Rei surveyed the confluence of information, exactly as he had done time after time before, settling his gaze finally on the target. A poster-sized photograph was taped to the wall at the far end of the room. It was surrounded by numerous printouts and photographs from newspapers, all taken from the internet. The target was a gray-haired woman with a light, smiling face and bright, curious Asian eyes. In the photographs, she often wore a white laboratory coat.
He reached over the desk, logged off the computer, then turned off the lights, only to see the blue screen of the monitor faintly illuminating the dark room and the target’s face.
I won’t have to do this again. Rei sighed in relief, yet felt unsure whether he could manage a new life without the adrenaline rushes of the past. He considered each kill a critical deed for his homeland, yet each had become easier than the one before.
I’ll clean this all up later when everything can be shredded, destroyed, and removed, he thought as he swung the door closed.
The housekeeper would spotlessly clean Rei’s apartment, but she rarely entered that room. Except for two other men, no one knew who his next target would be. The evidence in that room would tell all and thereby endanger his life, but only the housekeeper, whom he trusted implicitly, had access. She and her husband, son, daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren often had the only food in their tenant building. They had eaten well and suffered no hardships since starting work for Rei more than a decade ago. His secrets were absolutely secure with her.
Rei closed the inner door to the apartment, locking it and activating an alarm only the housekeeper could disarm. If sounded, it directly signaled a small security cell in the intelligence branch. A Western-style system, it was the only one of its type in Pyongyang. There was no great need for security in this city. Few had anything to steal. Those who had objects of worth were also those who could easily have a thief executed.
In the predawn darkness, his driver waited at the end of the block.
“Today, a short ride, friend,” said Rei.
“Yes, sir.”
“Potonggang station.”
The vehicle turned north, up a broad boulevard with wide-open sidewalks. Rei slumped down in the seat, thinking that only two weeks earlier, he had been summoned to the NCDB.
Sin Tae-sam had again been the messenger. “We have a most important mission, comrade.”
Rei placed both arms on the conference table in the National Chemical and Defense Bureau’s uppermost floor. “Comrade, I am always ready to serve our leader and the state,” he said flatly.
“We have other news as well.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you have won your reward.”
“Comrade?”
“This will be your last mission,” said Sin. “Upon your return, you will be appointed to an instructor’s position at the National Defense University.”
Rei had felt both elated and unsure. Like a professional Western athlete, would he end his brilliant career on his terms or theirs?
“Is there a problem?” Rei could not keep himself from asking.
“In fact, there is,” Sin Tae-sam said, his face falling under the direct cast of a single light. His eyes seemed worn down by experience and time. “Our friends in Beijing have a source in Washington. It is apparently well-connected in their Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Yes?”
“They have a sense of what is going on,” said Sin. “They may know it’s you or at least suspect you.”
Another surge flashed through Rei’s body. He had sensed this for some time now. It was nothing he could articulate. He had felt it, but never seen it.
“I thought so,” said Rei.
“We know they’re still guessing, but it is enough.”
“I understand, but if this is so, should we do another with me?”
“We have had that conversation,” said Sin, “but this one is most important and most unique.”
“Why?”
“Nampo believes this one scientist, who he has followed for quite a while, is on the verge of a breakthrough in nanotechnology,” Sin said. “We have gained access to her work and Nampo has nearly replicated it in his laboratory. It will allow him to reduce a ten-kiloton nuclear weapon to the size of a loaf of bread.”
“That seems greatly significant.”
“It is. It will solve our payload problem and allow us to place multiple weapons into the highest orbits. One rocket will be able to carry several different payloads, similar to the Americans’ MIRV system. The multiple warhead system has been in existence for years, but it required a higher orbit than our North Korean rockets could achieve.”
“Yes, sir.” Rei wondered why the old man was being so open. Perhaps it was because, with the FBI possibly on his tail, he knew he was putting Rei at heightened risk.
“You have served well, comrade,” said Sin. “You deserve this appointment.”
“Thank you, comrade.”
“And, also…”
“Yes, sir?” said Rei.
“This one may be easier than any other.”
“Why?”
“It is in Japan.”
The taxi’s short and sudden stop jolted Rei back to the present as he thrust his hand forward to brace himself.
“We are here, sir,” said the driver.
The taxi had stopped directly in front of a large, block-shaped, cream-colored building. Outside, above the center of the front entrance, was an enormous framed painting of the Supreme Leader and his son. Below, in large letters, was the label Potonggang National Railroad Station.
The light of dawn began to illuminate the city, and for the first time, Rei noticed soldiers in their green uniforms, large saucer hats, and red shoulder boards standing around the station. Wordlessly, he nodded to the driver and left the taxi.
The station was waking up. It was clear to Rei, however, that but for the military traffic, it would be virtually empty. A large blackboard, its writing in chalk, showed only three trains: two to China and one to Wonsan. The board’s empty lines were reminders of future commerce that was no more than a hope.
How pathetic, he thought. A city of millions with only three trains running? Rei knew why the government was so determined to keep its borders closed. Comparing this main train station to any in Europe highlighted the pathetic condition of the North Korean economy.
