Tom Clancy's Op-center_ Op-center Part 12

39/126/400 Soft copy.

Sending it, he looked out across the rows of monitors, still not quite believing what he'd read. Stoll had come up with what they'd both agreed was as virus-proof a system as someone could design. If it had been compromised, that would be something. He hurt for his pal but he also knew that, like him, Stoll had to be fascinated by the prospect that it had been done at all and determined to get to the bottom of it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

Tuesday, 9:55 P.M., Seoul

Major Lee saluted as he walked into the General's office, and Norbom returned the salute.

"Greg Donald," he said, "I believe you know Major Kim Lee."

"Yes, we've met," Donald said, touching a napkin to his lips. He stood and offered the Major his hand. "Several years ago, at the parade in Taegu as I recall."

"I'm impressed and flattered that you remember," said Lee. "You are here on official business?"

"No. Private. My wife-- was killed this afternoon in the explosion."

"My condolences, sir."

"What are your thoughts on that, Major?" Norbom asked.

"It was ordered in Pyongyang, perhaps by the President himself."

"You seem pretty certain," Donald said.

"You are not?"

"Not entirely, no. Neither is Kim Hwan of the KCIA. The evidence is very thin."

"But not the motive," said Lee. "You are in mourning, Mr. Amba.s.sador, and I mean no disrespect. Yet the enemy is like a snake: it has changed its skin, but not its heart. Whether through war or by sinking its fangs into our economic well-being, they will try to sap us. To destroy us."

There was sadness in Donald's eyes and he looked away. Now as in the 1950s, the biggest impediment to lasting peace was not greed or territorial disagreements or indecision over how to unify two separate governments. They were formidable problems, but not insurmountable. The biggest impediment was the suspicion and deep-seated hatred that so many of the people of one nation had for the other. It distressed him to think that real unification could not occur until the generation touched directly by the war had died out.

"This is Kim Hwan's bailiwick," said General Norbom, "so why don't we leave it to him, Major?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, what is it you wanted to see me about?"

"This transfer order, sir. It requires your stamp."

"What's it for?"

Lee handed him the paper. "Four quarter-sized drums of tabun, sir. I'm to take it to the DMZ."

The General put on his gla.s.ses. "What on earth does General Schneider want with gas?"

"It's not for the General, sir. Military intelligence reports that chemical drums are being dug up at the border, and that more are on the way from Pyongyang. We are to bring these to Panmunjom in the event that they're needed."

"Christ," sighed Donald. "I told you, Howard, this is going to get out of hand."

Lee's face was impa.s.sive as he stood stiffly beside Donald, watching Norbom read.

"You requisitioned the gas," the General said to Lee. "To whom is it being delivered?"

"I will be staying with the shipment, sir. I have orders from General Sam." He removed the papers from his shirt pocket and held them out.

Norbom gave them a cursory glance, then tapped his intercom. "Shooter."

"Yes, sir?"

"Authorize Major Lee's transfer and get me General Sam on the phone."

"Yes, sir."

Norbom handed the papers to the officer. "I have only two things to say, Major. One is drive carefully. The other is when you get to Panmunjom, err on the side of caution."

"Of course, sir," said Lee, saluting, bowing curtly to Donald, his eye lingering on the diplomat's and chilling him inexplicably before he turned smartly and left.

Lee's face remained expressionless, but he was smiling inside. The months and money he had spent persuading Sgt. Kil to join them was paying off. General Sam's aide had signed his superior's name so many times it was indistinguishable from the real thing. And he'd be the first to get Norbom's call, finding ways to make the General unavailable until it slipped Norbom's aging mind or it was too late. In either case, Lee and his team would get what they wanted: the chance to put the second and deadliest phase of their operation into effect.

He met his three men at the canvas-backed truck, an old Dodge T214. U.S. soldiers had nicknamed this vehicle the Beep-the Big Jeep. It was three quarters of a ton, with st.u.r.dy shocks and a low center of gravity that was perfect for some of the off-road traveling they'd be doing.

The men saluted as Lee approached and he climbed into the pa.s.senger's seat. The other two men sat in the back, under the canvas.

"When we leave the base," he said to the driver, "you will return to the city, to Chonggyechonno." He half turned toward the back. "Private, the Deputy Director of the KCIA does not believe that the enemy is behind this afternoon's attack. Please see to it that Mr. Kim Hwan does not perpetuate falsehoods. Make certain he does not report for work in the morning."

"Yes, sir. An act of G.o.d?"

"No, no accidents. Go to the hotel, put on civilian clothes, take one of the IDs, and steal a car from the garage. Find out what he looks like, follow him, and hack him, Jang. Brutally, the way the North Koreans hacked the American servicemen who were tr.i.m.m.i.n.g trees. The way they mercilessly killed seventeen people in the bombing in Rangoon. The way they murdered my mother. Show them, Jang, what animals the North Koreans are and how they have no part in joining the civilized world."

