A Family Divided

by Tom Berreman

  every minute of my reading experience.”

  “I loved this book and couldn’t put it down. Full of action and

  intrigue. Will definitely look up more by this author.”

  The murder of a United States Senator pulls a Washington lawyer into a deadly conspiracy to swing the political pendulum to the far right, and he is the only one with the power to stop it.

  Failure is not an option.

  Chapter 1.

  The flowers would bloom soon, and Choi Hyong-kim had no choice but to expose the research he had been coerced to conduct, research that in the wrong hands could exterminate countless innocent civilians. His lungs burned and his legs ached as he ran across the plaza, unsure how close his pursuers were behind him. His breathing was labored as he was not in the physical condition he had once been. He viewed himself as pudgy, the long hours spent in the laboratory precluding the sports and exercise he enjoyed in his youth. But adrenaline pushed him forward as he was close to reaching his goal.

  The plaza was crowded with families enjoying a beautiful spring afternoon, unseasonably warm without a cloud in the sky, hindering his path to freedom. He paused and turned to look behind him for a moment at the cry of a young child he had knocked down to the hard brick surface. A small trickle of blood from her nose caused his paternal instincts to overcome his need to flee and he stopped. He meant no harm to the women and children he pushed aside in his quest to escape his pursuers, but he had no choice. His alternative was a slow, painful death, retribution for his treason. Yet he instinctively reached down to help the young girl to her feet.

  His concern for the child was ill advised as he was less than one hundred yards from the gates to the Swiss Embassy, and he presented an easy target for his pursuers.

  The pleasant atmosphere of the large public plaza was disturbed by the ear splitting roar of a rifle shot. Hyong-kim felt burning pain like none he had ever felt as the bullet entered the back of his left thigh. The force of the bullet’s impact caused him to stumble and fall face first onto the course brick plaza, opening a gash above his right eye. The young girl he had helped to her feet screamed in terror as her father picked her up and whisked her away.

  In shock from the wound and blinded by the flow of blood into his eyes he couldn’t make out the faces of the two men who picked him up by his shoulders and dragged him across the plaza. The only stimulus he comprehended was the click click click as the heels of his boots hit the edges of the plaza bricks. As he faded in and out of consciousness he was sure his pursuers had succeeded in stopping his quest to save the lives of countless innocent civilians.

  * * *

  Choi Hyong-kim woke after three days, and the first sensation he experienced was the gentle touch on his forearm of the nurse who was caring for him. As he blinked his eyes his sight slowly came into focus. But instead of the short dark hair and almond shaped eyes he expected, he saw the pretty face of a blonde, blue eyed woman.

  “My back pack, is it safe?” he asked in broken English.

  “Yes, it is right here,” the nurse responded in slightly better English, but with a thick, European accent. “Nobody has disturbed it while you slept.”

  “Where am I?” he asked as he looked around the mostly white, sterile room.

  “You are in the infirmary of the Swiss Embassy. You were shot as you ran toward our gates, and two of our guards risked their lives to drag you to safety.”

  “I wish to thank them,” he said, still groggy from the sedatives.

  “In due course, but now you must rest.”

  Hyong-kim did not argue, but instead closed his eyes, his lips forming a slight smile. That he had risked his life and succeeded in saving the lives of innocent human beings brought him great joy. After a moment of reflection, he turned his head to the right onto the pillow and returned to a sound sleep.

  Chapter 2.

  Jason Burke entered the front door of Millennium Plaza, the newest addition to the Washington D.C. skyline, and the most prestigious address in town. The building’s lobby, with polished granite, high ceilings, fountains and expensive artwork, sent the message that its tenants were more concerned with their clients’ first impressions than with the excessive rent passed on through outrageous hourly fees. A glance at the building’s directory, listing several of Washington’s most high profile law firms, confirmed this.

  Jason had recently been admitted to the partnership of Chatfield & Smythe, a mid-sized, silk stocking firm, its prestige enhanced as the oldest law firm in the District of Columbia. The firm’s founding partners, all long since dead, the blank stares in their portraits watching over meetings in conference rooms bearing their names, included two United States Supreme Court justices and a Vice President of the United States. As a partner Jason was now entitled to a percentage of the firm’s profits, payback for his years as an under paid associate toiling long hours chasing the partnership carrot. Senior Chatfield & Smythe partners earned well into seven figures annually, which in their minds justified the extravagant office space.

  He continued through the pretentious lobby to the bank of polished brass elevators and pushed the call button. He paused for a moment to admire his reflection, the image of a successful lawyer. The suit he wore cost more than his father made in a week working on the assembly line at the Saint Paul Ford plant, a way of life he escaped when he left Minnesota to attend law school. More than once, sitting in the firm’s library at midnight researching case law, he had questioned his decision to walk away from the simple, blue collar life of a forty hour work week, a couple of kids and a modest bungalow with a white picket fence. But the seven figure carrot ultimately prevailed. His contemplation was interrupted by the elevator’s call signal.

