"No, but I intend to talk about it with Moon Chwa, my monk friend from the Pulguksa Temple. He'll be in Seoul tomorrow with a group of Buddhists planning to pressure the government about Dr. Shin."
"They'll be lucky if Shin's still alive," Burke said with a note of skepticism.
"That's what I'm afraid of," Jerry said. "By the way, I'll be out of the office awhile in the morning. A doctor's appointment."
"A doctor? What's the problem?" Nate asked.
"I don't think it's anything important. Just wanted to ask him about this odd fluttering sensation I've been getting in my chest when I run. It doesn't affect my running ability, breathing or anything like that."
"Let me know what the doctor says. Don't take any chances, Jerry."
"Don't worry," Jerry said. "I'm the indestructible man."
It was late morning when Burke called Dr. Vickers, though in San Francisco it was still early. "This is Burke Hill with Worldwide Communications Consultants," he said in a casual tone. "I'm coming out your way and wondered if you would be available this afternoon or in the morning?"
"Nice to hear from you, Mr. Hill. I would be happy to see you whenever you'd like. I hope you have good news for me."
"We'll see," Burke said. "Incidentally, I've been studying a bit about computer hackers. I understand you're interested in the subject, too."
"Where did you hear that?" Vickers asked.
"From a friend who's a computer buff. He said you had advertised for expert hackers, something about writing a book."
"He said I had adver—"
"Using a pen name, I believe. K. Vee. It listed your post office box. But we can talk about that when I get there. How about late this afternoon. Say four-thirty?"
There was a long pause, and Burke could imagine Vickers frantically attempting to find a way out, without alienating a possible large contributor. If so, he obviously failed.
"Yes, I...uh...I look forward to seeing you, Mr. Hill. This afternoon will be fine."
Two men hovered over a maze of electronic equipment in the back of a van parked behind the old building on Sacramento Street in San Francisco. One had on a pair of earphones connected to a tape machine that recorded a radio signal from a telephone tap on the Korean-American Education Foundation lines. He switched the signal to a second machine and rewound a short segment of tape on the first. Then he played it back through a small speaker above the recorder.
"Listen to this, Flash," said FBI Special Agent Harvey Bristol, pulling off the earphones. He was a large man with brooding brown eyes that glared beneath bushy black brows. The telephone line was clear at the moment.
Shortly, the sound of a ringing phone came from the speaker, followed by the voice of the secretary, Che-sun, then the caller, who identified himself as Burke Hill, and finally Dr. Vickers. When Hill said, "I've been studying a bit about computer hackers," Special Agent Carlos Campana nodded.
"Definitely a candidate." Campana, dubbed Flash for his love of flashy ties, flashy cars and flashy women, listened to the remainder of the conversation, then added. "He'll be here at four-thirty. I'd better alert Walters. He can take a look, see what the guy's up to."
Late that afternoon, a misty haze hung over the colorless section of Sacramento Street, giving it a dejected, forlorn look. The spirit of Christmas to come seemed to have largely by-passed this area, although a few retailers had made a stab at attracting more trade with "Xmas Special" signs in the windows. One book shop went even further with a paper Santa and a placard that urged: "Give the gift that lasts. Give a book for Christmas."
The shop was located on one side of the ground floor of an older building, with floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows at the front and on the side facing the elevator lobby. Low cardboard stands featuring the latest paperback bestsellers stood near the windows. A U-shaped island near the front, in full view of the windows, housed three clerks and two cash registers. The disparity in numbers was accounted for by the trim young clerk with thick, sandy brown hair, who appeared to have more concern for the anonymous people trudging through the chill December afternoon along the sidewalk than the paying customers inside the shop. He had been on the job for only the past hour, and then due solely to the generosity of the elderly store manager, who had offered no objections to cooperating in an FBI investigation.
