The Spy Across the Table

by Barry Lancet

  “You don’t get the lay of the land dead right, you’ll be dead, period,” Wilson-Yun said, stern eyes shooting up from under a no-nonsense brow, his earlier humor nowhere in sight. “We’re talking armaments on top of armaments, not to mention snipers, bunkers, tanks, missiles, gun embankments, and minefields. Plus all that and more in the CCZ.”

  “The Cold War is alive and well in Korea,” I said.

  “Affirmative. Hostilities are ongoing. And toxic if you drop your guard.”

  Wilson-Yun’s spin on the real-world danger at Seoul’s doorstep caused me to reconsider Rie’s dream in a new light. Could it be some sort of premonition? I hoped not.

  With another barbed look, Wilson-Yun all but pinned me to the fuselage. “If you know your geopolitics, then why don’t you give us your intel now?”

  I replied with an equally unyielding look. “Contrary to what everyone thinks, I don’t know where they’ll come ashore on the South Korean coast.”

  “Okay, give us the DMZ incursion point, then. The mission’s on. This is go day. It’ll make it safer for all of us.”

  The rest of the team listened intently.

  I remained defiant. “We’re talking about a group of two to four people. Anna Tanaka and one to three minders. Not knowing now won’t make it any safer or any more dangerous for us.”

  “Three people total,” Noda said, speaking for the first time.

  I nodded. “That’s the most likely scenario. One handler is not enough; three will draw more attention than desirable.”

  “So let’s have it,” Wilson-Yun said.

  “On my schedule.”

  He frowned. “We need to set up over there. An advance party could get things rolling.”

  “Or create enough of a disturbance to alert any early watchers. At this rate, we’ll arrive well ahead of them. It’s South Korean territory. The six of us will do nicely.”

  “What games are you playing, Brodie?”

  “Only one: to get the hostage out alive. There’s been interference along the way, and I don’t want any more of that at this stage. Your team ran into Homeland and nearly didn’t make it. I’ve run up against them twice and seen them watching twice. The longer I hold on to the location, the better the chance no outside party will intrude.”

  Wilson-Yun’s tone turned accusatory. “You don’t trust us.”

  “I want to, but I don’t know you, do I? I certainly don’t trust your handlers or anyone insisting on advance information.”

  “So you leave us in the dark?”

  “Tell me you have control over how those above you will handle the information, and I’ll pass it to you now.”

  The intelligence officer stared at me. “Who the hell are you? They told me you were an art dealer.”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Bastards.”

  “You’re catching on.”

  He’d been underbriefed. His team had fended off one threat and we’d uncovered another. What else waited for us?

  CHAPTER 60

  THIRTY minutes before our scheduled landing, I called in the first location. The White House had paved the way well. We encountered no red tape. No questions. No resistance of any kind.

  On arrival, we found a Bell helicopter waiting to fly us to our next destination, the Joint Security Area within the DMZ. The JSA was a high-risk, tightly controlled territory overseen by the United Nations Command that straddles both sides of the border. In a classic Cold War style, there were armed guards on the ground and in watchtowers. More than six decades on, the area remains on high alert around the clock, every day of the year, with no end in sight.

  A South Korean army liaison with a name tag stepped up and saluted KC. “At ease, Kim,” KC said, returning the salute.

  “This is Jim Brodie, the civilian heading this mission.”

  “Sir,” Kim said, saluting me in turn.

  “Call him Brodie,” KC said.

  “And you can call me Robert, sir, if you choose.”

  KC nodded. “Robert it is, soldier. How much do you know about the DMZ?”

  “Everything there is to know, sir. I grew up in Daeseong-dong.”

  An alarm went off in my head. Wilson-Yun, who had been observing an operation unfolding across the field, swiveled around and focused his full attention on the South Korean. KC allowed his hand to drift toward his weapon, casually surveying the immediate area, suddenly on guard against another attack.

  Daeseong-dong village was the problem, and the three of us knew it. Located within the DMZ extremely close to the border, the village had been given special dispensation. Everyone knew the story. Inhabitants had insisted on returning to their ancestral land after the war, so arrangements were made, but at a price. Residents had to bed down in their own homes most nights of the year, and could leave the village for only a finite number of days every twelve months. They also had a curfew. Soldiers came around to count heads to make sure no one had been spirited away to the North. In return for accepting these hardships, the government offered concessions, among them exemption from the draft.

  “So you lived in the village?” I said.

  He looked surprised. “Do you know it?”

  “It’s famous.”

  He flushed. “It’s just a village, sir.”

  “It’s so famous, it’s common knowledge that villagers get paid top dollar for their crops, don’t pay taxes, and don’t have to serve in the military.”

  “That’s all true,” he said, his embarrassment deepening. “I enlisted. My friends called me crazy.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s a family tradition. My father joined. My grandfather served alongside US Navy commander Robert M. Ballinger.”

  Wilson-Yun’s face lit up. “Your grandfather worked with Commander Ballinger?”

