by Jack Slater
“I see you’re anxious to get moving,” Jack said, shaking his head in apparent amazement at the foolhardiness of this American.
“Indeed,” Trapp replied. “But let’s run through the plan one last time.”
Jack nodded and removed a small, laminated satellite map of the area from his inside pocket, along with a thin pen light. He clicked the flashlight on and shone it onto the map. It was a commercial image, and lacked the resolution that Trapp was used to, after so many years of operating with the resources of the Agency behind him. But it didn’t need to be perfect.
“We’re here,” he said, placing his index finger onto the map. He dragged it a couple of inches upward. “This is the Friendship Bridge, which links Dandong with the town of Sinuiju on the North Korean side of the border. I will cross it in about forty-five minutes, just before the guard post closes for the night.”
Trapp nodded his understanding and gestured for the man to continue.
“A contact of mine is waiting on the river for you —”
“You trust him?” Trapp asked gruffly.
“Absolutely.” Jack nodded. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be risking your life in his hands. He will take you up the Yalu, past Sinuiju, down a tributary of the river that passes east of Wihwa Island, here.” He indicated a spot in a barren section of the map.
“What’s there?” Trapp asked, scanning the map and committing the details to memory. “Guards? Fences? Dogs?”
Jack shook his head. “Nothing.”
“What about defectors?” Trapp asked, confused. “How do the North Koreans stop them?”
Jack shrugged. “They don’t need to. The Chinese catch them and send them back. My people know the price of being caught. It’s a one-way ticket to the camps. There are a few, of course, but not as many as you would think. And besides, it’s not in the army’s interest to stop the smuggling across the border. They get their cut, so they don’t care.”
“Okay,” Trapp said, taking the man’s word for it. “What next?”
Jack shifted his position on the map, indicating a small conurbation next to a highway that seemed curiously free of traffic. “I will be waiting for you just north of this housing estate.”
“That easy, huh?”
The smuggler smiled, though his expression was uneasy. “As long as you don’t get caught.”
The small wooden fishing boat that Jack had arranged cut through the water at scarcely more than a walking pace. Trapp spoke little Mandarin, and his pilot no English, so the two men sat in silence as the boat’s aged engine spluttered loudly in the gloom, carrying across the still surface of the Yalu River.
Trapp hoped desperately that Jack was right about the likelihood of him encountering any army patrols. His ride had to be at least three decades old, and it was making enough noise to wake the dead. He grimaced and waved for the fisherman’s attention. He jerked his thumb at the engine, which was coughing enough black smoke to be visible even in the darkness, and drew his fingers across his throat.
The old fisherman smiled broadly, the half-moon overhead revealing chipped, yellow teeth. He waved away Trapp’s protestations, clearly amused by the American’s palpable nervousness. Realizing that he was making no headway, Trapp gave up and sank low into the wooden vessel’s depths, the foul water sloshing in the bilges lacing his dark clothes with a fishy scent that he immediately knew would be impossible to remove.
“Guess it’s your show,” Trapp muttered. “You just better not get me killed.”
The old man just grunted.
The motor growled for about twenty minutes as the boat traveled upstream. To keep his mind off the prospect of imminent discovery, Trapp studied the eastern bank of the river: North Korea. The contrast between the Chinese side and its nearest, strangest neighbor was impossible to ignore. North Korea was simply…
Dark.
While Dandong twinkled in the night sky, decorated by streetlights in neon advertising holdings, North Korea was an enigma of empty blackness. Even the Yellow Sea to the south was more lit up, as giant cargo ships plied their trade across the empty ocean. Trapp knew that for most of the country, there was very little access to electricity. Like medieval peasants hundreds of years before, North Korean farmers toiled in the daylight and ended their labors as soon as the sun went down.
The sight gave Trapp a measure of comfort. Unless the North Koreans had guards dug into dark trenches, then just as Jack had promised, the border was unguarded.
The fisherman cut the engine, and the boat began to slow, the tide pushing it in the opposite direction, out into the blackness of the ocean. Trapp glanced up, and the old man pressed his finger against his lips.
Great, now you decide to keep quiet.
Two wooden oars were clipped against the insides of the boat, and the fisherman lifted them up, then dipped them into the water. Trapp shot him a questioning glance, silently asking whether the man needed help. But he shook his head.
The slight old man was stronger than he looked. He pulled the boat forward at a steady pace, one not much slower than the boat’s antiquated engine had managed. After a few minutes traveling in that manner, he grabbed both oars with one hand and held up two fingers on the other.
Trapp’s eyes narrowed. “Two minutes?” he mouthed.
The man nodded, apparently understanding the thrust of the CIA operative’s silent question.
Jason snapped into action.
He pulled his jacket and shirt over his head, then removed his pants, socks and boots. He placed all of the clothing into his waterproof rucksack and closed it tight, double-checking the seal. By the time he was done, the boat was no more than 30 yards from the other side of the river. The border line between the two countries was flexible, and authorities from neither country bothered arresting the fisherman and traders who accidentally crossed over.
