he sat back in his chair, his head was still high enough that he could have been a small man standing. A frown slowly clouded his face. "If you were thinking about the infamous fighting affair, take it from me, it was greatly overblown by the media. The guy I hit had been taking cheap shots all night. When he finally gouged an elbow in my stomach, I let him have it with a right cross. The ref missed the elbow, but he sure caught my act."

  Burke remembered. Mansfield was thrown out of the game, and the press clamored for his suspension. The coach benched him for one game, knowing he had been provoked. "That wasn't really what I had in mind. What I remember was your performance under the basket. When push came to shove, you didn't take a back seat to anybody."

  Mansfield's smile returned as he looked across at Jerry Chan, who had said nothing. "I'll bet you don't remember me at all, do you?"

  Jerry grinned. "Afraid not. When you were playing basketball, I was probably trudging through the tall grass of Southeast Asia. I was with the DEA back then."

  Mansfield considered him with renewed interest. "A drug enforcement agent? That's an interesting background for a public relations man."

  "I had the same experience as you. A little accident changed the course of my career. What can you tell us about the current state of Korean-American relations? In Washington, Mr. Vanderpool told us you folks would have the latest word."

  Damon Mansfield turned in his chair and stared out the window at the glut of traffic moving slowly along Sejong-ro. "The state of relations between the two countries is about like that traffic out there. Bogged down for no reason I can discern but Oriental intransigence. How much do you know about the new government of President Kwak?"

  "Not a lot," Burke confessed. "We know the Democratic Unity Party espoused re-unification with the North, and a so-called reduction of foreign influence. From what we've heard, I gather they're trying to shift their foreign trade and development emphasis from a U.S. orientation to more reliance on Europe."

  Mansfield nodded. "It's the way they're shifting that has us really concerned. We have no argument with opening up new markets in Europe, or anywhere else. They signed a new agreement with Israel, you know. But what they've been doing is throwing up roadblocks to continued close cooperation between themselves and us."

  "What sort of roadblocks?" Jerry asked.

  "One good example was the troop withdrawal. Fortunately the press hasn't got wind of it, but there were some pretty nasty words passed in what was reported as 'negotiations.' You'd have thought we were back at Panmunjom dealing with the North Koreans. It takes a lot of time to shut down an operation like we've had going on here for forty years. The big Eighth Army Compound in Yongsan, the Support Command in Taegu, an Air Division at Osan, units along the DMZ. They wanted us closed down, lock, stock and barrel in thirty days."

  Burke shook his head. "I'm no logistics man, but that sounds like a tall order."

  "You're not kidding," Mansfield said, leaning forward on his desk. Besides the telephone, only an appointments calendar and a book on the origins of Korean folk music marred the chasteness of the desk top. "They talked about how fast we moved our troops to the Persian Gulf in 1990. We explained that was an emergency type
operation that cost a bundle of money. We didn't see anything so urgent about this. They finally agreed to give us ninety days to get everybody out of the country, except for part of the Support Command. We were to have all equipment and supplies shipped out within four months. Of course, the ROK Army wanted us to leave everything behind for them, but the President didn't buy that."

  "What else have they done, in the way of roadblocks?" Jerry asked.

  "Well, they set up some new layers of bureaucracy to insulate us from the real decision makers. In my bailiwick, for example, the Ministry of Culture and Information has a new low-level office that I'm required to deal with, and get approval from, before I can say any more than 'hello' to the people I've worked with the past couple of years. And they're just next door. It's frustrating."

  "One of the clients we'll be representing over here is Bartell Engineering," Jerry said. "They're working on a nuclear power station for the Korea Electric Power Company. Are you familiar with any problems we might encounter there?"

  "Not really. You would need to talk with somebody else on that. But they're a state-run corporation, so I wouldn't be surprised at anything you might run up against."

  Burke knew that was something he would have to dig deeper into. If the Koreans were planning to reprocess spent uranium from their power reactors, Korea Electric Power, known as Kepco, would have to be involved. He had already targeted them for special emphasis. "Who would know about that in the Embassy?" he asked.

  "Kurt Voegler. He's the commercial attaché. I understand you plan to attend the reception tonight. You can see him then if he's not available beforehand."

  "Good," Burke said. But the depth of this official hostility toward the U.S. really bothered him. He hadn't realized the situation had deteriorated to that point. It certainly gave new credence to Ben Shallit's revelation and a new urgency to HANGOVER. "About this animosity toward America and Americans, is it just something at the highest levels of the government, or does it filter down to the everyday bureaucrat, or even the man on the street?"

  Damon Mansfield leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. It was a gesture Burke had often used to gather his thoughts back when he lived in the Smokies and wore a full beard. "I think it's officially encouraged," Mansfield said after a moment. "But with a good part of the country, it doesn't take a lot of encouragement. Three-fourths of the population has never known a war. Sure, they've heard about the Korean War and America's part in it, but that's ancient history. It sounds like so much propaganda to the students. They tend to be anti-military and anti-American."

  "Since our military was the primary American presence, I guess that followed," Burke said.

  "The student demonstrators helped put this government in office. A major factor that's driven the student movement over the years is the Kwangju incident of May 1980. That was after martial law had been imposed following the assassination of President Park. The students promptly began demonstrating against the military. It got particularly bad in Kwangju. General Chun unleashed the paratroopers, and hundreds of demonstrators were killed. Those forces were supposed to be under American command. The students said we did nothing to stop the massacre, so we were at fault."

  Burke nodded. That fit right in with the country's troubled past that he had read about back in Washington. It was another in the series of events where American leadership had faltered and left Koreans as the victims. But hadn't we committed untold manpower and resources to protect South Korea and help build its economy? Whatever the problem, the new PR campaign to boost the image of America and her business interests began to look like a real uphill battle.