  “Yes. You know him?”

  “Every American soldier working the region knows the name.” Wilson-Yun looked my way. “The commander was killed in an explosion during an examination of the first North Korean tunnel. He’s a local hero.”

  I turned back to the liaison officer. “Which is where ‘Robert’ came from?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I relaxed. KC’s hand drifted away from his weapon.

  “In that case, we’re honored to have you aboard.”

  “Thank you, sir—Brodie—but the honor’s all mine. I hear this mission is important.”

  “Very.”

  KC caught my eye. “We’ll be right back, Brodie. We need to change out of our fatigues into civvies.”

  “Because?”

  “Snipers are less likely to take potshots at us that way.”

  * * *

  After changing, the Marines humped their gear from the plane to the Bell in record time.

  As Noda watched KC’s team transfer the last of the equipment, he switched on his phone and it lit up with a voice mail notification. The Bell helicopter powered up. The chief detective stepped away from the noise of the rotors. I had to call him back after the rest of us had boarded.

  “Anything useful?” I asked, raising my voice as we lifted into the air in a swirl of dust and heavy winds.

  “Yeah. Two messages.”

  The aircraft changed bearings, turning north by northwest and picking up speed.

  “So spill.”

  “Best you hear for yourself.”

  He pressed playback and a no signal box popped open on his screen. The chief detective tapped the cancel button and tried again.

  While Noda continued to fiddle with his mobile, I looked out the port window. We were coming up on central Seoul. Ahead was the wide band of the Han River, winding its way through the heart of the city like a mammoth snake. It had dark-blue segments and light-aqua ones and was divided at irregular intervals by its bridges.

  Noda shrugged, and shoved the phone into his pocket.

  “Anything important?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “Best you
hear for yourself.”

  CHAPTER 61

  IT is one of the ironies of the Koreas that the combined CCZ and DMZ security areas represent the best-preserved nature site on the Korean Peninsula.

  Only here has mankind’s touch been restrained.

  Step away from the military installations, permanent base camps, and watchtowers—all of which leave a small collective footprint in the swatch of land that stretches from coast to coast—and the region is close to pristine. Asian black bear, Korean water deer, Amur leopard, and Eurasian otter roam the fields and woodlands. Herons, golden eagles, black swans, kingfishers, and cranes glide in for a migratory rest. The human touch is light yet firm: a string of rusting border signs, an electric fence, and the one-million-plus land mines, which are obstacles but not eyesores.

  Nature reigns in peace. Stillness dominates. But it is different than the uneasy calm of the silent human sentries on both sides, who are mute but tense, on permanent high alert, and fall victim to an above-average number of ulcers.

  In this unsettling middle ground I listened to Noda’s messages, both in Japanese. The first one came from the police connection he’d used to alert the Japanese Coast Guard. The joint coast guard–military operation had held a firm line—no crafts, large or small, had crossed over—so Anna’s abductors were headed our way.

  The second message, left by Jiro Jo, came through in the Korean bodyguard’s deep, sonorous rumble:

  “Was thinking about my lowlife brother-in-law. He’s got the IQ of a bowl of udon, but he’s as slippery as seaweed. So I had your boys pass on a message he wouldn’t be released until he coughed up two more items. This morning he gave up this: ‘The tunnel the gaijin’s looking for is hidden under a known tunnel.’ ”

  “Jo’s good,” I said. “Except he promised to release Habu.”

  Noda raised an eyebrow. “You’re still underestimating him.”

  “How so?”

  “He said two. Means he figured Habu was holding back one.”

  * * *

  Time to bite the bullet.

  I sure as hell didn’t want to, but I needed to hear the rest of the Homeland secretary’s briefing.

  I rang the same number as before and the same voice in the White House answered. He informed me that the president was no longer available, but the secretary had left standing instructions to forward my call regardless of the time. Which, of course, was a show not of Carl Jordenson’s goodwill but of the president’s. Joe Slater had not abandoned me after I hung up on his man.

  I met Jordenson halfway. “Let’s try this one more time,” I said when he answered.

  “Excellent idea. I’d like to get right to it if that’s okay with you.”

  “Always has been.”

  “Yes, well, for details, I’m looping in Hank over at the NSA.”

  “He have a last name?”

  “Not today.”

  “Not an answer to build trust.”

  “The agency’s comment was that one kidnapping’s enough.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking, it works for me as long as I get the information I need.

  I heard some juggling on the line, then Carl said, “Hank, you there?”

  “Yes.”

  Carl performed the preliminary introductions, then handed the briefing over to the partially identified NSA official:

  “Well, then we’re off. The Tanaka woman has a special talent. Genius-level, and of the kind the NSA usually can’t afford. Even if we could, most people of her caliber won’t work for us. Ms. Tanaka did because she’d only recently become an American citizen and wanted to assist her adopted country.”

  “Sounds like the kind of story I’m going to like.”

