by Michael Crow
Miscellanous: good sense of humor, sometimes plays mischievious jokes on close associates, business and personal. Generous and hospitable. Currently romantically involved with a twenty-six-year-old girl, Korean, graduate of Stanford, employed as a junior executive in a bank. She lives in her own apartment, spends several nights a week with Kim in his Busan compound. She has no strong domestic political ties, no known connections with agents of any foreign government.
As for the jaebeol, Kim’s father ran it aggressively but honestly, no evidence of shady financial or other dealings. On Kim’s ascension, he retained his father’s CFO and COO, but appointed two trusted contemporaries from within the company as their assistants and presumed successors. He worked to build the jaebeol by friendly acquisitions, mainly in electronics and computer-related businesses. Took large stakes in some small, very edgy U.S. software start-ups. He made only one initiative his father would never have permitted: the development of trading ties with the North.
Christ. The man seems as decent as any big industrialist can be. He’s got no vices or bad habits that might make him vulnerable to pressure. He believes in democracy and free trade and America’s global role. His political views are moderate.
What’s not to like here? Anyway, all I’ve got to do is help keep him safe, so it wouldn’t really matter to me if he was kinked or perverted or a completely nasty fuck—so long as I knew about it, since you have to be extra-vigilant when your man is busy indulging vices.
It’s my own team that’s got me anxious, not Kim or any bent Russian generals.
Maybe I finally drift into sleep. Maybe I don’t. All I know is that at some point I’m aware of early light flowing through the window in my room, I’m up and getting dressed. I head down four minutes earlier than usual, which gives me time to find and score a stamp in the library, stick it on the Rhino letter, put the letter into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. Allison seems a little down when I meet her in the foyer, but I don’t ask any questions. We go for our run. When Allison calls last lap, it’s no great trick to let her pull ahead a few yards and slip the letter into that one friendly blue mailbox on our circuit.
Subdued. That’s the way I feel over the next few days. That’s the atmosphere in the spook house. Only Nadya seems usually cheerful and sassy, gives me some genuine smiles now and then.
Mostly we discuss. Thoroughly, seriously. Not much about movement, logistics, who’ll be where when, but about personalities. Kim’s dossier and profile are the most complete, so Westley, like a professsor leading a seminar, steers us in other directions. Kim’s two chief business advisers, for instance. His chief security heavy. His girlfriend—she’s a screamer during sex, and Kim digs that. He sometimes tells her more than he ought to about what he does up North. She’s being watched.
Allison gives a report on the Pyongyang Four. It’s fairly thin, naturally. They’re contemporaries of the young maximum leader, not of his dead father’s generation. They seem to act as a team—or a cabal. They’re the leader’s inner cabinet, the ones with the most access, the most influence over a dictator as isolated as the worst Byzantine emperor. No hard intelligence on their personal lives, beyond the fact that they’re all married, all have a couple of kids. Believed to be loyal to their boss—so long as he comes around to their point of view, according to some sources. When he doesn’t, they bow in unison, remain patient and agreeable, but subtly keep up the pressure. There are some indicators they’d do whatever it takes to stop the boss doing anything insane—like invading the ROK, shooting down Chinese, Russian, or American planes. But they let him rattle his saber as much as he likes.
Most of it’s boring and gets more tedious by the day. All this stuff may be important to Company careerists, who have a longer view, but it’s got little relevance to my task; all I want to know is who might be likely to try a burn on Kim, and how good they are.
Meanwhile, the clock’s ticking on my SOS to Rhino. On morning runs with Allison, I feel a little hope bleed away each time I pass the mailbox where I dropped the letter to him four, five, six days ago. Every afternoon when discussions finish, I go down to the dojo and punish the hell out of the small bag, the heavy bag, until my arms and legs are leaden with exhaustion. Twice a week Nadya takes me out to the range, usually has to drag me away from combat town because the groove I get into there is the only place my mind burns clear and concentrated. But it isn’t enough. My sleep each night becomes shallower, patchy, dream-tossed. Nasty dreams.
One evening, though, Nadya gives a rundown on her Russians, and that at least is entertaining.
