by Tom Clancy
* * *
The Washington Times once deemed Ann Farris to be one of the twenty-five most eligible young divorcees in the nation's capital. Three years later, she still was.
Standing five-foot-seven, her brown hair bunched behind her and tied with the designer kerchief-of-the-day, her teeth hardball-white, and her eyes a dark rust, she was also one of the least understood women in Washington. With her B.A. in journalism and M.A. in public administration from Bryn Mawr, the Greenwich, Connecticut, blue-blood Farrises expected her to work on Wall Street with her father, and then at some blue-chip firm as V.P., then Senior V.P., then the sky was the limit.
Instead, she went to work as a political reporter for The Hour in nearby Norwalk, stayed two years, landed the job of Press Secretary to the iconoclastic third-party Governor of the state, and married an ultra-liberal public radio commentator from New Haven. She retired to raise their son, then left two years after that when funding cuts cost her husband his job and desperation sent him into the arms of a wealthy Westport matron. Moving to Washington, Ann got a job as Press Secretary for the newly elected junior Senator from Connecticut— a bright, attentive married man. She began having an affair with him shortly after arriving, the first of many intense, satisfying affairs with bright, attentive married men, one of whom held an office higher than Vice President.
That last part wasn't in her confidential psych file, but Liz knew because Ann had told her. She also confessed— though it was obvious— that she had a crush on Paul Hood and entertained some exotic fantasies about him. The statuesque beauty was remarkably frank about her relationships, at least to Liz: Ann reminded her of a Catholic schoolgirl she once knew, Meg Hughes, who was as careful and polite as she could be around the nuns, then uncorked her darkest secrets when they were away.
Liz often wondered if Ann confided in her because she was a psychologist or because she didn't perceive her as a rival.
Ann's husky voice told Liz to come in.
The smell of her office was unique, a blend of her pinelike, not-tested-on-animals Faire perfume and the faint, musky odor of the framed, archivally preserved newspaper front pages hung around her office, from before the Revolution to the present. There were over forty in all, and Ann said it was an interesting exercise to read the articles and ponder how she would have handled the crises differently.
Liz gave a quick smile to Ann, and blinked slowly at Lowell Coffey II. The young attorney stood when she entered; as always, he was fondling something rich— one of his diamond cuff links.
Masturbating the money, Liz thought. Unlike Ann, Coffey Percy Richkid had bought into his attorney-parents' Beverly Hills life-style and Alpha Gamma Crappa grandiloquence. He was always touching something that cost his family more than his yearly salary— Armani tie, gold Flagge fountain pen, Rolex wristwatch. She wasn't sure whether it was giving him pleasure, calling attention to how big his wallet was, or some of both, but it was transparent and annoying. So was the perfect, razor-cut dirty-blond hair, the manicured and polished fingernails, and the perfect, gray, three-piece Yves St. Laurent suit. She once begged Hood to put a spy eye in his office so they could settle once and for all not if he hit the lint remover every time he shut the door, but for how long.
"A cheerful good morning to you," Coffey said.
"Hi, Two. Morning, Ann."
Ann smiled and waved her fingers. She was sitting behind her big antique desk instead of on the front edge, as usual— a body-language barrier against Coffey, Liz imagined. The Yale grad was too smart or too chicken to indulge in overt sexual harassment, but his come-hither approach to Ann made him less popular than wage freezes among PR and psych personnel.
"Thanks for coming, Liz," Ann said. "Sorry to have to bring you in on this, but Lowell insisted." She swung her computer monitor around. "Paul wants a press release out there by eight, and I need you to sign off on an assessment of the North Korean leaders."
Liz leaned stiff-armed on the desk. "Isn't this Bob Herbert's area?"
"Technically, yes," Coffey answered, his voice like rolling skeins of velvet. "But some of the vocabulary Ann has chosen flirts with libel. If I can't make sure it's defensible, I want to ascertain whether the subject will seek relief."
"Like the President of North Korea is going to sue?"
