Tom Clancy's Op-center_ Op-center Part 6

"Soonji loved the Emba.s.sy and she admired the Amba.s.sador. Don't-- don't let her go there. Not the way she was. I'll phone General Savran. Would you see that"-- he breathed deeply-- "that she gets to the base?"

"I will."

Hwan shut the door and the car drove off. It was quickly swallowed by the confusion of honking cars, buses, and trucks, the thick evening rush hour made worse by vehicles detoured from around the Palace.

"G.o.d be with you, Gregory," he said, then glanced toward the red sun. "I can't be with him, Soonji, so please-- look after him."

Turning, Hwan walked back into the alley and looked down at the footprints. The shadows were more p.r.o.nounced now in the slanting rays of the setting sun.

But there was one thing more, and it bothered him more than the too-convenient presence of the bottle and boot prints.

After telling the guard at the bas.e.m.e.nt window to inform Choi that he'd gone to his office, Hwan hurried back to his car, wondering just how far Director Yung-Hoon would be willing to go to break this case

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

Tuesday, 5:55 A.M., Washington, D.C.

As soon as he was in his car, Hood phoned Op-Center and told his Executive a.s.sistant, Stephen "Bugs" Benet, to start the countdown clock at twenty-four hours. That was something Liz Gordon had suggested: studies showed that most people work better with deadlines, something to shoot for. The clock was a constant reminder that although you had to run a marathon, really pour it on, there was an end in sight.

It was one of the few things on which Hood and Liz agreed.

As Bugs was telling Hood that Gregory Donald had been located and was being brought to the Emba.s.sy on Sejongno, just two blocks from the Palace, the Director's personal cellular phone rang. Telling Bugs he'd be there in fifteen minutes, Hood hung up and answered the phone.

"Paul, it's me."

Sharon. He heard a ping in the background and m.u.f.fled voices. She wasn't at home.

"Honey, what is it?"

"It's Alexander--"

"Is he all right?"

"After you left, he started wheezing worse than I've ever heard him. The nebulizer wasn't helping, so I brought him to the hospital."

Hood felt his own chest tighten.

"The doctors have injected him with epinephrine, and are watching him," Sharon said. "I don't want you coming here. I'll call as soon as we know something."

"You shouldn't have to do this alone, Sharon."

"I'm not alone-- I know that. And what would you do here?"

"Hold your hand."

"Hold the President's hand, I'll be fine. Look, I want to call Harleigh and make sure she's all right. I think I scared her out of a year's growth when I went running through the house carrying Alex."

"Promise you'll beep the minute anything happens."

"I promise."

"And tell them both I love them."

"I always do."

Hood felt like h.e.l.l as he drove through the early-morning traffic to Andrews Air Force Base, home of Op-Center. Sharon had had to shoulder a lot in seventeen years of marriage, but this was the capper. He could hear the fear in her voice, the trace of bitterness in her remark about the President, and he wanted to go to her. But he knew that if he did, she would only feel guilty for having pulled him away. And when she felt like that she got angry at herself, which wasn't what she needed now.

Unhappy as he was, there was nothing to do but go to Op-Center. But it was ironic, he thought. Here he was, the head of one of the most sophisticated agencies in the world, able to eavesdrop on hostages a mile away or read a newspaper in Teheran from Earth orbit. Yet there was nothing in the world he could do to help his son or his wife.

His palms were damp, his mouth dry, as he swung off the highway and raced toward the base. He couldn't help his family because of whoever was behind the explosion, and he fully intended to make them pay.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Tuesday, 8:00 P.M., the Sea of j.a.pan

The boat was pre-World War II vintage, a ferry that had been turned into a troop transport and then back into a ferry again.

As night fell over the sea, the two North Koreans sat on the foredeck benches, playing checkers with metal pieces on a magnetic board. The cases of money were laid flat between them, serving as a makeshift table.

A strong wind had begun to blow across the deck, misting them with seawater and rattling the heavy board. It drove most of the pa.s.sengers into the cabin, where it was warm, dry, and light; one of the two men looked around.

"We should go in, Im," he said. It wasn't good to be alone: crowds dissuaded thievery.

Without finishing the game, one of the men began packing it up while the other stood, his hands on the handles of the cases.

"Make sure you don't jostle the board, Yun, and cost me my--"

A spray of red fell across the suitcases. Yun looked up and saw a dark figure standing behind his partner; the gleaming tip of a stiletto was protruding from the front of Im's throat.

Yun opened his mouth to scream, but he was cut short as a blade tore through his windpipe from behind. He scratched at his throat as his blood poured over his fingers, mingling with that of his companion. Both pools were softened by falling drops of sea and stirred by the wind.

The two a.s.sa.s.sins withdrew their blades and one of them bent over the dying men while the other walked aft, to the railing. He began shining his flashlight on and off in ten-second cycles while his a.s.sociate severed the pinkie finger of each man. Only Yun managed a gurgled scream as the blade cut through his flesh.

His dark gray greatcoat flapping in the wind, the killer threw the fingers over the side; the signature of the Yakuza was upon the victims, and the authorities would spend weeks looking for the killers. By the time they realized they were chasing shadows, it would be too late.

Going back to retrieve the suitcases, the a.s.sa.s.sin made sure they were secure and then glanced toward the cabin. There were no faces in the circular windows, and the darkness and sea spray would have made identification impossible in any event; the bridge was set well back, atop the cabin, leaving the crew without a clear view of the deck. With luck, no one would come outside and no one else would have to die.

