Tom Clancy's Op-center_ Op-center Part 17

Hood hated questions like that. Of course there were. Clandestine operations were always going on. They went on long before Ollie North oversaw the arms-for-hostages deal, kept going on after his activities were exposed, and would continue going on in the future. The difference was, presidents no longer took credit, even in private, for covert operations that succeeded. And people like Hood were castigated, in public, if they failed.

The effete Burkow just liked to hear it. He liked officials to admit that they were doing something illegal so he or the President could point out that they were on their own. It reminded them who was President and who was his cousin and most trusted adviser.

"We've been flying one surveillance mission an hour to make up for the loss of satellite recon, and I sent a Striker team over minutes after the explosion. It's a twelve-hour flight, and I wanted them in place if they were needed."

"In place," said Burkow. "Meaning--"

"North Korea."

"Unmarked?"

"No uniforms, no identification of any kind on the weapons."

Burkow looked at the President.

"What's the mission profile?" the National Security head asked.

"I've ordered the team to go in near the Diamond Mountain range and report back on the status of the Nodong missiles."

"You sent all twelve men?"

Hood nodded. He didn't bother to tell them that Mike Rodgers was one of them; Burkow would have a s.h.i.+t. If the team were captured, war-hero Rodgers was well known enough that he might be identified.

"This conversation never took place," Lawrence said predictably, then closed the report. "So the Task Force recommends that we continue a slow, steady deployment until we've determined whether or not North Korea was responsible for the explosion. And even if the government or one of its representatives was responsible, that we exert diplomatic pressure only, though without standing down militarily. a.s.suming, of course, that there are no additional acts of terrorism."

"That's it, sir. Yes."

The President drummed the top of the report. "How long have we been piddling with the Palestinians about those Hezbollah terrorists who hit the Hollywood Bowl? Six months?"

"Seven."

"Seven months. Paul, we've been kicked in the a.s.s way too often since I took office, and we keep turning the other cheek. It's got to stop here."

"Amba.s.sador Gap called earlier," said Burkow, "and offered the most obligatory of regrets. He said nothing to a.s.sure us that they weren't responsible."

"Martha says that's the way they are," Hood said. "And while I don't disagree with the need to be decisive, we have to make sure we hit the right target. I repeat what's in the report: we see no unusual military activity in the North, no one has claimed responsibility for the explosion, and even if certain factions in North Korea were responsible, that doesn't implicate the government itself."

"It doesn't let them off the hook, either," said the President. "If General Schneider started lobbing sh.e.l.ls over the DMZ, you can bet Pyongyang wouldn't check with me to see if it's okay to start firing back. Paul, if you'll excuse me now, I've got to meet--"

The STU-3 rang and the President picked it up. His face clouded over as he listened, saying nothing. After several seconds, he thanked the caller and said he'd get back to him. After hanging up, he rested his forehead in his steepled hands.

"That was General MacLean at the Pentagon. We have had now, Paul, unusual military activity in the North. A DPRK MiG fired on one of your spy planes, killing the Recon Officer."

Burkow swore.

"Was it a warning shot that went bad?" Hood asked.

The President glared at him. "Whose side are you on, for Christ's sake?"

"Mr. President, we were over their airs.p.a.ce--"

"And we will not apologize for that! I will instruct the Press Secretary to tell reporters that in light of what happened this afternoon, we had to step up security in the region. North Korea's overreaction simply confirms our concerns. I will further instruct General MacLean that as of ten A.M. this morning, all U.S. forces in the area are to go to Defcon 3. Put the screws to your friends in Seoul, Paul, and huddle with the DOD to get me a military update to this by noon. Fax it-- you're too valuable to have running back and forth." He picked up the Options Paper and dropped it. "Steve, tell Greg I want the CIA out there turning over every rock until they find out who was responsible for the explosion. Not that it matters: whether or not the North was in it before, Paul, they're in it now-- up to their necks!"

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO.

