Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Calibrisi. “Let’s hear what you have, Jenna.”

  “Of course,” she said, moving to the center of the room. Jenna wore a stylish green blazer over a white shirt and a matching pair of green slacks. In her hand was a remote.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jenna Hartford,” she said. “As this is the first action I’m involved with, please forgive me in advance for any violations of protocol in regards to such things as names, titles, and various other things.”

  Jenna clicked the remote. A large photo of Kim Jong-un, splashed across the plasma screen.

  “Mack and I have completed the design of an operation intended to ascertain top-secret information regarding North Korea’s nuclear missile infrastructure, timelines, and strength of force projections,” said Jenna. “The operation is code-named Needle in the Haystack.”

  Jenna glanced at Calibrisi, who nodded subtly.

  “In the past month, Kim Jong-un has conducted two separate underground nuclear tests,” said Jenna. “While many Western analysts believe Kim is simply being provocative in regards to the West, these tests were materially greater than anything the North Koreans have attempted to date by a factor of four.”

  She hit the remote. A digital map appeared, showing Southern Asia. She clicked it again. Suddenly, several red lines moved in an arc from North Korea into the sky, then fell into the China Sea.

  “During the same time period, the North Koreans launched a total of nineteen missiles,” said Jenna. “As the infographic shows, acceleration, trajectories, and acclimation have improved dramatically with each successive test. Several of the tests resulted in failure, but most were successful. They don’t have ICBM capability as of yet, but they are working feverishly toward that end and it is virtually inevitable that they will achieve their objective.”

  “What’s their goal here, Jenna?” asked Brubaker.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” said Brainard, the deputy secretary of defense. “Kim would like to strike the United States with a nuclear weapon—or at least have the ability to do so.”

  “That makes no sense,” said Brubaker. “We’d wipe them off the map. They know that.”

  “Would we?” said Jenna, looking at Brubaker.

  “Very little Kim Jong-un does makes sense,” said Calibrisi. “Jenna’s question is the right one. Would we wipe North Korea off the map? Put yourself in the president’s position, which means China must be taken into consideration. It’s naïve to assume we would simply react by destroying North Korea, especially since it is our actions—or inactions—which have enabled this megalomaniac to be in the very position he’s in.”

  There were mumbles and a few coughs.

  “How long until the North Koreans can hit the coast of California?” said Brubaker.

  Jenna turned to Perry, who was sitting before a computer, headset on.

  “A few days ago, I would’ve said not for a few months,” Perry said, “but the North Koreans are making quantum advances in key areas, particularly fuel cell technology. In the most recent test, one of the vehicles traveled more than twice as far as any previously documented North Korean missile. So they are improving at a nonlinear pace. Even knowing that, I would still say they won’t have the ability to hit Los Angeles for a few months. Unless—”

  “Unless what?” said Brubaker.

  “Unless the North Koreans acquire the technology,” said Perry. “We have several enemies who possess scale, reliable ICBM technology and who would certainly trade with Pyongyang for some highly enriched uranium. It’s a question of when, not if, their rockets can make the trip. But one thing is for sure: we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Let’s get to the operation,” said Calibrisi.

  “Yes, of course,” said Jenna. “The goal of Needle in the Haystack is to find out the precise stage of North Korea’s nuclear missile capability in order to know if and when the United States needs to preemptively act to stop them before they do in fact strike Los Angeles, or another U.S. city.”

  She hit the remote. A map of China appeared, then zoomed in on a red star next to the word “Macau.” A moment later, a night photo of Macau shot onto the screen. It showed dozens of modern skyscrapers lit up in bright neon.

  To the individuals inside the Langley briefing theater, Macau needed little introduction. It was a key juncture in the world of international espionage. Crossroads to Asia. The largest gambling mecca in the world, bigger even than Las Vegas in terms of gambling revenue, all packed into a skyscraper-filled place geographically smaller than most American towns. It was a place of astounding wealth, secrecy, and lawlessness, where the elite of Asia’s political, financial, military, and intelligence worlds gathered to gamble and party outside the tight boundaries of home countries—and do business. For this reason, Macau was, for the West, a cipher.

  “Our operation takes place in Macau,” said Jenna. “Asia’s Las Vegas, but much more decadent, dangerous, and important. Macau is the entry point for contacts inside the Asian theater. In the case of North Korea, it represents our only opportunity to penetrate the closed-off world of the North Korean ruling hierarchy.”

  “What’s the team?” asked Brubaker, looking at Polk. “How many men? Who’s going?”

  “We’ll make that decision after the briefing,” said Polk.

  * * *

  Dewey stepped into the amphitheater and stood inside the door. He caught Calibrisi looking at him. Calibrisi nodded toward the seat next to him, telling Dewey to come over and sit down, though Dewey remained standing near the door.

  Dewey looked at the plasma screen, staring at the photos of North Korea’s leader, Kim Jong-un.

  The woman he’d met a little while ago, Jenna, was standing at the center of the room. She clicked a remote. A half-dozen photos of another North Korean appeared, different shots of the same individual. He was middle-aged, with short-cropped black hair and a hard, slightly sinister look on his face.

  “General Pak Yong-sik,” said Jenna, “top-ranking officer of the North Korean People’s Army.”

  Dewey listened as Jenna spoke.

  “Yong-sik is the longest-serving KPA chief ever and a trusted aide to Kim; in fact, his most trusted aide. Yong-sik’s itinerary has him traveling to Macau sometime tomorrow. He will be staying here,” she clicked the remote and a large skyscraper filled the screen, “the Mandarin Hotel, under heavy security, for one night.”

  “Yong-sik is a devoted player of blackjack,” said Perry. “While this probably isn’t the sole purpose of the trip, he will be playing. This has already been confirmed by informants we have inside the Mandarin Hotel.”

  “You’re telling me Yong-sik walks into the casino and plays blackjack?” asked Brubaker. “He’s like a sitting duck.”

  “He plays in his suite at the hotel,” said Perry. “A private game.”

  “I want live monitoring of all inbound air traffic,” interrupted Polk. “Moscow, Tehran, Istanbul, Berlin. Maybe he’s gambling, but let’s assume that’s not the real reason for the trip. If Yong-sik’s meeting someone, we want to know.”

  “Already done,” said Perry.

  For the first time, Jenna looked at Dewey.

  “The operating plan is straightforward,” said Jenna. “We’ve arranged to insert an agent into the casino’s operations. He’ll penetrate Yong-sik’s security cordon inside the Mandarin Hotel. As Mack said, Yong-sik likes to play alone. Posing as a blackjack dealer, the agent will hit Yong-sik with a needle that looks just like this.”

  Jenna held up a syringe. She nodded at a man in the front row.

  “Dr. Morris, would you be so kind?” Jenna said, offering the syringe to a chubby brown-haired man who stood up and stepped to center stage.

  Dr. David Morris was the chief toxicologist at the CIA. He wore glasses and looked slightly nervous, like a professor. The former chief anesthesiologist at the Cleveland Clinic, Morris had three Ph.D.s: one from Harvard, one from Stanford, and o
ne from Moscow State University. It was in Moscow where Morris learned about poison.

  “Digoxin, more commonly known as Lanoxin, is a heart medication,” said Morris. “It derives from certain plants, such as foxglove, and helps control irregularities in the heart, such as atrial fibrillation. It’s a cardiac glycoside and has a steroid nucleus containing five fused rings, and this is important. These rings allow us to attach other chemicals, such as methyl, hydroxyl, and aldehyde in order to influence the drug’s overall biological activity. In other words, it’s a drug that takes to chemical alterations rather easily. The drug’s effects can be manipulated. Digoxin is the proverbial fox in the henhouse: it gains access easily and can then be used to do whatever we want.”

  Morris held up the syringe.

  “Unlike run-of-the-mill digoxin, the potion on its way to Macau is lethal,” said Morris. “It’s been laced with a designer toxin we developed right here at Langley with help from the CDC. The poison contains two specific, time-released chemical reactions. First, almost immediately after being infected, the poison will cause its recipient to develop a very sharp fever. Heart rate will spike dramatically. Blood pressure will go through the roof. This is meant to demonstrate to General Yong-sik that the poison is real. It won’t kill him, however. After a few hours, the fever and other symptoms will revert, allowing him to do what we need him to do. The second layer of toxin hits around the twenty-hour mark. The same symptoms reoccur, along with new ones, including intermittent blindness and sharp abdominal pain. From hour twenty on, whoever’s been poisoned is on a rapid and very painful path to death, which we’ve engineered to occur at the twenty-four-hour mark. Once Yong-sik is hit with the needle, he’ll have twenty-four hours to live, unless he receives the antidote.”

  Jenna stepped forward and stood beside Morris.

  “Assuming the poisoning goes according to plan, Yong-sik will have to make a choice,” said Jenna. “Die—or give us what we want in exchange for the antidote.”

  “I like it,” said Brubaker, nodding, “a lot. Very creative, Jenna.”

  “Actually, it was Mack and I together, along with Dr. Morris. But thanks.”

  Jenna clicked the remote. A photo of the front of a wide, majestic-looking limestone building hit the screen.

  “This is the Victorious War Museum in Pyongyang,” said Jenna. “What we want from Yong-sik is in Pyongyang, of course, so we’ll need to plant the antidote there.”