"Ariel Sharon did."
"That was Time, not the U.S. government."
"Ah, but suing the government would be a marvelous way for beleaguered North Korea to fan the flames of sympathy." Coffey sat back down, released his cuff link, and fiddled with the knot of his black tie. "Would you want to undergo discovery, ladies, be forced to reveal sources, operating procedures, and the like? I wouldn't."
"You're right, Two, though it wouldn't be a lawsuit; you can't sue a sovereign government. Still, there is a risk."
He put on a just-do-it expression and held a hand toward the screen. Though she hated to comply, Liz studied the monitor.
"Thanks," Ann said, patting the back of her hand.
Liz chewed her gum hard as she read. The highlighted passage was short and concise:
We do not believe that the Democratic People's Republic of Korea wants war, and we condemn rumors that its President personally ordered the terrorist attack. There is no evidence to suggest that he has been under pressure from hard-line officers opposed to reunification and compromise.
Liz turned to Coffey. "So?"
"I searched. Those rumors have not been published or broadcast elsewhere."
"That's because the explosion only happened three hours ago."
"Exactly. This would make us the first to consign said rumors to print— partly because Bob Herbert has been the only one voicing them."
Liz scratched her forehead. "But we're condemning the rumors."
"That doesn't matter. By introducing the issue, even in a censorious manner, we're at risk, legally. We must be able to show an absence of malice."
Ann folded her hands. "I need the paragraph, Liz, or something very much like it. What we're trying to do is let the North Koreans know that if the President and his military advisers are behind this, we're onto them. And if they aren't, then our press release can simply be taken at face value: we're outraged by the rumors."
"And you want me to tell you how he's going to respond when he reads this."
Ann nodded.
Liz's chewing slowed. She hated to give Coffey an inch, but she couldn't let that influence her. She reread the passage.
"The President is not so naive that he wouldn't expect us to think these things. But he's also proud enough to take offense at the way you've singled him out."
Ann seemed disappointed. Coffey puffed slightly.
"Suggestions?" Ann asked.
"Two. In the line, ' and we condemn rumors that its President personally ordered,' I would change President to government. That depersonalizes it."
Ann regarded her for a long moment. "Okay. I can live with that. Next?"
"This one's a little dicier. Where you wrote, 'There is no evidence to suggest that he has been under pressure from hard-line officers opposed to reunification and compromise,' I would say something like, 'We believe that the President continues to resist pressure from hard-line officers opposed to reunification and compromise.' That still tells the DPRK that we're aware of the hard-liners while making the President look good."
"But what if he's not good?" Ann asked. "Don't we look green if it turns out he's behind the whole thing?"
"I don't think so," Liz said. "It makes him look like an even bigger rat because we trusted him."
Ann looked from Liz to Coffey.
"I approve." Coffey said. "We send the same message with no downside."
Ann thought a moment longer, then typed in the changes. She saved the document, then handed the mouse to Liz. "You're good. Want to swap jobs for a while?"
"No thanks," Liz said. "I prefer my psychos to yours." She shifted her eyes clandestinely to and from Coffey.
Ann nodded as Liz used the mouse to
access her password and switch it to the margin of the document. Her code would become part of the permanent file, right beside the changes, though it wouldn't appear on the printed press release.
As Liz was about to save the annotated file, the blue screen went black and the fan behind the computer fell silent.
Ann ducked her head under the desk to see if she'd somehow kicked the plug from the surge protector: the cord was right where it should be, and the green light on the surge protector was on.
There were muffled shouts from outside the office; Coffey strode to the door and opened it.
"It seems," he said, "that we're not alone."
"What do you mean?" Ann asked.
Coffey faced her, his expression grave. "It appears that all of the computers in Op-Center have gone down."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 9:15 P.M., Seoul
After the taxi deposited him at the front gate of the U.S. base, Gregory Donald presented his Op-Center photo-badge to the guard. A call to the office of General Norbom and he was admitted.