As 4:30 drew nearer, he took the photo from his pocket and studied it with growing consternation. Would he show up, he wondered? Of course he would, he told himself. And he was right. At almost exactly 4:30, a taxi stopped in front of the building and let out a stocky, hatless man wearing a dark blue topcoat. His hair was rapidly graying. He had a somewhat familiar look that did not appear to result altogether from the photograph. At any rate, the agent felt virtually certain he was looking at Burke Hill of Worldwide Communications Consultants.
He watched the man walk in out of the misty gloom, pause to look at the directory, then press the elevator button. After the doors had closed behind him, the agent hurried out into the lobby to see by the blinking lights at which floor the elevator would stop. When the light paused at the number five, he was positive he had his man. Five was the floor where the Korean-American Education Foundation was located.
The snow scene of the Buddhist temple in Dr. Vickers' office appeared more in tune with the season this time. It also set the tone for the meeting, with Burke receiving a rather cool reception from the short, bespectacled foundation director. He did not bother to offer coffee, although at this late hour of the afternoon, that should not be too unexpected, Burke thought.
"I've just returned from six weeks in Seoul," Burke said. "It's quite an interesting place."
"Yes," Dr. Vickers said, pulling off his glasses and swinging them rapidly, "Korea has quite a lot of sights that should be attractive to tourists."
Burke suppressed a smile. "Apparently it's become more attractive lately to your college graduates. I heard reports that quite a number of Korean-Americans had quit good scientific positions over here recently to take similar jobs in Korea."
Vickers was taking on the look of a Southern California forest dweller as the Santa Ana winds whipped the flames nearer to his doorstep. "I...I believe I told you before that, well, yes, maybe we have had a few more than usual."
Burke nodded. "I guess that's part of your job, helping them fill vacant professional slots over there."
Dr. Vickers was holding his glasses in one hand and drumming them on his other arm. "Yes, we...we try to help where we can. It isn't our main job, by any means. Our primary responsibility is to provide good educations for deserving young people."
"I understand Reijeo is getting a lot of them. I presume that's why they're your largest contributor."
He licked his dry lips before he answered. "I think they probably have a greater need. Because of the size of their operation, you understand. It is really quite a huge organization."
"So I noticed. Oh, yes, I mentioned the hackers. Did you find some good ones to interview?"
Vickers smiled sheepishly. "I talked to a few," he said. "I didn't learn too much from them."
"I thought they might have demonstrated how they do it on your computer there," Burke said, pointing.
Vickers' eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, no, no! Nothing like that. Actually, I dropped the project."
"Too bad. I'd like to have read the book." He felt certain he had accomplished his mission. Delivering the message in person proved much more effective than saying the same words on the phone. It was time to move on and let nature take its course. "I'm afraid I can't give you a definitive answer on the foundation contribution yet. Being gone so long has slowed things down. Hopefully I'll have an answer in the next week or ten days." Burke stood up. "It's been a pleasure talking with you again, Dr. Vickers."
He had never seen a man more relieved by the close of an interview. He shook a cold, listless hand, and left. Going down on the elevator, he thought how great it would be to occupy the eye of a fly on the wall in Dr. Vickers' o
ffice about now. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked around. Traffic had picked up considerably. As the rush hour marched on, the street had become crowded with vehicles. He knew it would be difficult to find a taxi here. He started walking down the street, hoping he might hail one at the next corner.
If Vickers were as frightened as he appeared to be, who would he call? Who was his control? He had expected the foundation director to contact someone in Korea, probably in Seoul. But the thought suddenly hit him that Vickers could be working under someone in the Korean Embassy in Washington. Or even at the Consulate-General here in San Francisco. The NSA was forbidden to intercept telephone calls between locations in the United States.
When he glanced back to check the traffic, he noticed a sandy-haired young man walking some distance behind him. He thought he remembered seeing him come out of the book store as he was leaving Vickers' building. At the intersection, a bus stop discouraged traffic from using the curb lane. Cars and taxis kept their distance as they whizzed past. Tightening his grip on the oversize attaché case he carried, which also contained his shaving gear and a fresh shirt, he headed on up the next block.