Rei showed his security badge to a sentry, armed with an AK-47, standing near a stairway leading up to the train marked for Wonsan. “You will be on the priority car, comrade,” he said.
“Yes.” He was aware of this important privilege. Even in North Korea, or especially in North Korea, there were privileges.
The train’s final car had armed guards posted on each end, with curtains drawn shut. Inside, a general, apparently from the army, sat in one of only a few chairs, intently reading the London Times. The general glanced up at Rei, then turned again to his paper. Because Rei was not in uniform, the general figured he was someone best ignored, and the two did not talk.
Rei’s unwilling companion puffed on a long cigar. Rei recognized the sharp smell of a Cuban. There’s one pleasure a Communist country can enjoy—if one has the money to pay for it.
It took until mid-afternoon for the train to reach Wonsan. The arrival was timed so that he and others could easily transfer from the Wonsan station to the passenger ship Mangyongbong-92 for the overnight voyage to the port of Niigata.
The early winter winds of the Sea of Japan were fierce that night, but Rei stood on the ship’s front deck just the same, bracing himself against the wind and smoking a pack of his American cigarettes. I need to get a couple of cartons, he thought, realizing that this trip might be his last opportunity to do so for some time.
As the ship neared its destination, Rei worried that his entrance to Japan would telegraph his exit of North
Korea. For precisely this reason, he had not been to the Japanese port of Niigata in several years, traveling through Beijing and Moscow providing him better cover. As he walked down the wooden gangplank into port customs, he immediately noticed a far greater scrutiny than he ever recalled seeing before. Japanese custom officials, accompanied by armed Japanese security forces, stood evenly spaced along the walls of a corridor leading to a large room. Each of four customs desks were situated behind thick Plexiglas shields. A loudspeaker announced a request for declaration of all goods and amnesty for the tendering of any weapons, which Rei thought was unusual.
The 6:09 a.m. Toki Shinkansen super-express train left Niigata station exactly on time, just as it did every day. Rei usually enjoyed the first-class cabin with airline-style luxury seats, but today he decided to adopt a lower profile, taking an ordinary car instead. In less than two and a half hours, the train pulled into Tokyo.
As soon as he descended the stairs into the main station, Rei felt as if he had been dropped into a giant ant farm: Two million Tokyo residents passed through the station every morning. He was always amazed that no one ever touched, not even in the most casual of bumps. In Rome, Madrid, or Paris, he would have felt constantly jostled. But in their trams and subways, where people were packed together like sardines, the Japanese tried to respect each other’s space and privacy by not touching or, if at all possible, even looking. It was a culture that stressed casual coolness.
The air was beginning to cool in Tokyo, so he pulled up the collar of his black leather jacket. He stepped out to the taxi stand in front of the backside of the station, an aluminum-and-glass structure that rose up to dominate the city block. A driver bowed briefly as he stood at the rear of his taxicab, opening up the trunk.
“Keio Plaza, two-twenty-one nishi-shinjuku,” Rei said in flawless Japanese.
“Hya,” the Tokyo taxi driver said as he again bowed.
The more affluent hotels attracted less attention than some out-of-the-way places. Police around the world would scrutinize a dark-alley hotel and keep a far more detailed account of who stayed in its rooms. Rei had even gotten his superiors at Pyongyang to authorize an American Express Gold Card in several of his cover names in order to carry on missions in this manner. The card’s bill was mailed to a post office box in San Francisco and always paid on time, through a San Francisco checking account in the name of an electronics company. The electronics company did not exist and the corporate name changed on a regular basis, making it virtually impossible to trace.
Once checked into the hotel, Rei would make a point of leaving every morning no later than eight o’clock and not returning until after four in the afternoon, to prevent any suspicions that he wasn’t a businessman on a business trip to Tokyo. He often preferred to arrive in the target town about twenty-four hours before his attack, but this time he had arrived earlier.
Rei knew that Dr. Maka Aoano would be at the Tokyo Marriott Kinshicho Tobu, on the far eastern side of the city, for a symposium on silicon conductors for a brief forty-eight hours. The Marriott stood two blocks away from one of the city’s smaller train stations, but it was also on the main rail artery to the Narita International Airport. In two weeks, Riken, Wako’s Institute of Physical and Chemical Research, was scheduled to hold its annual conference at the Marriott. Based in Wako, Japan, the Surface and Interface Laboratory’s director was the lead presenter. Her topic was using ErSiz silicon molecules to reduce the size of computers.
Rei’s plan was simple. He would hit the target at the Marriott, walk the two blocks to the Kinshicho train station, take the express train to the international airport, and be on a flight to Seoul on Korean Airlines in less than an hour.
Amazing, he thought. Who would imagine that my last mission would be the simplest of all? Because it was his final mission, he had planned to rent a car once he arrived at the Seoul International Airport, drive fifteen miles out of town, and take the hidden tunnel that he had thus far been able to avoid.
Chapter 31
Strategic and Information Operations Center, FBI Headquarters
Tom Pope started the morning meeting in the SIOC operations center with this announcement: “Gentlemen, we have someone.”
