Fires of War - [First Team 03]

by Larry Bond

  “She put it that way many times,” said the president. There was a faint hint of nostalgia in his voice, as if he were picturing her in his mind. The tone always accompanied that expression, which he used at least twice a week. Corrine had never been able to determine if it was genuine or just part of his shtick. Perhaps it was both.

  “I wonder if you would mind doing me a favor today?” McCarthy added.

  “Sir?”

  “I wonder if you would sit in on a briefing that is being arranged for the Security Council this morning. I believe the time is eleven. You may have to check on that.”

  “That’s not in my job description, Mr. President.”

  “Well, now, are we going to have the job description conversation again, Miss Alston?”

  She could practically see his smile.

  “It would be unusual for me to attend,” she said.

  “Well now, tongues may wag. That is very true,” said McCarthy before turning serious. “I want you there to consider the implications of our treaty with the North. Officially.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Unofficially, of course, the information may be useful to you in your dealings with our First Team. And as always I would appreciate your perspective. Now, dear, this all may well prove to be a wild rumor,” continued the president. “The timing of it seems very suspicious to me. Consider: the North has been making conciliatory gestures over the past year. The dictator is rumored to be ill. All of this is not a context for planning an invasion. Assuming they are sane, which some might argue is a poor assumption.”

  “I’d agree with that.”

  “Well, now, of course we must take it very seriously. Very, very seriously, dear. And one of the things that taking it seriously entails ...”

  The president paused. That was part of his shtick, to make sure the listener didn’t miss what followed.

  “... would be not doing anything that would entice action by the North Koreans.”

  “Understood, Mr. President. The portion of, uh, the matter in North Korea that might have caused concern has concluded. The results so far appear negative.”

  “Very good timing, Miss Alston. And on our other matter, regarding the Republic of Korea?”

  “We’re still working on it. Nothing new.”

  “Very well. Do your best.”

  Corrine put down the phone and got out of bed to start the coffee.

  Oh, well, she thought to herself as she headed to the kitchen, at least I don’t have to go to the dentist.

  ~ * ~

  20

  DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

  Thera had never been much of a clotheshorse, but even she had to admit that the clingy black and silver satin dress reflected in the elevator’s mirror looked stunning on her. She tossed her red hair back and set herself as the elevator reached the lobby, ready for dinner, and whatever else followed.

  Park’s Mercedes waited at the curb outside the hotel. Thera slid in, sinking into the leather-covered seat. A passerby gave her a jealous glance as the chauffer closed the door, no doubt believing that the Westerner was living a fairy tale.

  Which was true enough, in a way.

  Roughly forty-five minutes later, the sedan pulled through a set of gates on the side of a mountain road north of the city and drove up a long, serpentine driveway. The concrete gave way to hand-laid pavers within a few yards of the road. The car’s headlights caught elaborate castings inset among the bricks: Dragons, gods, ancient Korean warriors lay at her feet as the Mercedes drove up the hill toward the mansion.

  The house seemed like a gathering of squat, chiseled stones and clay-clad roofs, as if an old village had been compressed into a single building. The scale was deceiving; only as she reached the door did Thera realize that the single-level building was as tall as a typical three-story house.

  A butler in formal attire met her at the door. The entry alcove was slightly lower than the rest of the floor, a reminder to guests that they should leave their shoes. A pair of slippers sat on a cushion nearby.

  “Ms. Deidre, Mr. Park is waiting inside,” said the butler as Thera slipped off her shoes.

  “Thank you,” said Thera.

  “You understand, please, that it would be rude to search a guest.”

  Thera smiled. Her dress was not so slinky that it couldn’t conceal two holsters, one on each thigh.

  “A host should not stare,” Thera told the butler.

  It took a second for him to get the hint and turn around. Thera hiked her skirt and removed the weapons, deciding that she would leave both out here. This proved a good call—as she passed through the nearby doorway she noticed a series of LED lights embedded in the molding; the polished wood hid a metal detector.

  Park’s servant led her down the hall to a room that looked as if it belonged in a museum. Ancient pottery, small statues, and antique armor and weapons were displayed on boxlike pedestals in the low-lit, moisture-controlled hall. The walls were adorned with paintings and scrolls, all very old.

  Park wasn’t here; clearly she was expected to spend a few minutes admiring his taste in antiquities, adding to the suspense of his grand entrance. Thera folded her arms and turned toward a grill she suspected of harboring a video cam, staring at it with her most cynical expression.

  “Miss Deidre, good evening.”

  “Mr. Park,” said Thera, turning as the white-haired gentleman appeared from the side of the room. He was in his midsixties, not much taller than she was, on the stocky side though not fat.

