Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, Eiji Tsuburaya sent millions of yen to North Korea through two trusted couriers based in the South. Both men arrived on the late afternoon ferry, carrying two empty, nondescript suitcases, walked directly to the back room of the parlor, left with full ones, and were back on the ferry before it turned about and left for the 150-mile trip to Pusan. From there, the money was smuggled north by members of PUK— Patriots for a Unified Korea, a group comprised of people from both the North and the South, everyone from businessmen to customs agents to street cleaners. It was their belief that profit for entrepreneurs and greater prosperity for the North Korean public in general would force the Communist leaders to accept an open market and, ultimately, reunification.
As always, the men left the parlor, climbed into the waiting cab, and sat quietly for the ten-minute ride to the ferry. Unlike other days, however, this time they were followed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kim Hwan saw Donald sitting on a curb, his forehead in his hands, his jacket and pants covered with blood.
"Gregory!" he shouted as he jogged over.
Donald looked up. There was tear-streaked blood on his cheeks and in his disheveled silver hair. He tried to rise but his legs shook and he fell back; Hwan caught him and hugged him tightly as he sat down. The agent pulled away just long enough to make sure none of the blood was Donald's, then embraced him again.
Donald's words were swallowed by his sobs. His breath was coming in gasps.
"Don't say anything," Hwan said softly. "My assistant told me."
Donald didn't seem to hear him. "She she was a blameless soul."
"She was. God will care for her."
"Kim He shouldn't have her I should. She should be here "
Hwan fought back tears of his own as he pressed his cheek to Donald's head. "I know."
"Who did she offend? There was no evil in her. I don't understand." He pressed his face into Hwan's breast. "I want her back, Kim I want her "
Hwan saw a medic turn toward them and motioned him over. Still holding Donald, Hwan rose slowly.
"Donald, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to go with someone. Let them make sure you're all right."
The medic put a hand on Donald's arm but he wrested it away.
"I want to see Soonji. Where have they taken my wife?"
Hwan looked at the medic, who pointed toward a movie theater. There were body bags on the floor, and more were being carried in.
"She's being cared for, Gregory, and you need care yourself. You may have injuries."
"I'm all right."
"Sir," the medic said to Hwan, "there are others—"
"Of course, I'm sorry. Thank you."
The medic hurried off and Hwan took a step back. Holding Donald by the shoulders, he looked into the dark eyes, always so full of love but now red and glazed with pain. He wouldn't force him to go to the hospital, but leaving him here, alone, was not an option.
"Gregory, would you do me a favor?"
Donald was staring through Hwan, weeping again.
"I need help with this case. Would you come with me?"
Donald looked at him. "I want to stay with Soonji."
"Gregory—"
"I love her. She needs me."
"No," Hwan said softly. "You can do nothing for her." He turned Donald around and pointed to the theater a block away. "You don't belong there, you belong with those of us you can help. Come with me. Help me to find the people who did this."
Donald blinked several times, then absently patted his pockets. Hwan reached into Donald's pocket.
"Is this what you want?" he asked, handing him his pipe.
Donald took it, his movements awkward and halting, and Hwan helped him put it in his mouth. When he didn't reach for his tobacco, Hwan took him by the elbow and walked him away, through the settling dust and increasing activity in the square.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The White House Situation Room was located on the first sublevel, directly below the Oval Office. There was a long, rectangular mahogany table in the center of the brightly lit room; there was a STU-3 and a computer monitor at each station, with slide-out keyboards underneath. Like all government computers, the computer setup was self-contained; software from outside, even from the Department of Defense or State Department, was debugged before it was allowed into the system.
On the walls were detailed maps showing the location of U.S. and foreign troops, as well as flags denoting trouble spots: red for ongoing and green for latent. There was already a red flag in Seoul.
Paul Hood had arrived at the west gate of the White House and, after passing through a metal detector, took the elevator down one floor. When the door opened, his ID was checked by a Marine sentry, who escorted him to a small table that sat beside a door with no handle. Hood pressed his thumb lightly on a small screen that sat on the table: a moment later there was a buzz and the door popped open. Hood entered, walking past a guard who had checked his thumbprint against the print on file in the computer; if the two hadn't matched, the door would not have been opened. Only the President, the Vice President, and the Secretary of State were not subject to this security check.
The door to the Situation Room was open, and Hood walked in. Four other officials were already there: Secretary of State Av Lincoln, Defense Secretary Ernesto Colon, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Melvin Parker, and CIA Director Greg Kidd were talking in a corner, away from the door; a pair of secretaries sat at a small corner table. One was there to take notes, in code, in a Powerbook, the other to bring up any data on the computer that might be called for. A Marine was putting out coffee butlers, pitchers of water, and cups.
The men acknowledged Hood with nods and salutes; only Lincoln walked over as soon as Hood entered. He stood just under six feet, powerfully hewn, with a round face and thinning widow's peak. A former Major League pitcher and Hall of Famer, he moved from the baseball diamond to the Minnesota state legislature to Congress quicker than his blinding fastballs. He was the first politician to get behind the candidacy of Governor Michael Lawrence, and the State Department was his reward; most agreed he lacked the diplomatic skills the job required, loved to treat the obvious like a revelation. But Lawrence was nothing if not loyal.
"How've you been?" Lincoln asked, extending his hand.
"Passing fair, Av."
"That was a good job your people did at Independence Hall on the Fourth. Very impressive."
"Thanks, but it's never really a good job when hostages are hurt."
Lincoln waved a hand with disgust. "No one was killed. That's what matters. Hell, when you've got to coordinate efforts between local police, the FBI, and your own Striker personnel, with the media looking over your shoulder, that's a goddamn miracle." He poured himself a cup of coffee. "It's like this situation, Paul. Already on TV, experts flapping their lips in the media— there'll be opinion polls before breakfast telling us why seventy-seven percent of the American public doesn't think we should even be in Korea or anywhere else."
Hood looked at his watch.
"Burkow rang down, said they were running late," Lincoln said. "The President's on the phone with Ambassador Hall. He doesn't want Americans moving into or being turned away from the Embassy unless he okays it, or any statements or actions that show any kind of panic."