Tuesday, 11:40 P.M., Seoul

The hea.r.s.e sped south toward the airstrip, traveling highways that were thick with military traffic heading north, away from Seoul.

As he sat in the backseat of the Amba.s.sador's Mercedes, following the hea.r.s.e, Gregory Donald noticed the increased troop movements away from the city. In light of Bob Herbert's phone call, he could only imagine that things were heating up between the two governments. He wasn't surprised; this close to the DMZ, high alerts were as common in Seoul as pirated videotapes. Still, this level of activity was unusual. The numbers of soldiers being moved suggested that generals didn't want to have too many people in one spot, lest the North attack with rockets.

For the moment Donald felt detached from it all. He was trapped in a coc.o.o.n two car-lengths long and too few years wide, locked in with the reality that that was his wife in front of him and that he would never see her again. Not on this earth. The hea.r.s.e was illuminated by the headlights of the Mercedes, and as he gazed at the black drapes drawn in the back he wondered if Soonji would have been pleased or bothered to be riding in a state vehicle in that car in particular. He remembered how Soonji had shut her eyes after he told her the story, as though that would somehow close out the truth- The black Cadillac was shared by the American, British, Canadian, and French emba.s.sies in Seoul, and was parked at the latter when not in use. Sharing official hea.r.s.es was not uncommon, though there was almost an international incident in 1982, when both the British and French amba.s.sadors unexpectedly lost relatives on the same afternoon and both requested the official hea.r.s.e at the same time. Since the French kept it garaged, they felt they deserved first use; the British maintained that since the French Amba.s.sador had lost a grandmother and the British Amba.s.sador a father, the closer relation took priority. The French countered that, arguably, the Amba.s.sador was closer to his grandmother than the British Amba.s.sador was to his father. To defuse the conflict, both amba.s.sadors hired outside funeral homes and the official hea.r.s.e remained unused that day.

Gregory Donald smiled as he remembered what Soonji said, with her eyes still tightly squeezed: "Only in the diplomatic corps could a war and a car reservation carry equal weight." And it was true. There was nothing too small, too personal, or too macabre to become an international issue. For that reason, he was touched-- and felt Soonji would have been too-- when British Amba.s.sador Clayton phoned him at the emba.s.sy to offer his condolences and to tell him that the emba.s.sies would not use the hea.r.s.e for their own victims of today's blast until after he was finished with it.

He refused to take his eyes off the hea.r.s.e, though his tired mind roved in a stream-of-consciousness state, thinking of the last meal he had with Soonji, the last time they made love, the last time he had watched her dress. He could still taste her lipstick, smell her perfume, feel her long fingernails on the back of his neck. Then he thought back to how he had first been attracted to Soonji, not by her beauty or poise but by her words-- her incisive, clever words. He remembered the conversation she had had with a girlfriend who worked for outgoing Amba.s.sador Dan Tunick. As the Amba.s.sador finished his farewell speech to the staff, the girlfriend said, "He looks so happy."

Soonji regarded the Amba.s.sador for a moment, then said, "My father looked like that once, after pa.s.sing a stone. The Amba.s.sador looks relieved, Tish, not happy."

She'd hit it on the head in her open, irreverent way. As the crowd drank champagne, he'd walked over to her, introduced himself, told her the hea.r.s.e story, and was smitten even before her eyes had opened. As he sat here now, out of tears but not memories, he took consolation from the fact that the last time he saw Soonji alive, as she ran back to his side after finding her earring, she was wearing a look of profound relief and happiness.

The Mercedes followed the hea.r.s.e off the highway and toward the airfield. Donald would see his wife to the TWA flight that was taking her to the States, and as soon as it had taken off, he would board the waiting Bell Iroquois for the short hop to the DMZ.

Howard Norbom would a.s.sume Donald had gone around him to get what he wanted, and he felt some guilt over that. But at least the General wouldn't be implicated when he tried to contact the North. Thanks to the phone call, whatever fallout there was would land on him and on Op-Center.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.