  “I am so very glad you could make it,” said Park. He reached for her hands, grasping them with surprising strength. He kissed them as if she were a medieval princess. “Mr. Li told me that you were ravishing, but he did not do you justice.”

  “You are very kind, Mr. Park. You have a wonderful collection,” she added, sweeping her hand around the room. “All Korean?”

  “Most but not all. I have some Chinese and even Japanese items. Either for context or because they interest me.” Though accented, his English sounded as if he had lived in America for many years.

  Park showed her around the room, talking about the antiquities and where they had been found. Thera let him lead her through, inserting the proper oos and ahs. Just as they were running out of display cases, the butler appeared in the doorway.

  “Would you like to eat Western-style or Korean?” asked Park.

  “Korean, of course,” said Thera.

  Park told the butler in Korean that they would use the traditional dining room. He then led Thera through a door at the side of the room into a large dining room. Scrolls with Korean characters and ink-brush paintings lined the stucco walls. A low table surrounded by mats sat in the middle of the room. Two of his servants stood next to it.

  Thera lowered herself to the table, curling her legs under her on the cushions. A stream of food began to appear: small dishes of different kim-chi, then a local fish dish, then another, then a grilled duck. Thera worried that she would split the dress when she got up.

  Park did not speak during dinner. Thera remained silent as well.

  When they were finished, he led her down the hallway to another room, this one a cross between a study and an artist’s gallery. Park showed her a minbwa, a traditional Korean painting, in this case a landscape that he had been working on. The rustic style was deliberately primitive, meant to evoke a simpler people living in a simpler time.

  “You have many talents,” she told him.

  He acknowledged the compliment by lowering his head.

  “I would not have accused you of liking simple things,” added Thera. Deciding the time had come to push Park, she ran her fingers down his arm.

  “The advantage to the style is that one’s lack of artistic skills are assumed,” said Park, ignoring the stroke of her hand.

  “Your desk does not look very rustic.”

  Thera let go and walked over to the desk, a modern glass and metal table. A computer and a phone sat to one side. A few meme
ntos—a small car, a model airplane, a misshapen glass marble—sat at the front. Otherwise the surface was clear.

  “Does your company make these planes?” Thera asked, pointing at the model.

  “No,” said Park, amused. “Those are Russian planes, the latest MiG fighter. A handsome design, don’t you think?”

  “Very. Are you buying these?”

  “I don’t have a need for such a toy.”

  “I meant for your business.”

  “My venture in aircraft a few years ago ended poorly. One of my firms makes aircraft parts. We may try and make some parts for the Russians. Their designs are good, but the executions are not as dependable as Korean craftsmanship.”

  “It depends on the item,” said Thera, a salesman sticking up for her wares.

  “A Korean-built fighter would be very potent,” added Park. His voice was almost wistful. “Perhaps some day.”

  “I would think it would be an excellent aircraft, especially if you were involved.” Thera put her finger on the tip of the plane, bobbing it on its stand. “I wonder, Mr. Park, what do you think happened to my friend Ivan Manski?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “He was with you in North Korea, wasn’t he?”

  “He was with my party. I don’t believe we had a chance to say more than a few words.”

  “And where was that?”

  “A lodge near the capital where I often go. Very nice hunting. Once, it belonged to my family.”

  “He didn’t return with the others.”

  Park gave her an indulgent smile, then walked to a large lacquered chest at the side of the room. “Would you join me in a drink, Miss Deidre?”

  “Surely.”

  “In the past, Korean farmers brewed this,” said Park, handing Thera a small bowllike cup. He filled it nearly to the brim with makgeolli. Park looked at the bowl of milky white liquor as if it were a sacramental offering, bowing slightly and waiting as Thera drank.

  The liquor was extremely strong, but the taste very smooth, much smoother than what Thera had sampled as she familiarized herself with Korean customs prior to the mission.

  She finished, then handed the cup to Park, filling it for him.

  “My friend is still in North Korea?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know. You really should find a higher class of acquaintance, Miss Deidre.”

  “I already have.”

  He answered her smile with one of his own.

  “But Mr. Manski and I have certain entanglements,” added Thera. “And I wish to get them unwound.”

  “I don’t believe he will be a problem for you.”

  “Where exactly did you last see him? Was it in the capital? Or did everyone stay at the lodge?”

  “You sound as if you are a police detective,” said Park.

  “Just someone anxious to recover what is mine. And to prevent further complications in a . . . difficult area.”