“Bolgakov’s quite old school,” she says. “Married twenty-five years to a woman who wears the trousers. He comes right to heel whenever she calls. Terrified of her, absolutely. Can’t blame him, really. She looks like she was on the Soviet Olympic weight lifting team in her youth, gone a bit to fat now of course but still formidable.”
It’s “for-mid-able” in Nadya’s Brit-speak. The girl has no idea how erotic her smoky voice is.
“Little Tchitcherine—now, he’s a rogue. Rogering here, rogering there. Also married twenty-five years to a quite slim and lovely woman, who has a quite slim and lovely younger sister who has a stunning seventeen-year-old daughter. The dog’s defiling his innocent flower of a niece as often as he can. The amount of his Viagra bills defies imagination.”
There’s a blurt of laughter from Westley. Rob and Allison stay buttoned up. They always stiffen in Westley’s presense.
“Bolgakov’s all stuffy and puritanical about this,” Nadya goes on, clearly enjoying herself. “Probably envy, I should think. He’d love nothing more than a nubile beauty of his own. But professionally they are in harmony. Shamelessly venal. Bolgakov’s under pressure now because his wife has developed expensive tastes. In any case, they started in a quite small way, post-Gorbachev. Diverting food and fuel alotted to their units onto the black market. Soon they were approached by a mafia composed mainly of ex-KGB types. And they’ve been handsomely rewarded for favors, such as arranging for heroin and cocaine shipped into Vlad by the KGB mob to be transported in military trucks and trains, that sort of thing. Not much more than simply turning a blind eye, that was all our generals had to do. Envelopes fat with cash got slipped to them under tables in restaurants. Their appetites whetted, they did not say no when the favors asked escalated to spare parts for vehicles, vehicles entire, ultimately, spare parts for weapons, which the mafia laddies were transhipping to former Soviet clients such as Iraq.
“They were quite clever about it, actually. Amassed fortunes, the two of them, never once coming under suspicion. They grew so bold they decided they could do business on their own, eliminating the mafia middlemen. Naturally the ex-KGB laddies disapproved. Naturally they made some threatening gestures. But Bolgakov and Tchitcherine well and truly slipped the leash. They had Spetsnaz squads attached to their regiments for security. It cost them almost nothing to get some of these boyos to eliminate most of the KGBers. They were then in position to present themselves directly to interested businessmen. So when our own Mister Kim happens along—”
“I think that should wrap it up, Nadya,” Westley interrupts. If he’s decided she was about to go too far, he keeps it well hidden. If she’s wondering why she’s been cut off, she doesn’t let it show. But I get this sudden sense that everyone at the briefing is focused on me, wondering if this contract wetboy has the brains to make certain connections he was never supposed to make. Concerning Kim, and what exactly he might be getting from the Russians and selling to the Pyongyang gang. I try to look as bored and stupid as possible.
Westley moves briskly on to the big picture.
“Possible threats this trip. Number one, the Russians. Bolgakov and Tchitcherine may double-cross Kim. Or other Russians—unknown at the moment, but we’re looking into it—may want to screw our generals, and Mister Kim may be caught in the cross fire,” he says.
“Number two, radical right-wing South Koreans who oppose any dealin
gs with the North. Two separate groups of these, groups with the capabilities and motivation to strike at Mister Kim, have been ID’d and are under our scrutiny.
“There is the Chinese government. Very fluid situation with them. They’ve been alarmed that North Korea’s crashing economy could make the state dangerously unstable, which is why they’ve allowed Kim and others to deal through China. On the other hand, they fear a strong North. They want a dependent client state as their neighbor. So they’re watching every North-South connection very carefully. But only watching at this point.
“Finally, the Pyongyang Four. They may turn on Kim, though it would not be in their self-interest to do so.
“So my conclusion is this: A strike at Kim is possible in Busan, by the right-wingers. But being Kim’s home turf, that’s also where security is easiest and best. In Pyongyang, worst case is they aren’t satisfied with Kim’s product and send him home. Vladivostok is the hot zone. If anything is going to happen, it will be in Vlad. Any of the threats could strike in Vlad. We must be most alert there.”
