He punched the green icon on the screen. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Since when do you call me ma’am?”
He feigned a laugh. “Oh, I thought it was your mother. How’s my baby?”
“Good as can be expected.”
He waited, but nothing. A glance to the bathroom door. “You just calling to say hello?”
“Uh, yes and no.”
Thought so. He smiled. “Well, I’m in Stockholm and it’s late here, so out with it.”
“First, we’re on a secured line. I’m calling from work. But nothing is being recorded.”
But his cell phone wasn’t secure. He straightened. “And...”
“Do you still have contacts with Mossad?”
What the hell? Where’d that come from? “I may. It depends whether I’m talking to my daughter or an employee of the company.”
“Your daughter.”
Right. That’s why she called on a secured line, a work phone. He only got calls when she needed something. When it was convenient to take her politically connected daddy out of the trunk and brush the dust off his bald head. “Anything for you, dear. You need help? Yeah, back when I was in your shoes, I made some friends overseas, with the CIA’s blessing, of course. You know, you never really stop working for the company, don’t you? I try and keep up with one or two of my friends in Mossad...and a few at CIA for that matter.”
“Mossad. Any in particular? What do they do?”
He picked up his watch. “You looking for names? No way.” He inhaled a deep breath, and the moistened button popped from its threads. “I suspect one or two are pretty high up by now. I don’t know what the hell they do. And if they told me, I wouldn’t believe them. What you need to know?”
The line was silent. Then, “I need a favor.”
“Use your own contacts.”
“I need this one below the radar. Unofficial.” That came all too quickly. As if she’d rehearsed it. She knew he’d balk. “For reasons why, I can’t say. But trust me. I need you to make a call.”
“Trust you? What’s the message? Who does it need to get to?”
Her voice became a whisper. He pictured her hiding in a closet somewhere. What was she concealing? “Head of Operations just told me they figured out who was behind the wet team that attacked us. It was Mossad. Said he couldn’t give details yet, but the issue was going to be addressed tomorrow morning.” Her words came quicker now, as if she were growing anxious. “Look, I don’t know who to believe, but I work with Mossad almost every day. I depend on them. If they’ve got problems, or a leak. Maybe we can head this thing off before it becomes a shit storm.”
This was nuts. He cupped the earpiece. “I’m going to pretend this call never happened. I’m hanging up and don’t want to hear about this again. The implications are too high. You need to go through your own channels. I don’t want any part of it. If Mossad was behind it, you certainly don’t want to tell them you know. That’s idiotic! Let it go through channels.”
“Dad, be discreet. Don’t tell them I’m the one that told you.”
“Official channels.”
A squeak from the bathroom and water splashed in the sink.
“Mossad is an ally. If they’re the ones that attacked us, trust me, I want to know. But the head of Operations is a windbag and probably—”
Who was the head of that division now? “That jackoff man? What’s his name?”
A grunt. “Jackerman.”
An image of a rose-cheeked slouch with a white-haired comb-over clinking champagne glasses with the vice president at the Corduroy restaurant during a recent campaign fund-raiser flashed to mind. “The only mole that guy could catch is in his garden. Can’t you guys just euthanize him or something?”
“You see why I’ve got doubts. Listen, don’t mention Jackerman to Mossad. Promise? You do, and it could come back on me.”
It’d be nice to help his daughter, but this could come back to bite him. “I’m still not doing it.”
“Dad, there’s no downside. You’ve got the relationships. If the accusation is right, they’ll probably deny it and things will move on just as if you never brought it up. But if not, they’ll at least have a courteous heads-up from an old pal. Either way, Mossad would owe you a favor. Which I’m certain is a chit you could cash in sometime.”
She was right. With Mossad, you always needed to have them in your debt to get anything done. Sometimes even that didn’t work. His daughter had a quick wit. Got her looks from her mother, but brains came straight from him.
The water stopped running in the bathroom. The door handle squeaked and a long, bare leg slipped out. “Will do. Gotta go.” He hit a red button on the screen, then powered the phone down.
