by Tom Clancy
Squires knew not to ask where to or why only eleven men instead of the full Dirty Dozen were going— not while they were out in the open where their wives or children might hear. Innocent remarks, made over unsecured lines to friends or relatives, could be disastrous. He also knew not to ask about the small black bag Rodgers carried, or why there was a sewn-on design of what looked like a weed growing out of concrete. When and if the General wanted to tell him about it, he would.
Instead, Squires said, "Yes, sir," saluted again, and jogged back to the picnic table. The dozen other men were already on their feet and ready to go, the hostilities and disappointments of the morning's sport quickly forgotten.
After a word with Squires, eleven of the twelve men jogged to their homes to get their gear, none of them stopping to say good-bye to their wives or children: a sad face or teary eye might come to them when they were called on to risk their lives, cause them to hesitate. It was better to leave cold and make up later. The one man who hadn't been picked sat and hunkered down over his paper plate: this was not Private George's morning.
Like each man, Squires kept his grip handy and within four minutes they were running across the field beyond the fence, toward the Bell Jetranger that was being fired up for the half-hour ride to Andrews Air Force Base.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tuesday, 7:30 P.M., Seoul
The sound truck looked like a gutted avocado, blasted panels peeled back by the force of the explosion, with only scraps and slag in the center.
For over an hour, Kim Hwan's team had picked over those scraps, looking for any leads. There were traces of plastic explosives stuck to the bottom of what used to be the sound panel, and those had been sent to the laboratory for analysis. Other than that, there was nothing. Nothing but the increasing numbers of victims being moved from the ranks of the injured to the list of the dead. The men on the rooftops had seen nothing unusual, one of the two video surveillance cameras they had placed on a rooftop was destroyed by shrapnel, and the other had been trained on the podium, not the crowd. TV cameras were being collected, their tapes studied, to see if they had recorded anything unusual. Hwan doubted they would help, since it seemed as though all of them had been facing in the same direction: away from the truck. And his computer expert doubted that any of them had caught a useful reflection of the truck in a window, one large and complete enough to be enhanced and studied.
While he worked, Gregory Donald stood close by with his back against a charred streetlight, his unlit pipe still clenched in his teeth. He hadn't said a word and hadn't looked up from the ground; he was no longer crying and he didn't seem to be in shock, though Hwan couldn't begin to imagine the thoughts that had to be going through his mind.
"Sir!"
Hwan looked up as his assistant Choi U Gil came trotting over.
"Ri thinks he's found something."
"Where?"
"In an alley beside the Sakong Hotel. Shall I radio the Director? He asked to be told everything."
Hwan stepped down from the chassis of the exploded truck. "Let's wait and see what we've got. I'm sure he has his hands full." Explaining the corner-cutting to the President, no doubt.
Hwan followed Choi toward the National Museum on the southern side of the Palace, surprised to see Donald walking after them slowly. Hwan didn't wait for him: he was happy that something was getting through to his friend, and he didn't want to put any pressure on him. Staying busy was all that kept Hwan himself from dwelling on the shattering loss they had suffered.
* * *
The wide-W ripple pattern in the dry dirt belonged to a North Korean army boot. There was no doubt about it. "Professor" Ri had suspected as much, and Hwan had confirmed it.
"They lead away from the abandoned hotel," the slight, white-haired chemist said.
"I've sent a team inside," Choi told Hwan.
"The perpetrators appear to have drunk from this" — the Professor pointed to the crushed and empty water bottle on the floor— "and then walked toward the sound truck."
The dirt in the alley was dry, but the hot air was still and the residue hadn't moved. Hwan knelt and studied the four complete prints and two partial ones.
"Has everything been photographed?" Hwan asked.
Choi nodded. "The footprints and the bottle. We're photographing the hotel basement now, as there seems to have been some activity there."
"Good. Send the bottle over for prints, and also have them check the mouth for any kind of residue— saliva, food, anything."
