4
Lia DeFrancesca got out of the vehicle with her light bag and waited for her escort, feigning considerably more fatigue than she actually felt. Her two-day visit to North Korea had been an utter and complete bore. It was North Korea, of course, and no undercover American operative could afford to take a visit to the world’s most tightly controlled enemy state lightly. But it had been, in a word, dull.
As Deep Black assignments went, her job had been relatively straightforward: visit the North Korean port city of Hūngnam while posing as a Chinese journalist. She was supposedly writing a story about the port, but this was merely intended to be a cover for passing along a business card from the Hong Kong industrialist who owned the newspaper. The high-ranking military people she had met with upon her arrival knew this, of course, and anticipated a successful business relationship in the future.
Which surely would be possible. But that cover was itself a cover for Lia’s real mission — giving the phone number of a dedicated CIA line that could be used to set up a visit to China by one of the men who wanted to defect.
Lia had passed along the card within an hour of arriving. The rest of the time she’d pretended to be a journalist, accompanied by a Korean whose Chinese was rather limited, though if Lia were to complain the woman stood a good chance of being sent to a retraining camp from which she would not emerge alive. Lia’s Korean was also limited; fortunately, the Art Room had round-the-clock translators to help fill the gaps.
Her keeper had taken Lia on a one-hour stroll around the city each day. She had seen a residential area that combined a 1950s-style apartment building (built in the 1970s) and much older traditional homes. She’d also walked through what appeared to be a factory district, though it was completely devoid of people and there was no smoke coming from any of the stacks.
On the way back to the hotel yesterday, Lia had seen a group of musicians with battered brass instruments pass nearby. Lia asked who they were and her minder explained that they were a band recruited to perform for workers in the countryside as they labored on nearby farms. The practice had been very successful after a flood in 1999, and the great leader Kim Jong II had requested it be renewed.
The minder said all of that without taking a breath and then stopped speaking so abruptly that Lia thought she had suffered a seizure. They walked silently the rest of the way to the hotel.
Working in fields after harvest time? Only in North Korea.
The 737 that was due to take Lia back to China was visible beyond the terminal building at the airport. North Korean airports were all under military control, and the only airport that saw much “normal” civilian business was near the capital. The facilities hosted aircraft used for long-range patrols of the oceans to the east, but the base was not considered an important one and even by Korean standards appeared run-down. Flights from China came twice a week. The airline, Hwatao, was owned by a conglomerate that listed Shanghai as its home address, though Lia knew from her brief that its stock was split between a general in southern China and two brothers from Taiwan — an interesting example of the intertwined interests of free and communist China.
“Du bu qi,” said her minder, using Chinese. The words meant “excuse me” or “pardon” in Putonghua, the official Mandarin dialect of northern China. Lia’s cover called for her to use Putonghua, though she was more comfortable and familiar with Cantonese, which she had first learned as a very young child after her adoption in America. The similarity between the two dialects sometimes got in the way, as her brain tended to blur them.
“What is it?” replied Lia in Chinese. She looked back toward the car, thinking she had left something inside.
“A comrade wishes to speak to you,” said the minder. “Those men will escort you.”
Lia spotted two soldiers walking toward them from the terminal building.
“Why?”
“Oh, routine,” said the minder.
“A fee?” asked Lia.
“Zaijan,” said the minder without answering the question. “Good-bye.”
“Yes, good-bye, and thank you,” Lia told her.
Fee was a euphemism for a bribe, which tended to be customary.
Lia gripped the handle of her overnight bag tightly. She had no weapon on her. Her only link with the outside world was her communications system, which was powered by circuits and a battery built into her belt. She clicked it now, making sure it was on. “A fee,” she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for the Art Room to hear.
“We briefed you on that,” answered Jeff Rockman, who had just taken over as her runner. “Pay it and come home.”
The men carried AK-47s that were perhaps twice as old as they were. Several paces behind them was an officer; he was a few years older and shorter than Lia.
“Nu xing shenme?” asked the man in Korean. He was a lieutenant.
“He’s asking your name,” said the translator in the Art Room as Lia hesitated.
Actually, he was asking her family name, Lia realized, and the implications were very different. She felt her body tense.
“Why?” Lia answered sharply in Chinese.
“Come this way, miss.”
“Wo xing Wang,” she told him, saying that her family name was Wang. She then asked what was going on, as she was due aboard the flight waiting out on the tarmac.
The officer’s face flushed. He stamped his right foot and pointed in the direction of the building. “Jepjjok!” he thundered. “That way.” The two soldiers flinched.
“I am on important private business,” she said.
North Korean officials tended to back off when she spoke firmly and with implied authority. But the young lieutenant was too full of himself — or maybe too worried about losing face in front of his men — to do that. “You will come now or be dragged away,” he told her.
Lia struggled against her instinct to lash out. She probably could deck the lieutenant and wrestle one of the weapons from one of the soldiers. But there would be no escape after that.