  Hank agreed. “Made a lot of people happy over here, believe me. She has an immense gift and she was . . . is . . . quite nice, so she’s all-around popular. Her coming over to the NSA and DoD was unselfish and patriotic. Once she passed her security clearance, we put her right to work.”

  “On what?”

  “A lot of different projects. She excelled on all of them and raised the bar of every operation she touched.”

  Spiker13’s rep was ongoing. Mari would be proud.

  “And recently?”

  “A complex universal back door linking up select servers with high-priority information.”

  “In normal English, what would that be?”

  “She was building hallways between systems so those with top-tier security clearance could more easily navigate our various operations in a secure environment.”

  “Thank you. What kind of high-priority information?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you about cyberdefense and cyberlooting.”

  “Okay.”

  “Everyone’s been saying the cybersphere is the new battleground, and it’s true. But what they don’t tell you is how it manifests. It’s all virtual. Meaning you can’t see it. Things happen that no one knows about, or we find out after the fact. Sometimes long after the fact. Russia, China, and others are on the attack. North Korea has its moments too. Not the Hollywood nonsense—serious cyberattacks. You know about the DarkSeoul malware, right?”

  “Only the name.”

  “It was a North Korean software termite and did tremendous damage. Shut down South Korean banks and ATMs and caused seven hundred million dollars’ worth of damage. DarkSeoul’s been used to steal upward of a hundred and fifty thousand South Korean military files, some of them containing information we shared. With what Ms. Tanaka knows, North Korea could do a hundred times more damage—against the United States. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

  “Yes. Can you change your security?”

  “Oh, we’ve shuttered our servers. Problem is, she’s got a lot of coding in her head. With what she knows, not to mention her talent, she can write programs to penetrate our systems and set implants.”

  “Implants?”

  “Spyware. Malware. In layman’s terms, she is capable of making keys to our system. This is as bad as it gets.”

  “Is it fair to say the North Koreans found a glaring gap in our national security?”

  “Let’s call it a loophole.”

  “Something smaller?”

  “Yes.”

  “So while your people were protecting digital assets like hardware and software, they made off with a human asset?”

  “That is correct.”

  “One who can roam anywhere in the system?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the NSA data banks might have information about what?”

  “I can’t tell you. That’s classified.”

  “About my daughter?”

  “Okay, well, yes.”

  “Could they, say, access all her homework assignments on her computer, all the searches she does online, all her judo tournament results on the website of her judo club, all her phone calls to her friends and to me?”

  “They can capture her digital footprints over all lines and services.”

  “And, naturally, there just might be some more data in those NSA data banks on a few of my daughter’s friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe all of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the data could be collated and cross-referenced?”

  “If desired, yes.”

  “Is there anything the NSA might not have intercepted about my daughter?”

  “If it’s digital or cellular, no.”

  “Then do you know what my daughter might say about that?”

  He hesitated. “I’m not sure I do.”

  “She’d say a loophole is a small thing, like a loop. But what you have is not a loophole.”

  “She’d say that?”

  “Using nearly those exact words.”

  “What would she call it, then?”

  “She’d say, with a little coaching from me, that North Korea is hours away from getting the keys to America’s biggest stash of data ever. Maybe the world’s biggest
stash. Much bigger than a loophole. Maybe a treasure trove.”

  “Smart daughter you’ve got there.”

  “Yes,” I said. “In fact, she is.”

  CHAPTER 62

  THE North Koreans’ move was pure genius.

  They’d gone in search of the pot of golden data at the end of the rainbow and nabbed it.

  With one hand they shoved their growing nuclear prowess in the face of the world’s most powerful nations while with the other they reached in where no one expected them. An impressive sleight of hand.

  The NSA’s explanation clarified everything. All the events slotted into place. The bold abduction at the funeral, the plan to smuggle Anna out of Japan and into North Korea. All of it. What was in Anna’s head was priceless. She could provide a back door to the NSA’s darkest data banks. Whoever controlled her could reach into the heart and mind of any American they chose. They could blackmail politicians, generals, spies, journalists, CEOs, or any American with his or her hand on a financial, technological, industrial, or military secret.

  They could infiltrate the secure facility of their choice. Everyone from our top leaders down to the night security guard could be pressured or threatened. North Korea could sift through all the domestic data netted by NSA’s software and make any of us dance.

  * * *

  By the time I finished up with the phone call, KC’s men had loaded their gear into two jeeps.

  “Where to?” the Marine said.

  I spread a map out on the hood of his jeeps. “Give me a minute. I just received an update.”

  About one and a half kilometers from Dora’s, Habu had said in the van. Don’t know what the hell that is and don’t care. Makes no sense to me.

  Dora was Dora Observatory. The surveillance post offered an overlook onto a large swatch of North Korea. With the observatory at the center, I marked off a point one and a half kilometers—roughly a mile—in four directions of the compass, then drew a circle to connect the points. Somewhere inside the circle should be the hidden entrance to the as-yet-undiscovered tunnel.