They had seen little traffic on the river, and certainly no evidence of military or police activity. It would have been easy enough for the old man to land his boat on the North Korean side and set Trapp down on terra firma. But there was no sense in courting danger, if it could be avoided by getting his feet wet.
After grasping the old man’s shoulder in silent thanks, Trapp lowered himself into the fast-flowing river, clutching the strap of his waterproof bag. The water was surprisingly cold, for it gushed from thousands of mountainous streams, lakes and rivers, but Trapp knew that he would not be in it long.
He swam for the river’s opposite bank, heading for the heart of darkness of a country that no American operative had entered since the end of the Korean War more than sixty years before, and knowing that if he was caught, then he would surely die.
31
Kim entered the stark concrete warehouse that had been converted into Savrasov’s biohazard laboratory. He wandered through the anodyne hallways, mind tussling with the problem his operatives had brought back from Macau.
Captain Jung had been right about one thing, though alluding to it hadn’t saved the man’s life. The Macau operation was never pivotal to the colonel’s plan. Kim had learned of Alstyne’s existence from a source in the Chinese Ministry of State Security, a man paid handsomely—and at no real cost to Kim. Every year, on this very site, Unit 61 produced hundreds of millions of dollars of counterfeit American currency, mostly hundred dollar bills, referred to by the US Treasury as “superdollars.”
The counterfeit banknotes were so perfect that unless a bank’s scanner detected the same serial number on two notes at the same time, at opposite ends of the country, they blended into circulation undetectably. Kim had, in fact, funneled tens of millions of dollars into his own offshore bank accounts over the past decade—an insurance policy, in case he was ever forced to flee.
A smile crossed his twisted face. If everything went to plan, then before too much longer he would have no need of those accounts. A far greater prize was almost in his grasp: the resources of an entire nation.
Kim entered Savrasov’s office without
knocking, passing an armed guard he’d stationed outside the doorway as a reminder to the Russian of who was in control. Not that the weak geneticist required any great encouragement. He was pathetically, desperately eager to simply survive—all thoughts of personal enrichment long since forgotten. “Where is the girl?”
The frazzled scientist tore his eye away from the viewing scope of an electron microscope, a startled expression on his face. “What girl?” he stammered.
Kim grimaced, stuck his head into the hallway and barked a command. The guard nodded and turned on his heel—eager to escape the presence of his irritated CO. After all, it was only earlier that day that the colonel had demonstrated the punishment for failure for the entire camp to see. Kim was pleased with the man’s alacrity.
He returned to Savrasov’s office. The man was anxiously kneading his lab coat between his fingers. “How is the virus progressing, Doctor?” he asked.
Boris’ eyes glazed for a second, then refocused. He looked almost relieved to be asked a question about his area of expertise, as though it gave him a moment’s respite from constantly questioning whether he was about to be executed.
Kim considered reassuring him, then decided against it. The threat of fear had, after all, worked magnificently well so far. Why mess with something that wasn’t broken?
Savrasov nodded. “Well. Very well. It’s operating within the parameters I outlined. We infected them three days ago, and their bloodwork is already indicating a high viral load. They should be symptomatic in forty-eight hours, perhaps a little less.”
Kim smiled, pleased. After the failure in Macau, it was nice to hear some positive news. He assured himself that Alstyne’s death was nothing more than an outlier, rather than a portent of the coming failure. He should’ve sent a more experienced man in Captain Jung’s place. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“Good. And the delivery mechanism?”
Savrasov blanched. Kim understood the man’s reaction—at least, in an intellectual capacity. The colonel had never experienced the wide range of emotions that other men took for granted. Like his height, his emotional development had been stunted during childhood. He wouldn’t shed a tear over the loss. If anything, it was an advantage. Emotions only served to blunt a man’s decision-making, to obscure his true goal.
Kim wasn’t weighed down by such petty concerns.
But Boris Savrasov was. When he confined himself to the realm of discussing viral loads and incubation periods, he was able to cloak his actions in the comforting obscurity of scientific jargon. It felt no different than discussing a case report back at Vektor Institute in Siberia.
There was no obscuring the true purpose of Kim’s weapons, however. They were designed to kill—and not just to kill those in the immediate vicinity, but to bring down an entire superpower. A country whose boot had been on the neck of the Korean people for far too long. A country who Kim intended to humble.
“They will work.” Savrasov coughed. “A little dated, but perfectly effective.”
Kim smiled his rictus smile once more. He heard the sound of boots approaching in the hallway, rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum floor. “Good. As it happens, Boris, I have another candidate for your trial.”
Before he was able to stop himself, the Russian shook his head. “I have enough data,” he said quickly. “I don’t need another.”
“I wasn’t asking, Doctor.”
The battered female prisoner appeared in the doorway, flanked by two of Kim’s men, who were practically holding her up by her shoulders, as her bloodied legs dangled against the floor. Kim studied her for the first time. Underneath the bruises and cuts, and the ammonia stink of urine, she seemed a pretty woman. Taller than most Chinese, and with slightly lighter skin. Her physique was impressive—like a gymnast’s, her muscles contoured and defined.
