The Dragon Queen

by William Andrews

  ALSO BY WILLIAM ANDREWS

  Daughters of the Dragon: A Comfort Woman’s Story

  The Essential Truth

  The Dirty Truth

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by William Andrews

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503900349

  ISBN-10: 1503900347

  Cover design by PEPE nymi

  TO MY MASTER, KANG HEU-IN

  Colors fade with age. Rich tones grow dull

  When touched by rain or smoke of fires.

  It may be that, at last, your fame will live

  In poems which are pictures turned to song.

  Age cannot dim the fire of jeweled words

  Nor steal the scent of breezes that will blow

  Down through the ages from your soul.

  Sung Kan (1427–1456 AD)

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  OCTOBER 8, 1895

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  AUTHOR Q & A

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  Korea. Damn. I’m exhausted and we’re not even there yet. Fifteen hours in the air and not a minute of sleep. God, I wish I didn’t have to do this now. Timing couldn’t be worse for Jin-ee and me.

  I’m sensitive to every move the airplane makes, so I feel when we begin our descent into Seoul. Derek, my flight attendant, takes my trash and asks if I need anything more before we land. Yeah, I do. A few more of those twelve-year-old whiskeys they have here in first class. But I say no and raise my seat back for landing. My skin is clammy from the airplane’s close quarters, and a nasty headache is coming on.

  I go over my mission to take my mind off the situation at home. “Help us prevent World War Three,” the secretary of state said when she sent me off. Actually said, “World War Three.” She does that. Exaggerates. They all do in DC. It’s a seven-days-per-week soap opera on the world’s biggest stage. The Middle East is where war was supposed to blow up, but that’s last year’s show. The people are bored. The show needs a new act. With what’s going on here, maybe they aren’t exaggerating this time.

  Never thought they’d tap me for something this big. Nate Simon, special assistant to the secretary of state, on a mission to prevent World War III. Right. It’s that I’m an American who speaks Korean. Three years of it in high school and four at Michigan. My Korean must have looked good on my résumé. After Cal Law, an offer from my senator to work in his DC office, where I met Jin-ee. That helped, marrying a Korean woman. A few years later another call, this time from State. Two years in Korea, then back to DC. A few promotions, and now this.

  Damn, what a rebel Jin-ee was when I first met her. Two braids of long black hair and fire in her eyes. Out to change the world. I had it, too. Passion. The sex was the best I ever had. Intense, purposeful, exhilarating. Each time like it was both the first and last time we’d do it. Then marriage, two kids. What happened to me after that, I can’t say. Got caught up in the race, I guess. Status, money. Things that, after Jin-ee’s bombshell, suddenly don’t seem so important.

  There’s a ding from the speaker system announcing that we’re preparing to land. The cabin lights blink on. Derek gets on the intercom and recites the landing instructions. Everyone around me is waking up, putting away their stuff, getting ready for Korea. Me, I gotta focus on this mission. I gather my papers and shove them back in my case with the gold State Department insignia. Inside I see the stainless-steel box containing the comb. Oh, yeah, the comb. Big mystery this comb. Top secret. I have to find out why someone from North Korea sent it to the president of the United States. Some high-ups in Intelligence think it’s important. I take it out of my briefcase and turn the box so the other passengers can’t see what’s inside. I open it and there’s the comb. It’s stunning. The expert from the Smithsonian said it’s made from the finest tortoiseshell. The rim is solid gold, and the inlay of a two-headed dragon is in pure-white ivory. He said it’s definitely Korean. Said it was made during the nineteenth century. Woman’s comb, he said. Wasn’t so sure about the two-headed dragon, though. I study the dragon. The impossibly tiny ivory inlays make the dragon look almost real. The expert said the comb belongs in a museum, and looking at it now, I believe him. Then there’s the message that came with it. Two words: “One Korea.” So do the North Koreans want reunification through diplomacy or war? Guess that’s what I’m supposed to find out.

  I close the box and stuff it inside my briefcase. I turn the monitor to the channel showing the airplane’s nose camera. After fifteen hours at thirty-eight thousand feet, it helps to see the ground again. It’s still so far away.

  The jet leans to the side and the airplane drops. I look out the window and try not to think of Jin-ee. The sunrise has chased us since we crossed over Japan. Looks like we’ll beat it to Seoul. I look down at the city in the soft morning light. Millions of people in all those apartment towers, dragging themselves from their low Korean beds, brewing their god-awful bori cha tea. Hard to get to know them. Most Confucian country on earth. I wonder if they’re worried about World War III.

  I look for where Jin-ee and I lived. Don’t see it. The city is even bigger now, like my job. Back then it was all so clear, simple. Save the world from destroying itself. Funny, that’s my mission now, but it’s not simple this time. Different rules. Jin-ee never lost sight. Still has the passion. Can’t say that I do.