Jang nodded and Lee settled back in his seat to place a call to Captain Bock at the DMZ. At the gate, he presented the stamped doc.u.ment to the U.S. guard, who went to the back of the truck, checked the drums, returned the paper, and waved the truck on. When they reached the boulevard, Jang slipped from the back and hurried to the Savoy, the hotel where their long and eventful day had begun.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

Tuesday, 7:57 A.M., Op-Center

Paul Hood's telephone rang. That didn't happen very often. Most of his communications came through E-mail, or through the special phone lines in his terminal.

It was especially odd because his intercom hadn't alerted him to the incoming call. Which meant it was someone with the clout to bypa.s.s Op-Center's main switchboard.

He picked up. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Paul, it's Michael Lawrence."

"Yes, sir. How are you, sir?"

"Paul, I understand your boy went into the hospital this morning."

"Yes, sir."

"How's he doing?"

Paul frowned. There were times to give the President good news, and times to give him the truth. This was one of the latter. "Not well, sir. They're not sure what's wrong, and he's not responding to treatments."

"I'm sorry to hear that," the President said. "But, Paul, I need to know, how much of a distraction will this be?"

"Sir?"

"I need you, Paul. I need you on top of this Korean situation. I need you focused and in control of things. Or I need someone else in charge. It's your call, Paul. Do you want me to hand this off to someone else?"

It was funny. Paul had been thinking that very thing not five minutes before, but now, hearing the President ask him flat out, there was no longer any doubt in his mind. "No, sir," he said. "I'm on top of it."

"Good man. And, Paul?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Let me know how your boy does."

"I will, sir. Thank you."

Hanging up the phone, Paul thought for a moment, then pressed the F6 key to talk to Bugs Benet. "Bugs," he said, "when you get a chance, call up one of our resident technoweenies. I need a new code sequence for Mortal Kombat, something that'll really knock Alexander's socks off when he gets home from the hospital."

"You got it," Bugs said.

Paul smiled, nodded, and then pulled up the next doc.u.ment in the queue and got back to work.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

Tuesday, 10:10 P.M., Seoul

The brand-new, modern, four-story, steel and white brick building was set back from Kw.a.n.gju, gleaming brightly behind a long, rectangular courtyard. Except for the high iron fence surrounding the courtyard, and the drawn shades behind the windows, a pa.s.serby might think the building was the office of a corporation or university. It was unlikely anyone would suspect that it was the headquarters of the KCIA and housed some of the most delicate secrets in the East.

The KCIA building was protected by video cameras on the outside, sophisticated motion detectors at every door and window, and electronic waves to prevent eavesdropping. Only upon entering the brightly lighted reception area and encountering the two armed guards behind bulletproof gla.s.s would one get a hint of the delicacy of the operations that went on inside.

The office of Deputy Director Kim Hwan was on the second floor, down the hall from the office of Director Yung-Hoon. Right now, the former police chief was having dinner in the fourth-floor cafe with friendly contacts in the press to try to find out what they knew. Hwan and Yung-Hoon had very different but complementary methods of working: Yung-Hoon's philosophy was that people had every answer investigators needed, as long as the proper people were asked the proper questions. Hwan believed that, intentionally or not, people lied-- that facts were best learned through scientific means. Each admitted that the other's approach was perfectly valid, though Hwan didn't have the stomach for the smiles and chatter Yung-Hoon's work required. Back when he'd been a smoker, his attention span for bulls.h.i.t was roughly an unfiltered Camel; now it was less.

His small desk stacked with papers and files, Hwan was studying the report that had just come in from the lab. He skipped the Professor's a.n.a.lyses of "hybridized sp-orbitals" and "direction of electronegativity"-- details not required by the KCIA but by the courts, if the evidence were ever used in trial-- and went right to the summary: a.n.a.lysis of the explosives reveals them to be standard North Korean plastique: composition typical of production facility in Sonchon.

There are no fingerprints on the water bottle. There should at least have been partial fingerprints of a store clerk. We conclude that the bottle was wiped clean. The traces of saliva found in the drops of water that remained are unremarkable.

The soil particles themselves tell us nothing. The princ.i.p.al components, sandstone and bauxite, are common throughout the peninsula and cannot be used to locate the point of origin.

However, a toxicology study reveals concentrated traces of sublimation of the salt NaCl (Na+ from the base NaOH, Cl- from the acid HCL). This is commonly found in petroleum products from the Great Khingan Range of Inner Mongolia, including diesel fuel used by mechanized forces of the DPRK. The concentration of 1:100 NaCl in the soil seems strongly to preclude the possibility that particles blew from the North. Computer simulation suggests that such a ratio would have been 1:5,000.

Hwan let his head flop back on the chair. He let the cooling waves from the ceiling fan wash over his face.

"So we have bombers who were in the North. How could they not be North Korean?" He was beginning to think that there was only one way to find out for certain, though he was reluctant to play a card as important as that.

As he reread the summary, the intercom beeped.

"Sir, this is Sgt. Jin at the desk. There's a gentleman who wishes to see the officer in charge of the Palace bombing."

"Does he say why?"

"He says he saw them, sir. Saw the men who ran from the sound truck."

"Keep him there," Hwan said as he leapt to his feet and tightened his tie. "I'll be right there."