by Ward Larsen
Any approach to unfamiliar shallows demanded unremitting caution. Doubly so at night. Boutros was confident of Albatross’ position—he’d made a number of crosschecks when they passed through the Tsugaru Straits, and the nav data was tight. In the era of GPS, that was rarely a problem. Less certain was the electronic chart he was working from. The software was a Chinese product, and the database two years out of date. Hardly a confidence builder.
Worse yet, he’d been warned that Pacific atolls were notoriously misrepresented on charts. Channels leading into ports were generally well marked, but the barrier reefs around uninhabited islands were rarely penetrated. Most Pacific atolls developed as nearly circular reefs, with only a few ill-defined gaps through which a ship might pass into the central lagoon. These barrier reefs tended to shift over time. Coral heads grew and currents shifted. Storms created new passages and closed off old ones. Owing to the capricious nature of such channels, few cartographers committed to plotting them on official charts.
In daylight, Boutros knew, the job would have been much easier. With gin-clear water and a blazing tropical sun, one could easily pick out trouble spots. Boutros was an expert by virtue of his days running the Persian Gulf. Coral outcroppings would stand out dark and ominous against the white-sand bottom of channels. And during daylight the flows of current through deeper gaps could be recognized on the surface. Now, two hours after sunset, he had no such guidance.
He looked ahead and saw Saleem, a dim shadow near the bow. Boutros had ordered every unnecessary light turned off for their approach. He doubted there was anyone on the island, but it was free insurance. It also kept everyone’s night vision at its peak. He’d posted Rafiq and Sami to stand watch at the port and starboard rails. In effect, it gave Saleem and Rafiq maximum separation. The two had been increasingly at odds during the voyage, and Boutros realized he’d begun issuing assignments to keep them apart. A not unfamiliar situation for a commander, but a distraction all the same.
He nudged the throttle forward and referenced the chart. The boat crept forward twenty meters. Run aground here, he thought, and our mission will be over.
“Any luck?” Boutros shouted through the forward window—he’d lifted it open in order to communicate with Saleem.
“Still deep!” Saleem called back.
Boutros could see him coiling a line.
Albatross was fitted with a basic depth finder, but no forward-looking sonar or other device to identify shallow water ahead. That being the case, Boutros reverted to the backup that had been used by captains for a thousand years. Saleem stood at the bow pulpit with a sounding line—essentially, a length of light rope with a lead weight tied to the end. Every ten yards or so, as the boat edged forward, he threw the line ahead to measure the depth. At the line’s twenty-foot mark a rag was attached to serve as a warning—if it got that shallow, Boutros needed to know immediately.
Boutros had expected he would make mistakes during the voyage, but an hour ago he’d realized the most glaring. When Choe briefed him on Albatross’ handling traits, Boutros had neglected to ask the most basic of all questions: How much water did she draw?
He was left to guess, and decided it had to be somewhere between eight and twelve feet. A twenty-foot alarm, he was sure, gave them room for error. But it also forced them to seek a deep channel—something that might not even exist.
In dim moonlight the outline of Kure Atoll was clear—a low panorama presented in shades of darkness. He could make out small islands, sandbars, and a few exposed coral beds. A whitewater arc of soft breakers completed the encirclement of the calm inner lagoon. Their objective lay to starboard—Green Island comprised the east side of the ring, a matte-black shadow protecting the atoll’s right flank. The lagoon itself would be reasonably safe, protected waters deep enough to find any number of decent anchorages.
They only had to reach it.
“Breakers to the right!” Sami called out.
Boutros threw his head out the starboard window and saw the danger. It was thirty meters distant, and matched what was on the chart—a shallow reef next to the best natural channel on the southern edge of the atoll.
“That’s all right,” he called out. “We must keep it to the right. We are getting close.”
“Fifteen feet!” Saleem shouted from the bow.
Boutros threw the engine into reverse, putting them dead in the water. He looked forward and saw Saleem displaying the flag on the sounding line, his hand pointing five feet farther down.
Boutros cursed under his breath. “We will go very slowly from here. Keep checking!”
Saleem coiled up the line and took the weight in his hand. He heaved it into the dark sea ahead.
* * *
“Show me!” said Slaton from his seat near the window.
Sorensen addressed the laptop she’d brought on the flight. She called up a map of North Korea that was definitely not a Google product. To begin, it was sectioned by tinted arcs from northwest to southeast. The swathes overlapped and each was labeled with a small data tag. Slaton recognized them as satellite coverage tracks. Instead of cities and national parks being identified, he saw the names of every military base and nuclear installation, along with official residences of the regime.
Definitely an internal app, he thought.
Sorensen zoomed in on a point in the southeast corner of the country—no more than thirty miles from the DMZ, and roughly ten inland from the Sea of Japan.
“There’s a military airfield north of Mount Kumgang. We’ve been watching every airport as best we can, and this one got the hit.”
She manipulated a secondary file, and one quadrant of the screen filled with an overhead image that could only have been taken from space. The resolution was excellent, and Slaton saw the airplane.
“Are you sure that’s the right jet?” he asked.
