The Geneva Trap

by Stella Rimington

  ‘Did they have contact with their North Korean controllers?’

  ‘They must have, but I was never aware of it. Except once, and that involved me. A man came to visit when I was ten years old; they said he was a distant cousin. We had supper together and then my parents left me alone with this man. He asked me lots of questions – about school, and what subjects I liked, and what sports I played. But he asked me another question that seemed odd at the time. If I had to choose to obey my government or my parents, which would I pick? Most South Korean children would have said their government – that’s what I mean about indoctrination. But I said my parents. He seemed very pleased by this.’

  After that Park knew he had been selected to play a role, but he didn’t know what it was and his parents wouldn’t tell him. Like all parents, they wanted him to do well, and the first step was to succeed in school; but behind their aspirations for him lay an unspoken agenda, which he associated with the ‘cousin’ who had asked him all the questions.

  Fortunately, Park Woo-jin was a clever child, already three years ahead of his classmates in mathematics by the age of twelve. He had taken to computers like a fish to water, and graduated from university with highest honours.

  ‘Did you know by then who your parents were working for?’

  ‘Yes, and I knew that the torch had been passed on to me. After all, there wasn’t much either of my parents could tell the North Koreans – it was made clear that this was to be my responsibility. The instruction came that I should try and find a post with the military.’

  That proved easy enough – listening, Liz realised that the Korean military would have been delighted to have a programmer with this young man’s skills, especially as many of the gifted young computer experts were flocking overseas in droves to make their fortunes in America’s Silicon Valley.

  Fearful he would do the same, and impressed by his talents and his diligence, the military had promoted Park Woo-jin rapidly, and he was cherry-picked after only five years’ experience for a plum secondment to the Pentagon. He had passed the positive vetting process without a hitch, and passed it again when the Americans had had him checked. The North Koreans had done well with the false documentation of his parents. He did not know who his parents really were or what had happened to the people whose identity they had adopted. But the process must have been watertight as he passed all vetting with no problems.

  He’d enjoyed his stay at the Pentagon, especially since the North Koreans had asked nothing from him, perhaps deciding there was no point in risking his exposure when he was operating at only mid-level in the Defense Department But when the opportunity for a second secondment had come his way – to the UK’s Ministry of Defence – everything had changed. He’d been contacted and encouraged – no, told – to apply, and when he’d landed the post, had been given a controller who’d insisted on regular meetings. His contacts with North Korea’s Intelligence Service had been very limited until then – in Washington he’d met an Embassy employee on only two occasions – but once in London there had been drops of information and sometimes weekly meets.

  ‘With the man in the photographs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We know him as Dong Shin-soo. What’s his real name?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t call him anything.’

  ‘Where is he based?’

  ‘I don’t know but I think it must be somewhere nearer than Pyongyang. In Europe maybe.’

  ‘How did he contact you?’

  ‘He sent an encoded email, with a time and place embedded. Sometimes I did not meet him. When I had information, I would pass it by a drop, as you photographed me doing it in St James’s Park.’

  ‘What did he want you to do?’

  ‘He wanted me to gain access to a project being run at a separate site.’

  ‘Did you know what the project was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or where it was located?’

  ‘No. I only knew the prefix used as an identifier for its network. But access was forbidden, and for a while I thought it would be impossible to get in.’

  ‘But you managed.’

  Park Woo-jin gave a wry smile, recognising that his success was what had landed him here. ‘I left what is known as a trailer. It lets all sorts of information flow through it, then when it sees what it wants, it grabs it. In this case the network identifier tipped it off.’

  Liz imagined a fish waiting for food where the river narrows and the water funnels between two rocks. The fish was checking out the bits and bugs floating above its head until finally it saw the fly – Hugo Cowdray’s email – it had been watching for and rose to grab it.

  ‘Did you know what was in the code you managed to extract?’

  ‘No. It was heavily encrypted. It would take more than one person to break that kind of code. That’s not my speciality.’

  ‘But you gave the code to your controller here in St James’s Park?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he do with it?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Park Woo-jin protested, and Liz found his reaction too immediate to be contrived.

  ‘It must have been very valuable to have you take such a risk. For years you were operating under heavy cover – you said yourself you rarely met anyone from the North Korean Intelligence Service. Suddenly you’re meeting them frequently, and you’re given a critical task. Didn’t you wonder what it was all about?’

  ‘Of course I wondered. But I assumed it was a weapons system of some sort, and besides, there was no point in me poking my nose into things that didn’t concern me.’ He realised the absurdity of what he had just said, and smiled sadly. ‘I mean, it wasn’t worth the risk.’

  Liz felt a pang of sympathy for this young man who, if he was telling the truth, had never had much of a chance. If he was telling the truth . . . To be sure of that, his story would have to be assiduously checked in three countries.

  Just to satisfy herself, she asked out of the blue, ‘Have you ever been to Marseilles?’

  He looked at her as if she were mad, and shook his head. She was sure that part of his story was true. Park Woo-jin was a pawn, not a king.

  Chapter 48

  From Toulouse Martin and Isobel drove north on a near-empty motorway towards Cahors. Both of them were a little on edge, not sure what the raid the following day would bring.

