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

by Chester D. Campbell

  Inside the lobby, he stopped to brush off his coat before heading for the elevators. As he glanced toward the registration desk, he caught the profile of a man talking to the clerk. He did a double-take. His heart virtually ceased to beat.

  With great difficulty, he wrenched his head away to keep from being caught staring. It was like a sense of deja vu. He had never laid eyes on the man before, but he had studied that face with the mustache far too many times to mistake it now. It was as though he were looking at one of those close-up photos Burke Hill had given him. The man at the desk was Suh Tae-hung, alias Hwang Sang-sol, a.k.a. countless other identities.

  Yun spotted one of his fellow policemen, a man named Kang who had been assigned to the Namdaemun Station a few years back, and quickly crossed the lobby toward him. Now his heart pounded wildly. He muttered a greeting to the officer, shifting his position to afford a better view of the desk. He took a deep breath and silently began to berate himself. Hwang obviously didn't know he was the man who had been asking all the questions. Otherwise, he would have encountered the assassin long before now. He scolded himself for acting like a schoolboy frightened by a neighborhood bully. It was beneath the dignity of a competent, highly-trained professional of the Korean National Police.

  "Have you been out chasing burglars?" Kang asked. "Walking through that snow must be like stepping in quicksand."

  "Yes," said Yun, realizing the impression he must have left with his harried look and heavy breathing. "I feel like I just tried to run through it."

  Quicksand, indeed. As he watched Hwang glide toward the elevators like a cat on the prowl, he realized that if he didn't soon ferret out the man's mission here, he'd run the risk of being swallowed up by a mass of doubt and indecision at least as deadly as a pit of mushy sand.

  "I'm staying right here until somebody orders me out into that mess," Kang said with a frown.

  "I'm with you," said Yun, then looked toward the registration desk. "I need to go ask that clerk something. See you around."

  As Hwang disappeared into the elevator, Yun strode quickly up to the desk. The clerk looked around at him, still holding the new arrival's registration card.

  Yun smiled. "That man who just checked in, the one with the mustache. Was that Kim Chung-gun?"

  "No. He was a Chinese businessman named Tao. A lucky fellow, too. His flight from Beijing was the last one allowed to land before they shut down the airport."

  Yun nodded with a reproachful "I should have known" frown, then pointed to the card in the clerk's hand.

  "I remember him now. Is that his card? Could I see how he writes his name?"

  The clerk glanced at the card, then back at the detective. "Aren't you one of the delegates from Seoul? He's a friend of one of your people." He placed the card on the counter. "He asked for a room across from Captain Yun."

  Camp David, Maryland

  Chapter 49

  The luncheon was a small, intimate affair involving only ten top-level businessmen with significant interests in the Far East. Plus Burke Hill. He knew he didn't breathe the same rarified air as the others. He hadn't flown in aboard his corporate jet as had those from New York, Chicago, Houston, and San Francisco. And he didn't belong to the same exclusive clubs as Nate Highsmith or the big shot chairman of a Washington area manufacturer. The only rationale for including Burke was his just-completed six-week sojourn in Seoul. But that appeared reason enough, since a chief purpose of the session was to update the business leaders on conditions around the Pacific Rim. The President had included his Chief of Staff along with his Assistant for National Security Affairs and the Director of Central Intelligence.

  Burke assumed that Nate had been born wearing a neatly knotted necktie, since he was almost never seen without one. But the President, who had a less formal background, preferred to take advantage of every opportunity to go casual. This was a weekend break in the rugged and scenic Catoctin Mountains, near the Maryland state line northwest of Washington. The President had decreed the dress should fit the location. So the men came in a mixture of attire that included hunting clothes, colorful flannel shirts and one pair of cowboy boots. It had a definite leavening effect on the gathering and helped make Burke feel more like he was back home in the Smokies.

