by Tom Clancy
It was funny. Paul had been thinking that very thing not five minutes before, but now, hearing the President ask him flat out, there was no longer any doubt in his mind. "No, sir," he said. "I'm on top of it."
"Good man. And, Paul?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Let me know how your boy does."
"I will, sir. Thank you."
Hanging up the phone, Paul thought for a moment, then pressed the F6 key to talk to Bugs Benet. "Bugs," he said, "when you get a chance, call up one of our resident technoweenies. I need a new code sequence for Mortal Kombat, something that'll really knock Alexander's socks off when he gets home from the hospital."
"You got it," Bugs said.
Paul smiled, nodded, and then pulled up the next document in the queue and got back to work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tuesday, 10:10 P.M., Seoul
The brand-new, modern, four-story, steel and white brick building was set back from Kwangju, gleaming brightly behind a long, rectangular courtyard. Except for the high iron fence surrounding the courtyard, and the drawn shades behind the windows, a passerby might think the building was the office of a corporation or university. It was unlikely anyone would suspect that it was the headquarters of the KCIA and housed some of the most delicate secrets in the East.
The KCIA building was protected by video cameras on the outside, sophisticated motion detectors at every door and window, and electronic waves to prevent eavesdropping. Only upon entering the brightly lighted reception area and encountering the two armed guards behind bulletproof glass would one get a hint of the delicacy of the operations that went on inside.
The office of Deputy Director Kim Hwan was on the second floor, down the hall from the office of Director Yung-Hoon. Right now, the former police chief was having dinner in the fourth-floor café with friendly contacts in the press to try to find out what they knew. Hwan and Yung-Hoon had very different but complementary methods of working: Yung-Hoon's philosophy was that people had every answer investigators needed, as long as the proper people were asked the proper questions. Hwan believed that, intentionally or not, people lied— that facts were best learned through scientific means. Each admitted that the other's approach was perfectly valid, though Hwan didn't have the stomach for the smiles and chatter Yung-Hoon's work required. Back when he'd been a smoker, his attention span for bullshit was roughly an unfiltered Camel; now it was less.
His small desk stacked with papers and files, Hwan was studying the report that had just come in from the lab. He skipped the Professor's analyses of "hybridized sp-orbitals" and "direction of electronegativity" — details not required by the KCIA but by the courts, if the evidence were ever used in trial— and went right to the summary:
Analysis of the explosives reveals them to be standard North Korean plastique: composition typical of production facility in Sonchon.
There are no fingerprints on the water bottle. There should at least have been partial fingerprints of a store clerk. We conclude that the bottle was wiped clean. The traces of saliva found in the drops of water that remained are unremarkable.
The soil particles themselves tell us nothing. The principal components, sandstone and bauxite, are common throughout the peninsula and cannot be used to locate the point of origin.
However, a toxicology study reveals concentrated traces of sublimation of the salt NaCl (Na+ from the base NaOH, Cl- from the acid HCL). This is commonly found in petroleum products from the Great Khingan Range of Inner Mongolia, including diesel fuel used by mechanized forces of the DPRK. The concentration of 1:100 NaCl in the soil seems strongly to preclude the possibility that particles blew from the North. Computer simulation suggests that such a ratio would have been 1:5,000.
Hwan let his head flop back on the chair. He let the cooling waves from the ceiling fan wash over his face.
"So we have bombers who were in the North. How could they not be North Korean?" He was beginning to think that there was only one way to find out for certain, though he was reluctant to play a card as important as that.
As he reread the summary, the intercom beeped.
"Sir, this is Sgt. Jin at the desk. There's a gentleman who wishes to see the officer in charge of the Palace bombing."
"Does he say why?"
"He says he saw them, sir. Saw the men who ran from the sound truck."
"Keep him there," Hwan said as he leapt to his feet and tightened his tie. "I'll be right there."
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tuesday, 8:05 A.M., Op-Center
Bob Herbert and Matt Stoll both watched in shocked silence as the photos from the NRO came up on Stoll's monitor.
"I'll be diddled," Herbert said. "They are out of their freaking minds."
The photographs of Pyongyang showed tanks and armored vehicles rolling from the city, with antiaircraft artillery being moved into the surrounding countryside.
"These bastards are preparing for war!" Herbert said. "Have NRO look at the DMZ. Let's see what's happening there."
He snapped up the phone on the armrest of his wheelchair. "Bugs— put me through to the chief."
Hood came on at once. "What've you got, Bob?"
"A job for you— rewriting the Options Paper. We've got at least three mechanized brigades moving south from the North Korean capital, and at least I count one, two, three four AA guns ringing the southern perimeter."
There was a long silence. "Get me the hard copy and keep monitoring the situation. Has Matty found anything yet?"
"No."
There was another long silence. "Call Andrews and ask them to get us firsthand recon from the East Korea Bay west to Chungsan Bay every two hours."
"You want flyovers?"
"Mike and a Striker team are headed over. If the computers go down again and we lose our uplink, I don't want them going in blind."
"Gotcha," Herbert said. "Tell me, chief. You still think those bastards don't want war?"
"The White House or DPRK?"
