“I heard about that on the flight up. The officer was a woman-”
“She was. Now we’re hearing on NK Army radio that they think we’re cowards for hiding behind women. I’ll say this for the North: It must be nice not to have to worry about the PC crowd. Shit, not like the old days when you were the only diplomat in town. Now we’ve all got to have golden tongues.”
“Things are not like they were.”
“No, they are not. I tell you, I sit here, Greg, and sometimes I want to give it all up and go back to sewing labels in shirts, like when I was a kid. If something was right in the old days, or necessary, you did it. You didn’t have to go to the U.N. with your hat in your hand and ask the effing Ukraine for permission to test bombs in your own goddamn desert. Jesus, General Bellini at NATO says he saw a TV interview with some goddamn Frenchmen who’re still pissed at us for accidentally shelling their houses on D-day. Who the hell pointed a TV camera at these assholes and told them to bitch? What the hell has happened to common sense?”
Donald was out of matches and lit his pipe with the hand-grenade lighter on the General’s desk. Only after he pulled the pin did he realize it might not have been a lighter.
“You said it yourself, General. TV. Everybody’s got a forum to say their say now, and there isn’t a politician who’s cocksure enough not to pay attention. You should have told the Senator you have a friend at 60 Minutes. That might’ve shaken him up.”
“Amen to that,” Schneider said as the two of them sat on the sofa. “Well, maybe the wheel will turn again. It’s like that slave in The Ten Commandments who wanted to see the Deliverer before he died-and there was Charlton Moses Heston there to catch him when he took a hatchet in the gut. That’s what I want. Just once before I die, I want to see the person who’s going to deliver us from bullshit, who’s going to do what’s right even if he takes an ax in the belly. If I didn’t care so much about my goddamn men, hell, I’d march right into Pyongyang and box their ears myself for Recon Officer Margolin.”
The strategy session was brief. Donald would accompany the next patrol, taking a driver of his own, a recon officer, a night-vision digital video camera, and a jeep, and making two passes along two miles of the DMZ. They would phone the visuals to Op-Center, and he would make another pass in two hours-time enough for noticeable changes to have occurred along the heart of the border.
The thirty-five-minute round trip was uneventful, after which the digital videotape was given to a communications officer for transmission to Bob Herbert.
While he waited for the next pass, Donald ignored Schneider’s suggestion that he get some rest and went to the radio center, a shack with five cubicles, each of which was crammed with radios, telephones, and a computer with thick files of int-sigs-interval signals used to identify broadcasters-the exact location in degrees and minutes of every transmitter site in Asia and the Pacific-as well as the azimuth of maximum radiation in degrees from true north of the site-a kiloHertz frequency schedule to help pinpoint particular signals, and a SINPO troubleshooter program to help clear up any problems with signal strength, interference, noise, propagation, and overall merit of the signal.
Taking the cubicle vacated by the Communications Officer to whom he’d given the CD, Donald only cared about one transmitter. And he knew he’d have no trouble getting a message to a point less than five miles away.
He ran a computer check of the transmitters at the DMZ. There were two: shortwave and medium wave. He selected the former, operating at 3350 kHz, picked up the small microphone, and sent a terse voice message:
“To General Hong-koo, Commander of the Forces of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea at Base One, DMZ. Ambassador Gregory Donald sends greetings, and respectfully requests a meeting in the neutral zone at the General’s convenience. Seek an end to hostilities and escalation, and hope you will favor us at your earliest convenience. ”
Donald repeated the message, then reported to General Schneider. The General’s own people had already told him what Donald had seen: that ranks were being closed at the front, with tanks and light artillery being moved in along with support personnel.
Schneider was neither surprised nor worried by the buildup, though he wished that General Sam would allow his troops to do likewise. But Sam wouldn’t act without an okay from Seoul, and Seoul wouldn’t authorize it until President Lawrence had upgraded the situation to Defcon 2 and conferred with President Ohn Mong-Joon. Donald knew that the former wouldn’t happen without another incident like the Mirage, and that the two men would avoid talking, officially, until they and their advisers had already decided what needed to be done. That way, they could reach a quick consensus and show the world that they were of one decisive mind. Meanwhile, Donald sat and waited to see whether the North would accept his invitation … and if they did, whether Schneider would see that as the act of a coward or a Deliverer.
FIFTY
Wednesday, 1:20 A.M., Yanguu Village
The cottage was made of stone, with a thatched roof and small wooden deck in the front. The door was held in place by a hook latch, no lock, and there were two windows with four-pane glass on either side. The structure seemed relatively new, neither the thatching nor stone looking like they’d been exposed to more than two rainy winters.
Cho looked back at Hwan, who nodded. The driver cut the lights, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, and stepped into what was once more a light drizzle. When he opened Kim’s door, Hwan got out.
“I promise not to run,” Kim said to Hwan with a hint of indignation. “There’s nowhere to run to.”
“But people run there all the time, Ms. Chong. Besides, it’s policy. I’ve already bent the rules by taking you here without handcuffs.”
She slid out, Cho standing close beside her. “I deserve the rebuke, Mr. Hwan, and I’m sorry.” With that, she started ahead and was quickly swallowed by the dark, Cho snatching the keys from the ignition and hurrying after her with the light, Hwan coming close behind.
Kim lifted the latch and entered. She pulled a long wooden match from a glass bowl on a table beside the door, and lit several glass-domed candles scattered around the single room. While she wasn’t looking, Hwan motioned for Cho to go outside and keep watch. He departed silently.
As an orange glow filled the small room, Hwan saw the piano, a twin bed neatly made, a small round table with one chair, and a desk covered with framed photographs. He followed her with his eyes as she moved about the room-gracefully, seemingly at peace with what the day had dealt her. He wondered if it was because her heart was never truly in the work, or because she had a pragmatic, Confucian nature.
Or if she was setting him up for the biggest fall of his life.
He walked closer. There were no pictures of Kim, but he wasn’t surprised. If she’d ever had to flee unexpectedly, Pyongyang wouldn’t want photographs of a spy lying around where the KCIA could find them. He picked up one of the photographs.
“Your brother and mother?”
Kim nodded.
“Very handsome. And that’s your home?”
“It was.”
He put the picture down. “What about this cottage. Was it built for you?”
“Please, Mr. Hwan-no more questions.”
Now it was Hwan who felt rebuked. “Excuse me?”
“We have an agreement… a truce.”
Hwan walked over. “Ms. Chong, there’s no such deal. Perhaps you misunderstand our relationship.”
“There’s no misunderstanding. I’m your prisoner. But I will not betray my country by cooperating with the KCIA, and I resent your trying to charm your way into my confidence with questions about my home and family. I fear I may have already compromised myself by bringing you here.”
Hwan felt stung. Not because he’d asked and been refused: it was his job to try to learn whether this cottage was built by locals or by infiltrators of whom the KCIA might not be aware, and it was her job to prevent him from finding out. That was the game. What made him angry was that she was dead right. Kim Chong might not be a spy at heart, but she was a patriot. He wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating her again.
As Hwan stood directly behind her, Kim sat on the green-velvet bench in front of the upright and played several treble measures of a jazzy piece Hwan did not recognize. When she was finished, she lifted the lid and reached inside with both hands. He watched her closely; if she noticed, she made no sign. With both hands, she carefully unscrewed the wingnut on a metal brace, swung it back, and lifted a small radio from the compartment. On the opposite side was a bracket with what appeared to be an explosive device wired to the lid.