“One hundred percent.”
Slaton almost challenged her, but decided to concede the point. Nobody in the intelligence community, certainly not assistant deputy directors, gave that level of assurance without reason.
“We have two more images,” she said, “both after the jet parked.”
Slaton saw them in sequence. A shot of three people walking across the tarmac with a solid security contingent around them. He couldn’t see faces, but the big picture was damning enough. One head and set of shoulders was very large, and in the middle were two others: one medium, the other very small. In the second image they all appeared to be getting into a dark sedan. Slaton tried to hold steady. The other image of his family he’d seen that day was far more staged. Here, captured clandestinely from above, he almost felt as if he could reach out and touch them.
“Where were they taken?” he asked.
“Our degree of confidence on that is a bit lower. A number of the North Korean elites keep retreats nearby—it’s sort of like their Jackson Hole. We know which residence is Park’s and the lights are on.”
She called up another overhead image. Slaton saw a sturdy house built into the side of a large hill. Like Sorensen said, the lights were on. The photo had enough resolution to distinguish a few dark shapes that Slaton instantly recognized. Two on the roof, two near the driveway entrance. One on a side lawn that appeared to be the only level ground. Security.
Sorensen’s analysts had nailed it. This was where Christine and Davy were at that very minute. And likely where they would remain until … what?
Slaton was taken by an odd sensation. A familiar voice echoing in. A voice he always trusted. Something wasn’t right. He thought back over the last day. During their refueling stop in New Delhi, he’d turned on his old phone and checked for messages. There had been no new attempts to contact him. Yet Sorensen hadn’t seen him check the phone. Hadn’t even asked if he had. That didn’t compute.
More facts tumbled in, and soon it was like watching a demolished building collapse in slow motion. The way Sorensen had dropped everything and flown from Langley to Germany. The ease with which sh
e’d given him access to the jet. The intel he was looking at right now. It seemed too good. Too timely. Too “one hundred percent.”
“What’s wrong, David?” she asked.
He reached slowly for the top of her computer and folded the screen closed. Slaton stared squarely at the head of the CIA’s black operations division, his gray eyes a void. When he finally spoke, his voice was detached, as if coming from a different place. A place he’d been before, and to which he never wanted to return.
“You’re not telling me something, Anna. I want to know what it is. And I want to know right now…”
SIXTY-SIX
Albatross reached the lagoon on her second attempt. The first channel turned out to be a cul-de-sac, forcing them back into open water. A second passage on the chart, slightly west, proved far superior. By Saleem’s rough soundings, they never had less than eighteen feet of water beneath the keel. Wanting to use the same channel for their departure, Boutros marked it carefully with the GPS before idling into the lagoon.
He aimed for an anchorage a hundred yards from Green Island, the southern tip where the derelict runway began only steps from the high tide line. Boutros inched the boat forward, checking the depth finder constantly. The chart suggested the lagoon was mostly safe, yet there would always be a few stray coral heads. He’d picked up a weather report shortly before sundown, and it included a tide table for the area. Right now the tide was near a low, so by traveling the last quarter mile at minimum speed, there was little risk. If they ran aground on the soft sand bottom, they could simply wait a few hours for the tide to lift them.
The moon had nearly set, and by no more than starlight he guided the boat at a crawl to his chosen anchorage. They reached it uneventfully, and Boutros decided to set two anchors—one fore and one aft. He didn’t want the boat to swing once it was in place. Saleem had just secured the big bow hook when Rafiq came from below.
“A message has arrived. Our shipment will arrive shortly after daybreak.”
Boutros smiled broadly. “The schedule is holding.”
Rafiq looked toward the island. “Have you seen anyone?”
“No. Sami and Saleem have been watching closely. We were told these bird scientists only come a week or two each year.”
“For their sake, let it be so.”
“Did you acknowledge the message?” Boutros asked.
“Of course. I said we are in position.”
“There is still one chore—we must lower the runabout into the water. Then we can rest and wait for first light.”
Rafiq regarded the launch. It was a solid fiberglass shell, fifteen feet long, with a small outboard motor. “I hope it is seaworthy,” he said.
“I’ve looked the boat over—it will serve our purposes.”
Rafiq almost said something. Instead, he turned and went below.
* * *
“I’m cold, Mommy,” Davy said as they walked toward the main house.
“I know, honey,” Christine said in her most reassuring tone. “We’re going inside now.”
There was little wind, but the night air was bitter, the temperature in the teens if not single digits. Davy had never before experienced bitter cold, and when Christine picked him up and put him on her hip, he buried his face in her shoulder.
On arriving at the compound they’d first been directed to a small detached building, a drafty cabin with multiple rooms that had the look of servants’ quarters. There they’d waited, until an officious older woman arrived with warmer clothes. The two of them were still dressed for Mallorca—T-shirts, shorts, running shoes—and so the oversized cotton hoodies and sweatpants were appreciated. Better yet in Christine’s view: it seemed a continuance of the reasonable treatment they’d so far received.