He found the going a little slower now, with offices closing, sending hordes of homeward bound workers spilling onto the sidewalk. Many of them carried shopping bags bulging with gifts likely purchased on their lunch hour. Sometime soon he would have to slow down long enough to do a little shopping of his own. Glancing about, he still found no empty taxis in search of fares. He decided his best bet would be around a hotel, if such a thing existed nearby. His intention was to get a room out near the airport, so he would be ready to catch an early flight the next morning.
He stopped to look about for a hotel at the next cross street. As he did, he caught sight of the sandy-haired figure down the block. The well-dressed young man appeared to be checking out a store window. Had he moved in closer because of the crowd? At first he had dismissed the idea of anyone following him. Then he considered what he had done. He had baited Dr. Vickers on the phone from Washington. Couldn't Vickers have reported that to his handlers? Possibly they had set him up for surveillance. Or something worse. He thought of Captain Yun's nemesis in Seoul, Hwang Sang-sol.
The man was much younger than Burke, but he was no bigger. Burke had kept up his exercise routine and felt himself in excellent shape. A plan began to materialize in his mind. He started walking down the side street, keeping his eyes alert to his surroundings. About halfway along the block, he turned to cross the street, glancing both ways as he did, ostensibly to check the traffic. He also checked for the sandy-haired man, found him still about the same distance back.
On the other side of the street, he picked up his pace, moving quickly through the clusters of off-duty workers. Dusk settled in, more quickly with the murkiness of the afternoon. Streetlights came on. Burke noticed occasional short alleyways between buildings, most unlighted. At the next corner, he turned right, then walked on far enough to be sure his tracker would be in view. When he came to another alleyway, he stepped into it, making no attempt to hide his move.
No one was in sight. But about twenty feet back, he saw an opening off to one side. He ran to it, ducked inside. Although it was almost dark, he could see enough to determine that it led back to a rear entrance to some kind of business. Carefully, he set his attaché case on the concrete surface, and moved up to the edge of the opening. He strained his senses to pick up the slightest sound in the alley. Then he heard footsteps, coming rapidly at first, than slowing to a cautious pace. The man was stepping gingerly, hoping to mask his movement, but Burke could detect the sporadic scuff of leather on concrete.
He breathed deeply and relaxed his muscles, staying fully alert.
There was another dark opening directly across the alley, and the sandy-colored head was turned that way as it came into view. Burke sprang like a tiger, whipping his arm around the man's neck, slipping one leg behind him and tugging with all his strength to throw him to the pavement.
The surprise was so complete that the pistol in the man's hand flew across into the darkness as he wound up on his back with Burke's knee on his chest.
"Who the hell are you?" Burke demanded.
The blow had nearly knocked the breath out of him, but the young man struggled to get out his name. "Clifford Walters...Special Agent...FBI."
Burke stared at the face in the semi-darkness. He thought he saw a once-familiar look in the line of the mouth, the shape of the nose. It was inconceivable.
"Cliff...?"
"Yes. I'm your son."
Chapter 53
His visitor hardly had time to reach the elevator before Dr. Vickers began to get the shakes. His euphoria at getting rid of the troubling Mr. Hill proved short-lived. Alarming questions began to batter his mind. How much did Hill really know? What lay behind his odd inquiries? Why had he asked about the graduates taking jobs in South Korea?
He noticed his hand trembling. He hadn't wanted to get involved with that computer business. He wasn't a spy. It was strictly out of his line and obviously fraught with danger. Handling the students and the graduates was one thing, dealing with hackers and breaking into government and industrial computer systems was quite another. It was damned illegal. He could go to jail.
Kim Vickers reached for his phone to call the Korean Consulate, then changed his mind. It would be better to go over there and talk to his contact. Maybe he could talk some sense into them, convince them that it was time to close down this operation. He had never dreamed about getting involved in anything like this when the Colonel had recruited him that day back in Inchon. God, that seemed like eons ago. Since then everything had appeared to be going his way. He had the best of educations. He had an excellent condo in a fantastic location. He had all the money he could want. Why did they have to do this to him now?