  The luncheon was held in a room with rich wood paneling and a conference table that appeared to have been hewn out of a giant tree trunk. Burke wondered if he might be sitting where Anwar al-Sadat or Menachem Begin had sat as they worked out their famous Camp David Accords. One non-rustic accessory was the lectern, which General Thatcher and Kingsley Marshall used for their briefing. They gave an overview of American positions in the region and touched on some of the more troubling aspects, such as China's continued refusal to take a more democratic approach in dealing with its masses. Reports of South Korea's plan to substitute Japanese for English as the primary language elective in its schools—Japanese had been the official language during the occupation—had just begun to surface in the press. The CIA Director advised that it was a topic being taken quite seriously at Langley, although it was too early yet to determine just what lay behind the reports.

  During the question-and-answer session, Burke was asked by several of the guests his assessment of the Seoul government's current drift. He had chatted briefly with Thatcher and Marshall during the pre-luncheon cocktails about what he should say. He told the group there were some definite problems in Korean-American commercial relations. However, Worldwide Communications Consultants' survey showed a basic undercurrent of goodwill among ordinary Koreans for the American people as a whole. Official red tape, he lamented, came in immense widths and unconscionable lengths, but if you could locate the right officials, business could be conducted easily and amicably. He thought particularly of Captian Yun Yu-sop at that point and wondered how his venture in Pyongyang was going. When a questioner brought up the Damon Mansfield fiasco, which had gained wide coverage in the American press, Burke hesitated a moment. He knew how the State Department felt but wasn't sure of the White House's orientation. It was a subject he hadn't discussed before lunch. He finally decided when in doubt, tell the truth.

  "I had a nice chat with the editor of one of the most influential newspapers about that incident," Burke said. "He had initially accepted the story given by the supposed victim, even wrote an editorial about it. But at my suggestion, he looked into it a bit deeper. He concluded the man had lied, that Damon Mansfield had been set up. But he wouldn't print a correction or retraction."

  "Why the hell not?" asked a ruddy-faced Texan who had likely weathered his share of clashes with the press.

  "He gave me a nice lecture on the value of our Bill of Rights," Burke said. "Without some criminal charge, an official condemnation or a confession by the bogus victim, he would run the risk of having his newspaper shut down by the Ministry of Culture and Information. Which, by the way, was who the man worked for."

  He noted the President's look of concern but had no idea whether it was for what he had said or the fact that he had said it. The session ended shortly afterward. He and Nate had been briefed beforehand on what to do. As the group milled around in the room shaking hands, Burke made a point of looking a bit distressed and commented that he had eaten too much.

  After everyone had bundled up in their heavy jackets and coats, the Chief of Staff led the group out onto a terrace where the chill mountain breeze whistled through the bare limbs of tall, gaunt trees. He had led them down the snow-covered stone steps to a swimming pool in the shape of a figure eight before anyone noticed that Burke Hill and Nathaniel Highsmith were not among them. The White House official explained that Mr. Hill had felt a bit ill and was being checked by a White House physician. Mr. Highsmith had stayed with him. Everyone knew the President had been scheduled for a meeting with his National Security Advisor and the CIA Director.

  The room looked like something in a plush hunting lodge, which essentially it was, though the only hunting done around here was the constant search
for intruders by the Marine guards. Straightback chairs were arranged before a massive fireplace in which large logs popped and crackled as accompaniment to the dancing yellow flames.

  As the junior member of the group, Burke followed protocol and walked in last. He had made a marvelously quick recovery. There had actually been a physician, who had talked with him for a couple of minutes. Truthfully, his stomach hadn't felt altogether right since he had left Seoul. When he related the story of his hurried departure and the birth of the twins, the doctor said it sounded like a tension-produced upset stomach. He advised taking a good antacid for a few days until things settled down.

  When he saw the fireplace setting, it looked identical to Nate's description of his earlier meeting in the Oval Office. The President had a thing for fireplaces, Burke recalled from an article he had read. As a young boy, before his father had made it big in the oil business, the President had lived in a modest bungalow in a middle class neighborhood of Dallas. The house was heated by a coal furnace in the basement. The President had relished the rare occasions when his dad built a merrily blazing fire in the small livingroom fireplace. He would sit facing the warmth of the flames awhile, then turn his back, rotating slowly like a chicken on a barbecue spit.

