Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  “What do you do, Mr. Sand?” Takaki asked.

  “For a living, you mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m retired.”

  “May I ask from what?”

  Sand turned his soft brown eyes downward. After a moment, he said, “Got your radar all lit up, don’t I?”

  “Well, I’m just curious.”

  “So am I,” Kenehan said.

  Sand smiled. “Just as I’m curious about you, Mr. Kenehan, but I think we can read each other.”

  Thomas interjected, “Mr. Sand, we’ve done background checks. As you might guess, we have access to some restricted databases. We’ve got your Army record. We’ve got your credit records and much of your financial information. But most of your adult life is an empty page. For about twenty years, you were off the grid, and during that time you made a lot of money. We’re still digging, but you could save us some time. Your background, we need.”

  Sand sighed. “After I left the Army, I was a private contractor.”

  “Your service jacket indicates you suffered a gunshot wound when stationed in Japan, inflicted by a member of your platoon; then you left the service. A Japanese dignitary took you under his wing somehow. The Japanese government listed him as a ‘national treasure.’ A special lineage, a descendent of royalty or something?”

  “Master Konuma.”

  “And?”

  Sand stared off into space, into the past. “I was trying to protect him from my drunken fellow soldiers, in a bar. It was a servicemen’s bar; it catered to GIs like us. Why he would risk walking into a place like that, at a time like that, I still have no idea. The GIs preferred to discourage the locals from coming, which wasn’t much of a problem, given how xenophobic the Japanese can be.

  “Master Konuma walked in wearing a traditional Japanese ceremonial kimono. His niece worked there; he just came to visit her. The GIs started up on him. He was too old for that, I thought. But those men were drunk and didn’t take any kindlier to my skin than they did his. So when I shoved my nose into it, I took a .45 to the belly for my trouble.

  “He worked it out with those boys and saw to it that I received immediate medical attention. You see, he was one of the last remaining samurai masters, a descendent of a royal line. He had some heavy political clout. After my release from the hospital, he took me in, arranged for me to receive an honorable discharge—which was looking like it was going to be a problem because those boys cooked up a story that I had assaulted them.”

  “And some of them were severely injured.” Thomas added. “You said he ‘worked it out with them.’ The record indicates that six young infantrymen, who had all been through basic training and a few of which had seen combat, were throttled within an inch of their lives. They blamed it on you, but two witnesses reported that you were shot before any of the fighting started. Konuma was a martial arts expert; he disarmed and incapacitated the man with the pistol and then decommissioned the rest. Or so it says.”

  “So what happened next?” Kenehan asked. “You convalesced in his house?”

  “Something like that.”

  Kenehan blinked twice. “And then he trained you.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Then you fell off the grid and made millions.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Working for whom?”

  “I moved around a lot.”

  “Wakarimasen,” Kenehan said in Japanese. I don’t understand.

  “Nihongo hanase-mas-ka?” Sand replied. You speak Japanese?

  “Osukoshi.” A little.

  “Hai. Yoi dess.” Yes. Good.

  “Anata-wa ronin ka?” You were a mercenary?

  “The ronin died out with the samurai,” Sand replied in English.

  “A private operator?”

  “Takes one to know one. When I was your age, I was you—but I never had hair quite that long.”

  “So … black ops for hire?”

  “Black ops? Jesus, fellas. Give a black guy a break.”

  Sand’s humor fell flat until Brecht chuckled. The mood in the room lightened notably until Brecht’s face went slack; he appeared startled by a revelation. “Oh,” he said, “You worked for him, didn’t you?”

  “Him who?”

  “Former US president. Texas oil baron; that’s what they called him, ‘The Baron.’ Rumor has it that after leaving office, he spent years making amends for sins the world will never know. You were his Army of One.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Brecht gave a Mona Lisa smile. “Rest assured, we respect confidentiality. We have what we need. I’ll obtain the rest on my own.”

  Chapter 22

  “It seems fitting, sir, that such a mind would produce such a weapon,” said Jimmy Kim into his encrypted cell phone.

  “Indeed,” replied Young Wan Li, known in the US as David Young. “Your assessment: Can we assume that merely a combination of enticements and threats can control such insanity? Or will we require stronger measures?”

  Kim had spent a great deal of time pondering that very question. He was not sure enough yet to stake his credibility on an answer. Young was one of the few men Kim truly feared. The man could be mercurial and ruthless. He had cut unsuccessful subordinates off at the knees. He demanded results, and he had a tendency to think in terms of brute force. Kim, on the other hand, thought himself as more of a strategist. Yet believing oneself to be superior to a senior officer was nothing short of blasphemy in the North Korean intelligence services, and it could lead to the kind of slip that could result in elimination. Young saw things in black-and-white terms with little room for finesse or subtlety. Torture, threats and drugs were sometimes the fastest and surest way to ensure compliance, but it was necessary that Beeman be functional. The scientist would have to be able to make it into and out of the secure DataHelix lab under the watchful eyes of trained security, with video, biotelemetry sensors and possible toxicology screening.

