But it was uncomfortable. Kane had loaded his equipment inside, then lay down, face first, in the cramped space. The cover was nailed into place, the truck loaded, then it bounced off to the border, Chan’s trusted man at the wheel. The dank earthy stench of the potatoes was overwhelming, and mixed with the diesel fumes from a vehicle that would make an EPA inspector flee in horror, it left him gasping for breath. But it wouldn’t be for long, assuming they had no problem at the border.
Unlike the southern border with their mortal enemy South Korea, the northern border with their lone friend in the world, China, was fairly relaxed. Yes the guards were armed to the teeth, but there was no worry about invasion, and the North Koreans were eager for the goods that China brought across the border, so much so that several free trade districts had been set up where Chinese merchants freely entered the country on a regular basis to hawk their wares to the populace.
A double smack on the driver’s door rang through the frame of the truck, alerting Kane they were nearing the border crossing. He rested his head on his hands, a rag over his mouth and nose to reduce the chances of him sneezing, and closed his eyes, relaxing. There was nothing he could do now. If they searched the vehicle, he should be fine. If they thoroughly searched it, he’d be caught.
And killed. Eventually.
The truck stuttered to a halt, its brakes probably long ago worn past any pads it might have known, and he heard chatter between the driver and the Chinese side of the border.
This wasn’t the problem area. The Chinese didn’t care what left their country; they were only concerned with what came in. And for the right bribe, they would happily look the other way regardless. After a few minutes, the truck rumbled forward again, and he heard the distinct sound of the metal bridge as they crossed the Yalu River. The truck stopped again, and he heard yelling. This he expected, the North Koreans of the mindset that the louder they were, the more intimidating and important they appeared, and the more likely their superiors would assume they were doing their jobs well.
Korean was a language he hadn’t yet mastered, but he had the basics. The very basics. But that wouldn’t have helped, since everything was so muffled from the still running engine, and the load of potatoes over his head. But he could recognize when voices moved, and suddenly the yelling moved from the front of the vehicle to the back, then the engine shut off, and he heard the distinct sound of a round being chambered. Shots rang out, and at first he thought they had shot the driver, until he heard the dull thuds as shot after shot erupted from a submachine gun, exploding potatoes uncomfortably close to his hiding place.
He winced, biting down hard on the handkerchief covering his face, as something hit his shoulder. His eyes squeezed shut, he gritted through the pain as the gunfire stopped, along with the voices. In the eerie silence, all he could hear was his own pulse pounding in his ears, as he controlled his breathing, making certain he remained painfully still.
There was a shout, then the engine roared to life, was put in gear, and the truck jerked forward. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief, but not daring let out anything louder until they were several minutes from the crossing. His greatest fear in this entire endeavor wasn’t dying as one might expect, it was the driver losing his cool. He was supposed to deliver him near Yongampo, which was only a few miles from the coast, and the same general area the satellite call had been traced to. He knew it was about thirty minutes travel time, and as each minute passed, he gained additional respect for the size of the set of balls in the front seat.
After the expected stretch, he heard two smacks on the door, and he knew it was almost time for him to leave the truck. He felt it turn, then stop, then two more smacks. He reached in front of him, feeling his way in the near perfect darkness, and found the knob. He turned it clockwise ninety degrees, and the surface he was lying on suddenly dropped to the ground, dumping him and his equipment onto the ground, under the truck.
He spun around, climbed back into his hiding place, and made sure all of the equipment had cleared, then pushed himself out again, shoving the floor back up into its upward position with a click. Tossing his equipment to the right side of the vehicle, he rolled out from under then reached up, pounding the side of the vehicle twice.
Immediately his partner in crime roared away, leaving him on the side of the road with over a hundred pounds of equipment, and a rapidly brightening day. He checked his shoulder and was relieved to see it was just a splinter. Removing it, he quickly attached everything to the backpack frame and set out for the coast which he could see in the distance as the sun rose behind him. To his left was Yongampo, where the GPS coordinates embedded in the satphone call indicated it had originated, and where their intel told them was an idyllic example of twisted North Korean thinking.
The International Cooperation Center.
It had been known for decades the North Koreans were kidnapping foreign nationals, they had even admitted to such, as if it were their right. Japanese were the most popular, but the North Koreans certainly didn’t limit themselves to their enemies, former or current. They kidnapped Chinese, Russians, Indians, whoever they thought might improve their country. It wasn’t until the recent defection of a high level party official and his family after the death of Kim Jong-il, across the very bridge he had just left, that the truth had come out during debriefings at a CIA station in Japan.
The International Cooperation Center was real, was outside of Yongampo, near the Chinese border so it could easily be supplied, and was as far away from the southern border as possible. Dozens of kidnapped individuals, some recent, others from decades past, worked in “harmony” toward the “betterment of mankind”.
His briefing from Chan indicated a military base within three miles of the city, but that they were there only in the event a raid was attempted to retrieve a “guest”. Security was internal, and minimized to make the residents as comfortable as possible. The residents lived in homes, with their families in some cases, some with families they had conceived here with North Korean women provided for their comfort.
