by Tom Clancy
"You talk to them, yes— try and reason with them. While JFK was busy blockading Cuba, he was also negotiating like mad with Khrushchev about withdrawing some of our missiles in Turkey. That's what ended the crisis, not sea power. Talking is what civilized people do."
"Hong-koo isn't civilized."
"But his bosses are, and there have been no direct, high-level contacts with the North since this morning. Christ, you wouldn't believe that adults would play games like this, but they are. The diplomats are playing chicken. If I can open a dialogue, even with Hong-koo—"
"And I'm telling you that talking to them won't do any good. He's somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan and as God is my witness, he'll snooker you."
"Then come with me. Help me."
"I can't. I told you, these people know their propaganda. They'll use grainy film, black and white, and shoot me looking like I'm sniffing horse apples, like I'm a POW. The doves in Washington will go berserk." He popped the tape from the recorder and slapped it gently in his open palm. "Greg, I was sad for you when I heard about Soonji. But what you want to do isn't going to stop anyone from dying. There are still more than a billion Communists right around the corner, and a billion other radicals, religious fruitcakes, ethnic cleansers, cult psychos, and Jesus knows who else. It's me and mine who look after the other three billion, Gregory. All a diplomat is ever good for is buying time— sometimes for the wrong side, like Neville Chamberlain. You can't reason with sickos, Gregory."
Donald looked at his pipe. "Yes I see that."
Schneider looked at him strangely, then glanced at his watch. "You still have about six hours. I suggest you sleep, wake up with a stomachache, and call this off. In the meantime, as far as this base is concerned, your original broadcast no longer exists. We erased your message from storage, took the coordinates you used out of the log." He held up the tape recorder. "This is the first any of us heard about a meeting— when they contacted you. If the North Koreans say you radioed first, we'll deny it. If they produce a tape, we'll say they faked it. If you contradict us, we'll tell the press you were crazy with grief. I'm sorry, Greg, but that's the way it's got to be."
He looked down at his pipe. "And if I convince Hong-koo to withdraw?"
"You won't."
"But if I do?"
"In that case," Schneider said, "the President will take full credit for having sent you, you'll be a goddamn hero, and I'll personally pin the medal on you myself."
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Wednesday, 2:00 A.M., Yanguu Village
Kim slid into the car, hugging the small radio to her to protect it from the light rain.
Hwan watched her carefully. A captive, his hands cuffed behind his back, had once used the spring in the seat-belt latch to pick the lock and get away. But he wasn't watching Kim because he feared an escape; she would have tried that before, when they were alone. He was watching her because she fascinated him. Patriotism and humanism rarely existed in perfect harmony, but Kim had that balance. He strove for that in his own life, and usually fell short: one couldn't dig into the darker side of people's lives without getting into the dirt- His thoughts were cut off by a sudden movement to his right, the flashlight moving crazily, followed by a crippling pain in his side. He gurgled loudly as the sharp punch emptied his lungs, followed by another that caused his right leg to shake and fall out from under him. He tried to grab the open car door to brake his fall. He missed, twisted, and fell against the side of the car seat, on his back. As he fumbled to get to the.38 in his shoulder holster, he looked out at Cho.
Only it wasn't Cho. The light from the car cast a faint yellow glow on the hat and on a face he didn't recognize, a face that was taut and cruel.
Damn her, he thought through his pain. She had someone here all the time
His right hand was tingling and he couldn't get his fingers to close around the gun. His right side felt damp as he slid toward the ground.
Hwan saw the nine-inch blade stained with his blood. It went back, level with his stomach. He would be unable to stop the blow to his chest, up and under the sternum, a flash of agony and then death. He had often thought about how and when he would die, but it was never like this, flat on his back in the mud.
And feeling like a fool. He felt her lean over him. He trusted her, and he hoped they put that on his headstone as a warning. Either that, or What a sucker- Hwan's gun slipped from its holster as he landed on the wet earth. He reached over reflexively, squeezing the wounds with his left hand, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could face death with what little defiance remained in him. He saw the assassin in Cho's clothing grinning, and then there was a white flash like lightning, followed by a second and third. The quick bursts were just a foot or two above him and he shut his eyes as their heat rolled toward him. The thunder echoed for a moment and died, and then there was only the tapping of the rain on his face and the throbbing heat in his side.
Kim crawled over Hwan and knelt at his side. She reached past him for the knife, and for a confusing moment he didn't understand why he hadn't felt the shots and why she was going to stab him instead of shoot him.
He must have been writhing because she told him to hold still. He tried to relax, and became aware of how painful it was to breathe.
Kim pulled his shirt from his belt, cut a slit up the side, then picked up the flashlight. After studying his wounds she rose and jumped over him; he craned to watch as she pulled the shoes and socks off the assassin, then undid his belt and yanked it off. Hwan collapsed, his breath now coming in gasps.
"Ch-Cho?" he said.
"I don't know where his body is."
His body
"This man must have followed us. Don't ask: I don't know who he is."
Not with Kim from the bombers
Kim slid the belt around Hwan's waist but didn't fasten it; she put a sock against each of the wounds. "This may hurt," she said as she buckled the belt tightly.