  “I don’t know, sir. For a moment we were sure the scientist was going to immolate the girl—burn her alive for his pleasure. You could see it on his face. This man has a true lust for suffering and death. He is a psychopath. We thought—”

  Kim’s senior cut him off. “Yes, yes, you already told me how you felt, which is of no value at all to me. You are not answering my question. My time is valuable.”

  Chastised, Kim said, “Deeply sorry, sir.”

  “Have you nothing more to add?”

  Kim cringed at his superior’s recriminating tone. “Sir, this man is quite obviously deranged, but he is also brilliant, extremely observant, manipulative and inherently unpredictable. We must be very cautious.”

  “You’ve studied him for months, observed him, interacted with him, measured his reactions. You are presumably trained in such matters.”

  Before Kim could formulate his response, Young added, “Much rests on this mission. Supreme leader Kim requires strategic options to accompany his nuclear inventory, which is a potent threat but not usable as an offensive weapon. He has entrusted us to bring him the Black Sunrise weapon system. This is a great honor, and you must not fail or allow anyone to discover you. The lives of all of your families depend upon success. Need I repeat this?”

  “No, sir, but it would be improper to give assurances in which I lack confidence. We must assume Beeman will surprise us and be ready for anything he does. It could be a grave error to become reliant on incorrect predictions. We learned much from our year of surveillance over him, but this chance to speak with him added new information.”

  Young grunted his grudging agreement.

  “When I spoke with him,” Kim continued, “his eyes revealed nothing. It was like talking to a stone idol; one could see what one wished but only as the product of imagination. This man does not reveal his true feelings—assuming he has any. He had to have been shocked to discover we know his crimes, but he showed no signs of distress not portrayed intentional
ly, as deception. No nervous mannerisms. He is a skilled actor with superb self-control—a man who has been concealing himself from the world all of his life and has now become a master at doing so. Confronted with a shocking revelation, with the possibility of prison or worse, his brow did not dampen, his hands did not tremble, his eyes were placid, his blinking remained infrequent and his awareness of his surroundings remained acute.”

  “The unshakability of a zealot?”

  “I think not, sir. He is no patriot, and he has no traceable ideology. He’s a killer, a criminal and an intellectual rolled into one.”

  “Then why has he labored with such frenzy to craft such a weapon for his country?”

  “Not for the sake of his country. For him it is not a matter of nationalism, patriotism or ideology.”

  Young sighed in exasperation. “Then what is it?”

  “For the sake of the weapon itself. It is his progeny. He has labored for the love of death. For the joy of creating it. In my opinion, he is in love with death. He developed the weapon so that someone would use it.”

  “Who does he hate?” Young asked.

  “I doubt he hates anyone. Or perhaps he hates everyone. I think he values all people, but only for their capacity to die. I doubt he cares who uses it, upon whom or why. So long as his brainchild causes massive casualties, it will fulfill him. He’s given birth to this living weapon, and he wants to see it mature to achieve its purpose.”

  “So you believe you do understand him?”

  “Yes, sir, but only to a degree.”

  “Then I return to my original question: How do we control him?” Young’s voice had risen to the point where he was practically yelling.

  “Our best enticement is not to try to play on his fears. The typical reasons for treason—ideology, ego, religion, profit or revenge—do not motivate him. I believe he does have an ego, but it is not what compels him to act.”

  “Then what does, Kim?”

  “I believe we can entice him by giving him the belief that his weapon, his death-lust and his destiny can only reach fruition through service to our supreme leader. He must see his useful contributions to our excellent comrade’s grand plan as integral to his own sense of destiny. We can only do this if we convince him that we plan to invade the South and that his bioweapon will be the first wave of the attack. If he believes this to be true, he’ll join the party willingly, I think.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Sir, I believe this to be the most powerful motivation we can offer him; of course, we may dangle the other customary punishments and rewards. He could become a true asset, and he may yet improve on his invention.”

  “And he could decide to start a war before we’re ready. He certainly has the means.”

  “Just so,” Kim conceded. “We must do more than blackmail him. We must recruit him. Completely.”

  “What you suggest carries vastly greater risk than our original mission objectives: obtain the virus and technical data, kill him and return home.”

  “Recruiting him will be more effective for three reasons. First, this virus is unlike any pathogen. To master the strategic application of this weapon, we will require his expertise. Second, if we set him up with the equipment and resources he needs, he might improve on the weapon or develop something even more useful.”

  Kim paused.

  “And your third reason?” Young probed.

  Kim cleared his throat. “If the supreme leader chooses to unleash the American plague on an enemy nation, it could be very useful for there to be an alternative explanation for the epidemic. Beeman could become a scapegoat to draw blame away from us. This could make a huge difference in how the world responds, whether we face nuclear retaliation or not. A rogue, known to have stolen the weapon he developed. A provably unstable criminal—a kidnapper. Such a credible alternative explanation of how the plague occurred could infuse enough doubt in the world court of public opinion to make the difference between our nation’s survival and its destruction. This one choice could change the course of history.”

  Silence.