Tuesday, 11:45 P.M., KCIA Headquarters

When he got the call from Bae Gun that the arrest had been successful, Hwan was of two minds: they'd done the right thing, though he was sorry to lose a most interesting figure in Ms. Chong. His crypta.n.a.lysts had not yet cracked her code, even though they knew the contents of some of the data she was sending, having fed it to her through Bae, who told her he had a son in the military and occasionally gave her real but unimportant troop strength, map coordinates, and changes in command. Now that she was in custody, Hwan doubted that she would help them along.

The KCIA had spent four years monitoring but not interfering with the current crop of North Korean agents in Seoul. By watching one they had found another, then another and another. The five operatives seemed to form a closed loop, with Kim Chong and a pretzel-maker at their hub, and Hwan felt he had them all. With the woman's capture, he would have the others watched round the clock to see whom they contacted or what new agent might be moved in to take her place.

It bothered him, though, that in what little of her code they had broken, there hadn't even been a hint of today's attack. Indeed, the pretzel-maker-- who baked information into salt-free nuggets-- had even been told to attend the festivities and gauge the mood of the crowd toward reunification. While it was true the North could have executed the attack on a need-to-know basis and not told their operatives, Hwan doubted they would have put one in danger like that. Why bother sending him at all if they intended to terrorize the celebration?

The Desk Sergeant phoned up when the agents arrived, and Hwan stood behind his desk to receive them-- and Ms. Chong. He had never seen Kim Chong herself in the flesh, only in photographs, and went through a traditional exercise Gregory had taught him to do when meeting someone he knew only by picture or voice or reputation. He tried to fill in the blanks, to see how close his guesses came to reality. How tall they were, what they sounded like-- in the case of suspected enemies whether they would be irate, abusive, or cooperative. The process served no purpose other than as a useful review of what Hwan knew about the people before meeting them.

He knew Ms. Chong was five-foot-six, twenty-eight, with fine, long, coal-dust hair and dark eyes. And that according to what Bae had told his contact here, she was a tough nut. Hwan suspected that she would also have a musician's sensitivity, the th.o.r.n.y temperament of a woman who had to endure the advances of men at Gun's bar, and the habit of all foreign agents to listen more than she spoke, to learn rather than divulge. She would be defiant; most North Koreans were when dealing with the South.

He heard the elevator door slide open followed by footsteps in the corridor. Two agents walked in with Kim Chong between them.

Physically, the woman was exactly as he'd pictured her: proud, intense, alert. She was dressed more or less as he'd expected, in a tight black skirt, black stockings, and a white blouse, the top two b.u.t.tons open-- the uniform for women who played in lounges and bars. He'd missed the skin, though, not having imagined it to be so sun-bronzed. But of course it would be, since her days were free and she spent them poking about the city. He was also surprised by her hands, which he saw when he told the men to uncuff her. Unlike other musicians he had known, the fingers were not thick and strong but slender, delicate.

He asked the men to shut the door and wait outside, then gestured toward an armchair. The woman sat down, both feet on the floor, knees together, those graceful hands folded upright in her lap. Her eyes were on the desk.

"Ms. Chong, I'm Kim Hwan, Deputy Director of the KCIA. Would you-- care for a cigarette?"

He picked up a small case on his desk and raised the lid. She took a cigarette, caught herself as she went to tap it on the face of her watch-- it had been taken from her, lest she use the gla.s.s to try to slit her wrists-- then put the cigarette in her mouth.

Hwan walked around the desk and lit it for her. The woman drew deeply and sat back, one hand still on her lap, the other on the armrest. She still didn't allow her eyes to meet his, which was more or less standard with women during an interrogation. It prevented any kind of emotional connection from being made, which kept the meeting formal and tended to frustrate many interviewers.

Hwan offered her an ashtray and she set it on the armrest. Then he sat on the edge of the desk and regarded the woman for nearly a minute before speaking. For all her polish, there was something about this one he couldn't quite get a handle on. Something wrong.