Herbert swore. "Dee-Perk. We didn't start this—"
"No, we didn't. But I still think that North Korea doesn't want war. They're deploying because they assume we will. The problem is, the President can't appear soft and he won't blink. Will they?"
Saying he'd report back as soon as he had any information, Herbert muttered under his breath about Hood's suspicious nature. Just because he was a politician's politician when he was Mayor, consulting every adviser and poll, didn't mean that everyone was. He did not believe that this President would put American youths at risk to enhance his image as a tough guy. If he didn't blink, it was for the same reason that Ronald Reagan sent Tripoli a high-explosive wake-up call when Libyans bombed a bar in Berlin. You hurt us, we're going to draw blood. He wished that policy were standard operating procedure, instead of hollow chest pounding at the United Nations. He still wished that someone would pay back the Moslem terrorists who cost him the use of his legs in 1983.
Ringing his assistant, Herbert asked to be put through to General McIntosh at Andrews.
* * *
The plane was a Dassault Mirage 2000, built under contract by the French government and designed as an interceptor. But it had quickly proven itself to be one of the most versatile planes in the air, formidable in both close-support and low-altitude attack missions as well as aerial reconnaissance. In its latter capacity, the fifty-foot-long two-seater was able to fly at speeds of up to Mach 2.2 at fifty-nine thousand feet; it could achieve both just under five minutes from brake-release. The U.S. Air Force had purchased six of the planes for use in Europe and the Far East, partly to cement military ties with France and partly because the jet was state-of-the-art.
The jet roared into the night sky from the U.S. air base in Osaka. Planes coming toward the North from the South had to fly higher and were easier to pick up on radar; planes coming from Japan could fly in low over the sea and be in and over North Korea before the military could respond.
The Mirage reached the eastern coast of No
rth Korea fifteen minutes after takeoff; as its M53-2 turbofan engine kicked it into a nearly vertical climb, Recon Officer Margolin seated behind the pilot began snapping photographs. She was using a Leika with a 500x telephoto lens, modified for night vision.
The officer had been briefed on what to watch for: troop movements and activity around the nuclear power plants and chemical storage sites. Anything similar to what the NRO spy satellite had seen around the capital.
What she saw as the Mirage passed Pyongyang and swept southwest over the bay and toward the Yellow Sea astounded her. She told the pilot to forget the sweep back for a second look: they raced toward the thirty-eighth parallel, and as soon as they were across, Margolin broke radio silence to talk to the mission commander.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday, 10:10 P.M., Seoul
For several minutes, Gregory Donald stood in the doorway of the small base chapel, unable to move. He looked at the plain pine coffin, unable to see inside, unwilling to do so until he was ready.
He had just gotten off the phone with her father, who admitted that he had become concerned when Soonji hadn't called him. He knew she'd been going to the celebration, and whenever there had been a problem, anyplace she went, she'd always phoned to say she was all right. She hadn't done that today. And when there was no answer at home and no record of her at any hospital, he'd feared the worst.
Kim Yong Nam took it the way he took everything that upset him: by withdrawing. Immediately after hearing about Soonji's death and Donald's plans for a funeral in America, he had hung up without uttering a word of thanks, sorrow, or condolence. Donald had never held Kim's manner against him, and he hadn't expected a word or two— welcome though they would have been. Everyone had their own way of dealing with grief, and Kim's was to shut it in, others out.
Breathing deeply, he forced himself to think back to the way he had last seen her— not as his wife, not as Soonji, but as a torn figure cradled lifelessly in his arms. He prepared himself, told himself that the mortician's art was one of suggestion, transforming the dead into the vision of peace and red-cheeked health— but not ever re-creating life as we remembered it. Yet it would be more, he knew, than death as he remembered it. More than that broken and bloodied flesh he held- His breathing was tremulous, his step unsteady as he entered the room. There were large candles burning on either side of the coffin, toward the head, and he walked around to the foot without looking in. From the corner of his eye he could see the dress they had sent a soldier to collect, the plain, white silk gown she wore when they were married. He could see the red and white of the bouquet they had placed in her hands, on her waist. Donald had asked for that: though Soonji didn't believe that red and white roses brought you to the side of God, her mother, who believed in Chondokyo, had been buried that way. She might not find God, in whose existence she had more faith than he, but perhaps Soonji would find her mother.
Facing the coffin, he raised his eyes slowly.
And smiled. They had taken care of his girl. In life she had worn only the slightest touch of rouge, and she had on only a hint of it now. Her lashes were lightly brushed with mascara, and her skin wasn't caked with powder or paint but fair-looking, as it had been in life. Someone must have brought her perfume from their apartment, for he became aware of it now that he stood so close. Donald resisted the urge to touch her, for to the senses of sight and smell she was asleep and at peace.
He wept openly as he moved to the left side of the coffin, not to gaze more closely at her but to kiss his finger and touch it to her gold wedding band, a ring inscribed with their names and the date they were married.
After allowing himself to touch the ruff of her sleeve, and remembering how soft and young and vital she had been the day they were wed, Donald walked from the chapel stronger than when he had entered, with reason in control of the anger he had shown General Norbom.