The big man collected them, and now they were crossing the gravel parking apron to the main house. Christine took in what she could. Up close the place seemed architecturally disjointed, a fortress built into a hill with the trappings of an Alpine lodge. A rough stone staircase rose from the parking area to a peak-roofed portico fronted by gloomy wrought-iron fixtures. The foundation of the residence was cut in gray stone, the sides of which were highlighted by feeble exterior lights. Somewhere in the distance she heard the drone of a big diesel, no doubt a generator. Only then did it strike Christine that she hadn’t seen a single light during the drive from the airport. She knew little about North Korea, but what she’d seen so far could be distilled to one word: medieval.
Her downcast reflections ended the moment she and Davy stepped into the main house. The temperature rose fifty degrees, warm air rushing through the doors. The next thing that struck her was the light. It was pleasant and inviting, and somehow encompassed every corner of the place. She saw a vast main room, everything in it contrary to the home’s cold exterior: soft furnishings, plush carpet, foot-to-ceiling draperies cast in royal colors. There was artwork as well: sculptures on tables that could only be termed modernist, and paintings on nearly every wall, landscapes mostly, all of them bursting in the colors of summer.
She put Davy down, and at her side they held hands—he hadn’t been more than two steps away in the last thirty-six hours. The big man, who she’d heard addressed as Khang by a guard at the airport, drifted behind her.
Nothing was said, and as Christine stood taking in the room, a man appeared from the side hall. His features were quintessentially Korean. The black hair had a slight dusting of gray, and he was dressed in dark trousers and a tunic—the style eminently communist, yet the material and tailoring something more. I really am in North Korea, she told herself.
His round face held no expression whatsoever, and the man seemed to study her for a time. He finally came closer and extended a hand. “I am General Park Hai-joon.”
Having never been taken hostage in the Far East, Christine wasn’t sure about the etiquette. She reluctantly shook the man’s hand, and didn’t bother to introduce herself.
Park addressed Khang in Korean.
She sensed a hesitation, then Khang departed silently into the same hall through which Park had arrived. Her host watched him leave, and only when the big man was gone did his eyes swing back to Christine.
He said, “I’m sure you are mystified by what has happened to you and your son.” Park’s English was good, if a bit measured.
“I know what’s happened. What I’d like to know is why—” Christine cut off the rest of her reply. She was determined to keep her internal promise: for as long as possible, she would say or do nothing confrontational. Not in front of Davy. Her ruse that they were on some happy little escapade, even in the eyes of a preschool child, had to be fast losing its legitimacy. Yet as long as these people were civil, she was determined to respond in kind.
She said, “I just don’t understand the reasons behind it.”
Park walked to one side of the room and motioned for them to follow. He stopped on a small carpeted area, at one side of which was an expensive-looking toy box. He said, “I have two grandchildren. Your son may use these.” He opened the lid to reveal a pile of brightly colored toys. Christine recognized many of the Western standards: a stack of colored rings, giant Lego bricks, two Barbies, a bag of army men.
Davy didn’t hesitate. He wriggled on her hand, and as soon as she released him he lunged for the box and began digging. Christine watched guardedly, not sure what to make of it all.
“You look surprised,” said Park. “Perhaps you expected children in North Korea to play with lumps of coal.”
She didn’t respond. At his invitation, she took a seat on a nearby chair—it put her three steps away from her son. She shot a cautious glance at the corridor where Khang had disappeared.
Park drew a small end table close to Christine, and then sat on it with his hands on his knees. When he spoke, it came in a curiously hushed voice. More than a whisper, but barely. “Your being here tonight was never planned. Honestly, your husband’s involvement in our operation was never planned. It has created many co
mplications.”
“Yeah, my husband has always been good at that … complications.”
“I am aware of his reputation.”
“So why don’t we start at the beginning,” Christine said. “What the hell is all this about?”
“That,” Park replied, “is a very long story. And one, I assure you, whose end has not been written…”
SIXTY-SEVEN
“Park contacted us six months ago,” Sorensen said.
Slaton bolted upright in his chair. “Park Hai-joon … the head of North Korean state security? He made contact with the CIA?”
Sorensen nodded, then gave him a moment to digest it.
“Are you running him as an agent?” Slaton asked.
“Actually, a bit more than that.”
“How could it be more than—” He stopped midsentence. “Why don’t you start from the beginning.”
“Okay. But understand, what I’m going to tell you is classified at the highest level.”
“Higher than what I gave you on that flash drive?”
“Point taken.” Sorensen’s gaze drifted to the tiny oval window, the night sky outside an obsidian void. “Last summer Park reached out to us. He went through an intermediary—I can’t say who, but it’s not important. One of our people met Park for a few hours in Singapore. As I’m sure you know, Kwon rules with an iron hand, but his true authority is derived through the military. Park explained that the mood among North Korea’s senior officers is unsettled. Kwon has made purges at the upper levels of the command structure twice in the last three years.”
“That’s hardly new.”
“No, house cleanings are a regular occurrence. That’s how strongmen like Kwon keep their generals and ministers in line. The previous head of SSD was executed two years ago. According to Park, a video was circulated internally of the man being used for target practice.”
“That’s not very original,” Slaton said.