Hwan gasped as pain girdled him and shot from his right armpit to his knee. He lay back, wheezing now, as Kim moved behind him, grabbed him under the arms, and pulled him onto the backseat of the car.
As she put the radio on the floor, Hwan tried to raise himself on an elbow.
"W-wait— body."
She eased him back and tried to secure him with the seatbelt. "I don't know where Cho is!"
"No! Finger prints."
Kim understood. She shut the door, opened the passenger's side in front, and pulled the dead man in. Then she hurried to the driver's side, started to get in, and stopped.
"I've got to find Cho!" she said as she backed out.
Snatching up the flashlight, she turned it toward the ground and followed the killer's footsteps. Though there was urgency in her movements, outwardly she was calm, focused. The prints led to a thickly wooded ravine some forty yards from the side of the hut, where she found a motor scooter and, beyond it, the driver. Cho was lying head down on a slope, on his back, the middle of his chest dark with blood.
Skidding down the muck to Cho's side, Kim frantically searched his pockets until she found the keys he'd taken with him, then ran back to the car.
Hwan was lying still, holding his side. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting. When he heard the engine rumble, he opened his eyes.
"Car radio."
Kim eased the car into gear, then sped up quickly. "You want me to tell them what happened?"
"Yes " The belt dug into his flesh and he tried not to move. "Need ID fast."
"Of the killer. From his fingerprints."
Hwan didn't have the strength to speak. He nodded, wasn't sure Kim saw, then heard her speak into the radio. He tried to remember exactly what he was thinking about her, but every little breath, each bump of the car, sent shocks through him now. He tried not to move, jabbing his right elbow into the crease behind the seat and putting his left hand against the front seatback in an effort to brace himself. He felt as though there were a strap inside of him, tightening, be
nding him to the right. Thoughts and images swirled through his mind as he fought the pain and tried to stay awake.
Not North Korean she wouldn't have shot him but who in the South why ?
And then the fire spread to his brain, the pain hammering him mercifully into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Tuesday, 12:30 P.M., Op-Center
Dr. Orlito Trias was there when Hood phoned Alexander's room. He had the bedside manner of Dr. Frankenstein, but he was a good doctor and a devoted scientist.
"Paul," he said in his thick Philippine accent, "I'm glad you called. Your son has a virus."
Hood felt a chill. There was a time, before AIDS, when the word suggested a problem easily treated with antibiotics.
"What kind of virus? In laymanese, Orly."
"The boy had an acute bronchial infection two weeks ago. The infection appeared to be cured, but the adenovirus hid in his lungs. All it took to trigger the attack were allergens in the air, which is why the steroid drugs and bronchodilator medication failed to work. This isn't a typical asthma attack. It's a form of obstructive lung disease."
"How do you treat it?" Hood asked.
"Antiviral therapy. We've caught the infection relatively early, and there's every reason to believe it will not spread."
"Reason to believe—"
"He's been weakened," Orly said, "and these viruses are very opportunistic. One never knows."
Jesus, Orly. "Is Sharon there?"
"Yes."
Hood asked, "Does she know?"
"Yes. I told her what I've told you."
"Let me talk to her— and thanks."
"You're welcome. I'll check back here every hour or so."
Sharon came on a moment later.
"Paul—"
"I know. Orly's got no future with the U.N."
"It isn't that," Sharon said. "I'd rather know than not know. It's the waiting. You know I was never good at that."
"Alex is going to be okay."
"You don't know that. I worked at a hospital, Paul. I know how these things can catch fire."
"Orly wouldn't leave if the situation was serious."
"Paul, there's nothing he can do! That's why he's leaving."
Ann walked in, her hands full of lunch; she stopped just inside the door when she saw Hood's expression.
Bugs sent an E-mail message crawling across the screen: Defense Secretary Colon wanted to talk to him.
"Listen," Sharon said, "I didn't get on the phone because I want you to drop what you're doing and come here. I just needed an anchor, okay?"
Hood heard the catch in her voice; she was fighting not to cry. "Of course it's okay, Sharon. Call me if anything happens— or I'll call you as soon as I can."
She hung up, and Hood switched from the regular phone to the secure computer phone. He felt less than a husband, less than a father, and considerably less than a man.
"Paul," Colon said sullenly, "we've just learned that your man Donald sent an unauthorized radio transmission to the North, requesting a meeting with General Hong-koo."
"What?"
"Worse, they accepted. If it gets out, we'll spin it that the North contacted him, but you'd better get on the blower and try to talk him out of it. General Schneider gave it his best shot, but Donald intends to be at the meeting."
"Thanks," Hood said, and buzzed Bugs. He told him to contact the DMZ on the secure line and get Gregory Donald on the phone. Then he rang Liz Gordon and asked her to come in.
"You want me to leave this and go?" Ann asked.
"No. I want you to stay."
Her expression brightened.
"We may have a PR nightmare on our hands."
Her expression darkened.
"Sure," she said. She sat across the desk from Hood and set the lunches between them.
"What happened with Alex?" she asked.
"Trias said he's got a lung infection. He thinks he's got it under control, but you know Orly— doesn't read people very well."
