Threat Level Black - Страница 5

“Of course.”

“Go over, talk to people, talk to Jack Myron on the Defense Committee, talk to everybody. Take a week to talk to different people. I’ll arrange it — whoever you want. Mozelle will set it all up. Go over to the Pentagon, get with Admiral Christopher at the CIA. Go into it with your eyes open,” said Blitz. “As a matter of fact, I gave Congressman Myron your phone number at the hotel and your home. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Take some time and think,” added Blitz. “But believe me, your country needs you.”

Chapter 7

“DIA has the intercepts and some details about how an E-bomb would work, probably from one of their Middle East sources, maybe because someone here wanted to get an understanding of it,” Fisher told Hunter in Hunter’s FBI headquarters office. “That’s the extent of it. They have Homeland Security so twisted in knots over it that they’re putting together a joint task force. Macklin and Kowalski are going to work together.”

“Where?”

“Not sure. Macklin mentioned New York, which seems to be where the terrorist cell was operating.”

“You’re sure they don’t know about our guy?”

“I’m sure.”

“How sure? Give me it on a scale of one to five.”

Fisher shrugged. “I’m not good with numbers.”

“They’re trying to muscle into our case,” said Hunter. “Those fucks. They want to take our deserter. Fuckheads.”

Fisher generally approved of cussing in a man; it implied an appreciation for the finer things in life, like spit and horses that finished just out of the running. But from Hunter’s mouth the words sounded as if they were being read from a dictionary.

“We have to bring this guy in,” said Hunter. “We have to get him out of Korea.”

“Okay,” said Fisher.

“I want you to do it.”

“Sure,” said Fisher.

“Bring him in, we debrief him, go the whole nine yards. We need our own task force,” added Hunter. “Yeah, that’s what we need: a task force. Yeah. We’ll get military people, CIA — the right CIA people. This is a big deal, Andrew. A very big deal.”

Fisher didn’t like the sound of that. Whenever Hunter used his first name — with or without expletives — trouble surely followed.

And as for working with the CIA…

“We really don’t need a task force,” he said. “Not yet. We have to make sure this guy is real. Then we can figure out how we’re going to get him. If the CIA is involved, there are going to be meetings and written estimates, budget lines…”

“You’re in the big time now, Fisher. You have to think big. Big.”

“Can I smoke in here?”

Hunter blinked. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Just checking to see if it was you I was standing in front of.”

“You fly out to — what was the name of that town in Arizona again?”

“Applegate.”

“Yeah, right. Fly out to Applegate, meet the scientist, make contact, find out what we need. I’ll get a task force going. What we’ll do is, we’ll get everyone who’s not on the DIA-Homeland Security task force on our task force. Then we’ll nail those bastards to the wall.”

“Assuming this guy is for real,” said Fisher. “Assuming he knows something about E-bombs. Assuming there’s some sort of connection between North Korea and Middle Eastern terrorists who are so dumb even the DIA can stumble across them.”

“Right,” said Hunter. “Go for it.”

“What?”

“The whole nine yards.”

“Why not ten?” asked Fisher.

He made his escape while Hunter tried to come up with the answer.

Chapter 8

North Korean army general Kuong Ou had not begun his life as a superstitious man, nor was he presently given to omens or fortune-telling, except for this: He played o-koan every morning.

The ancient arrangement of dominoes — the Korean words, taken from the Chinese, meant “five gateways,” a reference to famous battles fought by an ancient general — was a longtime habit. He had learned the skill as a babe, studying the meaning of the bone tablets. O-koan could be played as a game of solitaire, a mathematical puzzle to be worked out, but it was also an ancient way of predicting the future and seeing beyond the future to the world as it was, the cycle of endless rearrangement and sorrow. There were lessons in every piece and rule, most importantly this: The lowest tablets were the most powerful when combined. Even as general of an army division and the head of the North Korean Military Research Institute, Kuong Ou could not afford to forget that lesson.