  When the doors opened he entered and pressed the button for the fifteenth floor, the law offices of Chatfield & Smythe. In New York or Chicago, where a firm’s office prestige was often measured by the magnitude of the digits of the floor of its reception area, the firm would be housed on the top floors of one of the highest sky scrapers in town. But the height restrictions in Washington D.C. relegated the firm to the fifteenth floor, the top floor of the city’s tallest building.

  Jason stepped out of the elevator into the firm’s opulently appointed reception area. Oriental rugs over hardwood floors gave the room a rich, yet airy, feeling. Queen Anne styled chairs upholstered in earth tone velvet were arranged in groups of four around the spacious room, far enough apart so that clients and others having business with the firm could speak amongst themselves without being overheard. Floor to ceiling windows at the far end of the room offered a spectacular view of the Washington Monument.

  “Good morning Lorraine,” he said to the attractive, middle aged receptionist, whose wardrobe sent a clear message that she was paid more than a typical office receptionist.

  “Good morning Mr. Burke” she replied in a pleasant voice. Jason had given up on persuading her to call him by his first name. Lorraine had worked at Chatfield & Smythe for almost forty years, and her salutations were simply a carryover from the old school law firm protocol, from a time when the partnership consisted of only white men, with women relegated to secretarial positions, and people of color to cleaning offices after hours. “Mr. Smythe asked me to have you call him as soon as you arrived.”

  H. Blair Smythe III was the third generation named partner of Chatfield & Smythe. Before Jason joined the firm he had been a senior associate at Jensen & Sandler, a large Minneapolis law firm. He had represented a small software development company in an antitrust lawsuit against Smythe’s client, a larger competitor headquartered in Arlington, Virginia. Although adversaries at commencement of the trial, the two had developed a professional, mutual respect in the process of their legal maneuverings. After the conclusion of the settlement conference Smythe, impressed by Jason’s legal knowledge and negotiation skills, inquired whether he would consider an opportunity to come to Washington D.C. and interview for a position with his firm.

  Bo
rn and raised in Saint Paul, Jason moved east to attend college, his high SAT scores, 4.0 grade point average and all-state honors in two varsity sports earning him several lucrative scholarships. He earned his undergraduate degree from Columbia and his law degree from Georgetown, but returned home to Minnesota to start his legal career. He had fond memories of his time studying law in the nation’s capital and Smythe’s offer, combined with the recent retirement of his mentor at Jensen & Sandler and a string of harsh Minnesota winters, caused Jason to consider a change. The interviews went well and Jason was presented with an offer to join Chatfield & Smythe, which he accepted on the spot. Since he joined the firm Smythe had become Jason’s informal mentor, and had been a strong advocate for his admission to the partnership.

  “Thanks Lorraine,” Jason said as he continued through the lobby toward the spiral staircase that would take him to the fourteenth floor. When he arrived at his office he dropped his brief case on one of his visitor chairs, hung his suit coat on the hook on the back of his office door and sat down behind his desk. He left a voicemail for Blair Smythe that he was available at his convenience then opened the Wall Street Journal, the morning edition setting in the center of his desk as it did every morning, to catch up on the latest financial news.

  * * *

  “Do you have a minute?” Blair Smythe asked a half hour later as he walked through Jason’s open office door.

  “Sure, come on in,” Jason said as he folded his paper and set it on the credenza behind his desk.

  “Jason, I could use your help on a project,” he said as he sat in one of the visitor chairs across from Jason’s desk and crossed his legs, clasping his hands together over his right knee. “I have a client, Equestrian Enterprises, that needs to set up an off shore account to park a significant amount of money…, money that needs to be held confidentially for a strategic acquisition within the next four to six weeks. It’s work that one of our senior associates could certainly handle, but the client is expecting the utmost in confidentiality, and I’d feel more comfortable if you did the work.”

  “Sure, I can help you out,” Jason said as he pulled a legal pad from his desk drawer to take notes. “Is there a chance this can wait until later today? I’m scheduled to staff the pro bono clinic in a little less than an hour.”

  Chatfield & Smythe enhanced its image of giving back to the community by staffing the weekly free legal clinic sponsored by the district bar association. Rows of long banquet tables set up in the main lobby of the Moultrie Courthouse every Tuesday were staffed with lawyers from all of the major firms in town, all attempting to enhance their community service image. Each of the lawyers at the clinic accepted that pro bono work, sacrificing valuable billable hours to advise those less fortunate, was essentially a marketing tool to attract large corporate clients. Clients willing and able to pay their outrageous hourly fees. And despite his back log of important matters, today was Jason’s turn to represent Chatfield & Smythe.

  While Jason appreciated the business justification for large law firms to encourage pro bono work by their attorneys he had a true, altruistic motivation to help those less fortunate. He grew up in a blue collar household. His family wasn’t poor, but they certainly weren’t rich, and his father would struggle to afford a lawyer if he encountered legal problems. While in law school he helped establish a student run legal clinic serving Washington D.C.’s working poor who, like his father, could not afford the luxury of legal representation. This experience solidified his conviction that justice should not be reserved for those who could afford it.

  Several of his peers at the firm, those who had sailed through college and law school on trust funds instead of hard work and who, despite mediocre grades, were hired because their fathers were high ranking executives of important firm clients, complained profusely when they were obligated to represent the firm at the free legal clinic. They found it beneath them to associate with the riff raff of society. Their insensitivity riled him.

