Sleeper

by Gene Riehl

  “Just me?” He shook his head. “I have no damned idea what you’re …”

  “Basically this, Mr. Monk. Our asset doesn’t trust the FBI, not after that bureau supervisor got caught spying for the Russians a couple of years ago. He’s terrified about being exposed and killed before we can get him out of North Korea. Frankly, I have the same concerns about the Hoover Building, but we need an FBI agent who’s familiar with the string of art thefts.” Carter paused. “Bottom line, we need you but we don’t want your bureau.”

  “To work for NSA.” Monk knew his tone was sarcastic, but he continued anyway. “Without telling my bosses.”

  “Worse than that, I’m afraid. We want you to work for us without telling anybody. Not the bureau, not your girlfriend, not your buddies at the SOG. Nobody. Even NSA will be off-limits. Outside of Mr. Smith and me, nobody from Fort Meade will know about this.” Again he paused. “If you get caught, the two of us will abandon you as well.”

  Monk looked out the small window to the right of the desk. The sky was clouding up, but the tops of the trees were dead still. From the outer office he could hear the secretary typing at her computer. He turned back to Philip Carter.

  “You said I have a dark side, that I take too many risks, and that I won’t quit when they tell me to stop.” He glanced at William. “Mr. Smith doesn’t want me … neither one of us wants to work together. So why me?”

  “Because you have the skills, for one. Because you function best outside the box. Because we can be certain you’re not a spy. No double agent in his right mind would work the way you do.” Carter’s smile wasn’t all that friendly. “But most of all because you’re a winner. Because somehow you always manage to come out on top.”

  Monk stared at the director. A winner? Wouldn’t it be great to believe that? But even if the director were right, there were table limits with every game. What Carter was asking was off-the-charts stupid. A real gambler knows when to throw in his cards and walk away. Monk started to get up, then heard himself asking one last question.

  “Who’s the target?”

  “I can’t tell you that until you agree to help.”

  “Has to be a big player, though,” Monk said. “Somebody too powerful to risk alienating.”

  Carter did not respond.

  “And you’re not sure of your mole,” Monk said. “Not sure enough to risk a disaster by going all out on the word of an untested asset.”

  “Let’s just say we can’t take the chance. Not with the kind of man he’s telling us about.”

  Monk chewed the inside of his cheek. He could still hear the clicking of the keyboard from the other room, but now he could hear the faint groan of the air-conditioning system as well. He checked William’s face, but the NSA spook turned away. Monk slid forward in his chair and faced Carter.

  “I have a good job, Mr. Director. A job I like, and one I need to keep. You’re asking me to work as a double agent inside my own bureau, but I won’t do that. I won’t even consider doing that.”

  “I understand exactly what you’re saying. You need time to make your decision.”

  “That’s not what I said at all. I’ve made my decision. I don’t need another minute to think about it.”

  Philip Carter smiled again, and this time it appeared genuine. “Of course you don’t, Mr. Monk. But just in case, I’ll keep the offer open till noon tomorrow.”

  ELEVEN

  Monk was slicing a banana over his bowl of Kellogg’s Mini-Wheats when the phone rang the next morning. He dropped the remaining banana into the cereal and grabbed the phone. His eyes widened when he heard who was calling. Dr. John Gordon, his primary-care physician at Georgetown University Medical Center.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “I just spoke with the radiologist about your MRI films. Do you have time to come by for a few minutes this morning?”

  Monk felt a tingle climb up the back of his neck. “What’s the problem?”

  “I have an opening at eight-forty-five.”

  “What did you find?”

  “I’ll see you at a quarter to nine.”

  Dr. Gordon’s office was a small one, lit by a single large window behind the doctor’s plain wooden desk. The right wall was covered with books, the left with framed diplomas and certificates. Dr. Gordon went around the desk and sat. Monk took the upholstered armchair in front of the desk. The doctor was young—couldn’t have been much over forty—and that was one of the things Monk liked about him, that and the fact that he looked like a nerd. In his white lab coat, with his receding hairline and thick glasses, Gordon didn’t seem like the type to have messed around in medical school, and that was just fine with Monk.

