He then rose to a crouch and sprinted into the street, racing through moving traffic. On the far side he ran along the sidewalk for blocks.
And as he ran, his dream of the Asian girls and the beach house evaporated. He had no idea where to go or what to do, so he just ran on through the city, still in disbelief that he had done everything asked of him and the infidel North Koreans had sent killers anyway.
In his Pyongyang office, General Ri sat patiently waiting for the call from his RGB director in Mexico. Once the word finally came that the Iranian bomber had been killed, he would go home and sleep for a few hours before returning to work. He expected to be contacted by the office of the Dae Wonsu, invited to the Ryongsong Residence and congratulated personally, and he wanted to be fresh for this event.
While he bided his time he had the woman with him keep up the running translations from CNN, and he watched the feed with rapt fascination. There was footage now of a burning limousine, and although the image had been obscured to cover burning bodies in the middle of the wreckage, his translator said the reporter was claiming the dead to be the President and the ambassador.
The translator kept talking over with the English words: “… devastating attack on the motorcade carrying President Jack Ryan. We have been told there are casualties, a significant number of casualties. Perhaps in the dozens, perhaps many, many more.”
Ri had tuned out. Now he was thinking about how to pay quiet honor to Zarif. The bomb maker was likely already dead, killed under his instruction. Still, something was in order for the man’s contribution to the North Korean people. There could be no official announcement, of course. If ever word made it back to the United States that North Korea was complicit in the assassination of their leader, then the Americans would fire every last one of their nuclear missiles. They were a warlike people who had been looking for the right time, and the right excuse, for seventy years.
Ri worried any mistake in his operation would give them that excuse, but he had confidence in his plan, and as the TV screen in front of him now showed an overhead view, from a helicopter, perhaps, of an entire city block of wrecked and burning vehicles, shattered shop windows, and debris in the streets, General Ri allowed himself to feel even more confident.
The television feed switched to the White House now. The translator said a press secretary was due to make a statement. Ri smiled. This would be the announcement he had waited for. The man who walked out was in his sixties and bald, and he wore small glasses that made him look like a professor. Ri could tell the man had never served in his nation’s military, and to the general that alone was reason for derision.
Never mind that he was American.
The translator said, “Comrade General, this man’s name is Arnold Van Damm. He is the principal adjutant to the President, and his closest adviser.”
Ri chuckled. “If he was his closest adviser, he would have been in the car with him.”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
The American appeared somewhat rushed and irresolute, and he took a moment to control his emotion, looking down at a small sheet of paper in front of him. Finally he looked into the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen. Approximately forty minutes ago, at twelve thirty-five local time in Mexico City, one thirty-five here in Washington, a vicious and cowardly attack was perpetrated not just against the United States of America but also against the entire free world. The motorcade carrying the President was ambushed by unknown individuals using explosives, rifles, and rockets. President Ryan was traveling in an armored vehicle that was disabled by the initial explosion, and several other vehicles were also disabled or destroyed.”
A male reporter all but screamed: “Is the President alive?”
Arnie Van Damm nodded instantly. “The President is very much alive. He is currently on Air Force One and returning to Washington.”
Ri snatched the translator by her arm and yanked her closer. “Alive?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
A female reporter on television shouted now, and the translator spoke in Korean. “Is he injured?”
“The President was slightly wounded, it appears he has some fractures. He is in good spirits. His injuries were tended to on the aircraft by his personal doctor.”
“Can he speak to the press?”
“Due to the security situation at the airport, the press pool was either not able or not allowed to board the aircraft. I understand he will record an audio message, and as soon as I get that I will send it out to all the media contacts.”
A young male reporter from MSNBC called out now. “Why not a video message?”
Arnie said, “Honestly, we don’t have the time to set up a secure video conference with Air Force One.”
“Arnie, how can we confirm it’s really Ryan talking if we can’t even see him?”
Arnie looked at the man for a long time. “You just announced to your viewership that the Taliban has accepted responsibility. Did you confirm that, or did you just run with it?”
“Well, we—”
“I don’t care if you believe it’s Jack Ryan on the audio. Just run it. He’ll be back in Washington in a few hours, and I’m sure we’ll prove any skeptics wrong.”
Another question came from the front row. “Who is in charge?”
Van Damm said, “John Patrick Ryan is the President of the United States. That has not changed.”
In the office in Pyongyang, General Ri looked at the uniformed woman next to him now, not at the television. “He is alive and on his airplane?”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
Ri shook his head. Slowly at first, and then more quickly. “It’s a lie. His body is on the airplane. They are buying themselves a few hours. Once the plane lands in Washington, and they all have their stories straight, they will claim the President died in flight.”
“Yes, Comrade General.”
Ri stood and began pacing his office. Within seconds his phone rang, and he stormed over and snatched it up. “Yes?” He nodded. “What? Zarif is alive? Damn you! Find him now, or your family will be in Chongjin by the end of the week!” He slammed the phone down so hard the translator cried out.
In New York City, the entire Campus team had just arrived to help Sam Driscoll with his surveillance on Veronika Martel. She had not left her apartment yet today, but the team expected movement soon because it was already early afternoon.
Clark had gone out to rent a second vehicle, but the rest of the men had been sitting in the living room on a conference call with Gavin Biery. Suddenly Clark came through the door, almost in a run. Ding, Dom, Sam, and Jack stood quickly, confused and concerned by his manner. He shut the door, then he looked at the television. When he saw it was turned off he headed straight through the living room toward the hall to the bedrooms. On the way he said, “Ryan, follow me.”
Ryan stood, looked around at the other guys. “What the hell did I do?” Clark had already stormed down the hall.
Ryan entered the bedroom seconds later. Clark moved close to him. Jack had been concerned he was in trouble, but he could see something else in Clark’s eyes, something that gave him even more reason to fear.
“What is it?”
“Son, your dad’s motorcade was attacked in Mexico City. It’s all over the news.”
Ryan’s mouth opened slightly, but he did not speak.
“Nobody knows anything yet. I called Gerry and he’s on it, but we’re going to learn more from the media that was down there.”
Clark didn’t mention that one of the cable outlets had already announced the assassination of the President. Instead, he said, “You need to call your mom.”