Chapter 11 – The Hit
Red opened the passenger door of his Ford Explorer, frowning at a fresh door ding with a white paint smudge. He ducked his head at a loud crack-pop, but it was only a potbellied, middle-aged rider revving the engine of his Harley at the stoplight in front of Mattress Discounters. The new Explorer’s door creaked in the cold, as though already old and stiff.
Across the parking lot, Lori shook the restaurant owner Alessandro’s hand again, smiling and nodding politely. The man stared entirely too long as she strutted across the parking lot like a runway model, sidestepping a pothole. Her black heels were only an inch long, but she certainly didn’t need them. It was the kids’ night to be with auntie, which meant good things to come for Red. His foot tapped the pavement with anticipation.
Dinner had gone well. No mention of Lori’s father, Senator Moses. Yesterday she said he’d been reluctant but willing to brush the dust off his contacts on the east coast of the Mediterranean.
Lori skipped over a puddle and tossed her hair behind her shoulders. Tires squealed not far away. Red glanced at the stoplight, but it hadn’t changed yet. An engine approached fast from the side, Red’s view blocked by a blue pickup with a huge camper shell mounted to the bed. Lori glanced in its direction, sprinted a quick-step, then dove straight at him. The windows of the Explorer shattered as she flew, blown inward by small-arms fire. A round slipped through her leg, drawing out a quick stream of blood as it exited, spinning her like a football in midair. Red caught her and fell against the open door, slamming it into the adjacent BMW.
Shots were coming from two P90s, judging by their report and high rate of fire. No time to find other cover. He pushed Lori under the truck and drew his sidearm, aiming down the fat barrel, custom made for the Det to handle higher-powered propellants. In a few more seconds the shooters would be alongside with a clear line of fire. He ducked below the Explorer. Gas fumes filled the air, but nothing was dripping. Lori had clamped her hands onto her calf.
“I’m going to draw their fire.” He had to leave her, but his instincts said no. He jumped atop the BMW, throat tight as if he were abandoning her, but he needed to draw attention away. He’d try for cover behind the blue camper. The shots were coming from a gray Dodge Avenger, visible now, closing fast, shooters at both passenger-side windows. One swung his weapon toward him, then flew forward into an airbag as a white van slammed into the car head-on.
Where did the van come from?
The shooter from the back seat was now sprawled atop the Avenger’s crumpled hood, forearm snapped. Red hopped down and ducked as more shots sounded. The driver of the Avenger, camo ball cap turned backward, was out and spraying bursts into the van. The assailant moved quick, controlled, with trained precision. Another shooter in blue jeans and plaid shirt started to crawl on the asphalt toward Lori, dragging a twisted leg, pulling a knife from his belt. His eyes were dazed, or maybe he was high. Red double-tapped him, rounds blowing off an ear. A burst exploded the BMW’s windshield, ripped it from the seal, and landed it atop Red’s back. A shattered crystal blanket. The shots had come from Camo Cap, the only one left, crouching behind the van.
He squatted behind a tire and pointed his weapon toward the Explorer.
Red stood and emptied his magazine as he ran to the camper. Camo Cap retreated behind a green steel Dumpster a few steps away. Red pulled a second mag, the one with blue-tipped ammo. He cracked four shots through the corner of the green box, and boots slumped into view. He put two more rounds through the sole of one, but it didn’t flinch. He ran to the Avenger, pistol raised. The one atop the hood looked like he might live, aided by a body cast and traction, but was no longer a threat.
A scream and curses erupted from under the Explorer. Lori was on her side, blood running from her elbow, black tears streaking across a bloody nose. Red scooched on his belly and held out his hands to her. “It’ll be OK. Hit anywhere else besides the leg?”
Her eyes bulged as mascara ran like crow’s-feet.
“I’m guessing that’s a no. I’m going to pull you out. Keep pressure on your calf. Ready?”