No shit, you empty suit.
twelve
“HEY! BIRDBONES, THERE! YOU THE INFAMOUS LUTHER Ewing, or some goddamned impersonator?” comes booming across the Dupont Circle park, a boot-camp voice but unique as a fingerprint.
“Who the hell is that?” Allison mutters hurriedly as we stop our run and watch the massive, slope-shouldered figure of Rhino moving toward us in his distinctive rolling walk.
“Christ! My former Special Forces boss. Now with Defense Intelligence. How do we play it?”
“By ear, I guess, but straight as we can,” she says.
“It is the infamous Ewing, by God,” Rhino bellows from ten meters off and closing fast. “What the hell you doing here, off the reservation?”
“Uh, jogging, Rhino. What’s it look like?” I say. “What the hell are you doing here? In a suit? With a briefcase?”
“You damned well know. Going to my goddamn office. They make you put the uniform in mothballs after thirty years. And the DIA has a dress code.”
“Great to see you, Rhino. Been too many years. But you haven’t changed at all. Well, maybe some gut expansion, but what the hell.”
“You’re the same, too, you skinny little low-life,” he says, nodding toward Allison. “You still have no clue about basic social graces.”
“Oh, right. Allison, this is Colonel Clarke. Colonel, this is my friend Allison.”
“Glad to meet you, Allison,” Rhino says, burying her hand in his for a moment. “I can see why Luther comes down here from Baltimore to visit you. But, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, why would a lovely young woman like yourself want him to?”
“Low blow!” I say. Allison laughs.
“So, I guess I don’t need to ask how you’re keeping, judging from your fine company here,” Rhino says. “You still playing cop or what?”
“Sure.”
“Too bad. A gross misuse of natural talents.”
“Speaking of gross misuse, you still playing spook?”
“Semi-spook. Mainly I’m a fat bureaucrat, deskbound, drinking bad coffee out of paper cups. I’m too old, too slow for the field. So they say.”
“Must be true, if ‘they’ say it.”
“True believers never need facts, Luther. They hate ’em. Facts are nasty, troublesome little bastards. You of all people know about that.”
“Guess I do, Rhino. Hey, hear much from any of the team?”
“People keep in touch. Some are still in, mainly doing their thing east of Suez,” he says, glancing at Allison. “Uh, how detailed can I get here, Luther?”
“Allison?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable with, Colonel,” she says. “I’m in your line of work. Different branch, but highest clearance.”
“Yeah, it’s true, Rhino. Gives her the perfect excuse to say, ‘That’s classified,’ when I ask ‘How was your day, honey?’ So what about Rat, Klein, Rudy, any of that bunch?”
“Rat and Rudy are in northern Iraq, Kurdling. Those two, they always loved going native. Klein, the scumbag, didn’t re-up when his last enlistment ran out. He went into private security, Blackwell’s or some outfit. I hear he’s in Iraq, too, baby-sitting Haliburton execs. Some useless shit like that.”
“Must be big bucks in useless, then.”
“Bigger than we’ll ever see, that’s certain.”
“Whatever happened to Gassel and Cardello? You got a line on them?”
“Gassel” is Westley and “Cardello” is Allison in the crude code I laid out in my letter to Rhino more than two weeks ago, the letter that begged for this meeting in this place—because it would appear so unexpected and open Allison wouldn’t clue to the fact that it was arranged.
“They’re still the odd couple, still perfecting the love-hate thing, still inseparable. But we don’t want to bore the lady, do we?”
“Go right ahead, Colonel,” Allison says. “I’ve developed a tolerance, hanging out with Luther.”
“Outstanding.” Rhino laughs. “Okay. It’s funny you should mention those two in particular, Luther, because one of my guys just came back from Colombia and damned if he didn’t run into them. They sent regards. Then just yesterday I heard from someone else that Gassel’s out on the hairy edge again. He’s actually made solid connections with a couple of FARC narco-revolutionary jefes.”
That’s the code for the Russian generals. “Neat coup,” I say. “Good for him.”