“So,” he said, speaking in perfect yet accented English. “You’re the whore.”
Kim watched carefully for a response, but none came. The woman simply dangled between her captors, her chest rising and falling, her breath occasionally catching as though responding to an unexpected lance of pain.
And yet, somehow, he believed that she understood exactly what he was saying. It was a result of nothing that the woman had said or done, just a sixth sense that Kim had honed over many hundreds of interrogations just like this one.
Well, not precisely the same, Kim thought. Today he had the opportunity to try something new. Something he had never done before. And though he had never felt shame, even after executing his own mother, nor sadness at the death of his family, the Korean colonel most certainly experienced his own twisted version of joy. The feeling overcame him, swelling in his breast.
“My men have the drive,” Kim added. “We’ll break our way into it before long. Your silence will achieve little.”
The woman said nothing.
Kim shrugged. He pointed at Savrasov’s office chair, and ordered his two men to deposit the woman onto it. She slumped against it, still making no eye contact. Kim sensed that she was listening, however.
“Would you like to know what we’re doing here?” he asked, opening up his body and gesturing around the Russian’s messy office, at the electron microscope, the centrifuge, and various other pieces of equipment that Kim neither recognized, nor cared to ask about.
Still, no response.
“My dear, you should be excited. The whole world will soon learn what we have done.” Kim grinned, looking toward Savrasov. “Or should I say, what my friend Boris has done.”
The tubby scientist squeaked, though whether it was with approval or dismay, the colonel didn’t much care. But yet again, the woman showed no sign that she had heard Kim, let alone understood his words.
Kim frowned. Perhaps, after all, she didn’t speak English. Maybe she was exactly as she seemed—a pretty whore, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps Emmanuel Alstyne had died as a result of an unknown health condition: a brain aneurysm, or a heart attack.
Kim sneered.
He didn’t believe that for a second. The bitch was neck deep in this. And he would discover the truth, one way or another. He studied her battered face, lip curling with disgust as he watched a thin strand of drool pool at the corner of her mouth then dangle with disgusting, infuriating slowness, before detaching and falling onto her leg. She made no move to wipe it off. No move, in fact, to indicate that she was anything more than a brain-dead vegetable.
But Kim knew better.
“You see, my dear, I think you understand every word I am saying. I think you are American. I think you were sent to murder your traitorous compatriot, and retrieve the files he stole. And I think you are going to tell you everything you know, one way or another. So I will offer you a simple choice: come clean, and I’ll allow you to die quickly. Lie to me, and you will choke on your own blood.”
He waited for a response. When none came, he clicked his fingers.
“Very well then,” he said. “It seems I shall have to show you.”
In Korean, for the benefit of the two guards, he added, “Take her to the observation room.”
Kim walked behind his men as they dragged the prisoner down the hallway. “Boris,” he growled, noticing the Russian scientist lingering behind, his expression pale with fear. “You too.”
Inside the observation room, a curtain was drawn across the glass partition. Immediately, Kim knew that it was Savrasov’s doing. The Russian detested what Kim was making him do. Even though the test subjects were not yet symptomatic, many soon would be. It was easy for Savrasov to hide from the consequences of his actions behind his microscope. Harder when he was confronted with men and women who would die as a result of his work. Kim enjoyed watching the man’s self-loathing, the black hatred now twisting his face such a contrast to the impassive expressions on the faces of the two guards currently manhandling his prisoner.
“Open the curtain, Boris,” Kim said. “Let us see your handiwork.”
Boris blinked anxiously, gulped, then stepped forward, toward the glass partition. The curtain was drawn open and closed by a chain, and it rasped as he tugged at it with heavy fingers. The curtain opened, by inches at first, then feet, and finally the window was fully clear.
Immediately, the scientist turned away, hiding from the horrors he had unleashed into the world as a result of his greed.
But Kim was entranced. Inside the test facility, eight subjects lay on camp beds, secured by thin metallic chains that linked the cuffs around their legs to the bed underneath them, bolted to the floor. The eight: four Americans, and four Chinese, lay listlessly at first, but revived themselves when they saw activity on the other side of the glass.
Three of the four Americans started yelling, the fourth simply looked up hopelessly, tears streaking down her face. The sound was muted, so Kim walked to an intercom button set onto the wall, by the glass window, and pushed it.
“— us out, you motherfucker. What do you want with us?”
In the reflection on the glass, Kim watched as—just for a second—the girl’s head jerked upward. Immediately she caught herself, and pressed her chin against her chest—but it was too late. Kim turned, with an expression of vicious joy stretched across his broken face.
“I thought so,” he growled. He strode over to her, grabbed her chin roughly, and yanked it up so that he could stare into her slate gray eyes. Where before they were purposefully glazed over, now they were tinged with fear.
“The people in that room will die horribly,” he snarled. “Burning up, choking on their own blood as their own cells betray them. And now, girl, it’s time you joined them.”
32