Reports were that most of the people were actually happy there. The longer term residents more so than the recent arrivals.
And then there were the volunteers. Those who hadn’t been kidnapped, but had wanted to go to North Korea for political and ideological reasons. There were dozens of those as well, not apparently catching the hypocrisy of leaving the West so they could live a communist life, and instead of doing so, were happily serving the cause by living in a Western style compound.
A voice called out to his left and he dropped to the ground, the heavy backpack momentarily crushing the air out of his lungs. He gasped to recover, then rolled to his side to make a lower profile amongst the meager crops he had been crossing. Raising his head slightly, he saw a farmer about a hundred yards away, waving. He appeared to be looking directly at him. Another voice called out, behind him, and Kane rolled to the other side, taking a look. A second farmer was returning the wave, and walking toward his neighbor.
And Kane.
Kane couldn’t afford to be discovered. Most North Korean citizens were fiercely loyal to their leadership through fear. It wasn’t that they necessarily wanted to report you, it was they were afraid of what might happen if they didn’t. What if he were a plant to test their loyalty? If they didn’t report what they had seen, they would fail the test, and be imprisoned, any privileges they may have earned, stripped away.
Kane began to crawl, infantry style, as quickly as he could, shoulders low to the ground, ass down, keeping his body as low as possible. Unfortunately he had a large backpack sticking up above him, but there was no time to remove it. He only hoped that the farmer hadn’t seen him, or thought he was a trick of the shadows played by the rising sun and the trees that occasionally dotted the landscape.
Words were exchanged, but he couldn’t listen, his own grunting and the noise of his body dragging across the field preventing it. All he could tell was that the second voice wa
s getting closer. The crops he climbed through, wheat he assumed, were barely two feet high, and not very densely packed. He was crawling between two rows, meaning if someone were to just look down the row, he would be seen.
His heart pounded with the exertion as he continued to push himself toward the edge of the field. He could see the crops ending only ten feet from him now and, firing adrenaline through his veins, a drop off. The ground crunched behind him with each step of the visiting farmer, getting closer and closer to his feeble hiding place.
He pushed harder, digging his elbows, knees and toes deeper into the soil, racing as fast as he could toward the cover so close at hand. He wasn’t concerned about noise now, he was concerned with not being seen. If the farmer came upon an empty row of crops, having heard something he couldn’t explain, he would probably ignore it. But if he caught even a glimpse of Kane, he would be running for the nearest phone.
Or pitchfork.
And then Kane might have to kill an innocent man.
The lip to a drainage ditch was now only inches away. The crunch of boots, then a friendly shout were heard as Kane poured himself over the lip and rolled into the small ditch. As he rolled, he spotted the farmer entering his row, looking toward the other farmer, just as Kane dropped out of sight. He sucked in a deep breath through the nose, then slowly let it out through his mouth, repeating this several times as he steadied his racing heart, quieting the pounding in his ears, as he tried to listen to the voices.
The slowly receding voices.
Kane breathed a sigh of relief, righted himself, then dared a quick glance. The farmer was clearly moving away from his position, apparently unaware of Kane’s presence. Kane spotted a perpendicular drainage ditch ten yards further away from the now chatting farmers, and quickly made his way there, then took the new ditch, this time on hands and knees, making the going a little easier. Another five minutes and the land sloped enough that he was able to stand again, out of sight of the farmers, and with a pleasant view of the coast, the “freedom” of China only a few miles to the north.
A quick scan of the area and he knew exactly where he was from the satellite shots he had studied in Chan’s back room. Three trees stood to his right, seemingly guarding a large stone outcropping. He made his way there, and quickly unhooked his backpack, shrugging it off his shoulders. Unpacking, he began to stuff the equipment he would need for later under the outcropping and out of sight, then downed some water and a protein bar. He packed a smaller backpack, slung it over his shoulders, and headed in the direction of the International Cooperation Center.
And with each step, his mind kept returning to that day, that fateful mission, where everything had gone wrong, the memories of it haunting him every night since, and whenever he was left alone with his thoughts.
He pushed the memory aside, instead focusing on his plan. It could work. It had to work. For if it didn’t, it meant three dead American scientists.
By his hand.
International Cooperation Center, North Korea
Today, Eight Days after the Kidnappings
Jason Peterson sat on his stool, reviewing the computer setup, but finding it difficult to focus, his face still swollen and throbbing from the beating he had taken. Phil and Carl had been unable to look at him, Carl probably out of fear he’d flip out, and Phil he hoped out of guilt.
This is all your damned fault!
Right now Jason would like nothing better than to wrap his hands around Phil’s throat and squeeze the very life out of him. But what would that accomplish? A painful death for him and his family. Probably his family first, in front of him.
He needed a way out.
And escape was impossible. He knew that. There was just too much security, cameras, microphones. One thing he was nearly certain of was that there was no video surveillance in the house. They hadn’t known where the phone was, they just knew it was there. That should mean they at least couldn’t see anything in the house, because if they didn’t have the bathroom of all places wired, he doubted they would bother with anything else. He couldn’t see them excluding the bathroom out of politeness or modesty. But their every word was monitored, every sound listened to.