“Maybe not,” Rhino says, shaking his head. “This is hearsay. Pretty solid source, but still hearsay. On the surface, it’s a simple, sanctioned, mutually beneficial arrangement. But hiding behind that, Gassel’s stepping outside the usual chain of command. And Cardello doesn’t know it. Worse, it’s rumored he’s using Cardello as a cutout for an unsanctioned side agenda. Any goat-fuck develops, Cardello takes the heat. And some other players may fall hard.”
“Oh man, Gassel wouldn’t do that. Not to Cardello. He couldn’t. It’s too shitty even for him.”
“Deeply and truly shitty. That’s my thought, too. Gassel’s long service, lives and dies by the rule book. But my guy seemed pretty certain. And I gotta admit, Gassel’s take on the rules was always very, say, elastic?”
“Like big rubber bands. He’s lucky none ever snapped back, took out an eye or something. But he never put a buddy in jeopardy, and this sounds like a super-stretch. Hope this is a misread by your source.”
“Who knows? If I was certain, I’d have to rat Gassel out, old teammate or not. Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Rhino says. Then he looks at his watch. “Shit, Luther, I got a clock to punch, can you believe that? But listen up. If you don’t call me next time you’re here and let me buy you the decent dinner you sure look like you could use, I’m gonna hunt you down and kill you.”
“Hoo-ah, Colonel Rhino, sir. Sergeant Ewing will phone the colonel as ordered,” I say, shaking hands.
“See that you do. Meantime, watch your step and make sure your back is covered.”
“Always do.”
“So long, then, Luther. Nice meeting you, Allison. Maybe you’ll join us for that dinner if Luther and I swear to God we won’t fall into miserable, maudlin reminisence?”
“Could be. Bye, Colonel,” she says. We watch Rhino roll off in his too-tight suit, looking nothing like the smartest, toughest special operator I ever encountered. Then I turn and resume running. Allison’s by my side in two strides. “So that was really your commander?” she asks.
“Yeah, and my mentor. He invested a lot in me. Kept saying I’d make major by thirty. Then Desert Storm breaks just before I’m due to ship out to OCS. My ticket gets punched for Kuwait instead. Hurt him a lot when I fucked up in Iraq and got discharged. Hurts me to remember that. So we stay in touch, but never mention it. But it’s been two, maybe three years since I’ve seen him in the flesh. Is Massachusetts Avenue near here?”
“Yeah, it runs right into the Circle. Why?”
“He lives
on Massachusetts. Moved there when he left the army, joined the DIA. We send each other Christmas cards, phone every once in while. It felt kind of strange, bumping into him now. But since he lives nearby, hey. It happens.”
“It’s almost stranger it hasn’t happened before, Terry,” Allison says. “Considering we’ve been circling this park every morning for months.”
“That long? God, I’ve lost track.”
“That long.”
The address is for real, in case Allison decides to check it out. But I don’t think she will. And I doubt she’ll ever know Rhino’s tip, vague as it seemed, is something I can use to protect my ass. And maybe hers too. If I decide to.
Another week of discussions drags by, the only new thing being that Westley stops attending midway. There’s a lightening of the atmosphere in the spook house once he’s gone, as if someone opened all the windows. But I still feel we’re overpreparing, dulling our edge instead of honing it. Everybody’s tensing, tempers are shortening.
Allison must feel something similar, because she starts thinking like a leader whose team is showing some stress fissures. She decides we need some R&R. All together, to get back together. She decides this shortly after Westley’s vanished.
“Dinner? Then some clubbing? I really feel like going dancing,” she says late one afternoon. Sounds like a suggestion, but I know it’s not the sort anyone can decline. “Let’s say we break now, leave at seven, okay?”
“Super,” Nadya says.
“One condition,” Rob says. I think he’s going to be a jerk about this, but he fools me.
“What’s that?” Allison says. Just a faint brittle note, as if the same thought flashed across her mind.
“We go in my car, not your Mini,” Rob says. “It hurts, squeezing into those child-size backseats, you know? No, you wouldn’t. You never have to.”
“Not sure I want to be seen in that machine of yours, actually,” Nadya says. “Notice I’m too polite to mention your driving technique.”