  They stayed the night in a village about four miles from the commune, in a bed and breakfast run by a gay English couple who said they’d settled in this part of France because the English had not invaded en masse.

  At dinner, eaten at a long farmhouse table, another guest mentioned that her grandmother had once had friends who’d lived nearby. ‘The place was called Le Barbot,’ she said.

  One of their hosts laughed. ‘That must have been a long time ago. She wouldn’t want to see it now. It’s still there but it’s falling to bits. It’s been occupied for a few years now by a kind of commune. Apparently the owner’s an old lady who lives in Paris. They rent it off her but she never comes down here.’

  ‘How do they support themselves?’ asked Martin, reaching for his wine glass.

  ‘Nobody knows for sure; perhaps one of them is rich. They grow their own vegetables and keep chickens and a few cows, but beyond that, who knows?’ He turned to the guest who had first mentioned the place. ‘I wouldn’t advise calling in there – they don’t like visitors. There’s a chain on the gate and the postman has to leave letters in a box at the top of the drive. For communards they don’t seem particularly peaceful. The last time anyone tried to have a snoop around, they were run off the property.’

  This time it would be different. By 6 a.m. the next morning Martin and Isobel had met up in a local schoolroom with her young colleague, Philippe, and an armed group of DCRI officers. In support were a team of gendarmes, under the command of Inspector Cambery from Cahors.

  The estate had been recce’d by plain clothes officers the day before, and Isobel showed
the team the pictures they’d taken as well as some Google aerial views of the nearly one hundred acres, with barns and stone outbuildings. She said that as far as was known there were about thirty people living there, including women and children. Concluding the briefing, she said, ‘It is very hard to say what we will be encountering at Le Barbot. I hope there will be no violence but we think there are arms and possibly explosives hidden somewhere on the estate. Our purpose is to find and remove them. We need to identify everyone present; arrest anyone who resists. Our particular targets, who should be arrested on sight, are the ringleaders, René and Antoine.’ She passed around photographs of the two men. Antoine’s picture, Martin noted, was a police mug shot.

  They drove in convoy, led by Inspector Cambery and his team in a police van. A bolt cutter soon disposed of the chain on the gate and the convoy drove along the rough track that led to the front of the house. The drive ended in a circle of mud and sparse gravel on which a VW camper van was parked next to a C2 Citroën. The police van came to a halt, blocking the exit route for any vehicle.

  Cambery lifted the tarnished brass knocker on the front door and let it fall with a resounding bang. Silence from within. After thirty seconds, he banged the knocker down again. When he was about to lift it for a third time, the door began to open and they found themselves face to face with a small boy, not much taller than the handle he had managed to turn.

  ‘Bonjour,’ he said brightly. ‘I am Fabrice.’

  ‘Are your parents here, Fabrice?’ asked Cambery and the boy nodded. ‘Go and get them for me, will you? There’s a good boy.’ He turned and ran up the dilapidated staircase while Cambery stepped into the hall and motioned his men to follow. Meanwhile, Isobel, Philippe and the DCRI team fanned out to search the estate.

  When they were all inside, Cambery issued orders. ‘Mauriac,’ he said, pointing at one of his men, ‘stay here and guard the front door. No one is to leave the house.’ Two more men were despatched to the rear to guard any other exits, and two were sent upstairs to check all the rooms. ‘I want everyone down here in the hall. They can get dressed later; don’t let them dawdle. Get their names and particulars.’

  In less than ten minutes a motley collection had assembled, some in night clothes, some wrapped in blankets, and a few in hastily thrown-on clothes. There must have been twenty-five of them, thought Martin, watching as one of the policemen, now carrying a clipboard, went to each resident in turn, taking down their names and details. Half of them were women, and there were three or four small children as well as Fabrice. Seurat noticed Philippe’s agent Marcel standing at the rear, along with a young woman who must have been his partner. But there was no sign of Antoine or René.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said to Cambery, who was supervising the small crowd. ‘Their leader is not here. Nor his sidekick Antoine.’

  Cambery raised an eyebrow. ‘If they’re hiding in the house we’ll find them. My men are very thorough.’

  But Martin was not satisfied. He walked down the hall and stopped in front of the man standing next to Marcel. ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

  The man started, his fright obvious. ‘Aubisson, Monsieur.’

  Martin nodded and turned to Marcel. ‘And yours?’ he barked.

  ‘Jacob. Marcel Jacob, Monsieur.’

  ‘Come and show me the rest of this floor.’ And Martin opened a door that led into the drawing room off the corridor. Once inside he turned to Marcel who had followed him in. ‘Where is René?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘I don’t know. He was here last night.’

  ‘And Antoine?’

  ‘He left the day before yesterday on some errand.’

  ‘Okay. You’d better go back and join the others.’

  The drawing room faced the rear of the house, looking out on to what must once have been grand formal gardens. Martin opened the French doors, stepped out on to a paved terrace and walked along the rear of the house until he came to the back door, where he found one of the policemen on guard. ‘Has anyone tried to come through this way?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Monsieur. There was a woman in the kitchen making breakfast, but she was told to join the others.’

