General Schneider excused himself then, leaving Hood sick and angry when he got off the phone. He felt like they’d been through a full season of winning football only to lose the championship on the last play of the last game. At this point, the only thing worse would be if Mike Rodgers and the Striker team did something that actually precipitated the final conflict. He thought briefly about recalling them, but knew that Rodgers wouldn’t do anything rash. And there was still the fact that the missiles were pointed toward Japan. If Japan was hit, then war or no war the cry for remilitarization there would be unstoppable. That would cause China and both Koreas to build up their own military forces, creating an arms race that would rival the Cold War of the 1960s.
After bringing Ann and Coffey up-to-date, Hood asked them to brief the rest of Op-Center’s department heads. When they were gone, he put his forehead in his hands-
And it hit him. Pyongyang’s not going to believe anyone from the South about this, but what about someone from the North?
He buzzed his assistant.
“Bugs, Kim Hwan is at National University Hospital in Seoul. If he’s out of surgery and awake, I want to talk to him.”
“Yes, sir. Secure line?”
“There’s no time to wait for one to be brought in.
And, Bugs? Don’t let any of the doctors or KCIA guys get in your way. Go through Director Yung-Hoon if you have to.”
As he waited for Bugs, Hood rang Herbert.
“Bob-I want you to arrange for a broadcast to that frequency from Yanguu.”
“To it,” Herbert repeated.
“That’s right. We’re going to try to set up a game of telephone that may stop a war.”
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, 8:10 A.M., Seoul
Kim Hwan was drowsing when Choi Hongtack touched him on the shoulder.
“Mr. Hwan?”
Hwan opened his eyes slowly. “Yes-what is it?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a telephone call from Mr. Paul Hood in Washington.”
Hongtack was holding the telephone receiver toward him. With considerable effort, Hwan reached over and accepted it. He lay it on the pillow beside his ear and turned his head toward it.
“Hello, Paul,” he said weakly.
“Kim-how do you feel?”
“It beats the alternative.”
“Touche. Kim, time’s short so I’ll get right to the point. We found the man behind the bombing, a South Korean officer, and-I’m sorry to have to tell you this- but Gregory Donald was killed trying to apprehend one of his cohorts.”
Hwan felt like he’d been stabbed again. He couldn’t breathe and his insides burned.
“I wish there was some way I could have softened this,” Hood said, “or at least waited. But the North Koreans don’t believe that the group was acting alone and are ready to go to war over this. Are you with me?”
“Yes,” Hwan said, choking.
“We intercepted a message from Seoul Oh-Miyo before. Can you still reach her?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Well, Kim, we need someone the North Koreans trust to tell them that this is not an official act of the South Korean government. We’ve got the frequency of the radio she used and we think we can get to it. If she’s left it on, will you talk to her? Ask her to radio the North and try to convince them?”
“Yes,” Hwan said. Tears trickling from his eyes, he motioned for Hongtack to help him sit up. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Good man,” Hood said. “Hold on while I make sure things are set on this end.”
As he waited, Hwan ignored the questioning glances of Hongtack. Even if war was averted, what a monstrous tragedy this day had already been. And for what? The kind of military and political machinations that Gregory had always hated.
Talk, he said. Talk and art are all that separate us from the other animals. Use them and savor them fully….
It was so unjust. And worst of all was the fact that the man to whom he would have turned for consolation was no longer here.
“Kim?”
Hwan pressed the phone to his ear and struggled against the lingering effects of the anesthesia that threatened to drag him back to sleep.
“I’m here, Paul.”
“Kim, there’s a problem-”
Over the crackle of static, a frantic voice cut Hood off.
“They’re threatening to shoot me!”
Hwan was instantly alert as he recognized Kim Chong’s voice. “Kim, this is Hwan. Can you hear me?”
“Yes-!”
“Who’s threatening you?”
“There’s a helicopter-and two motorcycles are on the way. I’m parked on a mountain … I can see them below.”
Hwan’s eyes fastened on Hongtack. “Are they ours?”