The sinews in her bare forearms tensed as she clamped her grip. She growled, “I’m OK. Check the guy in the van.”
That vehicle’s engine spun high and coolant steam filled the cabin, oozing out from cracks and bullet holes in the windshield. Worton’s Commercial Painting and a rainbow scrawled on the side. Had this van meant to help? Or just been an unlucky bystander? A second hit team? He stooped low and jerked open the door. A man rolled out with a groan. He let him hit the pavement, keeping his weapon aimed at his head. The body rolled over and...what the hell?
Red dropped to a knee and slipped his hand beneath the man’s skull. “Marksman?” A drop of blood dripped from his ear. Marksman was a contract operator the Det called in when they needed certain language skills. He knew five fluently, ten enough to get by. His hyperaccurate fire had saved Red’s ass on at least two ops, which earned him the nickname. But when the mission was over, he’d disappear. What was he doing here?
Marksman coughed with a grimace. “Thanks for catching me, asshole.”
“What are you...?”
Lori screamed again from under the Explorer, her voice shrill.
Marksman’s eyes wandered in that direction. “She OK?” His tongue was bloody as well. Red ripped open a wool cardigan, buttons flying. He grabbed the neck of Marksman’s T-shirt and pulled it apart, then plunged his fingers into the man’s abdomen, squeezing to pinch off the artery that was rapidly overflowing the holes with blood. Marksman grabbed his wrist. “Take care of your wife.”
“She’s hit through the calf. She’s pissed, but it’ll be OK. You need to relax.”
“No, jerkoff.” He coughed. “She’s in danger. Take care of—” His voice trailed to a whisper. Red felt a gush against his index finger. He pinched it off and Marksman’s eyes opened. Sirens sounded in the distance.
“I’ve only got two hands, buddy. You’ve got to hold on till they get here.”
Marksman’s lips moved. Red put his ear close. “Trust her,” he said.
“Whatever. Just hold on.”
Marksman gripped Red’s biceps. Strong, slender fingers wrapped his muscle like a baseball player gripping a bat. He raised his head and his eyes searched, blinded. “You’re such an idiot,” he whispered. “Give the pistol to my brother. And remember, Lori’s not the enemy.” His hand slipped off Red’s arm, leaving a glistening handprint on his black wool sweater.
Chapter 12 – Doubt
Kanggye, North Korea
River Walk Clothing had no sign outside, but stood on the corner of Twenty-Ninth and Bridge Roads. Like so many other dichotomies in the country, the black market was both loathed and loved. Officially, such private enterprises were illegal. Unofficially, even the highest classes depended upon their wares to keep warm and fed.
Ko Chung Ho’s shoulder brushed the store’s gray block wall as he stepped from the leeward shelter of a muddy alley, onto the slick sidewalk in front. A bitter wind swept from the Changja River, its icy kiss laced with mud and coffee, maybe from a shop across the green water flow. A slender silver fish leapt from the surface, shaking shimmering droplets, then splashed back in.
Too cold, even for trout. But what else could it have been? His mouth watered at the thought of fresh seared fish on a wood-fired stove. When he was a kid, his mother had always said, “Grandmother loved trout,” as she flipped the fillet to cook the other side. “We always know Grandmother is looking out for us when you come home with a nice fat one.” Ko had smiled and eaten his dinner, never correcting her. But school had taught him there was no afterlife. No God. Grandmother wasn’t looking after anyone.
Now Ko ducked his chin and shrugged the stiff collar of his uniform coat up to his ears, leaving only a narrow band of flesh exposed from eyebrow to nose. Inside, the store was moderately warmer, just no bitter wind. He studied a black peacoat with artificial fur collar, then pushed the hanger along the curved chrome rail and glanced at another. The bare concrete floor scuffed beneath his steps like worn sandpaper. There were two sparse racks of new women’s coats from China. He shifted back to the peacoat and flipped its collar to view the tag: eighty thousand won. Maybe if the collar was red fox, or coyote.