Howard Norbom had been a Major in Korea while Donald was Ambassador. They met at a party celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the end of the war and had hit it off right away. Their liberal leaning politics were the same, they were both looking for a wholesome little thing to marry, and both were devotees of classical piano, Frederic Chopin in particular, as Donald discovered when the honky tonk pianist took five and the Major sat down and did a commendable job on the Revolutionary Étude.
Major Norbom found his wholesome little thing two weeks later when he met Diane Albright of UPI. They were married three months after that and recently celebrated their twenty-fourth wedding anniversary. The General and Diane had two great kids: Mary Ann, a Pulitzer Prize nominated biographer, and Lon, who worked for Greenpeace.
After an orderly showed him into the General's office, the men embraced and Donald's tears began again.
"I'm so sorry," the General said, embracing his friend, "so very sorry. Diane's on assignment in Soweto or she would have been here. She's going to meet us here."
"Thanks," Donald choked, "but I've decided to send Soonji to the U.S."
"Really? Her father agreed—"
"I haven't spoken to him yet." Donald laughed mirthlessly. "You know how he felt about the marriage. But I know how Soonji felt about the United States, and that's where I want her to be. I think it's where she'd have wanted to be."
Norbom nodded, then walked around his desk. "The Embassy will have to take care of the paperwork, but I'll see that that gets right through. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"Yes, but tell me— is she here already?"
Norbom pursed his lips and nodded.
"I want to see her."
"Not— now," Norbom said, and looked at his watch. "I'm having our dinner brought over. We can talk for a while."
Donald looked into his friend's steel-gray eyes. Set in the craggy face of the fifty-two-year-old Base Commander, those eyes inspired trust, and Donald had always been quick to give it to him. If Norbom didn't want him to see his wife's body yet, Donald would defer. Only he had to see her soon, let her soul guide him, tell him that what he was planning was the right thing to do.
"All right," Donald said softly. "We'll talk. How well do you know General Hong-koo?"
Norbom's brow knit. "That's an odd question. I met him once at the DMZ meeting in 1988."
"Any firsthand impressions?"
"Sure. He's arrogant, blunt, emotional, and trustworthy in his own misguided way. If he says he's going to shoot at you, he will. Now I don't know him as well as General Schneider does, but I don't stare at him and his men across the DMZ every day, or listen to the loud North Korean folk songs they boom across the border in the middle of the night, or watch to see how many inches or feet he adds to his flagpole so it'll always be taller than ours."
Donald began filling his pipe. "Don't we send headbanger music back at him and raise our own flagpole?"
"Only when he does it first" — Norbom allowed himself a little smile— "you pinko sympathizer. Why do you ask?"
Donald noticed the framed photograph of Diane on the General's desk and glanced away. It took him a moment to collect himself.
"I want to meet with him, Howard."
"Out of the question. It's difficult enough for General Schneider to see him—"
"He's a soldier, I'm a diplomat. That may make a difference. In any case, I'll worry about contacting him. I need your help to get to the DMZ."
Norbom sat back. "Christ, Greg. What did Mike Rodgers do, give you a transfusion from his own right arm? What are you going to do, just walk across Checkpoint Charlie? Tie a note to a brick?"
"I'll use a radio, I think."
"Radio! Schneider wouldn't let you near one— that'd be his ass. Besides, even if you could see him, Hong-koo's the most militant nutcase they've got. Pyongyang sent him there as a signal to Seoul: go to the reunification talks with deep pockets and a giving heart, or you'll be staring across a rifle at him. If anyone would have come up with a rogue operation like this, it's Hong-koo."
"What if he didn't, Howard? What if North Korea didn't do this?" Donald held the unlighted pipe in his right hand and bent closer. "As crazy as he is, he's proud and honorable. He wouldn't want to take credit or blame for any operation that wasn't his."
"You think he's going to tell you?"
"Maybe not with words, but I've spent my lifetime watching people and listening to exactly what they have to say. If I can talk to him, I'll know if he's involved."
