His breathing was tremulous, his step unsteady as he entered the room. There were large candles burning on either side of the coffin, toward the head, and he walked around to the foot without looking in. From the corner of his eye he could see the dress they had sent a soldier to collect, the plain, white silk gown she wore when they were married. He could see the red and white of the bouquet they had placed in her hands, on her waist. Donald had asked for that: though Soonji didn’t believe that red and white roses brought you to the side of God, her mother, who believed in Chondokyo, had been buried that way. She might not find God, in whose existence she had more faith than he, but perhaps Soonji would find her mother.
Facing the coffin, he raised his eyes slowly.
And smiled. They had taken care of his girl. In life she had worn only the slightest touch of rouge, and she had on only a hint of it now. Her lashes were lightly brushed with mascara, and her skin wasn’t caked with powder or paint but fair-looking, as it had been in life. Someone must have brought her perfume from their apartment, for he became aware of it now that he stood so close. Donald resisted the urge to touch her, for to the senses of sight and smell she was asleep … and at peace.
He wept openly as he moved to the left side of the coffin, not to gaze more closely at her but to kiss his finger and touch it to her gold wedding band, a ring inscribed with their names and the date they were married.
After allowing himself to touch the ruff of her sleeve, and remembering how soft and young and vital she had been the day they were wed, Donald walked from the chapel stronger than when he had entered, with reason in control of the anger he had shown General Norbom.
But he still intended to go north, with or without his friend’s help.
THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, 10:15 P.M., Seoul
When Kim Hwan entered the guardroom, the Desk Sergeant gave him a photo ID. Hwan read the information: Name: Lee Ki-Soo. Age: Twenty. Address: 116 Hai Way, Seoul.
“Did you check it?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. The apartment is leased to a Shin Jong U, whom we haven’t been able to contact-this man says he lives in a room and that Mr. U is away on business. He works at the General Motors factory outside of town, but the personnel department is closed until tomorrow.”
Hwan nodded, and as the Desk Sergeant prepared to take notes, the Deputy Director studied the man who had come to see him. He was short but well muscled; Hwan could see that in his neck and forearms. He was dressed in a factory worker’s drab grays; he played with his black beret, shifted uneasily from foot to foot, and bowed several times when Hwan first entered. But his eyes never left Hwan, and they were strangely unsettling: they had a hard but lifeless glaze, like the eyes of a shark.
Strange combination-odd man, he thought. But today affected many people, and perhaps he was one of them.
Hwan moved up to a circular metal grid in the glass. “I’m Deputy Director Kim Hwan. You asked to see me?”
“You are in charge of this-this terrible thing?”
“I am.”
“I saw them. As I told this fellow, I saw three men. They were walking away from the truck toward the old section-carrying bags.”
“Did you. see their faces?”
The man shook his head quickly. “I was not close enough. I was standing right out there-” He sidled to the door and jabbed with his finger. “By the benches. I was looking for-you know, sometimes they put lavatories out for the public. But not today. And while I was looking, I saw them.”
“Are you certain you couldn’t identify them? Color of their hair-”
“Black. All three.”
“Facial hair? The size of their noses? Thin lips, large lips, prominent ears?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see. As I said, I had other things on my mind.”
“Do you recall what they were wearing?”
“Clothes. I mean, ordinary street clothes. And boots. I think they had boots on.”
Hwan regarded the man for a moment. “Is there anything else?”‘
The man shook his head.
“Would you be agreeable to signing a statement regarding what you saw? It will only take a few minutes to prepare.”
The man shook his head vigorously and quickly closed the small distance between himself and the door. “No, sir. I couldn’t do that. I was not on my break when I went to the ceremony, so I slipped out. I wanted to be there, you understand. If my bosses knew, I would be disciplined-”
“They needn’t know,” said Hwan.
“I’m sorry.” He put his hand to the door. “I wanted you to have this information, but I don’t wish to become involved. Please-I hope this was helpful to you, but I must go.”
With that, the man pushed open the door and ran into the darkness. Hwan and the Desk Sergeant looked at each other.
“Seems to have had a few beers too many before stopping by, sir.”
“Or not enough,” Hwan said. “Would you type that up and give it to me unsigned? There was some useful information there.”
At least, it corroborated some of the facts he had come up with in the alley. He toyed briefly with the idea of having the curious little man followed, but decided the manpower was best utilized where it was, interviewing other attendees, checking video footage and photographs, and searching the area and abandoned hotel for other clues.
Climbing the stairs-he refused to take elevators when he had the time and energy to walk-Hwan returned to his office to consider his next move.
When the Director returned, he would be unhappy with the state of the investigation: their skimpy evidence pointing to North Korea, but no leads to who perpetrated the deeds.
After using his radio to check with the field forces, and learning that they were coming up empty, Hwan decided that to get that evidence quickly he would have to move in a way he’d been loath to, a way that might cost them as much as they would gain.
Reluctantly he picked up the phone….
THIRTY-THREE
Tuesday, 10:20 P.M., Kosong, North Korea
Traveling at an average speed of 120 miles an hour, the sleek, modern Lake LA-4-200 Buccaneer four-seater flew low over the sea as it headed toward the coast of North Korea, its top-mounted Lycoming 0-360-A1A engine humming as the pilot kept the plane steady. The air was turbulent this close to the surface-just under one thousand feet and descending quickly-and the pilot didn’t want to have to ditch her. Not with these two onboard. He dragged a handkerchief across his sweaty forehead, not daring to contemplate what they might do if he had to land fifty miles from shore.
The twenty-five-foot-long plane bucked as he dropped below five hundred feet-faster than he should have, given the down draft, but not as fast as he would have liked. The dark outline of the shore was visible now, and the pilot knew he wasn’t going to have time to make a second pass: his passengers needed to be ashore by eight-thirty, and he wasn’t going to disappoint them. Not by so much as a second.
He also wasn’t going to let his dear friend Han Song get him any more off-the-book flights. Sons wanting to sneak in and visit fathers or even spies from the South were one thing. The gambler had said that these two were businessmen, but he didn’t say their business was murder.
He set the boat-shaped belly of the aircraft down with a gentle thud, water kicking up on both sides as he braked quickly; he wanted to get the men off and the plane turned around before any curious fishermen or constables decided to check him out.
He unlatched the hatch and flipped it open. The entire cockpit was exposed. Snatching the raft from the copilot’s seat, he lowered it over the side while the men in the back seats stood. The pilot extended his hand to help the first man into the raft. The killer grabbed the pilot’s wrist and looked at his phosphorescent aviator’s watch.
“We-we made it!” the pilot said.
“You’ve done well,” the killer replied as his companion edged around him and climbed into the raft. He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and handed the pilot a bundle of money. “As your agent and I agreed.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew the bloody stiletto, held it in front of him. The pilot’s heart drummed so hard he was sure it and not the engine was causing the plane to shake. The killer laughed, cocked his arm suddenly to the side, and threw the blade out to sea; the pilot deflated so quickly he lost his balance and fell against the seat.