He shoved cold hands in pockets—no officer to tell him to take them out, or junior NCO to see his breach of etiquette—and strutted to the back of the store. Three low racks of used coats were propped there. A few long ones dragged the floor. His daughter, Eun Hee, would be happy with a used one, though she had probably stopped growing and this one would fit her for a long time. But she was always grateful for what he provided. They weren’t one of the privileged. He was a staff sergeant, no officer, and therefore earned his wage.
The shopkeeper pushed a broom, pretending to clean, eyeing his moves. “Can I help you find anything?” He propped the handle against a table stacked with men’s pants and started to shuffle through one of the coatracks.
Ko glanced around the room. “Something for my daughter. I’ll... This one looks nice.” He slipped out a deep red coat from between two dull and threadbare woolen ones. It was goose down, or maybe poly filled, with a white fur collar. Ko pushed his nose into the pelt, surprised at the soft warmth, and inhaled. Scented of cotton.
“You like? She would be proud of it,” the shopkeeper said, stroking his mustache in approval.
Ko turned the coat around, but no tag. Looked about his daughter’s size. “How much?”
“For that one? Fifty thousand won.”
Right, old man. You got this hand-me-down from some politician’s wife. Probably gave it to you. “I offer ten thousand.”
The storekeeper huffed and threw up his hands. But Ko knew the game too well. “You insult me again! I practically gave you those socks last week. No? Please, be realistic. I have a family to feed, just like you.”
Ko scanned the store quickly again. Always empty. How did this guy stay open? “OK. I’ll give you twenty thousand.”
“Better, but that is what it cost me. For you...” He slapped Ko’s shoulder. “I’ll take thirty thousand.”
Ko hung the coat back onto the rack with a metallic chink. “Twenty-five thousand.”
“I can’t even buy my corn for that.”
“It is not my fault you have no other customers.”
The storekeeper bent in a slight bow. “I am sorry, but cannot go less than thirty thousand.” Pleading eyes peered up as Ko walked to the front of the store, stretching on leather gloves.
“Twenty-eight thousand!” the man called after him.
Ko kept walking. His hand gripped the door handle and he pushed it open.
“Please, please,” the man implored. “Twenty-five thousand. I will accept! I will accept.”
Knew you would. Ko prided himself at the game. His wife had always been embarrassed to listen as he boasted how cheaply he purchased his latest prize. But cancer had taken her three years ago, so it was only Eun Hee who pretended to be shamed now, all the while asking for e
very detail of the negotiation. Even if it was over a pumpkin at the market. “I want to learn to be as excellent a negotiator as you.” At least she didn’t call him cheap.
The shopkeeper grinned when Ko turned back. Maybe I should’ve pressed for twenty thousand, Ko thought.
“You always steal from me, you know.” The man smiled again, but he must have caught himself because he returned to somber character. He wrote something in a log book, looked behind him, and said, “You are skilled at bartering. A good man.”
This guy is entirely too happy, Ko thought. Maybe I really did pay too much for the coat. But twenty-five thousand won was a fair price.
The shopkeeper tapped his pencil on the counter. “This is how life is. And now I would like you to consider one more thing that could help the both of us.”
“I don’t need any more clothes. You know I’ll be back when the weather warms.”
“No, no. Not clothes. Something much more valuable. You see, we all help each other, just like juche says. You protect our borders. I provide clothes where the government can’t. Like juche says, we all are a part of the machine, working for the greater good, for each other. No?”
Where was this going? Ko was hungry for dinner and certainly didn’t want to encourage the man, but he hadn’t said anything wrong. In fact, Ko had better agree, if juche says so. He glanced around the store once more, expecting to see a political officer with one of those loathsome notebooks, waiting to mark down any errant comment. No one in sight, but Ko still kept silent.
“I can help you, if you help me.” The man’s voice no longer reflected that of the meek shopkeeper. He’d found a backbone somewhere. His smile was contagious. Ko always enjoyed small talk with him, but this conversation...
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