  Head’s beginning to pound. I grab Derek as he walks by and ask for a couple of aspirin and water. Finally the monitor shows the lights and the airport’s open space far off. It looks so small. After a thousand landings at a thousand airports, I still hate this point in a flight. It scares me how quickly the ground comes up when you land. One minute it’s miles away, the next the runway is right underneath you, moving at 140 knots.

  I look over the city. Korea, the new stage in the show. Seventy-five million people in this act. Maybe if I hadn’t taken all that Korean, I could be back in Virginia talking it through with Jin-ee, trying to find the truth again.

  The engine whine falls several notes, and I hear the landing gear drop. The jet shakes in some turbulence, and I’m feeling nauseous. As the plane weaves into position for landing, I taste stomach acid in my mouth.

  Prevent World War III. That’s why they’ve locked me in this aluminum tube for fifteen hours straight with no way to talk to Jin-ee. World War III. I’m sweating like
a pig, and I can’t find my breath. World . . . War . . . Three. On the monitor, I see the runway coming up fast. I squeeze my eyes closed and see Jin-ee’s young face, her long black braids and fiery eyes.

  Damn it, Jin-ee. Why did you have to do this now?

  An embassy guy in a dark-blue suit and trendy black-frame glasses meets me when I finally get off the plane. Tells me his name is John. Behind him stands a goon wearing a sport coat a size too small for all of his muscles. He has an earpiece and that professional focus on everything, everyone.

  I’m relieved to have my feet on the ground again. As John and the goon hustle me through the airport, I take off my suit coat to let my sweat evaporate. The aspirin Derek gave me starts to work, but I still feel like crap. The lack of sleep and worry about my marriage have drained me. I have to force myself to push on.

  It’s early, so there aren’t many people in the concourse. A few businessmen with briefcases run to catch their flights. A woman helps someone who’s probably her mother make her way to a flight. A group of high school kids waits at a gate. The boys wear white shirts and ties; the girls are in knee-length skirts. They look happy, excited. If they only knew . . .

  The terminal has hundreds of typical airport stores and restaurants. There are high-end boutiques—Chanel, Dolce & Gabbana, and Ascot Chang. There’s a McDonald’s next to a sushi bar, and a Pizza Hut across from a noodle shop. There’s something different here, though. It’s the signs. They’re in Hangul, English, Japanese, and Chinese. You don’t see that in Tokyo, Beijing, or Singapore. Only here.

  As we head for the exit, I nod toward the goon. “Why the muscle?” I ask John.

  “Orders,” he replies. “There are people who want to push the situation here over the edge.”

  “Meaning?”

  “An American official, like you, is a target.”

  Me? A target? Suddenly I’m not so tired. I think of Jin-ee and our kids eleven thousand miles away. Like the goon, I notice everyone and everything.

  When we get outside, there’s a stretch town car and driver waiting for us. Idling in front of it is an Escalade with blacked-out windows. When he sees us, the limo driver opens the car door and John and I climb in. The goon sits next to the driver, and we follow the Escalade into the city.

  John sits across from me as we drive the airport expressway over the Yeongjong Bridge into the Incheon lowlands. I look for coffee inside the limo’s black leather interior. Don’t see any. Just a bottle of water that I grab and gulp down. John’s all business as he launches into my itinerary, rapid-fire like bullets from a machine gun. “Your first meeting’s at nine with Ambassador Morris,” he shoots. “We’ll get to the embassy about eight forty-five. That should give you time to freshen up.” Freshen up . . . I wonder if I look as bad as I feel.

  “And by the way,” John says, “the ambassador invited General Dunning.”

  Great. General George Washington Dunning, commander, US Forces Korea. “I thought we were meeting with just the ambassador and her staff,” I say.

  “You know how it is,” John says with a look.

  Yeah, I do. When armies and tanks and missiles with nuclear warheads start moving, and when superpowers take sides and make threats, everyone gets a little scared. Stock markets crash, people start building bomb shelters and buying canned goods. The voters demand tough action. That’s when generals like Dunning think they should be in charge.

  John continues firing away. “This afternoon, we’ll meet with the Koreans—Defense Minister Han, Foreign Affairs Minister Kim, and the Minister of Reunification, Mr. Park. Tomorrow morning, it’s meetings with experts on what’s going on in the North.”

  In other words, spies. “Anything new there?” I ask.

  “No. And nothing new from the Chinese or Russians, either. It’s a Mexican standoff, as they say.”

  John levels his eyes on me and says, “Your afternoon tomorrow is blocked off, but we weren’t told what for.” He raises an eyebrow.

  The meeting is with some “people” at the CIA about the comb and the note that came with it. They haven’t cleared anyone at State to know about it other than the secretary and me, so I simply say, “Classified.”