It was intolerable.
He had to get out.
But even if they were to leave the house, which was permitted, they would have to get out of the compound, which may or may not be difficult, he didn’t know, but they were still inside North Korea. Where would he, his wife, and two young kids, go? How could they possibly escape?
Just kill yourself, then it’s over.
He froze at the thought. The ultimate sin, something he had never contemplated in his entire life, never even casually had the thought cross his mind. But now there it was. Suicide. An obvious solution, a horrible solution, a final solution.
But what about Maggie and the kids?
He nearly gagged at the thought that popped in his mind. If he killed himself, they would have no more need for his family, and they would most certainly kill them, or worse. He had visions of Maggie and Ayla being raped repeatedly as punishment for his crime, then killed, while Darius cried as he witnessed the abuse.
Tears welled in his eyes as the image consumed him.
“Are you okay,” whispered Carl, leaning down beside him, pretending to be reading the monitor.
Jason nodded slightly. “I will be.”
Carl gave him a pat on the back, and returned to his own station. Jason gently wiped the tears from his eyes, the swollen area still tender to the touch.
And a decision was made. A horrible decision. One he didn’t know if he could follow through on, or if he even should.
He was going to kill his family, then himself.
Tonight.
Outside the International Cooperation Center, North Korea
Kane was well concealed amongst several wild bushes, his special anti-glare, anti-reflection binoculars pressed to his eyes as he surveyed the compound below. It was eerie. Almost like looking at some small middle-America town in the late fifties, early sixties. In fact, it looked much like the married quarters of a military base. All perfectly appointed small homes, a patchwork of colors, all fitting the one story rancher style that so typified that era.
Quaint.
That was the word he would use to describe the scene if asked. It was quaint. Green lawns, well-manicured by men in blue jumpsuits, gardens in the back yards, some tended by women in Western clothes, women he assumed were the wives of some of the “guests”. And some were Korean, as reported in his briefing.
There was a school, with an old fashioned school bell that had just rung. Minutes before women from many of the houses had left their homes and walked toward the building in the center of the community, a community laid out in a hub and spoke pattern. The school, along with what looked like a general store and community center, sat at the hub, with streets extending out in all directions, most with about a dozen homes lining them, then one main street that ran down the middle, joining with another hub about two miles distant, it clearly the International Cooperation Center. The streets extending from there appeared to be support buildings, and barracks for the North Korean staff.
And all around it a fence, about ten feet tall with razor wire trimming it, but guards only at the gates at either end of the compound. Again, it appeared security was considered a non-issue. After all, where were you going to go?
North Korea might as well be the Arctic or some remote desert. No, the terrain probably wouldn’t kill you, but the locals would turn you in in a heartbeat, and the chances of you getting to the border, if you even knew where it was, were next to nil. And that was if you chose the right border. Western instinct would be to go south toward the free half of this divided country. But that would be wrong. There was no way to cross the most heavily defended border in the world. And north, toward China, a traditional enemy, would seem illogical.
Kane watched a jeep make the rounds of the outer fence again. There was a cracked,
paved road that surrounded the outside of the camp, and since he’d been lying in the bushes, the jeep had come around like clockwork, every eight minutes. He could clear the distance between the nearest house, and his bushes in that time, at a sprint with almost no equipment. There was no way an eight year-old could, or a man carrying an eight year-old.
He needed cover in between. His eyes scanned the area and he spotted a depression about half way between the fence and his current position. He decided he would check it out at dusk. Right now there were too many eyes going about their business that might spot a man outside the compound.
His attention returned to the mothers picking up their children. He saw a group of five people walking together and turned his binoculars on them. Two women, three children. One an older teenage male, the middle a pre-teen, perhaps teen girl, and a young boy. He zoomed in digitally on the mothers’ faces, and it left no doubt.
Maggie Peterson and Phoebe Shephard.
He followed them home, noting they weren’t talking at all, merely providing comfort to each other through familiarity. Weak smiles were exchanged as they reached the Shephard home, then a brisk walk by the Petersons had them at their home, three doors down, within minutes. He made note of the time, and the houses, fourth and sixth from the end of the spoke pointing south-south-east of the hub, if he were south.
A near ideal position.
Now that he knew the target homes for two of the three scientists, he rolled over to his side and got comfortable, pulling out a tablet computer. He quickly began to write out, in large print, several pages of text, the first of which was, I AM AMERICAN. DON’T SAY ANYTHING. THEY ARE LISTENING.
Peterson “Residence”, Outside the International Cooperation Center, North Korea
Jason Peterson still ached all over. He had been humiliated in front of his family, his friends—scratch that, friend—at work, and had lost all hope. He knew the work couldn’t be completed, and he knew after what happened with the satphone, they would torture him until he cooperated, and if he didn’t, they would torture his family, and ultimately kill them all.
Rogue Operator (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #1) Page 23