I played it wrong, she realized. I should have been more submissive, more in character. He needs to feel superior.
Lia bowed her head forward. “Mianhamnida,” she said in Korean, giving an apology. “Yes, I am going.”
The officer said something in Korean that she did not understand. The translator back in the Art Room apparently did not hear it or thought it unimportant to relay.
There was a subtle etiquette involved in the bribe exchange. The official would not be merely after money. While China was North Korea’s strong ally, there was a great deal of resentment among most Koreans toward their large northern neighbor. China’s historic domination and long occupation of the Korean peninsula caused deep animosity, which could not be erased over a period of only fifty years. Many Chinese — and this would especially apply to anyone associated with the Westernized and hence “decadent” Hong Kong area, where Lia’s credentials as well as her travel arrangements declared she was from — were viewed by the Koreans as greedy, soft, and worse. The fact that she was a woman, alone, young, and single, didn’t help the situation, as it only lowered her status in the eyes of the official, at least partly canceling any connection she had to the higher-ups in town. Lia and her briefer had played out different scenarios on how to offer the bribe, which of course wasn’t referred to as a bribe but an “official fee for expediting important matters.” Lia had to be the one to suggest it, once the official pointed out a problem.
She followed down the hallway toward a small room at the side of the building. The room smelled of fresh paint. The walls were bright white and there were six overhead incandescents, unusual in a country where power was severely rationed. In the middle of the room sat a large table, the folding sort often used at banquets. The four chairs next to it were heavy metal affairs with vinyl cushions. Lia walked toward the table but waited to sit until instructed to do so — an important point her briefer had emphasized.
Outside, she heard the sound o
f the 737’s engines being spooled up.
“I hope my papers are in order,” she told the officer in Korean. “My time here has been wonderful and productive. I have met with many important people.”
She continued on with a standard formula about how helpful the local officials had been and how indebted she was to Korea’s great leader, Kim Jong II. She stuck to the official cover that she was a journalist; the officer would know and probably care nothing about the business arrangements.
The phrases did nothing to soften the officer’s grimace. He requested her travel documents. Lia hesitated, worrying that the officer intended on taking her place on the plane himself, a contingency she had not considered until now. But she had no choice but to hand over the small sheaf of papers.
As she did, she mentioned that she hoped all of the proper fees had been paid. The lieutenant did not take the hint. Nor did he seem all that interested in the documents themselves. He pushed the papers to one side and stared at her.
“My superiors would not wish me to be late arriving in Beijing,” she said in Chinese. She wanted the Korean translation — she thought it likely now that the officer did not speak Chinese very well, if at all — but the Art Room had gone silent. Possibly they had decided to communicate as little as possible, which was standard procedure when a field op was in a difficult situation.
And this definitely qualified. The aircraft engines seemed to kick up another notch.
Lia decided to turn her communications system on and off, in effect flashing her runner back home. But as she reached for the belt buckle, one of the guards grabbed her arm. His fingers dug into her bicep. It took all of her self-restraint to avoid turning on the man and taking him down.
Could I if I have to?
Absolutely. She could have his rifle in a breath, club his companion in the stomach — no, the head or neck — then bring the gun to bear on the officer.
And then?
The officer said something in Korean. Lia did not catch it all, but the words she understood were ominous: he called her a tasty plum.
The Art Room translator started to supply the words, but Lia didn’t wait. “My employer wishes me home on time,” she said in Chinese. “And unhurt. I do not work for a mere newspaper,” she added. And then, switching from Chinese to Korean, she asked if she had to pay a customs tax: “Gwanserui neya hamnikka?”
Her sharp and quick tone conveyed her anger and emotion quite clearly, just as her snapping open the purse showed she was willing to pay for her freedom.
The lieutenant leaned forward, eyes locking on hers. He told her in Korean that she was not in China. As the translator began translating in her head, Lia placed her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward.
“I’m in a hurry,” she said in Korean. The phrase sounded like “ku-p’haiyo” and under the best of circumstances would not have been considered particularly polite.
“You’re going too far,” hissed the Art Room supervisor, Marie Telach. “Relax. He just wants money. And to see you cower. Let him have his ego trip.”
Lia stared at the Korean officer; the lieutenant stared back. Finally he started to smile and then laugh. He raised his head, looking at the guards. Lia, though still angry, began to relax.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She launched into the standard apology again, blaming the stress of travel for her rude behavior.
The lieutenant nodded. The documents, he said, were good, but she had neglected to get a stamp.
“Then that must be taken care of,” said Lia, relieved that finally they had come to the endgame. “How much is the fee?” she asked in Chinese. “I understand that it is very important to pay properly for the trouble a visitor brings.”
As the Art Room translator began giving her the words in Korean, Lia saw the shadow of one of the guards moving from the corner of her eye. She started to spin toward him and was caught off-guard by the hard shock of the other man’s fist against the other side of her head.