“Oh, really?” Dave Creighton dropped his pencil. The group was much smaller than it had been weeks before. Now, Creighton sat in the center chair, handling the senior supervisor’s role, and while the group met every Monday, its composition had changed to include only Creighton, Pope, Dr. Wilhelm, Mark Wolf from the Agency, and one man in uniform from the Joint Chiefs: an admiral.
“Joan reported the coordinating of logistics for someone in New York going to Tokyo in early December—hotels, an American Express card, the usual,” said Tom.
“So,” said Creighton, “what are your thoughts?”
“Sir, we don’t know if he’s going on from Tokyo or if the target is someone in Japan.”
“How many fit your profile of possible targets in Japan?”
“We have three for sure and possibly a fourth,” said Tom.
“How about traces on the ports of entry?” The others remained silent as Creighton continued to bombard Tom with questions.
“We’re monitoring the major airports and, although it’s a stretch…”
“Yes, Tom?”
“We’re looking at direct vessel traffic into Niigata.”
“They can’t be that obvious,” said Creighton.
The admiral made a small note on his pad, then continued to doodle in the margins—boxes within boxes. He smiled slyly as he took everything in.
“I may have some insight on the DPRK’s use of that vessel, the Mangyongbong-92,” Admiral Krowl said, rubbing his fingers over his mouth, making it hard to understand what he was saying. “I’ll talk to one of my people and get back to you.”
“Admiral, if it’s significant, do it quickly. We don’t know if this guy hasn’t already gone elsewhere,” said Creighton.
“I’ll call as soon as we’re done.”
“What do the Japanese know about our interest?” Creighton asked Tom.
“Only that we think we have a very big fish in the heroin trade coming through.”
“Good,” said Creighton. “Let’s meet daily on this, at least by VTC.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom.
“Oh-seven-hundred tomorrow, and if anything hot breaks, let me know immediately—twenty-four-seven.”
As the group disbanded, the admiral stopped Tom at the door. “Hey, you have a secure phone I can use?” he said.
“Sure, Admiral.” He pointed him to a red phone on a pullout drawer, next to the director’s seat. “You can use this one.”
“Thanks, it’ll only take a minute.” He dialed the Pentagon’s direct number to the Executive Support Center.
“This is Krowl. I need to talk immediately, by secure line, to my deputy, Sawyer.” He held his hand over the receiver, muffling his comments, although no one was close enough to overhear.
“Yes, sir, this is Commander Sawyer.”
“Go secure.”
“Yes, sir.” A high-pitched tone sounded for a few seconds. As the phone began scrambling, Krowl pulled out a cigarette and stretched the phone cord, searching the room for an ashtray. A young secretary at one of the terminals brought over a large, brass ashtray imprinted with the Bureau’s logo.
“Sir, I show secure,” said Sawyer.
“Where is she?” said Krowl.
Sawyer paused, his hesitancy showing. “Sir, I got a call this morning. She missed reporting in.”
“Shit!” said Krowl. Everyone in the center looked up from their terminals as Krowl, red-faced, yelled into the phone. “That goddamn Communist flipping bitch! I’ll let them have her. I’ll be damned if I won’t.”
Sawyer maintained a calm voice. “Sir, does this mean the end of Nemesis?”
“N
o!” Krowl snapped again.
“With respect, sir, this mission was always dangerous,” said Sawyer. “Now, it may simply be a trap.”
“Not,” said Krowl, “if I catch her ass first.”
Chapter 32
Pearl Harbor, Hawaii
In its final approach into Hickam airfield, the Gulfstream came in low over the crystal-blue waters of Pearl Harbor.
The shadow of the behemoth battleship Arizona lay below the water. Patches of green and black outlined her long shape below the surface, and a bright white monument stood across her bridge.
“Look over there, to the other side,” said Scott. “That’s the Florida.”
Will swiveled for a better view and saw another, larger shape tied up at a small wharf. The Florida was long, black, and tubular, with only its nose and tail submerged. The visible dimensions only hinted at the gigantic machine’s proportions.
“That, gentlemen, is our taxicab,” said Will.
“Not every day a billion-dollar Trident sub takes you for a joyride to North Korea,” Moncrief quipped.
Three black Chevrolet Suburbans waited in line as they disembarked, giving their arrival the appearance of a VIP welcome.
Scott bounded down the aircraft’s steps, crossed over, and shook the hands of two men waiting beside the lead vehicle. Will felt the warm breeze, a stark change from the cold air they had left at Fallon several hours earlier.
“We can go straight to the boat,” said Scott.
“Okay, Scott, let’s go.” Will and Moncrief got in the rear seats of the first Suburban as the two others climbed into the following vehicle.
“The Christmas lights are up,” said Moncrief as they left the airport.
“Indeed they are.” A series of lights, like strings holding up a tent pole, circled the bell tower at Hickam. The small government-issue homes, mostly for the senior enlisted, were decked out in all the reds and greens of Christmas.
Northern Thunder Page 18