“That’s it, sir?” George said to Squires. “Lot-dee, that was shorter than the first Clay-Liston fight.”
“Sorry, Sonny,” Squires winked. He reached up and high-fived his son.
“And when did you work that one out, sir?”
“While we were suiting up. Made sense, don’t you think? Guy expects a retreat, gets an advance-he’s gotta be surprised.”
“He was, sir,” George mumbled, wading toward the shallow end of the pool, his son in his wake.
“Nice fight,” Clark said to Billy as he dog-paddled after his father.
“Don’t talk like that,” George muttered as he lumbered up the steps with the bearing and disposition of Gorgo. “You’ll lose your edge for tomorrow.”
Squires followed him out, his eyes drawn to headlights shining through the living-room window of his home in the base family quarters. He snatched a towel from a chaise lounge as the lights snapped off, then watched as a lone figure walked around the one-story cottage, silhouetted by the light blue horizon. No one could have gotten to this quarter without passing through the gate that separated his crew from the FBI Academy, and no one could have gotten through the gate without a call to him directly.
Unless they were from Op-Center.
Draping the towel over his shoulders and slipping on his sandals, the Lieutenant Colonel walked quickly toward the house.
“Charlie, your eggs are getting cold!”
“Be right there, Missy. Set ’em next to George, they’ll stay warm.”
Squires’s Striker team of twelve full-time men and their support crews was established six months before, the same time as Op-Center. They were the so-called “black” side of the agency, their existence a secret from outsiders except those who needed to know: the heads of the other military and spy agencies, and the President and Vice President themselves. Their charter was simple: they were sent onto the field when offense was needed. They were an elite squad that could be counted on to strike hard and fast. Though all the Striker members belonged to the military and drew pay from their respective branches, they worked in nondescript camouflage pants and shirts without markings of any kind. If they screwed up, there was no way for anyone to trace them … or place blame.
Squires smiled as Mike Rodgers came around the side of the building. The tall man’s arched nose-broken four times in college basketball-high, intelligent forehead, and light brown eyes that seemed almost golden were a welcome sight.
“I hope I’m glad to see you,” Squires said, saluting the two-star General. When Rodgers returned the salute, the men shook hands.
“That depends on whether or not you were getting bored.”
“Does diet Coke fizz? Yes, sir, we’re ready for action.”
“Good. Because I radioed the chopper: get one through eleven ready and have Krebs bring an extra grip. We leave in five minutes.”
Squires knew not to ask where to or why only eleven men instead of the full Dirty Dozen were going-not while they were out in the open where their wives or children might hear. Innocent remarks, made over unsecured lines to friends or relatives, could be disastrous. He also knew not to ask about the small black bag Rodgers carried, or why there was a sewn-on design of what looked like a weed growing out of concrete. When and if the General wanted to tell him about it, he would.
Instead, Squires said, “Yes, sir,” saluted again, and jogged back to the picnic table. The dozen other men were already on their feet and ready to go, the hostilities and disappointments of the morning’s sport quickly forgotten.
After a word with Squires, eleven of the twelve men jogged to their homes to get their gear, none of them stopping to say good-bye to their wives or children: a sad face or teary eye might come to them when they were called on to risk their lives, cause them to hesitate. It was better to leave cold and make up later. The one man who hadn’t been picked sat and hunkered down over his paper plate: this was not Private George’s morning.
Like each man, Squires kept his grip handy and within four minutes they were running across the field beyond the fence, toward the Bell Jetranger that was being fired up for the half-hour ride to Andrews Air Force Base.
FOURTEEN
Tuesday, 7:30 P.M., Seoul
The sound truck looked like a gutted avocado, blasted panels peeled back by the force of the explosion, with only scraps and slag in the center.
For over an hour, Kim Hwan’s team had picked over those scraps, looking for any leads. There were traces of plastic explosives stuck to the bottom of what used to be the sound panel, and those had been sent to the laboratory for analysis. Other than that, there was nothing. Nothing but the increasing numbers of victims being moved from the ranks of the injured to the list of the dead. The men on the rooftops had seen nothing unusual, one of the two video surveillance cameras they had placed on a rooftop was destroyed by shrapnel, and the other had been trained on the podium, not the crowd. TV cameras were being collected, their tapes studied, to see if they had recorded anything unusual. Hwan doubted they would help, since it seemed as though all of them had been facing in the same direction: away from the truck. And his computer expert doubted that any of them had caught a useful reflection of the truck in a window, one large and complete enough to be enhanced and studied. While he worked, Gregory Donald stood close by with his back against a charred streetlight, his unlit pipe still clenched in his teeth. He hadn’t said a word and hadn’t looked up from the ground; he was no longer crying and he didn’t seem to be in shock, though Hwan couldn’t begin to imagine the thoughts that had to be going through his mind.
“Sir!”
Hwan looked up as his assistant Choi U Gil came trotting over.
“Ri thinks he’s found something.”
“Where?”
“In an alley beside the Sakong Hotel. Shall I radio the Director? He asked to be told everything.”
Hwan stepped down from the chassis of the exploded truck. “Let’s wait and see what we’ve got. I’m sure he has his hands full.” Explaining the corner-cutting to the President, no doubt.
Hwan followed Choi toward the National Museum on the southern side of the Palace, surprised to see Donald walking after them slowly. Hwan didn’t wait for him: he was happy that something was getting through to his friend, and he didn’t want to put any pressure on him. Staying busy was all that kept Hwan himself from dwelling on the shattering loss they had suffered.
The wide-W ripple pattern in the dry dirt belonged to a North Korean army boot. There was no doubt about it. “Professor” Ri had suspected as much, and Hwan had confirmed it.
“They lead away from the abandoned hotel,” the slight, white-haired chemist said.
“I’ve sent a team inside,” Choi told Hwan.
“The perpetrators appear to have drunk from this”- the Professor pointed to the crushed and empty water bottle on the floor-“and then walked toward the sound truck.”
The dirt in the alley was dry, but the hot air was still and the residue hadn’t moved. Hwan knelt and studied the four complete prints and two partial ones.
“Has everything been photographed?” Hwan asked.
Choi nodded. “The footprints and the bottle. We’re photographing the hotel basement now, as there seems to have been some activity there.”
“Good. Send the bottle over for prints, and also have them check the mouth for any kind of residue-saliva, food, anything.”
The young assistant ran to the car, removed a large plastic bag and metal tongs from a case, and brought them over. Lifting the bottle carefully, he placed it in the bag and marked the time, date, and place on a white strip at the top. Then he took a work order form from the case, filled it in, put both items in the case, and climbed into the window where a military policeman stood guard.
Hwan continued to study the boot prints, noting that the impression wasn’t heavier in front, which meant that the terrorists hadn’t been running. He was also trying to determine how much wear there had been on the soles and whether the markings belonged to one boot or many. There seemed to be at least two different right feet, and it struck him as odd that neither showed any wear in the ripples. The North Koreans tended to issue new boots after the winter, when they took the most wear-hot during the summer.
“If the bottle was used by the terrorists, you won’t find any fingerprints.”
Hwan looked up at Donald. The voice was a barely audible monotone; his pipe was unceremoniously stuffed into his vest pocket and his flesh was the color of chalk. But he was here and he was alert, and Hwan was happy to see him.