The young assistant ran to the car, removed a large plastic bag and metal tongs from a case, and brought them over. Lifting the bottle carefully, he placed it in the bag and marked the time, date, and place on a white strip at the top. Then he took a work order form from the case, filled it in, put both items in the case, and climbed into the window where a military policeman stood guard.
Hwan continued to study the boot prints, noting that the impression wasn't heavier in front, which meant that the terrorists hadn't been running. He was also trying to determine how much wear there had been on the soles and whether the markings belonged to one boot or many. There seemed to be at least two different right feet, and it struck him as odd that neither showed any wear in the ripples. The North Koreans tended to issue new boots after the winter, when they took the most wear— hot during the summer.
"If the bottle was used by the terrorists, you won't find any fingerprints."
Hwan looked up at Donald. The voice was a barely audible monotone; his pipe was unceremoniously stuffed into his vest pocket and his flesh was the color of chalk. But he was here and he was alert, and Hwan was happy to see him.
"No," Hwan said. "I don't expect we will."
"Is that why they didn't take the bottle with them? Because they knew it couldn't lead you to them?"
The Professor said, "One would so conclude."
Donald took a few steps into the shadowy depths of the alley. His arms hung limp at his sides and his shoulders were rounded beneath his awful burden. Watching him move with such pain, Hwan had never felt so helpless.
"This alley, so near to the hotel," Donald said. "I would imagine it's picked clean by the poor. A clean bottle like that was sure to be noticed in your sweep— and, seeing it, you would also see the boot prints."
"I was thinking that myself," Hwan said. "We'd recognize the pattern and would jump to a conclusion about who was behind it."
"This is possible." The Professor shrugged. "But it's also possible that an inconsiderate jogger threw it there and the perpetrators never even noticed it."
"In which case someone's fingerprints will be on it," Hwan said.
"That is correct," said the Professor. "So I had best get to the matter. I'll see if there's anything to look at in the hotel, and then I'll return to the laboratory."
When the diminutive Professor left, Hwan walked to Donald's side.
"Thank you for what you did back there," Donald said, his voice tremulous, his eyes on the ground. "I heard you, but— I couldn't get a grip."
"How could you?"
"I'm not sure I have, even now." Tears spilled from his eyes as he looked around the alley. He breathed heavily and wiped his eyes with his fingers. "This thing, Kim— it isn't their way. They've always used incidents at the DMZ or assassination to send us messages."
"I know. And there's something else."
Before Hwan could continue, a black Mercedes with diplomatic plates screeched to a stop in front of the alley. A clean-cut young man got out on the driver's side.
"Mr. Donald!"
Donald stepped from the darkness. "I'm Gregory Donald."
Hwan moved quickly to his side. He didn't know who else might be a target today, and was taking no chances.
"Sir," said the man, "there's a message for you at the Embassy."
"From?"
"'An enemy of the Bismarck,' I was told to say."
"Hood," he said to Hwan. "I was expecting that. Maybe he has some informat
ion."
As the men approached the car, the young Embassy official reached down and popped the electric door lock.
"Sir, I was also told to see to Mrs. Donald. Is there anything she needs? Perhaps she'd like to come with us?"
Donald pressed his lips together and shook his head; then his knees gave out and he fell against the side of the car, his arms folded beneath his chest.
"Sir!"
"He'll be all right," Hwan said, and waved for the young man to sit. He put an arm around his friend's waist and helped him up. "You will be, Gregory."
Donald nodded as he stood.
"I'll notify you there when we come up with something."
A somber Hwan opened the door and Donald slid into the car.
"Do me a favor, Kim?"
"Anything."
"Soonji loved the Embassy and she admired the Ambassador. Don't— don't let her go there. Not the way she was. I'll phone General Savran. Would you see that" — he breathed deeply— "that she gets to the base?"
"I will."
Hwan shut the door and the car drove off. It was quickly swallowed by the confusion of honking cars, buses, and trucks, the thick evening rush hour made worse by vehicles detoured from around the Palace.
"God be with you, Gregory," he said, then glanced toward the red sun. "I can't be with him, Soonji, so please— look after him."
Turning, Hwan walked back into the alley and looked down at the footprints. The shadows were more pronounced now in the slanting rays of the setting sun.
But there was one thing more, and it bothered him more than the too-convenient presence of the bottle and boot prints.
After telling the guard at the basement window to inform Choi that he'd gone to his office, Hwan hurried back to his car, wondering just how far Director Yung-Hoon would be willing to go to break this case
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tuesday, 5:55 A.M., Washington, D.C.
As soon as he was in his car, Hood phoned Op-Center and told his Executive Assistant, Stephen "Bugs" Benet, to start the countdown clock at twenty-four hours. That was something Liz Gordon had suggested: studies showed that most people work better with deadlines, something to shoot for. The clock was a constant reminder that although you had to run a marathon, really pour it on, there was an end in sight.
It was one of the few things on which Hood and Liz agreed.
As Bugs was telling Hood that Gregory Donald had been located and was being brought to the Embassy on Sejongno, just two blocks from the Palace, the Director's personal cellular phone rang. Telling Bugs he'd be there in fifteen minutes, Hood hung up and answered the phone.
"Paul, it's me."
Sharon. He heard a ping in the background and muffled voices. She wasn't at home.
"Honey, what is it?"
"It's Alexander—"
"Is he all right?"
"After you left, he started wheezing worse than I've ever heard him. The nebulizer wasn't helping, so I brought him to the hospital."
Hood felt his own chest tighten.
"The doctors have injected him with epinephrine, and are watching him," Sharon said. "I don't want you coming here. I'll call as soon as we know something."
"You shouldn't have to do this alone, Sharon."
"I'm not alone— I know that. And what would you do here?"
"Hold your hand."
"Hold the President's hand, I'll be fine. Look, I want to call Harleigh and make sure she's all right. I think I scared her out of a year's growth when I went running through the house carrying Alex."
"Promise you'll beep the minute anything happens."
"I promise."
"And tell them both I love them."
"I always do."
Hood felt like hell as he drove through the early-morning traffic to Andrews Air Force Base, home of Op-Center. Sharon had had to shoulder a lot in seventeen years of marriage, but this was the capper. He could hear the fear in her voice, the trace of bitterness in her remark about the President, and he wanted to go to her. But he knew that if he did, she would only feel guilty for having pulled him away. And when she felt like that she got angry at herself, which wasn't what she needed now.
Unhappy as he was, there was nothing to do but go to Op-Center. But it was ironic, he thought. Here he was, the head of one of the most sophisticated agencies in the world, able to eavesdrop on hostages a mile away or read a newspaper in Teheran from Earth orbit. Yet there was nothing in the world he could do to help his son or his wife.
His palms were damp, his mouth dry, as he swung off the highway and raced toward the base. He couldn't help his family because of whoever was behind the explosion, and he fully intended to make them pay.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Tuesday, 8:00 P.M., the Sea of Japan
The boat was pre-World War II vintage, a ferry that had been turned into a troop transport and then back into a ferry again.
As night fell over the sea, the two North Koreans sat on the foredeck benches, playing checkers with metal pieces on a magnetic board. The cases of money were laid flat between them, serving as a makeshift table.
A strong wind had begun to blow across the deck, misting them with seawater and rattling the heavy board. It drove most of the passengers into the cabin, where it was warm, dry, and light; one of the two men looked around.
"We should go in, Im," he said. It wasn't good to be alone: crowds dissuaded thievery.
Without finishing the game, one of the men began packing it up while the other stood, his hands on the handles of the cases.
"Make sure you don't jostle the board, Yun, and cost me my—"
A spray of red fell across the suitcases. Yun looked up and saw a dark figure standing behind his partner; the gleaming tip of a stiletto was protruding from the front of Im's throat.