  “There’s no real rush,” Smythe replied, laying the file on Jason’s desk as he stood. “Read through the file and give me a call if you have any questions. If you can get me documents by the end of the week that would be fine.”

  Chapter 3.

  Choi Hyong-kim sat patiently at a table in a small, windowless conference room. The square metal table was government issued, as were the uncomfortable metal chairs with beige vinyl upholstery. The walls, void of any artwork, were painted an equally boring shade of beige. The fluorescent light fixture on the ceiling blinked sporadically, in need of a new bulb. He detected a small hole in one of the corner ceiling tiles, most likely a surveillance camera.

  He had no idea where he was as his movements since leaving Beijing were clouded in secrecy. Before leaving the embassy he was interrogated by a man who never identified himself, but who spoke Korean as though he was native, despite being blonde with blue eyes. He also spoke English, but without the European accent like the nurse who could have been his sister.

  As soon as he was medically fit to travel Hyong-kim was whisked away in the back of a non-descript sedan with blackened windows and brought to a private airfield. He was flown to the United States in a Gulf Stream G-V, and upon landing was blindfolded and driven in the back of a black SUV to his present location.

  He was nervous. He had expected to be treated as a hero, having risked his life to smuggle his research to the West, yet he felt like he was being treated as a prisoner.

  * * *

  Hyong-kim had been a shining star amongst the scientists working for the North Korean military, having earned masters and doctorate degrees in both chemistry and agronomy from Beijing University. His biological weapons research was some of the most sophisticated in the world, but it was not by his choice. He was morally opposed to the exploitation of science for the purpose of killing people, and made his position clear to the military scientists recruiting him as he completed his studies.

  Shortly after earning his degrees his mother, father and only brother were arrested by the North Korean secret police and charged with espionage, trumped up charges to force Hyong-kim to perform the research he so morally opposed. It was made clear to him that unless he cooperated with the military in its weapons research his family would be banished to the Kaechon internment camp, commonly known as Camp 14, a notorious slave labor camp on the banks of the Taedong River just north of Pyongyang. He had heard of political prisoners and their families sent to Camp 14, convicted of treason against the communist regime without a trial, never to be seen or heard from again. He could not subject his family to such horrors, regardless of his moral opposition to what the military coerced him to do.

  Even though he acquiesced to the demands of the military commanders his family remained confined in a medium security compound on the outskirts of Pyongyang, the threat of transfer to Camp 14 ever present.

  After almost two years of research Hyong-kim had perfected a new formulation of anthrax that killed in minutes instead of days. He enhanced a traditional anthrax formulation with a gene mutation found only in Kurinji, a rare variety of the poppy family that blossoms only once every twelve years. Laboratory tests on rats confirmed the results that his research had hypothesized.

  However the tests also presented a result he had not hypothesized, one that raised his angst at performing the research he so despised. The only available treatment for anthrax infection is large doses of antibiotics such as ciprofloxacin, doxycycline or penicillin. Laboratory testing of a subset of the rats infected with the Kurinji enhanced anthrax showed such treatments to be ineffective as they died at the same time as their untreated brethren.

  Before he could present these findings to his superiors Hyong-kim had received earth shattering news. A train pulling fifty tanker cars speeding along one of North Korea’s antiquated rail lines had derailed and a cloud of toxic gas filled the compound where his family was held. The guards fled the prison fearing for their own safety, leaving the prisoners behind, locked in thei
r cells where they were helpless to escape the fumes. There were no survivors.

  With nothing forcing him to continue the research he so despised Hyong-kim planned to defect to the West and take his research with him so that his efforts in the laboratory would kill no one. A week after he learned of his family’s demise he was scheduled to present academic research to an international conference of botanical scientists in Beijing. The conference was being held at the Great Wall Sheraton Hotel, only a block from the Swiss Embassy. This would be his best, and maybe only, opportunity to defect.

  When he arrived at the conference Hyong-kim was under constant surveillance by the secret police. As he stepped off the airport shuttle with a group of other scientists he turned and looked to his left toward the Swiss Embassy, a gesture not unnoticed by the agent assigned to watch him. Fearing this might be his only chance he bolted from the group, and the race to the embassy was on.

  * * *

  He stood from the table, struggling with the cast on his left leg, and tried to open the door. It was locked from the outside. As he returned to his chair he began to doubt his decision to defect when his thoughts were interrupted as a distinguished looking gentleman with salt and pepper hair, well dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and burgundy tie, entered the room. The gentleman set his brief case on the table but remained standing. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall facing Hyong-kim.

  “Hello Mr. Choi. On behalf of the United States government I want to thank you for what you have done. Your heroic escape may have stopped the North from launching a devastating biological weapon attack on the South, saving countless lives and preventing a major military conflict.”

  “My country’s government has no plan to attack South Korea,” Hyong-kim responded, “only to use the weapon as a threat, perhaps to create leverage in negotiations with the West. My people are starving, our government expends all of its resources on the military, and we need humanitarian assistance. But there are some in the military I do not trust, which is why I chose to defect.”