by Tom Clancy
Hong-koo's driver looked at his watch, turned, and said something to the General. The General nodded.
It was almost time time for the United States to be driven from the South, for patriotism to flourish, and for a new militarism to rise, making South Korea the most powerful, prosperous, and feared nation in the region.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Wednesday, 8:02 A.M., the road to Yangyang
Kim had buried nearly four million won in a cemetery east of the city. The equivalent of roughly five thousand U.S. dollars, she had hidden the won while kneeling at footstones, sitting on benches, and resting beneath trees, tucking the coins and bills in small holes, under roots, beneath rocks. All of it had still been there. People didn't come to cemeteries to look for hidden treasure.
It took her nearly three hours to recover all the money in the dark, after which she'd filled the car with gas and followed the Pukangang River toward the northeast and Lake Soyang. There, she had rested while she looked through her notebook for the name of someone from whom she could buy a passport and passage to Japan.
Sitting in the car, Kim had kept the radio on, tuned to the frequency Hwan had used in his car to communicate with the KCIA. She wanted to hear if they had anything to say about her, and for a time it appeared that they had no clue as to her whereabouts or even what kind of car she was driving. Then, just a few minutes before she was about to leave, the KCIA found her Tercel at the BMW dealership. They were in the process of determining which car she had stolen when she was back on the road, headed toward the sea.
The two-lane road led through beautiful countryside, but it was deserted, and she began to grow concerned that she might not find another car. Her only hope was reaching Sorak-san National Park before the authorities found her. There were usually a great many tourists there, and there was a spacious parking lot just north of the Paektam-sa Temple on the park's west side. She could get there by way of the Taesungnyong Pass and headed in that direction.
Kim was sorry she'd stopped to rest at the lake. It had been a stupid idea, but the day had seemed endless and then there was her guilt over the man she had killed. It had been surprisingly easy at the time: a good man was in danger and she had shot the man who was attacking him. Only when it was done did she realize she knew nothing about the assailant, or if she'd even acted in time, or whether the man she killed would have turned on her or helped her to escape.
All that really mattered was that she'd murdered someone. The spy who wasn't a spy, the North Korean who had been damned to come here because she had loved her brother, had now committed the ultimate sin. She would always see his face as she shot him, shock and pain lit by the flash of a gun, a body crumbling raggedly, not flailing and arching the way it did in the movies
A clear voice came in over the radio, which was nestled in the passenger's seat.
"Chopper Seven, this is Sgt. Eui-soon. Over."
"Chopper Seven copies, over."
"The white BMW was seen fueling near the Tong-daemum Stadium Station about ninety minutes ago. It left headed east, which would put it past Inje by now. That's in your area. Over."
"We'll check it out and report back, over and out."
Kim cursed. She was just past Inje, which was at the northeastern tip of the lake, and they would be on her within minutes. The police in South Korea loved issuing summonses, and she dared not speed up— not without a registration for the car and millions of won stuffed in the radio carrying case on the floor. She stayed under the speed limit, looking desperately for a parked car, finding none, and finally reaching the park, with its craggy peaks and thundering waterfalls visible in the distance. Park rangers were not as difficult as the police, and she was about to speed up to get to the parking lot when she heard the distant beating of a helicopter rotor.
She pushed the gas to the floor, looking for someplace to pull off the road. She had finally decided to abandon the car and continue on foot when the helicopter passed over her, made an arcing turn, and came back.
She braked hard.
The helicopter hovered some two hundred feet up, facing her, the two men inside pointing. She heard a shrill whistle as the loudspeaker was turned on.
"There are ground personnel on the way," the speaker said. "You are advised to remain where you are."
"And if I don't?" she said under her breath. "What are they going to do?"
She scanned the road ahead. About two miles off it started a sinuous course into the mountains, and it would be difficult for cars to chase or the chopper to follow.
To hell with them, she thought and, flooring the gas pedal, the BMW screamed out from under the helicopter toward the blue-gray peaks beyond.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, 6:05 P.M., Op-Center
Hood was in his office with Ann Farris and Lowell Coffey, debating about how to handle news of the Striker incursion in case the team was captured or killed. The White House would disavow the operation, as the President had said, and SOP was that Op-Center would do the same. But Ann felt there were some PR brownie points to be gained by letting the world know that they had been looking out for the well-being of Japan, and while Hood agreed she had a point, he was disinclined to go along with the idea.
When Bugs told Hood that General Schneider was calling with urgent news from Panmunjom, the debate came to a swift end.
"Hood here."
"Mr. Director," General Schneider said, "I regret to inform you that your man Gregory Donald appears to have been shot to death by the Dee-Perks on their side of the border just a few minutes ago."
Hood's face paled. "General, they invited him to come over—"
"This wasn't that meeting. He wasn't in the meeting center."
"Then where was he?"
"He was running toward the barracks with a knife."
"Gregory was? Are you sure?"
"That's what the watch officer's putting in his report. And that he was screaming in Korean about the poison gas."
"Sweet Jesus." Hood shut his eyes. "That's what it was. Gregory, Jesus why didn't he let the military handle it?"