Kuong held the pair — the two and four, the one and two, called chi tsün — in his hand, turning them over as he considered their relation to the event unfolding in the world around him. The regime was in collapse, army units openly rebelling. Even many of Kuong’s men had deserted him, including his cousin Sang. Kuong had not heard from Kim Jong Il, the Korean ruler and his half-brother, in two weeks. He had begun to believe even that he was dead.

There were many plans to assassinate the leader. There were even plans to assassinate Kuong Ou. He had already killed the conspirators he was sure of, but to eliminate every possible enemy he would have had to kill the entire division he commanded, and half the leadership of the rest of the army and air force besides. And that didn’t even include the silent traitors, those who told lies and claimed they could be counted on but who Kuong knew would vanish at the moment of need.

Kuong Ou had to publicly maintain his position and the regime. This was his duty, and to shirk it would bring dishonor much worse than death: Death was merely a stage in the cycle, whereas dishonor followed one through many cycles and could only be expunged with great exertion. On the other hand, he was not a fool: Given the choice, he preferred to live. He had made many plans to escape, holding them as contingencies against disaster.

One by one, they were disappearing. The easiest — escaping north to China or south to the so-called Republic — had been blocked long ago. The units on both borders had leaders who were his enemies, and even if he made it past them he would never be safe in either country, even for the short time he needed to get away from there.

But he would succeed. He would have revenge against the Americans who had placed his country, his leader, and himself in this predicament. The bones foretold it.

Kuong Ou scooped up the tablets and prepared to play another game.

Chapter 9

Ten years before, Applegate, Arizona, had been a pristine patch of sand and tumbleweed populated only by the wind. Now it was a pristine patch of high-tech factories punctuated by macadam and people who smiled a lot, undoubtedly because they had just cashed their latest stock options. The factories had been built by a collection of new-wave defense contractors; as far as Fisher could tell from the backgrounder he’d been given, the companies specialized in making things that didn’t actually work — and taking a very long time to prove it.

The airport terminal looked like a pair of trailers piled one on top of the other, with a few windows added for light and structural integrity. Fisher walked inside with the other dozen people from the airplane, noting the No Smoking signs and strategically placed ashtrays filled with pink-colored sand. This seemed to Fisher the work of a particularly perverse antismoking group: Not only did they want you not to smoke but they harassed you with Day-Glo colors.

Then again, it could be part of a guerrilla movement intent on undercutting the antis by mocking their weaponry. Or, worse, it occurred to Fisher that the sand might mask some nefarious incendiary device lurking just below the surface of ash. Deciding the matter needed more investigation, Fisher took out his cigarette pack and lit up, tossing a match into the tray to see if it was flammable.

“You can’t smoke inside,” whined someone behind him.

Fisher glanced left and right without finding the source of the voice.

“Fisher, right?”

Something bumped his elbow. Fisher looked down into the gnomelike face of a forty-year-old woman. The face was attached to a body that barely cleared his belt. Fisher was tall — a bit over six feet — but not that tall. This woman defined vertically challenged.

“I’m Fisher.”

“Special Agent Katherine Mathers,” said the woman, jabbing her hand toward his. “And you can’t smoke in here.”

“That’s good to know,” said Fisher. He took another drag. “Are we walking to where we’re going, or is there a car?”

“I’ve heard about you,” said Mathers. She frowned and headed across the reception area, all eight feet of it, toward the exit. Fisher caught up outside at the curb, where Mathers was waiting behind the wheel of a 1967 puke-green Ford Torino.

“Nice car,” he said, getting in.

“Oldest Bu-car in existence,” she said, using the accepted slang for a Bureau-issued vehicle. If she hadn’t, he might have thought of asking to see her ID.

“No smoking,” she told him.

“No?”

“No.”

He was almost at the butt anyway, so Fisher rolled down his window and tossed it.

“You do that again and I’ll have to bust you for littering,” said Mathers. “We’re very ecology-conscious here.”

“I could tell from the car you were driving.”