Her breath caught in her throat as she fell forward, fists flailing but catching nothing but air. She tried to get up but lost her balance and spun down toward the floor, pummeled into a cocoon of numbness.
5
The autumn air had a slight chill to it, and Dean zipped his windbreaker as he walked along the lake, feigning interest in the nearby pelicans. Buckingham Palace lay almost directly ahead, though the park’s trees and rolling terrain hid it from view. His interest in the palace was in keeping with his cover; to authenticate the person he was supposed to meet — and vice versa — he had to ask about the palace and its tours. The contact was to give the hours for tours backward: 5:30 to 9:30.
Karr was somewhere behind him, a hundred or so yards away, wandering around the park near the lake. St. James Park was once a marshland, and despite its well-kept gardens and elaborate lawns, it did not take all that much imagination to picture the park wild. Tourists and office workers lolled through it, pausing to stare at the birds or admire the flowers, then wandering off nonchalantly, as if they had no cares in the world. Dean tried willing himself into a similar mind-set; his mission was a simple one and could have been accomplished by a clerk at the embassy — or so Karr said. All they had to do was meet a messenger, get something from him, and bring it home.
They had no idea what they were getting and only the vaguest description of the man: He would wear a brown beret and would stand at the crown of the bridge for a moment before descending to meet them ten yards “farther on” from the base. They would then authenticate each other with the prearranged phrase.
Simple enough. But in his short stint with Desk Three, Dean had learned that nothing associated with the NSA was simple. Dean gazed at the water, then turned abruptly and began walking. He glanced at his watch; he was right on time.
Two small girls ran past him. They must be schoolgirls, he thought, then wondered why they were out of school in the middle of the day. A middle-aged woman followed. She looked as if she were going to say something to him; he smiled. He didn’t know if his contact would be male or female, but he doubted he or she would have children along. That might be the ultimate cover for a spy, Dean thought — kids.
The path before him was empty. He turned back toward the pond, stooping low to see one of the brightly colored birds. He had to make contact along this side of the path and wanted to stay within a fifty-yard stretch where it was easy for Karr to watch him. So he became a bird-watcher, inordinately interested in the red feathers of the nearby fowl.
When he rose there were more people ahead. He strolled forward slowly, forcing a smile on his face.
Come on, he thought to himself. Come on.
* * *
Tommy Karr rubbed his chin as he leaned against the iron fence, watching Dean from the corner of his eye. Their contact was running at least five minutes late. Delays were an inevitable part of the business and did not in and of themselves signal trouble. Nonetheless, delays tended to complicate matters even when they were caused by nothing more dangerous than a traffic jam. The rendezvous point had probably seemed like a good one to whoever had chosen it — Karr suspected the messenger but did not actually know — but in point of fact the park was not well suited for an exchange. The woods on the other side of the lake provided easy cover for a surveillance operation; Karr had gone through them earlier and found none, but a jogger could easily trot down the nearby path and vanish in the woods. Karr had also planted a small video camera on a tree near the path — the camera was about the size of a large marble and called a video fly, fly being a takeoff on bug. Signals from the fly were relayed to a small transmitter that uploaded them to an orbiting satellite and from there to the Art Room. But it would have been impossible to cover every possible position where a trail team might hide. Just as bad, there were policemen at both ends of the path and others who would eventually notice Dean pausing on the pathway; sooner or later someone would get nosy.
Not that they hadn’t covered that contingency, at least to an
extent. At ten minutes past, Dean would walk to the very far end of the arranged area, cross over the bridge, and then loop back. When he reached the far end of the area he would look impatiently at his watch and begin playing the worried companion, wondering where his date had gotten to. That act could take them through another fifteen minutes; they’d then swap positions for five minutes before bagging it. Karr didn’t know what the reset procedure was or even if there was one. If the messenger failed to show, they would go back to being tourists, take in some of the sights, and wait for further instructions.
Something cracked sharply in the distance. Dean spun abruptly around. Karr, unsure what was going on, pushed upright from the railing. Then Dean started to run, and Karr did, too. Only after his first two steps did he realize the crack had been a gunshot.
* * *
Dean ran toward the bridge. He knew the crack belonged to a rifle — it was difficult to identify a specific weapon from the sound of a shot fired in the distance, but the sound was so familiar to him that he had no trouble guessing it was a Remington Model 700 or some military variant. He also knew it had not been aimed at him, for if it had it surely would have struck him; the rifle was once the weapon of choice among snipers, preferred for its accuracy.
A man somewhere past middle age lay sprawled in the middle of the bridge. He’d been taken down with a shot in the precise middle of his temple.
It was the messenger — his brown hat lay on the pavement. He’d only just reached the middle of the bridge.
Dean glanced around. The woman he’d seen with the two girls earlier was looking at him in horror. There were two, three other people nearby.
“Call the police,” he said. “A bobby. Quick! Go!”
Dean turned to judge where the shot would have come from, then pointed in that direction. “There! Call someone — have the police go there.”
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