  John doesn’t say anything more as we drive to the embassy. The trip usually takes an hour, but it’s rush hour so it’ll take two. As we drive, I turn on my phone and check messages. There’s one from Jin-ee who wishes me luck and promises that we’ll talk more when I get back. There’s a message from our daughter, Jenny, who just last week got her first cell phone. I love getting messages from her, although we told her she had to limit her texts to me to one or two per day. Our son, Will, isn’t old enough to have his own phone, and he really doesn’t care. Thinks phones are for girls, not for a future NBA star like him. I answer the texts. Eleven thousand miles away, I realize Jin-ee’s right, I haven’t been there for my kids. We should travel more. Take a year off. Or two. Show them the world so they can see past our upper-middle-class sliver of northern Virginia. Teach them that they can change the world.

  We’ve entered into Seoul’s Bucheon district. I look out the window. It’s good to be back. Reminds me of the happy times when I lived here with Jin-ee. Tiny cars and truck vans with Hangul letters on the side fill the expressway. All over the city, tall apartment buildings, like an army of soldiers, stand at attention. We drive along the Han River for a while, then cross over the Seongsan Bridge into the heart of Seoul. The city is dense with modern buildings. Glass and steel and concrete and aluminum. Seems like they’re building new ones on every block. Everywhere there are cars, buses, trucks, and people on motorbikes. Car horns honk, trucks roar, commuter trains glide along tracks. On the narrow streets intersecting the boulevards, merchants are opening their doors for business. Pedestrians jam the sidewalks. The city smells like a combination of exhaust and kimchi. It throbs with energy. I marvel at these industrious, intelligent people. What they call their “Miracle on the Han River” is on full display—the rise from a dirt-poor nation to one of the world’s most modern in a short fifty years.

  I just hope I can save it all from being destroyed in World War III.

  TWO

  The limo approaches the US embassy building where I worked when I lived here. A few blocks away is Gyeongbok Palace, the last home of the Chosŏn Dynasty. Through the big-city haze, the open air of the palace grounds is visible just to the north. Beyond it is Bukhansan Mountain standing over Seoul like a giant Buddha smiling down at his subjects. We drive to the embassy’s huge iron gate with big red stop signs. The embassy reminds me of something from the Cold War Soviet Union, an eight-story block of concrete. Every time I see it, I think we should tear it down and replace it with something more modern. You know, image and all. Seoul police are on guard outside the gate. Makes sense. Anything outside of the embassy is their turf. However, just inside there are a dozen US Marines holding M16s. You know, image and all.

  Once inside the embassy compound, I climb out of the limo and John escorts me into the building. The interior is just like it was twelve years earlier—what some architect fifty years ago thought was progressive is now only depressing. The once-modern lobby furniture is shabby and the lighting is harsh. At the security checkpoint, they scan our IDs. When the guard asks to search my briefcase, John tells him it’s okay and he waves us through. We take an elevator to the eighth floor. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. There are bags under my eyes, and my skin is pasty like someone who hasn’t slept in two days. I smooth my hair with my fingers and splash water on my face. It helps some, but I still look awful. I leave the bathroom, and John leads me to the windowless conference room. It has the same navy-blue carpet as when I worked here, but now it’s even more threadbare and the mahogany paneled walls need fresh varnish. There’s the old conference table that can sit twenty-five people with enough room for everyone to spread papers around. At the head of the table is the American flag on a brass stand. Next to it on another brass stand is a South Korean flag with its
red and blue yin and yang and trigrams in each corner. I go to the credenza and pour myself a cup of coffee. I gulp it down and immediately the caffeine starts to pick me up. I take a seat near the head of the table. I take my papers from my briefcase but leave the box with the comb inside. Jin-ee is in my head and so are Jenny and Will. I want to be with them instead of here. Work things out. I push them aside. I’m here now and I gotta stay focused.

  The conference room’s double doors open, and Betty Morris, the US ambassador to Korea, comes walking in. Good-looking middle-aged woman. She’s wearing a tailored navy-blue suit and a white blouse. Her jewelry is pure Fifth Avenue. Everything about her screams East Coast money, which is, in fact, how she got to be ambassador. There are rewards for the rich who support a presidential bid. However, her medium-length blonde hair, which I’ve never seen less than perfectly coiffed, is unkempt like she hasn’t been in front of a mirror for a while. Yeah, I bet.

  With Betty are two aides. One is Craig Matthews, her chief of staff. He’s wearing what would be a State Department–issued suit if the State Department actually issued suits. Craig is Harvard and as smart as they come. But he’s one of those lifers who never has an opinion and only takes sides when he knows which one will win. I wonder if I’ve become like him. Betty’s other aide is someone I’ve never seen before. A young Korean woman, petite and attractive.

  Marching in behind Betty is General George Washington Dunning in his army dress blues. Betty introduces me to Dunning and I shake his hand. He’s smaller than I expected. Not even five nine and probably shy of one seventy. He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and has close-cropped hair. He’d look like a nerd except there are three stars on each shoulder and rows of combat medals on his chest. With my sweat-stained shirt, I’m way outmatched.

  The general has with him a one-star brigadier general and a full-bird colonel. They too are in dress blues and are cut from the same military-first mold as Dunning. They each carry a thick briefcase.

  The army guys take a seat on the other side of the table from me.