“The knife-” he said.
She spat it out. “You bastard!”
Two other agents ran up behind him, guns drawn. They ran over, and while one of the men helped Kim down from the garbage pails, the other pulled her arms behind her back and cuffed her.
“You didn’t have to help them, Bae! What lies did they tell you about me?”
“No lies, Kim.” The light from the bathroom window spilled onto his face and she saw him smile. “I’ve known about you from the start, just as I knew about the singer who was here before you and the bartender who worked here before him. My boss, Deputy Director Kim Hwan, keeps me well informed about DPRK spies.”
Fire in her eyes, Kim didn’t know whether to curse or congratulate him as she was ushered past, half walking, half stumbling toward the street and the waiting car.
FORTY-ONE
Tuesday, 9:30 A.M., the White House
Hood remembered the first time he’d come to the Oval Office. It was when President Lawrence’s predecessor had asked to meet the mayors of New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and Philadelphia to see what could be done to prevent riots. The gesture, intended to show his concern for the inner cities, backfired when the President was accused of being racist for anticipating that blacks might riot.
That President was a tall man, like Lawrence, and while both may have appeared a little too short for the job itself, they seemed too large for the desk and for the office.
It was a small room by any reckoning, made smaller by the large desk and chair and clusters of top-level aides who were always coming and going from the senior staff offices down the hall. The desk was built from oak planks that once belonged to the British frigate HMS Resolute, and it took up fully twenty-five percent of the Oval Office, beside the window. The leather swivel chair was also larger than life, designed not just for the President’s comfort but his protection: the back was lined with four sheets of Kevlar, the bulletproof fabric that was designed to protect the Chief Executive from gunfire originating outside the picture window. It was designed to withstand a hit from a .348 Magnum, fired at pointblank range. The desk itself was free of clutter: there . was a blotter, pen stand, photograph of the First Lady and their son, and the ivory-colored STU-3 telephone.
Across from the desk were two thick-cushioned armchairs dating back to the administration of Woodrow Wilson. Hood was in one, and National Security chief Steve Burkow was in the other, away from his empire, the spacious National Security Council suite located on the other side of the lobby and accessible through double doors under a portico. The Op-Center Director had presented them both with copies of the Options Paper, which they read through quickly. Since Hood had told them about the surveillance breakdown at NRO and Op-Center, the President had been curt at best.
“Is there anything you haven’t put in here,” Burkow asked, “anything off the books?”
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-hos-tages 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 No-dong 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 shit. 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. Assuming, 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 ass way too often since I took office, and we keep turning the other cheek. It’s got to stop here.”
“Ambassador Gap called earlier,” said Burkow, “and offered the most obligatory of regrets. He said nothing to assure 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 shells 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 airspace-”
“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!”
FORTY-TWO
Tuesday, 11:40 P.M., Seoul
The hearse 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 Ambassador’s Mercedes, following the hearse, 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 cocoon 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 hearse 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-