His heart had begun to race. He jumped up from his desk, grabbed his coat off the rack, rushed into the front office and told Che-sun he had an important errand to run. Since it was late, he wouldn't be back.
Clifford Walters had both hoped for and dreaded this moment ever since receiving the shock of his life a little more than a year ago, while browsing through a reddish-brown accordion file marked "Important Papers." The writing was in his mother's unmistakably neat hand. He could not recall ever having seen the pleated folder before and wondered how long she had used it. As a boy, he had showed relentless determination in probing every unseen hiding spot, particularly in the weeks before Christmas. He thought he had long since uncovered every hidden object in their former house. But this heavy cardboard file, tied with a large bow knot, had escaped him until that lamentable day when he had used his mother's checkbook to pay her funeral expenses, then began sorting through her records in search of any other outstanding bills.
Ever since he was old enough to understand, his mother had told him that his father was a man named John Walters, who had been killed in an automobile accident while Cliff was a young boy. His paternal grandparents were dead, she'd said, and there was no other family. She told him he had been born prematurely during a trip to Mexico and the birth had not been recorded. He had a delayed birth certificate that she had obtained when he started to school, using written statements from a couple who swore they were present at the time of his birth in a small Mexican town that possessed no hospital. It was certainly an odd beginning, though he'd never had any reason to doubt it.
But among documents in the "Important Papers" file he had found a birth certificate for "Clifford Hill," containing his birth date and listing the parents as Burke Hill and Margaret Walters Hill. The shock of the revelation stunned him. As the shock began to wear off, it was replaced by a growing sense of betrayal. Why had his mother done this to him? Who was Burke Hill and what had happened to him? And then a new possibility struck a disturbing blow. If he were not who he claimed to be, what might that do to his FBI career? And how had the Bureau failed to learn the truth about him during its exhaustive background investiga
tion prior to his acceptance as an agent candidate?
While he was still agonizing over what to do, he received a summons to Washington from one of the assistant directors. It was a thoroughly unnerved young Special Agent Walters who made his appearance in the office of Assistant Director Elvin Rundleman. Had his mother's death triggered some revelation to the Bureau? He was prepared for the worst.
A stoutly built man with eyes that seemed to belittle whatever they took in, Rundleman flexed his broad shoulders like a peacock preening his feathers. His first words stunned Cliff.
"I have some information on your background you may not be aware of, Agent Walters."
The young agent's mouth was dry as a desert dune. He swallowed hard and said, "I think I know what you're talking about, sir. I just found out myself."
Rundleman frowned. "About your father?"
"Yes, sir. I found my original birth certificate in my mother's papers. She just recently died."
"I know," the Assistant Director said. "So you learned your real father's name, but did you learn anything about him?"
He shook his head. "No, sir."
"Then I'd better tell you."
Cliff Walters listened in fascination as the story unfolded.
In the wake of the Jabberwock affair, Rundleman had been given the task, following instructions from the President, of correcting former Special Agent Burke Hill's personnel file so that it reflected what had actually occurred back in the seventies. He had known Burke in his earlier days with the Bureau but wasn't really close. He was acquainted also with Burke's wife, Peg. He heard the later rumors about Burke going bad and was familiar with how Burke had been black-listed and ostracized. But he also possessed a little different insight into the case as a result of Clifford Walter's application for appointment as a special agent.
After learning that Cliff had sent in his application, his mother, in a panic, had contacted Rundleman, who she remembered from years before. She told Rundleman how she had changed her name and created a new identity for her son, and why. She told him of her last meeting with Burke, how she was convinced he was on an assignment directly under Hoover, one that posed serious risks for herself and Cliff. The boy had been an exemplary student, she explained, a son who had made her proud. She didn't want what she and Burke had done to reflect unfavorably on him now.
The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2) Page 35