"Hmmmm," Ann said, her eyes darkening even more.
Hood picked up the fork and jabbed at a slice of tomato. "Any word from Matt on his own virus hunt?"
"Not that I've heard. Want me to check?"
"No thanks. I'll do it when I'm finished with Gregory. Poor guy must be going through hell. We get so wrapped up in events here, we forget the people sometimes."
The secure phone beeped just as Liz Gordon and Lowell Coffey walked in. Donald's prefix appeared with the number at the display along the bottom. Hood motioned for Liz to close the door. She sat and Coffey stood behind Ann, who shifted uncomfortably. Hood hit the speaker phone.
"Gregory— how are you?"
"All right. Paul, are you on the secure line?"
"Yes."
"Good. And you're on speaker?"
"Yes."
"Who's there, Liz, Ann, and Lowell?"
"That's the list."
"Of course. Then let's get right to it. I did radio Hong-koo, and he responded. I'm to meet him in five and a half hours. Why shoot bullets when you can shoot off your mouth, that's always been my motto."
"It's a good one, Greg, but not with the DPRK."
"That's what General Schneider said when he read me the riot act. He's going to leave me twisting in the wind. So is Washington, I'm told." He hesitated a moment. "Are you, Paul?"
"Give me a minute."
Hood hit the Mute button and looked at Liz. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ann nodding solemnly. Lowell stood motionless. The Staff Psychologist sucked on her upper lip and then shook her head.
"Why not?" Hood asked.
"As his ally, you have a chance of changing his mind. If you're his adversary, he'll shut you out."
"What if I fire him?"
"It won't change a thing. He's a man who's had a severe shock today, who thinks he's behaving with restraint and compassion— a common reaction— and won't be dissuaded."
"Lowell, what if Schneider charges him with something— misappropriation of government equipment when he made the radio broadcast, something like that— and arrests him."
"It'll be a hell of a messy trial, and we may have to reveal things we don't want to about the way we work."
"What if they only hold Greg twenty-four hours? Security reasons, some bullshit like that."
"He may sue you. Same result."
"But he won't," Liz said. "I went over his file when you appointed him, Paul. He's never done anything vindictive. That was one of his problems, as far as his diplomatic career was concerned. He was a true Christian."
"Ann, what kind of press is up there?"
"As a rule, no one, they're all based in Seoul. But I'm sure reporters are scrambling for credentials and are on the way. They'll be looking to file any and all kinds of stories. Especially the holding of a former high-level diplomat."
Lowell said, "And what will the press do to us if Donald goes to the meeting and they find out that he's connected with Op-Center? We'll be portrayed as a bunch of kooks working outside the establishment."
"I hate to agree with Lowell," Ann said, "but he has a point."
"Donald won't say anything," Liz said. "Not even in anger. As far as the world is concerned, he works only for the U.S./Korean Friendship Society."
"But Schneider knows the truth," Lowell said, "and he can't be happy about this."
"He isn't," Hood said.
"There! And he may leak the news to the press, just to put the brakes on."
"I don't think we have to worry about that," Hood said. "He won't want to embarrass the President by exposing an organization Lawrence himself established." Hood killed the Mute. "Greg, would you put this off if I could convince someone at the Embassy to join you?"
"Please, Paul. Ambassador Hall would never agree to that without Presidential approval, and you won't get that."
"Postpone the meeting and let me try. Mike Rodgers is en route to Japan. He'll be landing in Osaka around six. Let me talk to him ab
out joining you."
"That's an 'A' for effort, but you know if I delay even a minute, the North Koreans will feel like I'm playing games with them. They're sensitive that way, and they won't give me a second turn at bat. I'm going. The only question remains, are you for me or against me?"
Hood sat perfectly still for a moment, then looked at the faces of his associates. "I'm with you, Greg."
There was a long silence on the other end. "You caught me by surprise there, Paul. I thought you were going to shoot me down."
"So did I, for a while."
"Thanks for holding your fire."
"I hired you for your experience. Let's see if I made the right choice. If you want to talk again, I'll be here."
Hood hung up. Noticing the slice of tomato still on his fork, he ate it. Liz gave him a little thumbs-up. Ann and Lowell just stared.
Hood touched the intercom. "Bugs, please get me a progress report from Matt."
"Coming right up."
Lowell said, "Paul, this will finish off Donald and us."
"What would you have had me do? He was going anyway, and I won't leave one of my people out there alone." Hood chewed slowly. "Besides, he may pull something off. He's a good man."
"Exactly," said Ann. "And everyone knows it. When video of Donald and the North Koreans is on the late night news tonight— video of a man who lost his wife and is still willing to forgive— we'll all be looking for jobs."
"That's okay," Coffey said. "We can go to work for North Korea. They'll owe us one."
"Have some faith," Hood said. He waved a finger between Coffey and Ann. "And you two have a plan in place in case he does screw up."
The phone beeped and Hood picked up. It was Stoll.
"Paul," he said, "I was about to call you. You'd better come over and see what I've found."
Hood was already out of his seat. "Give me the short of it."
"The short of it is, we've been had— big-time."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE