The gunfire downstairs lasted another minute. When it ended, Caruso was the first man to Ryan, then Clark and finally Chavez, who had Zarif standing now and in tow, with the pillowcase back over his head.
Sam Driscoll was dead. John Clark made the determination, though it was obvious to all. Caruso and Ryan carried the body downstairs and loaded it into the Durango without a word, while Chavez hog-tied the Iranian and put him in the back.
They drove off, remaining silent for the first few minutes, till Caruso broke the stillness to call Adara Sherman to let her know he needed the jet ready to go in thirty minutes.
The emotions ran the gamut from sadness to fury to the jacked-up remnants of adrenaline that always coursed through the men post-op, only to be replaced by utter exhaustion soon after.
When a member of the team finally did speak, it was Ryan. He made no mention of what had just occurred, he only asked the question that no one had the answer to, and everyone wanted to know.
“What the fuck happened to Riley?”
Edward Riley ran down the darkened hillside, fell, climbed to his feet, and stumbled again. His forehead was bleeding, his clothing was shredded, his arms and legs were bloody and battered from the brush that he tore through and the fence he climbed over and fell from.
He figured he’d gone a mile or more already, although in truth it was much, much less. He had a phone somewhere on his person, and he’d use it, but now he was still in self-preservation mode, that base and primal desire for survival, nothing more.
He’d almost been killed, he’d most definitely been compromised to the extent he could never return home to the U.S., and he had nothing to show for his mission, because his mission had failed.
He ran on, down the hill, only because he could think of no other course of action to take.
69
Ri Tae-jin did not yell or scream or threaten. Instead, he made no reply at all. He simply hung up the telephone and blinked once, his hangdog eyes giving away no expression. He was alone in his office, for now anyway, so he could have said or done anything he wanted, but his only desire at present was for a moment of quiet.
The assassin was in the wind. Probably in the hands of the Americans.
He had failed. The President was alive, and North Korea’s involvement would soon become obvious.
Fire Axe had turned into a disaster.
He blinked again, and his eyes shined a little with new resolve. He picked the phone back off the cradle and waited for his secretary to answer.
“Yes, Comrade General?”
“I need to talk with someone in Technology.”
“I will get Director Pak. One moment—”
“No. I want someone in Technology Outfitting. Special Projects. Not a director. Just someone with access to material. It is only a small technical question I have about a piece of equipment.”
“Yes, sir. Comrade Li serves as Assistant of Provisions and Supplies.”
“Li will be fine, then.”
While he waited for the connection to be made, he looked down at the medals on his chest. Sometimes he straightened them as an affectation, but they were perfect now. All lined up in columns and rows.
“Comrade General? Comrade Li Hyon-chol here. How may I serve you?”
General Ri arrived home in his armored car a little later than usual, but his wife made no mention of it. She already had dinner on the table and the two children were washed and in their chairs. Ri paused in the driveway to give a wave to his driver, and his wife thought this was odd, but she made no mention of this, either.
He entered the house and she reached to help him take off his tunic, but he said he had been feeling cold this afternoon and would keep it on. When she tried to take his briefcase he said he had some papers in it he would need to look at during dinner.
She smiled and bowed, and then the two of them came to the dinner table.
He placed the briefcase below the table and he kissed his boy and he kissed his girl, and he listened to them both tell him about their day at school. They had gone to see a new painting of the Dae Wonsu at the national art museum, and it was even more magnificent than their teacher had promised.
Ri smiled and nodded, and then he sat down, glancing at his watch as he did so.
Every night before dinner they did what virtually every family did, they sang a song to their Dear Leader. Normally his wife chose the song, and she assumed, even though Tae-jin was acting strangely, tonight would be no different. “Dinner is getting cold, so how about a short song?” Smiling at the kids, she said, “I know you remember ‘Don’t Walk on the Cold Snow, Dear Leader.’ Don’t you?”
The children smiled and clapped. It was a favorite of theirs.
But Ri shook his head. “Not tonight. Tonight let us hold hands, and sit together, and think of our family. Of ourselves. Not the Dae Wonsu. Not tonight.”
The children cocked their heads, and his wife looked at him with confusion.
A knock came at the front door. Ri’s wife stood to answer it, but he told her to sit back down.
“But it’s the door,” she said.
Ri smiled at her, then he smiled at his children.
And at that moment the door burst in on its hinges, splintering the door frame. Armed soldiers in green, guns high and voices loud, charged into the home.
The children tried to leap to their feet, but Ri held them by their forearms. His wife cried out in shock and fear but remained in her chair.
Quickly, Lieutenant General Ri’s left hand released his daughter’s forearm and he put his hand under the table. He closed his eyes, pulled hard at something hanging from the handle of his briefcase, and one second later the entire home exploded outward as two kilos of Semtex plastic explosive detonated.
The dogs of Chongjin would go hungry again tonight.
Director Hwang Min-ho sat in a makeshift office on the second floor of the Chongju rare earth mineral production facility, and he stared at the envelope in his hands. A courier from Pyongyang had just arrived and delivered the envelope, telling Hwang it was a letter from General Ri.
This was curious. Ri could have simply picked up the phone and called. Hwang opened the sealed packaging, and then a sealed inner envelope, and he unfolded the single sheet inside. He was surprised to find it was a handwritten message from the general.
Comrade Director Hwang:
We have accomplished much in the past year. Our shared inspiration for the endeavor propelled us forward, but motivation alone would not have brought us to the cusp of success where we now find ourselves. Our plan was sound and our execution more than could have been expected of anyone — we can be proud that we came this close given the considerable obstacles in our path.
I regret I will not be in position to provide continued support to the development of the mine at Chongju. When my replacement is appointed, I hope you will find him to be superior as a partner in the endeavor.
I wish you good fortune.
Ri
Hwang did not understand. Ri could not simply choose to stop his operation to bring Chongju on line. With a slight tremor in his hand he picked up the phone and dialed Ri’s direct office line in Pyongyang. While it rang he checked his watch. It was mid-morning; the general should have been at his desk.
A male secretary answered. Hwang said who he was and asked to be put through directly to the general.
“I am sorry, Comrade Director. General Ri died last night in a gas explosion in his home.”
Hwang did not speak for some time. Finally he asked, “And his family?”