"Is there anything I can get you? A drink?"

She shook her head once, still staring at the desk.

"Ms. Chong, we've known about you and your work for quite some time. Your mission here is over, and you'll be tried for espionage-- within the month, I imagine. The mood running as it is after today, I suspect that justice will be quick and unpleasant. However, I can promise you some measure of leniency if you help us find out who was behind the explosion at the Palace this afternoon."

"I know nothing more than what I saw on television, Mr. Hwan."

"You were told nothing in advance?"

"No. Nor do I believe that my country was responsible."

"Why do you say that?"

She looked at him for the first time. "Because we are not a nation of lunatics. There are some madmen-- but most of us don't want war."

That was it, he thought. That's what was wrong. She was following the rules for interrogation, and would probably stonewall wherever she could. But her heart wasn't in this. She'd just made a very clear distinction between "some madmen" and "us." Us who? Most operatives came from the military and would never say anything against their countrymen. Hwan wondered if Ms. Chong might be a civilian, one of those North Koreans who served against their will because they had a criminal record, were fighting to regain lost family honor, or because a sibling or parent needed money. If that was true, then they did have something in common: both of them desperately wanted peace.

Director Yung-Hoon would not approve of revealing privileged information to the enemy, but Hwan was willing to take that risk.

"Ms. Chong, suppose I were to tell you that I believed you--"

"I'd ask you to try another tack."

"But what if I meant it?" Hwan slid off the desk and squatted in front of her where she had to turn away or look at him. She looked at him. "I did poorly in the reverse psychology training, and I'm a terrible poker player. Suppose I also told you that while someone tried very hard to make this look like the work of your military, and the evidence points to that, I don't believe it is."

She frowned. "If you were to tell me that, then I'd implore you to persuade others."

"Suppose they didn't believe me. Would you help me prove my suspicions?"

Her expression was wary but interested. "I'm listening, Mr. Hwan."

"We found footprints near the bomb site-- the prints of North Korean military boots. For someone to frame your military, they'd need the footwear, of course, as well as the proper explosives and possibly weapons from the North. We don't know in what quant.i.ties these might have been taken not a large amount, I'd imagine, since a group like this would want to remain close and very small. I need you to try and find out if such a theft has occurred."

Kim stubbed out the cigarette. "I think not."

"You won't help?"

"Mr. Hwan, would your superiors believe me if I came back with such information? There's no trust between our nations."

"But I'll trust you. Can you contact your people any way other than through the bar?"

"If I could," Kim said, "what would you do?"

"Go with you and hear what they have to say, find out if any other materiel was taken. If these terrorists are as desperate as I suspect, they may be planning other attacks to push us toward war."

"But you said yourself that your superiors don't agree with your suspicions--"

"If we can find evidence," Hwan said, "anything to support my suspicions, I'll bypa.s.s my people and contact the head of the crisis Task Force in Was.h.i.+ngton. He's a reasonable man, and he will listen."

Kim continued to look at the Deputy Director. He sighed and rested his temples in his thumb and index finger.

"Time is very short, Ms. Chong. The result of today's explosion may not just be war, but the end of reunification talks for our lifetime. Will you help me?"

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "You're certain that you trust me?"

He smiled faintly. "I won't give you the keys to the car, Ms. Chong, but in this matter-- yes, I trust you."

"Ah right"-- she rose slowly-- "we'll work together on this. But understand, Mr. Hwan, I have family in the North-- and I will only go so far for you or even for peace."

"I understand."

Hwan walked briskly back to his desk and punched the intercom. He told the Desk Sergeant to arrange for his car and driver, then regarded his prisoner.

"Where are you taking me?"

"I'll direct your driver as we go, Mr. Hwan. Unless you would care to give me the keys, in which case--"

"I'll let you guide us, thanks. However, I'm required to file an itinerary in case there's a problem, and that's the first thing the Director will ask for when he returns. Give me a general direction."

Kim smiled for the first time and said, "North, Mr. Hwan. We're going north."