After about twenty minutes of rocking around the twists and turns, the baht bus finally pulled into a parking area across from the entrance to Wat Prathat. Getting from there to the temple was an equally spectacular trek. It required ascending 290 steps flanked by the undulating forms of naga, or serpentine, balustrades. Dragon-like multiple heads reared up at the base of the stairway. Weekend crowds swarmed up and down the steps as though it were Disneyland in the sky.
He reached the bell a few minutes early and paused to examine the Chinese characters that adorned it.
"Mr. Hill?" inquired a heavily accented voice behind him.
Burke turned to face an old monk in a tattered orange robe, a thin man with knobby elbows. "Yes, I'm Burke Hill," he said.
"Come with me, please," said the monk, and guided him around to a stairway that led down to the lower level. He was escorted into the monastery's living quarters, to a small cubicle where he encountered a short, grizzled, white-haired man with wrinkles around his narrow eyes, as though entertaining the beginnings of a smile. Burke had seen similar looks on white-hatted old men around Seoul, though most of them had sported scraggly gray goatees. This man was clean-shaven.
"I am Ahn Wi-jong," he said, rising from his chair, thrusting out his wrinkled hand. "Late of Chicago. I understand you're from Washington. I've visited there, but never spent much time. More politicians per square mile than any place on earth, so I'm told."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ahn," Burke said, shaking his hand. He noted the lack of harshness in the Midwestern flavor of Ahn's Korean-accented English. He smiled. "I understand you've had some pretty notorious politicians in Chicago."
The old man shrugged. "I think the late Mayor Daley was of a dying breed, Mr. Hill. Won't you have a seat? Tell me about this anti-nuclear crusade you're on."
Although the quarters of the Buddhist monks were quite spare, they had provided the old Korean with a couple of chairs. Burke took the other one and looked across at the weathered face. He appeared to be in good health and mentally sharp. Since Ahn had lived in the States for twenty years, Burke hoped there might be a reservoir of patriotism he could tap into.
"I wouldn't call it an anti-nuclear crusade exactly," he said. "The difficulty is that any new atomic weapons anywhere around the world would increase the threat to America, to Thailand, to every country that's trying to live in peace."
"I understand you think somebody in the government of Kwak Sung-kyo is plotting to develop nuclear weapons."
"That's right, Mr. Ahn. I believe it's this man." Burke pulled a photograph from the large envelope he carried and handed it to Ahn.
The old man's face opened like a morning glory and he grinned broadly, his teeth gleaming with numerous patches of dental work. "Son of a bitch! Where'd you get this?"
"It came from a man in Pyongyang named Chung Woo-keun. You recognize the Young Tiger? The Poksu leader?"
"Hmm, you know about that?" Ahn frowned. "Of course, I recognize the bastard. I spent enough years with him. We agreed to keep our role in Manchuria and with Poksu a secret. As far as I know, neither of us ever told a soul. How did you find out about it?"
"Actually, an officer with the Seoul Metropolitan Police Bureau tracked it down. He's now dead because of it. The same thing happend to a historian at Seoul National University. He received identical information and was murdered. I'm wondering if that attempted ambush in Chicago wasn't part of the same plot? It seems anybody who knows anything about the identity of Young Tiger Lee winds up dead."
Ahn lifted a wrinkled brow. "You look pretty healthy."
"After what happened just before I left Seoul, I don't know how healthy it's going to be for me when I get back."
Ahn looked thoughtful. "I never related the Chicago incident with anything like this. The hoods that came looking for me over here, hell, I thought it was some old grudge from ages ago. I was an accountant in Pusan for several years, did some work for the prosecutor's office. I helped send some pretty powerful guys to prison. But this." He stared at the photograph, then shook his head. "He's capable of it, all right. He's as hard-assed as they come. If he's caught in some shady deal and thinks I might compromise him, he'd do anything to prevent it. What do you want to know?"
"Everything about him," said Burke.
Chapter 63
It was around eight that evening when two security men at Kimpo International Airport strolled through the international arrivals area as part of their routine patrol. Ostensibly, their job was to provide protection for those who used the airport's facilities. But their main task was to monitor the comings and goings of airline passengers. They were briefed regularly on individuals of particular interest to government agencies, such as known terrorists, foreign intelligence agents, international criminals, troublesome dissidents, and certain people who were identified as being of immediate concern. It was one of the latter who attracted the ever alert eyes of the security man named Seo.
"I have a make," he said to his partner, Kim. "Coming through the gate. The flight from Bangkok."
Kim stopped to make a perfunctory adjustment of his tie and casually glanced toward the gate entrance. "He's on the 'hot sheet,' all right. Do we need to follow him?"
"No," said Seo. "They know where he's going. It's where he's coming from they're interested in."
As Burke Hill headed for the passport control booths, Seo lifted the portable transceiver from his belt and reported his observation.
As soon as he arrived at the Chosun, Burke went to a public phone and called Duane Elliston's apartment. He no longer trusted his room phone. "I'm back," he said when Duane answered. "We hit the jackpot this time."
"Any problems?"
"Not of any consequence. But I'm sure it's only a matter of time. I need to brief you and Nate as soon as possible. Can you get a taxi and meet me in front of the hotel in about forty-five minutes? We'll go over to the office."
"Whatever you say," Duane replied.
A bit surprised that Duane sounded so agreeable, Burke stopped to get his room key, then took the elevator up. When he entered his room, he pushed the door all the way open to make sure no one was hidden behind it. He propped a bag against the door before stepping inside to switch on the lights, first in the bedroom, then the bath. Satisfied, he retrieved his bag and latched the door.
He had left a few threads in strategic places, drawers where his clothes were stored and among a stack of books and papers that should not have been disturbed by the maid. Every single thread had been moved. Someone had searched his room. Now he had no doubt that he was a marked man. He put together a few things he needed to take to the office, placed a new telltale thread in the closed door and went back down to the lobby.
With about fifteen minutes to kill before time to meet Duane, he found a seat at one side of the busy lobby and studied the people who milled about. There was a constant stream of assorted humanity heading in and out of the hotel's restaurants and bars, smiles flashing as friends recognized one another. Some chatted animatedly, while others, like himself, sat alone, solitary ships anchored in a bustling harbor. He saw no one with any resemblance to Hwang Sang-sol. But he knew the "Man of a Thousand Faces" would not be easy to spot. He was obviously a pro at this deadly game.
The shock of Seoul's frigid wind had provided a chilling welcome back to the real world after that brief flirtation with Thailand's endless summer. He tightened the scarf about his neck as he strolled out front and found Duane waiting in the taxi. It was only a five-minute ride to the office through the cold starlit night.