  Kim began to wonder whether his superior had hung up on him. He’d clearly overstepped his place. Daring to think above his pay grade carried the potential to advance his career or to lead to his destruction, but he placed his nation’s safety above his own, for his lifelong indoctrination in the philosophy of Juche had programmed him to do so.

  Finally, the coin landed, and Kim knew he was golden.

  “Your thinking may be sound. I will consider this, Kim.”

  “Yes, sir.” The relief Kim felt was so overpowering he felt lightheaded.

  “Provide more definitive answers quickly. Make no changes to the original plan without approval. Your first priority is to obtain the virus and the technology of its production and deployment. Recruiting this man could be a bonus, but it would also make our mission more cumbersome, operating so deeply inside America. Until we have the weapon, Beeman is a threat, an enemy we cannot kill. He is our only path to what the supreme leader sent us for.”

  “I understand.”

  The connection ended.

  Kim slipped the encrypted cell phone back into his pocket.

  He had long ago resigned himself to the likelihood that the government could torture his parents, sister and brother to death as retribution for any error he could make. His steady success in the Ministry of Intelligence had landed him with missions that were simply too complex and dangerous to allow continuous perfect performance to be a realistic expectation.

  Fatalistic acceptance of the inevitable was entrenched in the minds and hearts of DPRK covert action specialists. Training them to accept their own deaths aimed to give them courage. The threat of loved ones being hideously maimed and killed was the tether that held agents to their posts after setting them free in the Western world. Rarely were operatives loosed beyond the North Korean borders who did not have close family ties at home.

  Those espionage professionals allowed to operate for extended periods in Western nations often received reminders of the consequences of betrayal or disobedience during return visits to their homeland. Kim had to watch a missing agent’s family members undergo extreme tortures; it had later come to light that the agent had committed suicide instead of returning home. Suffering and death in a North Korean re-education camp was beyond the imagination of most Westerners. In these camps, they slowly cooked prisoners alive, subjected them to systematic amputation of digits and limbs or disfiguring surgery without anesthetic and forced them to cannibalize other prisoners.

  To maintain some semblance of sanity, Kim had tried to grind all affection for his family out of his soul and program himself to forget they even existed. He never spoke of them, and during the past ten years, he had not once spoken to them. Ever. If asked about his family, he would shrug. “Useless fools,” was all he would say.

  But when Young had overtly reminded him of the threat, he knew he was very close to the precipice. All it would take to condemn Kim and his family to hell and extinction would be a single text message from that man.

  He had to keep cool, as the American slang went, and remain steady in thought and deed. He’d never counted on luck or fortune. His intellect and training were his strengths, and he was very good at what he did, so long as he remained detached and in control.

  Always in control.

  The secret to controlling himself was to focus utterly and exclusively on the mission.

  Fear was a distraction.

  Error was the product of distraction.

  Death was the product of error.

  And thus, fear would bring death.

  Tomorrow, he would be very careful and very observant, so he could answer Young’s questions without risking a wrong guess. He would find a way to make the American demon reveal something of his inner essence.

  Chapter 23

  Roady Kenehan looked at the two files handed to him. Each member of the team had received identical copies.
They were all engrossed in absorbing their contents.

  He started with the file on Jaqueline Dawson. The expected photo was there on the left, opposite a single page listing vital statistics and other summary data.

  The photo was a professional one, taken in a studio. The label affixed to the bottom-right corner of the photo showed the estimated date, from about a year ago.

  The girl was more than just pretty; she was a knockout. She had long, wavy brown hair, a heart-shaped face, full lips and huge dark eyes. Her skin was perfect, as were the teeth showing through her dazzling smile. In her eyes, Kenehan thought he detected a mixture of teasing mirth and a touch of sadness. Kenehan sensed from the photo that she was a girl who had developed a mastery when it came to use of her visual appeal, one who could radiate her beauty like a shield or a weapon. Kenehan could see how Sand, or any man for that matter, could fall prey to such a woman.

  If she sets her sights on you, down you go.

  The Group’s personnel dossiers usually had at least two or three photos, and often more, so he lifted the bottom of the head shot to check for other pictures. The next image depicted her in a slender black evening gown standing beside Robert Sand. Her low-cut dress revealed her very well-endowed figure. Definitely stunning—she’d draw predators everywhere she went. Beneath that photo were copies of her driver’s license, birth certificate and other records.

  Kenehan looked up, glancing surreptitiously at Sand so that he could mentally pair them.

  Sand was already looking directly at him, expecting the scrutiny.

  Kenehan nodded back, his mouth set.

  Rather than commencing his detailed study of the remaining contents of Dawson’s file, Roady picked up and opened the second file.

  The photo mesmerized Kenehan.

  Christine Jensen was older and more mature, and from her picture, she appeared more self-possessed but was not as overtly glamorous as Dawson.

  But.

  Something in the image reached out and grabbed onto Roady, catching him off-guard. She had a slender face, with a tapered chin and a high forehead. Her half-smile was subtle but more genuine than Dawson’s, at least in this photograph. Unlike Dawson’s professional head shot, this picture was obviously the product of a portable camera or cell phone—but a good one. The image was crisp and clear.