  This morning, however, he couldn’t help noticing that the doctor looked even more serious than usual as he gestured toward a large yellow envelope on his desk. Monk glanced at it, saw his name in black lettering, below his name the letters MRI in red. Monk looked at the doctor’s face, but Gordon wouldn’t meet his gaze. Monk felt a tightening at the top of his shoulders.

  “What did you come up with?” he asked.

  “Not enough, I’m afraid.”

  Monk stared at him. His shoulders grew even tighter.

  “The radiologist concentrated on the parietal and temporal lobes,” Doctor Gordon said. “Where we would expect early evidence of dementia … for pathology that might explain the symptoms you’ve reported. The good news is the films show no evidence of stroke or tumors.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “The radiologist did notice something that concerns him.”

  Monk looked past the doctor, out the window at the tops of hemlock trees moving with the unusual morning breeze that was holding off the heat of the day. Is this how it happens? he wondered. Is this the way you get such news as this? Somehow—sitting in this drab little office with this drab little doctor—it didn’t seem nearly dramatic enough.

  “New York University did a study,” the doctor said, “of markers for early detection of Alzheimer’s. They claim they can predict to a ninety percent accuracy rate which patients are at risk.”

  “And I’m one of them.”

  “Not necessarily. I only mention the study as a lead-in to what the radiologist wants to explore further.”

  “What did he see?”

  “The brains of patients with mental decline show a shrinkage of the medial-temporal lobe. About seven-tenths of one percent of its volume each year.”

  “But this was my first brain scan. You don’t have a baseline to use for comparison.”

  “That’s why we need to take the next step.” The doctor paused. “The films show that your medial-temporal lobe is undersized. Microscopically so, but given the symptoms you claim are getting worse—increasing forgetfulness, problems with concentration and everyday functions like remembering passwords and common vocabulary for your written reports—we think a PET scan is the way to go.” He paused again. “If for no other reason, to ease your mind.”

  Monk sat forward in his chair. “Amyloid plaque. That’s what you’d be looking for, right?” He’d spent more than an hour on Google last night.

  Dr. Gordon nodded. “The standard MRI you took can’t show it. To find the amyloid plaque, the radiologist has to use PBI, a dye he’ll inject, then watch as it circulates through your brain.”

  “It sticks to the plaque. Highlights the plaque.”

  “Exactly.”

  Monk glanced at the diplomas on the doctor’s wall, then out the window again for a moment, before turning back to the doctor. “I’m only forty-five years old.”

  “Your father died of complications from Alzheimer’s. How old was he at the onset of dementia?”

  “Late fifties, I think, but I can’t be certain. We didn’t have much of a relationship.”

  “You told me last time you were here, but refresh my memory. How long has it been since he died?”

  “A couple of months, maybe three.”

  The doctor glanced at Monk’s
chart on his desk, at his notes from the last visit. “Almost seven months, actually.” He paused. “I have no training in psychiatry, but have you considered that your symptoms might be part of a reaction to his death?”

  “Maybe for a few weeks. Not this long.”

  “Perhaps not. And you’re considerably younger than he was when his symptoms started. You can look at the PET scan as a way to put your concern behind you.”

  “What if I don’t take it at all?” Monk hesitated. “There’s no cure. What good would it do me to know?”

  “Your medial-temporal anomaly could be congenital, could be indicative of nothing … You wouldn’t have to give it another thought. And even if we do measure further shrinkage, researchers are coming up with new discoveries every day. A cure could be found tomorrow. And you would have dodged a bullet.”

  Monk studied his hands on the arm of his chair for a moment, before looking at the doctor again. “Would you do it? If you were me, would you do it?”

  “As a doctor I’d like to think I’d trust the science.”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  “I’d still do it. It might be a gamble, but I’d still do it.”