  Burke quickly became the center of attention as he described his close relationship with Captain Yun and the revelations it had brought him. He discussed the alarming extent of the nuclear weapons program, and his suspicions regarding the former Korean-American students. Finally he explained what Yun was presently seeking in the North Korean capital.

  When he had finished, the President looked at him with a troubled frown. "What do you make of this Japanese language thing?"

  "I just heard about it the morning I left. Since President Kwak alerted the Defense Security Command, it sounds like he was expecting trouble. I'm sure you've heard the rumors going around. The question about Kwak's whereabouts during World War II, whether he had secretly worked for the Japanese."

  "Yes," said the President, "and that is most troubling. This week we received an official request from the Japanese Prime Minister for talks in Tokyo on ending our joint security arrangement with Japan. They want the freedom to run their military without us looking over their shoulders. Just like South Korea."

  Marshall cocked his head to one side. "I read a report before coming up here that the Japanese newspapers are lauding the new climate of friendship in Seoul. It's beginning to sound like an orchestrated affair."

  "Well, I don't like the sound of the damned music," General Thatcher said.

  Judge Marshall nodded. "Frankly, if I were President Kwak, I would be a bit concerned about my welfare around Colonel Han Sun-shin."

  Burke looked around. "The NSP director?"

  "Yes. I remember reading in his bio, when he was appointed last May, that his father was executed by the Japanese during the occupation. I shouldn't think he'd have too much love for the people in Tokyo. If Kwak gets too cozy, he might wind up in the morgue."

  General Thatcher gave him a surly look. "Surely the Colonel wouldn't—"

  "One of Han's predecessors, the head of the old KCIA back in 1979, assassinated President Park Chung-hee and his chief bodyguard at a kisaeng house. Colonel Han has precedent going for him."

  "You seem to have a pretty good feel for this, Mr. Highsmith," said the President. "How do you read it?"

  Nate shook his head. "I hate to say what I'm thinking. The Japanese could have been behind this South Korean nuclear effort from the start. If Kwak is really their man, it's a perfect setup. They merge with Korea economically, pick up a nuclear arsenal, then they go after China. The Russians wouldn't lift a finger if they could. They're too busy selling oil to Japan and Korea and holding out their tin cup for favors."

  "I hope to hell we're both wrong," said the President, stretching his long legs in front of him to soak up the warmth from the fire, "but I'm afraid that's the way I see it, too. If that's the way it is, we may have to play some real hardball to get things stopped before it's too late."

  Burke stared at the flirting, playful flicker of the flames. He had a feeling this Poksu business would turn out to be the key to everything. But just how would that key fit? Was its leader the man who had planned the series of assassinations that thwarted close ties with the U.S.? He must have ordered the murder of the respected academic who had learned his identity. Did he feel particularly vulnerable? Was he the brain behind the nuclear program? How did it all tie in with Dr. Kim Vickers and the Korean-American Education Foundation in California? He looked back at the President.

  "If we're lucky, Mr. President, Captain Yun should bring back the answers to most, if not all, our questions."

  "You saved my neck a couple of years ago in Toronto, Burke," said the President. "I hope you didn't use up all of your luck with Jabberwock."

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  Chapter 50

  When Yun Yu-sop went down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, he stopped in the lobby to buy a newspaper and received the confirmation he had expected. Following close behind came Hwang Sang-sol, dressed for the weather in insulated brown boots, a heavy coat slung over his arm. The way Yun had analyzed it, the man probably had no more than a physical description to go on. And, further, Hwang likely was unaware that Yun could identify him. The Captain had not gone to his room last night until after dinner and did not come out again until morning. He reasoned that Hwang would watch for him to leave and follow him for a closer look. The fact that he did so openly indicated either that he discounted being recognized or he was purposely flaunting his presence. Since Yun could think of no reason for him to do the latter, he accepted the likelihood that Hwang felt secure in his disguise. That was the only positive note he could detect.