His companion was still flashing his light. By the time he rejoined him, the hum of the distant engine was already audible, and they could see the dim outline of the amphibious plane, all but the running lights turned off. The LA-4-200 Buccaneer came up beside the rear transom door, pacing the ferry, prop-wash turning the sea spray into thousands of tiny darts. The killer shined his flashlight on the c.o.c.kpit, and the pilot threw open the gull-wing hatch and tossed out an inflatable raft, the bow ring attached to several yards of steel cable. It landed heavily in the water, bucking against the wind.

By now, there was activity on the bridge as the crew saw the plane.

"Hurry," the man with the flashlight told his companion.

Setting the cases down, the man jumped toward the raft. Landing in the water beside the inflatable, he grabbed the safety line, pulled himself in, then turned to face the ferry. Picking up one of the suitcases, his a.s.sociate swung it toward the raft and released it. The other man caught it, then held out his arms for the second. He caught that too, then pulled his companion aboard when he jumped from the ferry.

Even as crew members reached the deck and found the bodies, the pilot was reeling the raft into the seaplane. Within moments, the men were on board, the aircraft's lights had flared on, and the plane and money were airborne, headed north. Only when it was out of view from the ship would it turn west-- not to j.a.pan and the Yakuza but to North Korea.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Tuesday, 6:02 A.M., Op-Center

The evening and day shifts at Op-Center met at six A.M., at which time Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers took charge from Curt Hardaway and Bill Abram. Policy prohibited Hardaway and Abram from remaining in command after their shift: important decisions were best made by fresh minds, and at rare times when neither Hood nor Rodgers was available, duties were pre-a.s.signed to different members of the prime day team.

Political Officer Martha Mackall had arrived minutes before and, after pa.s.sing through the keycard and keypad entry and greeting the somber armed guards behind the Lexan, she replaced her own evening team counterpart, Bob Sodaro. Sodaro briefed her on what had happened since 4:11 that morning, when Op-Center first became involved in the Korean crisis.

Her stride confident, posture ramrod-straight, the handsome, forty-nine-year-old daughter of legendary soul singer Mack Mackall walked through the hub of Op-Center-- the bullpen, with its maze of cubicles and operatives hurrying here and there. Since Hood's code hadn't been posted on the computer duty roster where she checked in upstairs, on ground level, she knew she'd be sitting in for him until he arrived. Pa.s.sing through the bullpen to the action level offices that ringed the hub of Op-Center, she heard her name on the intercom: there was a call from Korea for Hood. She paused, s.n.a.t.c.hed a phone from the wall, and told the operator she would take the call for the Director in his office.

Hood's office was just a few steps away, in the southwestern corner. Located beside the Tank, it was the largest office in the building: he hadn't taken it for that reason, however, or for the view, since there were no windows anywhere. The fact was, no one else wanted it. The Tank was surrounded by walls of electronic waves that generated static to anyone trying to listen in with bugs or external dishes. There was some concern among the younger members of the team that the waves might affect their reproductive systems; Hood said that for all the use he got from his equipment anymore, he might as well have the leg room.

Unknown to him, Liz Gordon had noted the comment in his psych profile. s.e.xual frustration could impair his effectiveness on the job.

Martha entered her access code on the keypad of his office door.

Poor Pope Paul, she thought, reflecting on the latest nickname Ann Farris had given him. Martha wondered if the Director realized that all he had to do was crook his finger at his s.e.xy Press Officer, and she'd do more to him than shower him with epithets. And he would have a reason to change office.

The door clicked open and Martha walked into the wood-paneled office. She perched herself on the corner of the desk and s.n.a.t.c.hed up one of the two phones on the desk, the secure line; the LED ID at the bottom of the unit read 07-029-77, telling her that the caller was in the U.S. Emba.s.sy in Seoul. The prefix "1" instead of "0" would have indicated that the call was from the Amba.s.sador. A third line, for teleconferencing, also secure, was integrated in the computer system.

Before she spoke, she switched on the digital tape recorder that translated words to type with amazing speed and accuracy. An almost simultaneous transcript of their talk appeared on a monitor on the desk beside the phone.

"Director Hood is unavailable. This is Martha Mackall."

"h.e.l.lo, Martha. Gregory Donald."

At first she didn't recognize the slow, soft voice on the other end. "Sir, yes-- Director Hood isn't in yet, but he's been anxious to hear from you."

There was a short silence. "I was there, of course. Then we were looking at the blast site, Kim and I."

"Kim--?"

"Hwan. Deputy Director of the KCIA."

"Did you find anything?"

"A water bottle. Some boot prints, North Korean military issue." His voice cracked. "Excuse me."

There was a much longer silence. "Sir, are you all right? You weren't injured, were you?"

"I fell-- nothing broken. It was my wife she was the one that was hurt."

"Not seriously, I hope."

His voice broke again as he said, "They murdered her, Martha."

Martha's hand shot to her mouth. She had only met Soonji once, at Op-Center's first Christmas party, but her charm and quick mind had made an impression.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Donald. Why don't we talk later--"

"No. They're taking her to the army base, and I'm going over when I finish here. It's best we talk now."

"I understand."

He took a moment to collect himself and then continued, his voice stronger. "There were footprints in an alley, made by a North Korean army boot or boots. But neither Kim nor I believe that North Koreans were wearing them. Or if they were, that they were operating with the sanction of their government."

"Why do you think that?"

"The clues were out in the open, no effort made to conceal them. A professional wouldn't have done that. And the North Koreans have never attacked blindly like this."

As he was speaking, Hood walked into his office; Martha touched a b.u.t.ton on the screen, scrolled the transcription back several lines, and pointed for Hood to see. After he read the pa.s.sage about Soonji, he nodded gravely, then sat quietly behind the desk and rubbed two fingers against his forehead.