  Monk chewed the inside of his cheek. A gamble. Ordinarily that would be all he needed to hear, but now? With this? No matter the payoff, some wagers were just too scary. This one sounded way too spooky. He opened his mouth to tell the doctor as much, but something else came out instead.

  “When?” he asked. “How soon can I get an appointment?”

  Even before he reached the Saab in the medical center parking lot, Monk knew the PET scan wouldn’t be enough. To prove to himself he wasn’t losing his mind to the disease that killed his father, he had to have something more than an examination of his brain. No matter how the test came out, he still had to make a living, and he couldn’t do it in a state of fear. The only way to beat the fear was to run headlong at it, to tackle it directly between the numbers, to dare it to kill him or leave him alone. And to do that required a massive test of his abilities, every one of his abilities. A wager bigger than anything a casino would ever allow him to make. He thought about such a wager. About what losing would do to him … and winning. Winning would literally make him well, would do more for him than any poker pot he’d ever raked across the table to his stack. As he thought about it, Monk’s stomach began to churn. The vibration seemed to expand in every direction at the same time, until he was giddy with it. But over the euphoria, an insistent voice in the back of his mind fought to be heard.

  You’re actually considering working for NSA without telling your bosses? the voice was saying. Then why bother with the PET scan? Going after Sung Kim on your own is all the proof you need that you’re completely crazy!

  Monk allowed the small voice to rattle on, but at the Saab he snatched the door open and reached for his phone. Philip Carter’s offer was good until noon, but there was no reason to wait any longer to get started.

  TWELVE

  “Damn it, Charles,” Thomas Franklin told Charles Emrick, his most senior vice president, as they stood together in the doorway of Franklin’s office in the Global Panoptic Building. “I know I pay you to worry, but don’t be ridiculous.”

  They were on their way to the boardroom just down the hall, to an emergency board of directors’ meeting, and Emrick wouldn’t be dissuaded.

  “They’ve been reading the New York Times again,” Emrick said. “And they’re scared to death about what’s happening in South Korea.”

  “They’re always scared about something. That’s their job. That’s how they’re supposed to be.”

  “This time it’s different. We’ve got a lot of money in Seoul. The board’s worried about what the Times is reporting. They’re afraid to open the papers anymore, and they want to hear from you that they have nothing to be concerned about.”

  “Well, I guess that’s my job, isn’t it?” Franklin smiled. “To tell them what they want to hear.”

  Before Emrick could respond, Franklin started for the boardroom. Emrick hurried to catch up, and a moment later Franklin pulled open the ten-foot mahogany door and moved directly to the head of the magnificent table that dominated the room. Emrick stepped past him and took the chair to the right of Franklin’s. Franklin slid into his own chair, laid his hands on the table with a feeling of pride. Eighteen feet long, burnished walnut with crimson mahogany inlays, the conference table gleamed like polished leather under the glow from twin crystal chandeliers suspended above it. Franklin glanced at the faces around the table.

  To his right—beyond Emrick—Stanley Ballinger’s nearly lipless mouth was as lifeless as usual. The man was a zombie. There was no way in hell to read his mood, and a waste of time even to try. To Ballinger’s right, Jeffrey Cox sat smiling, his gray mustache quivering at the tips, but Franklin knew the smile meant nothing. Cox smiled even when somebody died. Past Cox, Sarah Hundley was busy with the paperwork in front of her, and hadn’t even bothered to look up when he came into the room.

  Franklin swung to his left, nodded and smiled at the directors down that side of the table. Gordon Fairclough nodded back. Jim Adams raised his eyebrows, and the Devore brothers lifted their right hands in a miniature wave. Franklin smiled at the twins. They’d been the first members of his first board of directors, more than twenty years ago. He could announce a plan to nuke Washington and theirs would be the first hands raised to support him. No matter what happened here today, Eric and Pat would back him all the way.

  “Please forgive my being late,” Franklin said. “What can I do for you today?”