"Paul," Ann said, "what happened?"
"Gregory Donald's dead. He was trying to stop the gas." He returned to Schneider. "General, Major Lee must have snuck the gas into the North— Gregory was probably following him."
"That's what we figure, but it was a damn foolish thing to do. He had to know those troops would shoot on sight."
It wasn't foolish, Hood knew. It was Donald's way. "What's the present situation?"
"Our lookouts say the soldiers appear to have shot someone who may have been trying to flood the barracks with the tabun. As I just told Secretary Colon, they're running around like headless chickens over there. One of our towers is watching General Hong-koo. He's just sitting at their side of the conference hut in a jeep waiting for we don't know what. He's got to know Donald isn't coming."
"He might not know that it was Donald who was killed."
The words sounded so wrong. Hood looked at Ann for support, saw only the same sadness that he felt.
"He'll find out soon enough. Our problem is this. The Pentagon has contacted Pyongyang and they don't believe that Lee and his team were acting alone; they think it's part of a plot hatched in Seoul. You can't reason with those pricks."
"What are we doing in response?"
"Matching them. General Norbom is shipping us just about everyone and everything he's got, direct orders from the President himself. Somebody sneezes up here and we're going to have ourselves a shooting war."
General Schneider excused himself then, leaving Hood sick and angry when he got off the phone. He felt like they'd been through a full season of winning football only to lose the championship on the last play of the last game. At this point, the only thing worse would be if Mike Rodgers and the Striker team did something that actually precipitated the final conflict. He thought briefly about recalling them, but knew that Rodgers wouldn't do anything rash. And there was st
ill the fact that the missiles were pointed toward Japan. If Japan was hit, then war or no war the cry for remilitarization there would be unstoppable. That would cause China and both Koreas to build up their own military forces, creating an arms race that would rival the Cold War of the 1960s.
After bringing Ann and Coffey up-to-date, Hood asked them to brief the rest of Op-Center's department heads. When they were gone, he put his forehead in his hands- And it hit him. Pyongyang's not going to believe anyone from the South about this, but what about someone from the North?
He buzzed his assistant.
"Bugs, Kim Hwan is at National University Hospital in Seoul. If he's out of surgery and awake, I want to talk to him."
"Yes, sir. Secure line?"
"There's no time to wait for one to be brought in. And, Bugs? Don't let any of the doctors or KCIA guys get in your way. Go through Director Yung-Hoon if you have to."
As he waited for Bugs, Hood rang Herbert.
"Bob— I want you to arrange for a broadcast to that frequency from Yanguu."
"To it," Herbert repeated.
"That's right. We're going to try to set up a game of telephone that may stop a war."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, 8:10 A.M., Seoul
Kim Hwan was drowsing when Choi Hongtack touched him on the shoulder.
"Mr. Hwan?"
Hwan opened his eyes slowly. "Yes— what is it?"
"I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's a telephone call from Mr. Paul Hood in Washington."
Hongtack was holding the telephone receiver toward him. With considerable effort, Hwan reached over and accepted it. He lay it on the pillow beside his ear and turned his head toward it.
"Hello, Paul," he said weakly.
"Kim— how do you feel?"
"It beats the alternative."
"Touché. Kim, time's short so I'll get right to the point. We found the man behind the bombing, a South Korean officer, and— I'm sorry to have to tell you this— but Gregory Donald was killed trying to apprehend one of his cohorts."
Hwan felt like he'd been stabbed again. He couldn't breathe and his insides burned.
"I wish there was some way I could have softened this," Hood said, "or at least waited. But the North Koreans don't believe that the group was acting alone and are ready to go to war over this. Are you with me?"
"Yes," Hwan said, choking.
"We intercepted a message from Seoul Oh-Miyo before. Can you still reach her?"
"I–I don't know."
"Well, Kim, we need someone the North Koreans trust to tell them that this is not an official act of the South Korean government. We've got the frequency of the radio she used and we think we can get to it. If she's left it on, will you talk to her? Ask her to radio the North and try to convince them?"
"Yes," Hwan said. Tears trickling from his eyes, he motioned for Hongtack to help him sit up. "I'll do whatever I can."
"Good man," Hood said. "Hold on while I make sure things are set on this end."
As he waited, Hwan ignored the questioning glances of Hongtack. Even if war was averted, what a monstrous tragedy this day had already been. And for what? The kind of military and political machinations that Gregory had always hated.
Talk, he said. Talk and art are all that separate us from the other animals. Use them and savor them fully
It was so unjust. And worst of all was the fact that the man to whom he would have turned for consolation was no longer here.
"Kim?"
Hwan pressed the phone to his ear and struggled against the lingering effects of the anesthesia that threatened to drag him back to sleep.
"I'm here, Paul."
"Kim, there's a problem—"
Over the crackle of static, a frantic voice cut Hood off.
"They're threatening to shoot me!"
Hwan was instantly alert as he recognized Kim Chong's voice. "Kim, this is Hwan. Can you hear me?"
"Yes—!"
"Who's threatening you?"
"There's a helicopter— and two motorcycles are on the way. I'm parked on a mountain I can see them below."
