“I don’t think so,” Squires said. “What he answered sounded pretty much like what you said. Unless you’re both allergic.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” he said as the chopper door was shut and the Black Hawk rose into the gradually clearing sky. “Each day that I live, Charlie, less and less does.”
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Wednesday, 10:30 A.M., Seoul
Kim Hwan sat on the bed, the back of the mattress raised and the pillow having fallen to the side. He wanted it, though after the physical and emotional upheavals of the last few hours, he seemed to lack the ambition and energy to reach over and get it.
The man who would save the peninsula was unable to lift his arm and recover his pillow. There was probably an irony in that, though he was in no mood to look for it.
The dull pain in Hwan’s side kept him from sleeping, and the tight bandages made it difficult to breathe. But it was the events of the past few hours that kept him alert. The death of Gregory Donald held him like a nightmare he couldn’t shake, yet while it still seemed unbelievable, it also seemed oddly inevitable. Donald’s life had ended when his wife was killed-was it really less than a day before?-and at least now they were together. Donald wouldn’t have believed that, but Soonji would have and Hwan did. So he was outvoted. The atheistic old goat was an angel whether he wanted to be or not.
As Hwan lay there, staring at the brick wall outside his window, Bob Herbert phoned to tell him about the events in the Diamond Mountains, and of the other men involved in the plot-the two the Striker team had killed at the Nodong site. Hwan knew that it wasn’t likely the South would get the bodies of those men back soon, though the North was sure to send them fingerprints for identification.
“We haven’t heard a peep out of anyone else,” Herbert told Hwan, “so either we got the group or they’ve pulled in their claws to try again another day.”
“I am sure,” Hwan said quietly, “that we haven’t heard the last of these people.”
“You’re probably right,” Herbert said. “Radicals are like bananas-they come in bunches.”
Hwan said he liked the image, after which Herbert repeated Hood’s thanks for the KCIA’s efforts and wished him a speedy recovery.
Hanging up the phone and deciding to try to get his pillow, Hwan was surprised to find someone reach over and get it for him. The two strong hands gently lifted his head and slid the pillow under it, fluffing the sides to make sure he was nestled securely.
Hwan’s eyes shifted to the side.
“Director Yung-Hoon,” he said with surprise. “Where is-”
“Hongtack? On his way, by now, to his new post- a fishing boat monitoring Chinese broadcasts in the Yellow Sea. He seemed to believe that our different styles were a weakness and not a strength.”
“Perhaps … you should reserve me a seat next to his,” Hwan said. “I feel that way too.”
Yung-Hoon winced. “We may have seemed to be working at cross-purposes from time to time. But after today, that won’t happen again.”
Someone in the government must have leaned on the Director about his handling of this case. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Bob Herbert or Paul Hood had made a few calls on his behalf. Yung-Hoon had always responded to things like that.
The Director lay a hand on Hwan’s. “When you get out of here, we’ll see about arranging things differently, giving you responsibilities where you don’t have to report to my office-”
Someone had definitely called him.
“-where you can work things your own way. I’ve also recommended to the President that we set up a scholarship at the University. Something for Mr. Donald in the political science department.”
“Thanks,” Hwan said. “Don’t forget Cho’s wife. She’ll need help.”
“Already done,” said Yung-Hoon.
Hwan watched the Director carefully as he asked, “And how is Ms. Chong?”
Yung-Hoon looked as though his necktie was too tight. “She’s gone. As you-requested, we allowed her to drive off.”
“She saved my life. I owed her that. You followed her, though?”
“Well… yes,” Yung-Hoon said. “We were interested to know where she’d go.”
“And?”
“And,” said the Director, “she ended up in Yangyang. At your uncle’s house.”
Hwan smiled. They’d never find her. Uncle Pak would sneak her out on his boat, which they wouldn’t dare board, and he’d arrange somehow to get her into Japan.
“Don’t you think she’ll spy for the North again?” Yung-Hoon asked.
“No,” Hwan said. “She never wanted to be doing this. I’m glad she’ll be able to find what it is she really wanted.”
Yung-Hoon patted his hand. “If you’re sure, Hwan.” The Director rose. “I’ve put one of your men outside, Park. If you need anything let him know or call me.”
Hwan said he would, and Yung-Hoon left him-not alone, but with his ghosts, the bittersweet memories of Soonji and Gregory Donald, of his poor driver Cho and the guarded but entrancing Ms. Chong. He wasn’t sure his own uncle would tell him where he’d taken the woman, but he vowed he would find her somehow. As this day had underscored, there were friendships and allegiances that transcended political boundaries, and there wasn’t always the time to explore them.
Time had to be made for those bonds to be strengthened. Because in the end, what he remembered about all of those people was what they had in their hearts, not in their dossiers.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, 9:00 P.M., Op-Center
The President arrived at Op-Center unannounced.
He came in his stretch, armor-plated limousine, with two Secret Service agents, his driver, and no one else- no aides, no reporters.
“No reporters?” Ann had remarked when the sentry at the front gate of Andrews AFB announced his arrival to Paul Hood. “Then it’s got to be a former President.”
“You’re too cynical,” Hood said, sitting back behind his desk. He had just finished bringing the heads of all the departments up-to-date-Bob Herbert, Martha Mackall, Darrell McCaskey, Matt Stoll, Lowell Coffey, Liz Gordon, Phil Katzen, and Ann-and also thanking them not only for their industry but for their ingenuity and cooperation: he told them he’d never seen a team mesh more effectively, on all fronts, and he was proud of the job they’d done … proud of them, individually.
He had been about to leave his office when the call came, and so he sat back down to wait.
Ann waited with him. She couldn’t stop smiling. Ann was not just happy because things had worked out for Op-Center; not just because the TV networks had all broken into the prime-time schedule with news of the destruction of the Nodong; not just because she and her counterpart at the Pentagon, Andrew Porter, had sold to the press that what Gregory Donald and General Michael Schneider did were the acts of humanists, not partisans. They had gotten out with that story fast enough, honest enough, and strong enough so that whatever the North Koreans said about Major Lee’s plot would sound ungracious and vindictive.
Ann was also happy for Paul.
He had managed to handle both the responsibility of Op-Center and the responsibility of being a father and husband, neither job easy, neither job part-time. She didn’t know how he had managed to hold up. Sharon Hood might never know how much this day had taken out of him, but Ann did. She wished there were some way she could let her know … but nothing occurred to her.
The Press Officer speechless! she laughed to herself.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. What Ann had to say was nothing a devoted admirer had the right to tell a wife. It was that Paul Hood was a very special man, a man with a good heart, integrity, and what she knew was a deep reserve of love. What Ann would tell Sharon, if only in her fantasies, was to nurture Paul and let him nurture her… to remember that one day he would lay aside his work, the children would be grown, and the love they’d sustained would flower and enrich them.
Paul was telling them all about how he wanted a memorial service organized for both Gregory Donald and Bass Moore, though she didn’t really hear much of what he had to say. Her mind, and her heart, were elsewhere … with Paul, in an imaginary world where he would hold her when they’d all left, take her to dinner at some-
place fast and informal, and then drive her home and make love to her and fall asleep with his chest pressed against her back-
“Mr. Hood?” Bugs said through the computer.
“Yes?”
“The President is coming.”
Hood laughed as Bugs put a picture from the corridor video camera on the screen. The President was waving at Op-Center employees in their cubicles, barely stopping to shake hands with people he didn’t know, making eye contact only as long as it took to search out the next face.