  Park put down the cup. He walked to one of the unfinished canvases, contemplating it. Thera watched him, not sure what he was going to do or say. Finally, she walked over and looked at the painting.

  Park took her hand.

  For an instant, she thought he was going to make a pass at her, but the pressure he applied to her wrist dispelled that notion. Intense pain shot up her arm to her spine.

  “My assistant Mr. Li would be happy to indemnify any loss you suffered from your disagreement with your friend,” Park told her. “Beyond that, it would be most wise to change your associations permanently.”

  “Mr. Park, I believe you are threatening me.” Thera struggled to keep her voice level.

  “Not a threat. I would not like to see a pretty woman such as yourself harmed.”

  Thera jerked her arm upward and then down, breaking the hold, though not easily. As she did, two men in black silk suits appeared in the wide doorway facing the desk.

  “Miss Deidre is leaving,” Park told them, turning away. “Please show her to the car.”

  ~ * ~

  21

  THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Corrine was on her way downstairs to the National Security meeting when she heard Josh Franklin’s rich baritone echoing in the hallway.

  “This is exactly what I warned about,” said the assistant secretary of defense, standing outside the conference room. “They’re going to attack. We should authorize a preemptive strike. That would be my recommendation.”

  The small group of aides clustered around Franklin murmured their approval. Corrine said nothing, hoping to pass by and get into the room unnoticed. But Franklin saw her out of the corner of his eye.

  “Corrine, how are you?” he asked.

  “Very well, Josh. Yourself?”

  She wondered if he would mention the cell-phone call she’d “forgotten” to answer after their nondate date and was relieved when he didn’t.

  It figured though, didn’t it? One of the few men who actually followed up on a promise to call, and he turned out to be a frog rather than a prince.

  “Are you attending the NSC briefing?” Franklin asked.

  “The president asked me to be here,” she told him, “simply to monitor possible developments vis a vis the treaty.”

  She struggled to get the words out, then wished she’d said something, anything, more graceful. She sounded like a tongue-twisted freshman law student presenting a case citation for the first time.

  “Still pushing the treaty, huh? It’s dead now,” declared Franklin. “No one will vote for it. Which is just as well.”

  “I’m just monitoring, not advocating.”

  “Josh is right.” Christine Tuttle, the deputy national security advisor for Asia, separated herself from the rest of the group. “We have to be aggressive; we have no choice.”

  Tuttle turned toward Franklin. Corrine saw something in her expression as their eyes met.

  Oh, thought Corrine. Oh.

  “Didn’t you write a briefing paper favoring the treaty?” Corrine asked.

  “I changed my mind recently,” said Tuttle, just a hint of her annoyance showing through. “Partly because of Josh’s arguments, I must say.”

  “He can be very persuasive,” Corrine said, walking toward the room, “but that doesn’t mean he’s right.”

  ~ * ~

  I

  n the president’s absence, the session was chaired by Vice President Edward Wyatt. Wyatt was from the Midwest, and differed from McCarthy in almost every way, from appearance to temperament. Baby-faced and chubby, Wyatt’s main asset to the administration was the fact that he had been governor of Illinois—a post he’d actually inherited when the elected governor died. He continually deferred to National Security Advisor Stephanie Manzi, who introduced the briefers and labored to keep the discussions on point.

  The CIA handled the first part of the session. Parnelles had Korean expert Verigo Johnson present satellite photos showing the troop movements in North Korea and their possible implications. Though large and potent, the North Korean Army was rather ponderous; a full-scale mobilization would take several more days, even weeks. Still, there were enough artillery units in place near the border that a devastating attack could be launched at almost any time, with very little warning.

  There was one positive note: The nuclear weapons the North had declared were all present at their missile launching station, and no move had been made to prepare them for launch.

  “That would require their being reassembled,” added Johnson. “Which would take several days. We’ll have plenty of notice. We can have them targeted and destroyed at the first sign of preparation.”

  “We are also monitoring other sites where missiles might have been hidden,” added Parnelles. “As of yet, we’ve seen nothing to cause alarm. But we’re watching.”

  “Any reaction from the Chinese?” asked Wyatt.

  “So far, they don’t seem to have picked up on anything,” said Parnelles. “The Russians will have seen what we saw via satellite, but ther
e’s been no action out of Moscow. Neither the Australians nor the Brits have made any comment, though I would assume they will take notice shortly.”

  The CIA director said there was a fifty-fifty chance of an attack, which, in his opinion, would be launched because Kim Jong-Il was angry over South Korea’s refusal to provide more aid for heating oil.

  “We can expect some sort of ultimatum along those lines when the forces are in place,” said Parnelles.