Hwan's eyes fastened on Hongtack. "Are they ours?"
"I don't know," said Hongtack. "Director Yung-Hoon said there were too many agencies involved to—"
"I don't care if God himself is involved. Call them off."
"Sir—"
"Hongtack, you get on another telephone and tell Director Yung-Hoon that I accept full responsibility for Ms. Chong. Tell him that now, or tomorrow you join the U.S. team doing radio surveillance in McMurdo."
After hesitating, appearing to weigh his dignity against a tour in Antarctica, Hongtack left the hospital room.
Hwan returned to the phone. "I've taken care of it, Kim. Where are you?"
"I'm in the mountains of Sorak-san National Park. I've pulled under a ledge where the helicopter can't land."
"All right. You're to go see my uncle Zon Pak in Yangyang. He's a fisherman; no one likes him, but everyone knows him. I'll phone ahead and he'll get you safely where you need to go. Now, did Mr. Hood explain our problem?"
"Yes. He told me about Major Lee."
"Can you help? Will you help?"
"Yes, of course. Stay on the line and I'll radio Pyongyang."
"Will you plug in the headset so you can hear Mr. Hood and me without them hearing us?"
Kim told Hwan she would, and he listened as the hos-pital-to-Op-Center-to-Sorak-san link took on one more participant: Captain Ahn II at "Home," which Hwan knew was the North Korean Intelligence Agency's headquarters in the capital, located in the subbasements of the Haebangsang Hotel on the west bank of the Taedong River.
"Home," Kim said, "I have received incontrovertible evidence that a cell of South Korean soldiers, and not— repeat, not— the government or military in Seoul, was behind today's bombing and the attempted gassing at the base. Major Lee, the officer with the eyepatch, is the person behind the entire operation."
There was a moment of silence, then: "Seoul Oh-Miyo, what man with the eyepatch?"
"The man who was handling the poison gas."
"No such man was involved."
Paul said, "Ms. Chong, please tell him to wait. I'm going to try and find Major Lee— and if I do, they'll have to act quickly to stop him."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Wednesday, 6:17 A.M., Op-Center
Paul Hood put Kim Hwan on hold and rang Bob Herbert.
"Bob, do we have a photo of Major Lee?"
"It's in his dossier—"
"Scan it over to NRO fast, then come here with Lowell Coffey, McCaskey, and Mackall."
Hood called over to Stephen Viens at NRO.
"Steve, you've got a photo coming in from Bob Herbert. The man may still be on the North side of the DMZ in Panmunjom: I need to find and track him. Check the area near the conference center first— give me two satellites on it."
"Secretary Colon has authorized the second eye, right?"
"He would if he knew about it," Hood said dryly.
"That's what I figured," Viens said. "The mug shot's coming through now. Will the subject be alone?"
"Most likely," said Hood, "and in a ROK uniform. I want to watch as the pictures come in."
"Hold on."
Hood listened as Viens ordered a second satellite camera turned on the area, and ordered it to look down from a relative height of twenty-five feet. Then he had Major Lee's photograph fed into the satellite computer: it would search the area for anyone with those features and outline him in blue.
The roof of the conference center appeared; he wasn't there, or the watchtowers on both sides would have spotted him. Then, 4.4 seconds later, staggered with images from the first, the second satellite gave them a photograph of the area in front of the building— the small caravan and the jeep with what was probably General Hong-koo.
Bob Herbert came wheeling in, followed by Martha, Coffey, McCaskey, and Ann Farris. Hood had a feeling she'd come, not so much to chec
k on the crisis but to look after him. Her mothering made him both uncomfortable and strangely content, though he let the discomfort go for now. He'd liked how her hand felt on his shoulder before.
"Darrell," Hood said, "why is Hong-koo just sitting there? He has to know by now what's happened."
"It wouldn't matter," Martha answered for him. Darrell shot her a look. "The North Koreans would still have a party even if the birthday boy was shot dead. They like being unflappable. A holdover of President Kim Il Sung's ideology of juche— self-reliance."
Ann said, "He'll probably use the forum to make a political statement of some kind."
"How they've been attacked and have exhibited enormous self-control by not responding," Martha said.
Darrell threw up his hands and sat down.
Hood watched intently as the pictures continued to come in, on the upper left and lower right of his computer, respectively. The arrival of each one was marked by a second-long whir of the hard disk as it stored the images; a code number in the bottom right of each picture— the sequential number followed by a "1S" for "First Sweep" — would allow it to be brought back instantly. The computer could also enhance the images with greater clarity, brightness, and even change the angle from directly above to head-on by extrapolating from information in the picture.
"Hold 17-1S," Hood barked, sitting up in his chair. "The lone figure standing behind the tree one hundred and something yards from the caravan—"
Bob and Darrell came around to look.
"His face is hidden by leaves," said Viens. "Let me move the camera over a bit."
A bit meant thousandths of an inch that, magnified by the satellite's distance from the Earth, would give them a different angle by a foot or more.
The new picture came in and it immediately began to shine with a faint blue line.
"Canasta!" said Viens. "I'm locking on him with the other satellite."