Yun opened his mouth to scream, but he was cut short as a blade tore through his windpipe from behind. He scratched at his throat as his blood poured over his fingers, mingling with that of his companion. Both pools were softened by falling drops of sea and stirred by the wind.
* * *
The two assassins withdrew their blades and one of them bent over the dying men while the other walked aft, to the railing. He began shining his flashlight on and off in ten-second cycles while his associate severed the pinkie finger of each man. Only Yun managed a gurgled scream as the blade cut through his flesh.
His dark gray greatcoat flapping in the wind, the killer threw the fingers over the side; the signature of the Yakuza was upon the victims, and the authorities would spend weeks looking for the killers. By the time they realized they were chasing shadows, it would be too late.
Going back to retrieve the suitcases, the assassin made sure they were secure and then glanced toward the cabin. There were no faces in the circular windows, and the darkness and sea spray would have made identification impossible in any event; the bridge was set well back, atop the cabin, leaving the crew without a clear view of the deck. With luck, no one would come outside and no one else would have to die.
His companion was still flashing his light. By the time he rejoined him, the hum of the distant engine was already audible, and they could see the dim outline of the amphibious plane, all but the running lights turned off. The LA-4-200 Buccaneer came up beside the rear transom door, pacing the ferry, prop-wash turning the sea spray into thousands of tiny darts. The killer shined his flashlight on the cockpit, and the pilot threw open the gull-wing hatch and tossed out an inflatable raft, the bow ring attached to several yards of steel cable. It landed heavily in the water, bucking against the wind.
By now, there was activity on the bridge as the crew saw the plane.
"Hurry," the man with the flashlight told his companion.
Setting the cases down, the man jumped toward the raft. Landing in the water beside the inflatable, he grabbed the safety line, pulled himself in, then turned to face the ferry. Picking up one of the suitcases, his associate swung it toward the raft and released it. The oth
er man caught it, then held out his arms for the second. He caught that too, then pulled his companion aboard when he jumped from the ferry.
Even as crew members reached the deck and found the bodies, the pilot was reeling the raft into the seaplane. Within moments, the men were on board, the aircraft's lights had flared on, and the plane and money were airborne, headed north. Only when it was out of view from the ship would it turn west— not to Japan and the Yakuza but to North Korea.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tuesday, 6:02 A.M., Op-Center
The evening and day shifts at Op-Center met at six A.M., at which time Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers took charge from Curt Hardaway and Bill Abram. Policy prohibited Hardaway and Abram from remaining in command after their shift: important decisions were best made by fresh minds, and at rare times when neither Hood nor Rodgers was available, duties were pre-assigned to different members of the prime day team.
Political Officer Martha Mackall had arrived minutes before and, after passing through the keycard and keypad entry and greeting the somber armed guards behind the Lexan, she replaced her own evening team counterpart, Bob Sodaro. Sodaro briefed her on what had happened since 4:11 that morning, when Op-Center first became involved in the Korean crisis.
Her stride confident, posture ramrod-straight, the handsome, forty-nine-year-old daughter of legendary soul singer Mack Mackall walked through the hub of Op-Center— the bullpen, with its maze of cubicles and operatives hurrying here and there. Since Hood's code hadn't been posted on the computer duty roster where she checked in upstairs, on ground level, she knew she'd be sitting in for him until he arrived. Passing through the bullpen to the action level offices that ringed the hub of Op-Center, she heard her name on the intercom: there was a call from Korea for Hood. She paused, snatched a phone from the wall, and told the operator she would take the call for the Director in his office.
Hood's office was just a few steps away, in the southwestern corner. Located beside the Tank, it was the largest office in the building: he hadn't taken it for that reason, however, or for the view, since there were no windows anywhere. The fact was, no one else wanted it. The Tank was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes. There was some concern among the younger members of the team that the waves might affect their reproductive systems; Hood said that for all the use he got from his equipment anymore, he might as well have the leg room.