  He was aware that Hwang had taken a table to one side of him, but he studiously avoided looking in that direction. Several members of the Special Security Group came into the restaurant and were seated together nearby, only nodding in acknowledgement of Yun, making it obvious he did not belong in their chummy group.

  Yun tried to divert his thoughts away from the man whose stare he could feel as though it were a laser beam burning his cheeks. He concentrated on the restaurant and how he might rate it. On a four-star system, he decided it would only deserve a circle, which he defined as a single star without any points. The food was lacking in distinction, the service poor to non-existent, and the decor could best be described as commonplace dull. But as he ate, his mind kept wandering back to the questions that had troubled him most of the previous evening. After all this time, how had Hwang managed to track him down here unless someone higher up in the justice system was culpable? Was he on another assassination mission, with Captain Yun Yu-sop as the target? Yun could do no more than speculate, but he had taken the precaution of placing the photograph Chung had given him in a sturdy envelope, which he addressed to Burke Hill at Worldwide Communications Consultants in Seoul. He included a note identifying two of the people in the picture as "Young Tiger Lee and his friend Ahn Wi-jong." The mail from Pyongyang to Seoul was supposedly transferred uncensored. Yun didn't trust that to be true but thought the note innocent enough as to not set off any alarm bells.

  He had also written a brief note to his son. It suggested that if anything happened to him on this trip, Se-jin should contact Burke Hill in his search for the culprit. Hill would recognize the hand of Hwang Sang-sol. If nothing happened, he would call Se-jin and tell him to disregard the letter, that it was just a case of being overly cautious.

  When he had finished breakfast, Yun crossed the lobby to the front desk, where he bought stamps. He placed the large envelope in a mail drop at the end of the counter. After placing a stamp on the letter to his son, he looked around and got a glimpse of Hwang across the way, watching. Instead of mailing the letter, he stuck it inside the folded newspaper, pulled his coat on and headed for the entrance. It would be interesting to see if Hwang followed him. He felt the reassuring bulge beneath his jack
et, where the small automatic rested in its shoulder holster. Under the agreement between the two governments setting ground rules for the meetings, the Korean National Police were not to carry weapons unless actually engaged in escorting or otherwise providing protection for the delegates. Since spotting Hwang, however, Yun had decided not to go anywhere without his pistol, even if it meant stretching or ignoring the rules. For the moment, he would head for the conference building and find out if the talks were still slated to wind up today as scheduled.

  The man whose photo appeared on the passport bearing the name Tao Kuang, grabbed his black topcoat with the red scarf folded inside, paid his breakfast bill and left the restaurant just in time to see Captain Yun Yu-sop, whose identity was now firmly established, drop something in the mail slot at the desk. He had not seen the detective carrying anything but a newspaper. Apparently whatever was mailed had been covered by the coat over his arm. He wanted badly to know what had been dropped in the mail box but saw the policeman headed for the hotel entrance. Tao Kuang, who had taken a fancy to that name borrowed from a Chinese emperor of nearly two hundred years ago, donned his scarf and coat and followed at a discreet distance. So far he had seen nothing on Yun's part to indicate any awareness of the surveillance. Nevertheless, he proceeded with his usual caution.

  The sidewalks had been cleared of most of the snow. Walking was now less of a chore. Neither the streets nor sidewalks were as crowded as in Seoul. He assumed the hurried pace of the somber-faced pedestrians was occasioned more by the temperature than by any rush to get some place in particular. He hadn't noticed anything worth rushing to around here. But, then, his tastes ran more to the bright lights of Seoul and Hong Kong and Tokyo. Pyongyang was hardly noted as a swinging town. With unification of North and South now a definite possibility, though, things could be headed for a change.