  ‘And you’ve seen no one else?’

  The policeman shook his head. Martin was about to go inside again when the officer added, ‘Except for the milkman. But that’s all.’

  ‘The milkman? When was that?’

  ‘Just after we arrived. He was coming out of the kitchen.’

  ‘How do you know he was a milkman?’

  The policeman looked at him strangely. ‘He was carrying the empty bottles, Monsieur. And he had a milkman’s apron on.’

  ‘Then where is the milk float?’ demanded Martin, his voice rising.

  The policeman pointed across the back gardens. ‘He left it on the other side of those trees. He said the track this side’s too overgrown to drive along it.’

  ‘Merde!’ said Martin, and ran across the lawn. Ahead of him he saw where the vestigial lines of a track went through the trees. He followed it until the wood ended at a large field of melons, small and unripe this early in the year. Peering across the field to the road, he wondered if René had made a run for it that way. Probably not: the little wood he had just come through was in fact a dense untended copse, full of brambles and bushy undergrowth – and full of hiding places he thought. They might search all day and never find the man.

  He was looking around hopelessly when his eye caught a flash of white on the ground, underneath a bush about forty yards from where he was standing. As he drew closer, he saw that it was a piece of cloth – a bit of sheet, perhaps, or a scrap of torn shirt. He knelt down and tugged at it – it was a crumpled apron. Further inspection revealed a metal crate containing six empty milk bottles, one of them smashed.

  He was standing up when a voice said, ‘Put your hands in the air. Slowly . . . very slowly. Then turn around. If you do anything stupid – anything that even looks stupid – I will shoot you.’

  Martin did as he was told. Turning, he found himself facing a thirty-ish man in a white T-shirt and khaki combat trousers. René. Martin recognised him from the photographs. He stood about five feet away, holding an automatic pistol.

  ‘I’m no great marksman,’ said René, ‘but at this range even I won’t miss.’

  Martin nodded to show he had no intention of trying anything on. He only hoped the others would come soon. But would they? Isobel and her team might be anywhere on the estate, and Cambery and his policemen were occupied in the house.

  ‘You won’t get very far, you know,’ said Martin, in his most assured tone.

  ‘Perhaps, though I think they will be busy in the house for a while yet. There are quite a lot of us to count off.’

  ‘But it’s you they’re most interested in.’

  ‘Really?’ René seemed pleased by this, but then his tone changed. ‘What do they want anyway? We aren’t doing any harm.’

  ‘Not yet, you mean. And if you’re so peaceful, what are you doing carrying that?’ He nodded at the gun.

  ‘It’s a good thing I have it, or I’d be having this conversation with handcuffs on. As it is, your presence creates a bit of a problem.’

  Realising that himself, Martin wondered if there were some way he could distract the other man or even persuade him to put his gun away and just go. But then René said, ‘Put both your hands behind your neck.’ When Martin hesitated, René took half a step back and pointed the gun at his head. He quickly clasped his hands behind his neck.

  ‘Now turn around. And don’t do anything with your hands.’

  Martin had had close calls before; twice in his life he had thought it certain he would be killed. But to be killed by a scruffy communard, some sort of anti-capitalist, that he hadn’t bargained for. It seemed so utterly . . . banal.

  He could sense René behind him, and said as calmly as he could, ‘Whatever you’ve done, René, is nothing in comparison to this. You might get five to seven for buyin
g guns, ten if you’re unlucky. But killing me will mean you’ll never see trees like these again or a pretty girl on the street or eat a plat du jour with a carafe of wine. At least, not until you’re too old to enjoy them.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances. By the time they find your body I’ll be out of the country. Now, do you want to kneel down or remain standing up?’

  The final moment was suddenly upon Martin. He wondered what to think with his last thoughts, and the only image that entered his head was of Liz – laughing, as they dined one night at the bistro near his flat. He said, ‘I’ll stay standing.’

  He waited and in the little wood all was silent. He took a breath, then another. René was hesitating – Martin could sense that, and wondered if he should say something else.

  But before he could speak another voice broke the silence. A female voice. ‘Drop the gun or I will shoot you in the spine. You won’t die that way, but you’ll never walk again.’ There was a slight pause, then the voice urged, ‘Hurry up!’

  Martin heard something fall to the ground. Praying it was René’s pistol, he turned round. It was, thank God. Behind René stood Isobel, both arms extended, pointing her gun.

  Martin quickly retrieved René’s pistol. He felt relieved but shaky – and angry. It was hard to resist the temptation to hit the other man.

  ‘Now let’s head for the house,’ said Isobel, motioning with her gun for René to lead the way.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Martin, pointing the retrieved weapon at René. The man’s eyes widened in fear, and Martin realised he must think it was his turn to die. ‘There is something we need to know – believe me, it will make things easier for you if you tell us the truth. Where is Antoine?’

  René took a deep breath. ‘I sent him to Marseilles two days ago. He was taking a delivery. He’s due back tonight.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Martin and lowered the gun; as René walked ahead of them, Isobel kept hers trained on his back.