"And if you learn that he is, what then? What are you going to do?" He pointed to the pipe. "Kill him with that? Or has Op-Center given you new ideas?"
Donald put the pipe in his mouth. "If he did it, Howard, I'm going to tell him that he killed my wife, that he robbed me of my future, and that this must not happen to anyone else. I'll go with very deep pockets, and with the help of Paul Hood I'll find some way to stop this madness."
Norbom stared at his friend. "You mean it. You really think you can square-dance right in and make him see reason."
"From the bottom of my soul I believe it. As much of it as is still alive."
The orderly knocked, entered with their dinner, and set the tray between the men: Norbom was still staring at Donald after the orderly had removed the metal covers and left.
"Libby Hall and most of the government of Seoul will oppose your going there."
"The Ambassador mustn't know."
"But they'll find out. The North will make propaganda hay out of your visit, just as they did when Jimmy Carter went there."
"By then I'll be finished."
"You're not kidding!" Norbom dragged a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Greg, you've got to think long and hard about your plan. Hell, it's not even a plan, it's a hope. Doing an end run like this can upset whatever stage the negotiations are at now. It can destroy you and Op-Center."
"I've already lost what counts. They can have the rest."
"They'll take that and more, believe me. Making unauthorized contact with the enemy— Washington and Seoul will chow down on you, me, Paul Hood, Mike Rodgers. It'll be a turkey shoot."
"I know this will hurt you, Howard, and I don't take that lightly. But I wouldn't ask if I didn't think I had a chance to make a difference. Think of the lives that can be saved."
The color seemed gone from the Base Commander's weathered face. "Dammit, I'd do anything for you— but I've put my professional life into this base. If I'm going to chuck that, and write my memoirs in a nine-by-twelve cell, I want you to at least sleep on this. You're hurt, and you may not be thinking as clearly as you ought to be."
Donald lit his pipe. "I'm going to do better than sleep on it, Howard. We'll have our dinner and then I'm going to pay Soonji a visit. I'm going to stay with her awhile, and if I feel differently after that I'll tell you."
The General slowly picked up his knife and fork and began cutting his steak slowly a
nd in silence. Donald set his pipe aside and joined him, the quiet meal broken by a knock at the door and the arrival of a man with a fixed scowl set beneath a shiny black eyepatch.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday, 7:35 A.M., Op-Center
"This can't happen, this can't happen, this can't happen!"
The normally passive, cherubic face of Operations Support Officer Matt Stoll was pale as an unripe peach, with Kewpie doll smears of red on the cheeks. He was whining under his breath as he worked feverishly to plug his computer into a backup battery pack he kept in his desk. He couldn't find out why the entire system had gone down until he got it back on-line and crawled into the wreckage— what hackers humorlessly referred to as the black box system of making your flight safe.
Perspiration dripped to his eyebrows and spilled into his eyes. He blinked it away, spotting his glasses with sweat. Though it had only been a few seconds since the crash, Stoll felt like he'd aged a year— a year more when he heard Hood's voice.
"Matty—!"
"I'm working on it!" he snapped, fighting down the urge to add, "But this just can't happen." And it shouldn't have. It made absolutely no sense. The main power from Andrews hadn't gone down, just the computers. That was impossible to do from the outside: it had to be a software command. The computer setup in Op-Center was self-contained, so the shutdown had to come from a software command issued here. All incoming software was searched for viruses, but most of the ones they found were nonmalicious— like the one that flashed "Sunday" on the screen to tell workaholics to get away from the keyboard, or "Tappy" that created a clicking sound with every keystroke, or "Talos" that froze computers on June 29 until the phrase "Happy Birthday Talos" was typed in. A few, like "Michelangelo," which erased all data on March 6, the artist's birthday, were more malevolent. But this one was something incredibly new, sophisticated and dangerous.
Stoll was as intrigued and amazed as he was distressed by all of this— the more so as the screen blinked back on a moment before he plugged in his battery pack.