  "Surely there must be some elements in the business community, or somewhere, that appreciate what we've done the past forty years?" Burke asked.

  "Unfortunately," Mansfield said with a dejected look, "the group who could do us the most good has just about hit rock bottom."

  "Who's that?"

  "An organization called the Korean-American Cooperation Association. It's still in operation, but totally ineffective."

  "Why so?" Jerry asked.

  "If I believed in such things, and I'm beginning to think maybe I should, I'd say they were jinxed. The chairman, who was owner of the Capital Plaza Hotel, was killed in a robbery last March. One of the directors, a military officer, died in a plane crash. Another was our chief advocate in the National Assembly. He disappeared in the midst of a political scandal. Several others were victims of different tragic events, including the last really influential voice, an industrialist named Yi In-wha."

  Burke frowned. "What happened to him?"

  "He was murdered at his home a couple of months ago. I don't think it's been solved yet. He was a good friend of Ambassador Shearing and our last real hope. He was related by marriage to President Kwak. We had hoped he would be a restraining influence. It was a real blow. He had planned to have lunch with the Ambassador the day after he died."

  "Damn." Jerry twisted his mouth. "I agree. If I was in that association, I think I'd start believing in jinxes."

  "What about street violence?" Burke asked. "Have you had any of that directed against Americans?"

  "No. They like the American tourist dollar too much to allow that sort of thing. And they'll need a lot more to make up for what the GI's spent in the past."

  "Is all this damn-the-Yankees attitude being orchestrated by the new president, or is he just a front man?"

  "We're not really sure."

  "The pictures I've seen of him don't look very impressive."

  "That's because of what happened to him, which is part of the reason for his popularity."

  "What happened?"

  "You probably don't remember it, but back in 1983 the North Koreans carried out a terrorist attack against a presidential delegation in Rangoon, Burma. Seventeen South Korean officials were killed, several more injured. Kwak Sung-kyo was a general then and part of the delegation. His injuries left him stooped and partially paralyzed. You've got to admire him. For a man his age, he really made a comeback, thanks to physical therapy. I know what a pain that can be. He still suffers some facial paralysis."

  That probably explained the deadpan look in the magazine picture Burke had seen. "I guess the people consider him something of a hero then?"

  "Right. He's a pretty convincing speaker, but we're not sure he wasn't chosen to run simply because of the hero image. Prime Minister Hong Oh-san is an emerging figure and could well be the power behind the throne."

  Burke glanced at his watch. "We've taken up enough of your time, Mr. Mansfield. But we really appreciate the information. It balances out our historical perspective."

  Mansfield jumped to his feet and came around the desk to walk them to the door. "Hey, my pleasure. And just call me Damon, but skip the Demon, okay? Reminds me too much of my old ghetto days in Philadelphia."

  "You don't sound like a ghetto product," Jerry said.

  He grinned. "I got refined at Georgetown. Say, there's someone else you might want to talk to. He can give you a real personal perspective. Dr. Lee Yo-ku. He's a history professor at Seoul National University. It's the Harvard of South Korea. I've come to know him pretty well. Speaks excellent English. Writes books. If you call him, tell him I suggested it. See you guys tonight."

  Captain Yun leaned against his car in the deserted parking lot above the river and watched the crane slowly lower the crumpled black Kia to the cobblestones. The gray sky provided a cheerless backdrop to the somber scene. A policeman who was directing the operation signaled the crane operator to move away.

  "Ready to take a look, Captain?" the officer called.

  Yun walked over to the car, glancing at the front end. It had been crumpled by the impact with the water. Then he looked through the windows. A body lay face down across the front seat. Yun opened the door and leaned across. He saw what appeared to be two bullet holes closely spaced in the back of the man's jacket. From the description supplied by Mrs. Choe, he knew he had found Mr. Chon's gr
andson.

  After giving instructions for disposition of the body and the wrecked vehicle, Yun returned to his car and drove out toward the street. As he turned in the direction of the nearby bridge, the radio crackled to life with his car number.

  He identified himself, and the dispatcher's voice came through the speaker. "You have a message from Prosecutor Park. Call him as soon as possible."

  He knew what that meant. His thirty days would be up tomorrow. He frowned irritably at the thought of the obese prosecutor. Park's office was here on the south side of the Han, but he decided to hell with him. Let the fat fool wait. He kept on driving.

  When he reached the police station, he went straight to his desk. Two reports awaited him. The laboratory had determined the blood from Chang's motorcycle trailer matched that of Mr. Chon. He had been certain it would. Also, the surveillance team in his neighborhood had still observed no one who could possibly have been Hwang Sang-sol. That was both good and bad.

  Yun dialed the prosecutor's office.

  "Good morning, Captain," Park said in a disarming voice. "I trust you had a pleasant weekend. You haven't forgotten tomorrow?"

  "No, Prosecutor Park," Yun said,. "I have not forgotten what day tomorrow is."

  "Very well. I'll expect you in my office at nine in the morning. Be sure and bring all of your evidence."

  "I'll be there," Yun said. "Files and all."

  He felt he had enough evidence to request a warrant for Hwang's arrest, but he still had no idea who could be behind the conspiracy. And without a conspiracy, how convincing were the motives for murder? He would have to ask the prosecutor to give him a few more days to see if the neighborhood trap for Hwang might yet snare its prey. Meanwhile, he would look for back files of Chosun Ilbo, files dating back to the forties. It was one of Seoul's major daily newspapers, as it had been back in the days of the Japanese occupation.

  Chapter 23

  Back at the hotel, Jerry Chan called Dr. Lee's home. He spoke to an ajumma who gave him a number to try at the university. The professor was delighted to learn of their interest. He graciously invited them to drop by his home the following morning at nine. It was his day for no classes until after noon.