But he still intended to go north, with or without his friend's help.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, 10:15 P.M., Seoul
When Kim Hwan entered the guardroom, the Desk Sergeant gave him a photo ID. Hwan read the information: Name: Lee Ki-Soo. Age: Twenty. Address: 116 Hai Way, Seoul.
"Did you check it?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. The apartment is leased to a Shin Jong U, whom we haven't been able to contact— this man says he lives in a room and that Mr. U is away on business. He works at the General Motors factory outside of town, but the personnel department is closed until tomorrow."
Hwan nodded, and as the Desk Sergeant prepared to take notes, the Deputy Director studied the man who had come to see him. He was short but well muscled; Hwan could see that in his neck and forearms. He was dressed in a factory worker's drab grays; he played with his black beret, shifted uneasily from foot to foot, and bowed several times when Hwan first entered. But his eyes never left Hwan, and they were strangely unsettling: they had a hard but lifeless glaze, like the eyes of a shark.
Strange combination— odd man, he thought. But today affected many people, and perhaps he was one of them.
Hwan moved up to a circular metal grid in the glass. "I'm Deputy Director Kim Hwan. You asked to see me?"
"You are in charge of this— this terrible thing?"
"I am."
"I saw them. As I told this fellow, I saw three men. They were walking away from the truck toward the old section— carrying bags."
"Did you see their faces?"
The man shook his head quickly. "I was not close enough. I was standing right out there—" He sidled to the door and jabbed with his finger. "By the benches. I was looking for— you know, sometimes they put lavatories out for the public. But not today. And while I was looking, I saw them."
"Are you certain you couldn't identify them? Color of their hair—"
"Black. All three."
"Facial hair? The size of their noses? Thin lips, large lips, prominent ears?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't see. As I said, I had other things on my mind."
"Do you recall what they were wearing?"
"Clothes. I mean, ordinary street clothes. And boots. I think they had boots on."
Hwan regarded the man for a moment. "Is there anything else?"'
The man shook his head.
"Would you be agreeable to signing a statement regarding what you saw? It will only take a few minutes to prepare."
The man shook his head vigorously and quickly closed the small distance between himself and the door. "No, sir. I couldn't do that. I was not on my break when I went to the ceremony, so I slipped out. I wanted to be there, you understand. If my bosses knew, I would be disciplined—"
"They needn't know," said Hwan.
"I'm sorry." He put his hand to the door. "I wanted you to have this information, but I don't wish to become involved. Please— I hope this was helpful to you, but I must go."
With that, the man pushed open the door and ran into the darkness. Hwan and the Desk Sergeant looked at each other.
"Seems to have had a few beers too many before stopping by, sir."
"Or not enough," Hwan said. "Would you type that up and give it to me unsigned? There was some useful information there."
At least, it corroborated some of the facts he had come up with in the alley. He toyed briefly with the idea of having the curious little man followed, but decided the manpower was best utilized where it was, interviewing other attendees, checking video footage and photographs, and searching the area and abandoned hotel for other clues.
Climbing the stairs— he refused to take elevators when he had the time and energy to walk— Hwan returned to his office to consider his next move.
When the Director returned, he would be unhappy with the state of the investigation: their skimpy evidence pointing to North Korea, but no leads to who perpetrated the deeds.
After using his radio to check with the field forces, and learning that they were coming up empty, Hwan decided that to get that evidence quickly he would have to move in
a way he'd been loath to, a way that might cost them as much as they would gain.
Reluctantly he picked up the phone
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tuesday, 10:20 P.M., Kosong, North Korea
Traveling at an average speed of 120 miles an hour, the sleek, modern Lake LA-4-200 Buccaneer four-seater flew low over the sea as it headed toward the coast of North Korea, its top-mounted Lycoming 0-360-A1A engine humming as the pilot kept the plane steady. The air was turbulent this close to the surface— just under one thousand feet and descending quickly— and the pilot didn't want to have to ditch her. Not with these two onboard. He dragged a handkerchief across his sweaty forehead, not daring to contemplate what they might do if he had to land fifty miles from shore.
The twenty-five-foot-long plane bucked as he dropped below five hundred feet— faster than he should have, given the down draft, but not as fast as he would have liked. The dark outline of the shore was visible now, and the pilot knew he wasn't going to have time to make a second pass: his passengers needed to be ashore by eight-thirty, and he wasn't going to disappoint them. Not by so much as a second.
He also wasn't going to let his dear friend Han Song get him any more off-the-book flights. Sons wanting to sneak in and visit fathers or even spies from the South were one thing. The gambler had said that these two were businessmen, but he didn't say their business was murder.
He set the boat-shaped belly of the aircraft down with a gentle thud, water kicking up on both sides as he braked quickly; he wanted to get the men off and the plane turned around before any curious fishermen or constables decided to check him out.
He unlatched the hatch and flipped it open. The entire cockpit was exposed. Snatching the raft from the copilot's seat, he lowered it over the side while the men in the back seats stood. The pilot extended his hand to help the first man into the raft. The killer grabbed the pilot's wrist and looked at his phosphorescent aviator's watch.