  Stanley Ballinger’s lackluster gray eyes swung toward him. His thin voice sounded more mechanical than human.

  “I won’t mince words, Thomas. We’re troubled about the situation in Korea … about the series the New York Times is running.” He paused. “Especially yesterday’s story. The one about the automobile executive who jumped out the window when the Times disclosed his financial ties with North Korea.”

  Ballinger glanced up and down the table before continuing.

  “We all know why he’d been giving his company’s money to Pyongyang. Everybody wants to get in on the windfall of contracts for the development of the north when the two countries reunite. It’s going to be a multitrillion-dollar market, but it’s still illegal in South Korea to provide financial support for Kim Jong Il. And it’s every bit as illegal here.”

  Ballinger paused to stare pointedly at Franklin.

  “A big share of the money the automobile executive gave Pyongyang came directly from American corporations eager for reunification. The Justice Department’s going to nail the American companies the Times has outed, but that won’t stop the attorney general. He’s not going to quit until he gets everybody who’s been doing the same thing.”

  Ballinger glanced at the other board members before turning back to Franklin.

  “What we want to know, Thomas, what we want you to tell us, is that Global Panoptic has nothing to hide. That this company has nothing to hide.”

  Franklin nodded. The stories out of Seoul were indeed troubling, and not just the one Ballinger was talking about. The Times had obviously developed a hell of a source inside the South Korean government. Every day the reporters uncovered more and more of the growing scandal … the illegal transfers of American corporate money to North Korea through business executives and politicians in Seoul.

  “I’ve been following the stories just as closely as you appear to be, Stanley. There hasn’t been a word about Global Panoptic, but I hope that doesn’t surprise you.” He smiled. “Do you really think that if the attorney general suspected us of funneling Global money to Pyongyang, we’d have to wait to hear about it from a newspaper?”

  Ballinger did not return his smile. “We’ve got a billion dollars working in Seoul alone, not to mention the rest of South Korea. There’s no way to take proper care of that kind of money, not in that part of the world anyway.” He looked up and down the table, into the f
aces of the other directors, talking to them now as much as to Franklin. “How can you know for sure that some of it isn’t going to Kim Jong Il instead?”

  Franklin stared at Ballinger. The North Korean dictator goddamned well better be getting some of that money. A whole lot of that money. For a fleeting instant Franklin was tempted to tell these people the truth about Global Panoptic’s investments in the Koreas. About how he was pumping money through Seoul to Pyongyang as fast as he could, just to keep the North Korean people from starving to death before the inevitable reunification. To keep them and their nearly one hundred percent literacy rate alive long enough to go to work for Global Panoptic. To give Global an inexhaustible supply of educated and hardworking technicians, a workforce second to none for the emergence of North Korea into the twenty-first century.

  Franklin felt a surge of excitement. Global would be the first corporation into the new Korea. Every inch of the north’s brand-new telecommunications infrastructure would be designed and built by Franklin’s company. Every mile of fiber optic cable, every one of the thousands of cell phone repeating towers, all of the millions of cell phones themselves, along with the cutting-edge wireless computer technology that was sweeping the world, would be provided by the company he’d built from the ground up. To bring the north up to the standard of the south—admittedly a long-term operation—would eventually result in billions of dollars of profit for Global Panoptic. Franklin glanced at the faces around the table. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but one day the members of this board would understand the risks he was taking and appreciate his foresight.

  “We’ve got the biggest accounting firm in South Korea watching our money,” he told them. “I wouldn’t swear to you about anything when it comes to Asian politics, but I can guarantee one thing. Global Panoptic hasn’t authorized one penny to do business with Pyongyang.”

  Which was the truth, technically anyway. Franklin’s corporation hadn’t authorized anything of the sort, hadn’t left so much as a smudged corporate fingerprint to identify Global as dealing with the north. And it would take a hell of a lot more than the New York Times to prove otherwise, to follow a trail of money that God himself would have trouble tracing back to Thomas Franklin.