"Soon? What is it?"
Soonji fired a look toward the bar. "The earrings you gave me for our anniversary. One of them is missing."
"Maybe you left it home."
"No. I had it in the bar."
"Right. I felt it when I brushed your cheek—"
Soonji shot him a look. "That had to be when I lost it." She stood and hurried to the end of the grandstand. "I'll be right back!"
"Why don't I call them?" Donald shouted. "Someone here must have a cellular—"
But she was already gone, making her way down the steps and, a moment later, hurrying down the street toward the bar.
Donald slumped forward and rested his elbows on his knees.
The poor girl would be devastated if it was lost. He'd just had the earrings custom-made for their second anniversary, with two small emeralds, her favorite stones. He could have it made over, but it wouldn't be the same. And Soonji would carry her guilt around.
He shook his head slowly. How was it with him that every time he showed someone love, it came back as pain? Kim, Soonji- Maybe it was him. Bad karma or sins in a previous life or maybe he was a black cat with a résumé.
Leaning back, Gregory turned his eyes toward the podium as the President of the National Assembly stepped to the microphone.
CHAPTER FIVE
Park Duk had the face of a cat, round and unworried, with eyes that were wise and alert.
As he rose from his seat and moved to the podium, the people in the grandstand and the crowd standing below erupted into applause. He raised his hands in acknowledgment, framed majestically by the stately palace, with its walled grounds and collection of old pagodas from other parts of the country.
Gregory Donald clenched his teeth, caught himself, then returned his expression to neutral. As President of the U.S./Korean Friendship Society in Washington, he had to be nonpolitical as pertained to matters in South Korea. If the people wanted reunification with the North, he had to go along with that in public. If they didn't, he had to go along with that in public.
Privately, he yearned for it. North and South both had a great deal to offer each other and the world, culturally, religiously, and economically, and the whole would be greater than the sum of its parts.
Duk, a veteran of the war and a fierce anti-Communist, was opposed to even talking about it. Donald could respect his politics, if he tried— but he could never respect anyone who found a subject so distasteful it couldn't even be debated. People like that were tyrants in the making.
After too-long applause, Duk put his hands down, leaned toward the podium, and spoke. Though his lips moved, nothing came out.
Duk drew back and, with a Cheshire grin, tapped the microphone.
"Unificationists!" he said to the politicians seated in a row behind him, and several applauded lightly. There were cheers from nearby members of the crowd who had heard him.
Donald allowed himself a little frown. Duk really bugged him, as much for his smooth manner as the growing size of his following.
A red flash caught Donald's eye as, from somewhere behind the august gathering, a figure in a red blazer went racing to the sound truck.
They'd have this fixed in no time. From the 1988 Olympics, Donald remembered just how good the focused, savvy South Koreans were at troubleshooting.
He lost the frown as he turned to look back toward the bar and saw Soonji running toward him. Her arm was raised in triumph, and he thanked God that at least something went right today.
Kim Hwan sat in an unmarked car on Sajingo, south of the Palace, two hundred yards behind where the podium had been erected. From here, he had a complete view of the square and of his agents on rooftops and in windows. He watched as Duk approached and then stepped back from the podium.
No sound from a bureaucrat: now there was his definition of a perfect world.
He raised the field glasses sitting beside him. Duk was standing there, nodding to acolytes in the crowd. Well, like it or not, this was what democracy was all about. It was better than the eight years that they had General Chun Doo Hwan running things as head of the martial law command. Kim didn't like his successor, Roh Tae Woo, any better when he was elected President in 1987, but at least he was elected.
He turned the glasses toward Gregory and wondered where Soonji had gone.
If any other man had won his former assistant, Hwan would have hated him to his last breath. He had always loved her, but KCIA policy forbid relationships among employees; it would be too easy for infiltrators to get information by placing a secretary or researcher on staff and having her court an official.
She was almost worth quitting for, but that would have broken Gregory's heart. His mentor had always felt that Hwan had the mind and soul and sensitive political instincts of a KCIA man, and had spent a small fortune educating him and preparing him for that life. Even as thick as the red tape got at times, Hwan knew that Gregory was right: this was the life for him.
There was a beep to his left, and Kim lowered the glasses. A wideband radio was set in the dashboard of the car; when anyone needed to talk to him, a tone sounded and a red light flashed above the button accessed their station.
A light came on from the operative stationed atop Yi's Department Store.
Hwan punched the button. "Hwan here. Over."
"Sir, we have a lone figure in a red blazer running toward the sound truck. Over."
"Will check. Over."
Hwan picked up the portable phone and called the office of the event coordinator at the Palace.
A harried voice said, "Yes— what is it?"
"This is Kim Hwan. Is that your man going to the sound truck?"
"It is. In case you didn't notice, our audio is down. Maybe one of your men did it when they were checking the stage for explosives."
"If they did, we'll take away their bones."
There was a long silence.
"Their dog bones. We had the sniff squad out."
"That's great," said the coordinator. "One of them might have urinated on a wire."
"Political commentary," Hwan said. "I want you to stay on the line till you hear something."
Another long silence. Suddenly a faraway voice crackled through the phone.
"My God! K-Two—"
Hwan was alert. "Turn up your radio. I want to hear what he says."
The volume rose.
"K-One, what's wrong?" the coordinator asked.
"Sir— K-Two is on the floor. His head's bleeding. He must have fallen."
"Check the console."
There was a tense silence. "The microphones are off. But we checked them. Why would he have done that?"
"Turn them back on—"
"All right."
Hwan's eyes narrowed. He squeezed the receiver tightly and was already starting out the door. "Tell him not to touch anything!" he shouted. "Someone may have gotten in there and—"
There was a flash, and the rest of his sentence was drowned out by a massive blast.
CHAPTER SIX
The STU-3 secured phone on the nightstand rang. The console had a rectangular, lighted screen on top with an LED display giving the name and number of the person calling, and whether or not the line was secure.
Not quite awake, President Michael Lawrence didn't look at the screen as he reached for the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Mr. President, we have a situation."
The President climbed to an elbow. Now he looked at the screen: it was Steven Burkow, the National Security chief. Below his phone number, it said Confidential— not Secret or Top Secret.