“I don’t know,” said Hongtack. “Director Yung-Hoon said there were too many agencies involved to-”
“I don’t care if God himself is involved. Call them off.”
“Sir-”
“Hongtack, you get on another telephone and tell Director Yung-Hoon that I accept full responsibility for Ms. Chong. Tell him that now, or tomorrow you join the U.S. team doing radio surveillance in McMurdo.”
After hesitating, appearing to weigh his dignity against a tour in Antarctica, Hongtack left the hospital room.
Hwan returned to the phone. “I’ve taken care of it, Kim. Where are you?”
“I’m in the mountains of Sorak-san National Park. I’ve pulled under a ledge where the helicopter can’t land.”
“All right. You’re to go see my uncle Zon Pak in Yangyang. He’s a fisherman; no one likes him, but everyone knows him. I’ll phone ahead and he’ll get you safely where you need to go. Now, did Mr. Hood explain our problem?”
“Yes. He told me about Major Lee.”
“Can you help? Will you help?”
“Yes, of course. Stay on the line and I’ll radio Pyongyang.”
“Will you plug in the headset so you can hear Mr. Hood and me without them hearing us?”
Kim told Hwan she would, and he listened as the hos-pital-to-Op-Center-to-Sorak-san link took on one more participant: Captain Ahn II at “Home,” which Hwan knew was the North Korean Intelligence Agency’s headquarters in the capital, located in the subbasements of the Haebangsang Hotel on the west bank of the Taedong River.
“Home,” Kim said, “I have received incontrovertible evidence that a cell of South Korean soldiers, and not- repeat, not-the government or military in Seoul, was behind today’s bombing and the attempted gassing at the base. Major Lee, the officer with the eyepatch, is the person behind the entire operation.”
There was a moment of silence, then: “Seoul Oh-Miyo, what man with the eyepatch?”
“The man who was handling the poison gas.”
“No such man was involved.” Paul said, “Ms. Chong, please tell him to wait. I’m going to try and find Major Lee-and if I do, they’ll have to act quickly to stop him.”
SEVENTY-NINE
Wednesday, 6:17 A.M., Op-Center
Paul Hood put Kim Hwan on hold and rang Bob Herbert.
“Bob, do we have a photo of Major Lee?”
“It’s in his dossier-”
“Scan it over to NRO fast, then come here with Lowell Coffey, McCaskey, and Mackall.”
Hood called over to Stephen Viens at NRO.
“Steve, you’ve got a photo coming in from Bob Herbert. The man may still be on the North side of the DMZ in Panmunjom: I need to find and track him. Check the area near the conference center first-give me two satellites on it.”
“Secretary Colon has authorized the second eye, right?”
“He would if he knew about it,” Hood said dryly.
“That’s what I figured,” Viens said. “The mug shot’s coming through now. Will the subject be alone?”
“Most likely,” said Hood, “and in a ROK uniform. I want to watch as the pictures come in.”
“Hold on.”
Hood listened as Viens ordered a second satellite camera turned on the area, and ordered it to look down from a relative height of twenty-five feet. Then he had Major Lee’s photograph fed into the satellite computer: it would search the area for anyone with those features and outline him in blue.
The roof of the conference center appeared; he wasn’t there, or the watchtowers on both sides would have spotted him. Then, 4.4 seconds later, staggered with images from the first, the second satellite gave them a photograph of the area in front of the building-the small caravan and the jeep with what was probably General Hong-koo.
Bob Herbert came wheeling in, followed by Martha, Coffey, McCaskey, and Ann Farris. Hood had a feeling she’d come, not so much to check on the crisis but to look after him. Her mothering made him both uncomfortable and strangely content, though he let the discomfort go for now. He’d liked how her hand felt on his shoulder before.
“Darrell,” Hood said, “why is Hong-koo just sitting there? He has to know by now what’s happened.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” Martha answered for him. Darrell shot her a look. “The North Koreans would still have a party even if the birthday boy was shot dead. They like being unflappable. A holdover of President Kim II Sung’s ideology of juche-self-reliance.”