  “How?” said Brubaker.

  Jenna looked at Calibrisi.

  “British intelligence has a deep-based asset inside Pyongyang,” said Calibrisi. “They’ve been kind enough to allow us to utilize this asset in the operation.”

  “An hour ago, a CIA jet was dispatched to Seoul,” said Jenna, “where a handoff of the poison and the antidote will occur. If all goes according to plan, the antidote will be in the agent’s hand in Pyongyang sometime tomorrow. He’ll preset the antidote beneath a bench on the second floor of the museum. Once we receive what we want from General Yong-sik and have authenticated it, we’ll tell him where the antidote is.”

  “Why not just let the bastard die?” said Brainard, the deputy defense secretary.

  Jenna shot him a look.

  “Two reasons,” said Jenna. “One, as Mr. Brubaker noted, Yong-sik appears to be, if not an ally, at least someone with both oars in the water. We don’t want him dead, especially with tensions running so high. Second, if he lives up to his end of the bargain, we should live up to ours. We’ve given our word.”

  “It also sets up the potential for future collaboration,” said Polk. “After all’s said and done, the fact is, he will have committed treason. We might be able to exploit that for future needs.”

  The theater was silent for a few moments. Jenna’s eyes scanned the rows of people.

  Brubaker spoke up.

  “Who’s the NOC we’re sending in, Jenna?”

  Jenna looked at Perry.

  “It’s not finalized yet,” said Perry.

  “Why not?” said Brubaker.

  “We just finished the design, Josh,” said Polk. “That’s where it starts. We’ll look at manpower in the region and make the best determination. If there’s no one in-theater we’ll fly someone in.”

  “You think one agent is enough?” said Brainard.

  “I think any more than one increases the risk that someone IDs one of them,” said Polk. “KPA security, Chinese intelligence. We do have a nonofficial cover in Manila right now. He speaks Korean and Mandarin. He’s straight out of central casting.”

  “Who?” asked Brubaker.

  “Wheeler,” said Polk. “He’s been on a green task for the last two months.”

  Jenna shot Polk a look.

  “Paul Wheeler?” she said in a sharp British accent.

  “Yeah, why?”

  Jenna crossed her arms, a blank expression on her face.

  “No reason,” she whispered.

  “Out with it, Jenna,” said Calibrisi. “There are no secrets. We don’t hold opinions back.”

  “There was an American called Wheeler on a mission in Berlin last year,” she said. “Am I right? Is it the same guy?”

  “The situation in Germany wasn’t his fault,” said Polk.

  “Wheeler killed an innocent bystander. It was in the bloody newspapers.”

  “And your point is?” said Polk, his face flashing red.

  Jenna did not back down one inch.

  “This is a delicate operation,” she said. “In the wrong hands it will result in an international incident.”

  “Who else do we have?” said Calibrisi.

  “We have agents in Seoul, Tokyo, and Shanghai,” said Perry. “None are non-official cover.”

  The room went silent. Near the door, a small shit-eating grin spread across Dewey’s lips. Dewey didn’t know Wheeler. In fact, now that he thought about it, he’d never even heard of him. But he loved the sight of Jenna standing up to Polk. He also sort of liked her English accent. Now that he took the time to look at her, he liked the neat, elegant way she dressed, too, and how her shoulder-length hair swept ever so slightly behind her head as she spoke. Mainly he liked that she said what she was thinking and didn’t back down.

  From the other side of the room, one of the analysts interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “COMM flash from DIA. They’re getting heat readings off General Yong-sik’s plane.”

  “He’s leaving earlier than planned,” said Perry.

  “We also have a confirmation of a KUDS Force jet taking off from Tehran an hour ago. According to DIA the planes arrive in Macau within ten minutes of each other.”

  “We’re briefing the president right now,” said Brubaker, pointing at Calibrisi, Polk, and Jenna. “If the purpose of Yong-sik’s trip to Macau is to meet someone from Iran, this thing just got elevated. Let’s go.”

  “We need to get an operator in the air,” said Jenna. “I might not like Wheeler, but if he’s all we got—”

  “He’s the only NOC we have outside of Europe right now,” said Polk.

  Dewey was standing just inside the doorway, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, staring down at the release form in his hand. He kept his eyes glued to the sheet. Finally, he looked at the door to the amphitheater. Next to the door was his duffel bag, packed with his belongings, including the gun he just got from President Dellenbaugh.

  For whatever reason, Dewey suddenly pictured Bruner’s wife, so pathetic, lying on the floor, with nothing to live for. He’d entered the house to kill her. It was the moment he knew he needed to get out, to escape this world he’d somehow been brought into. A world, he now realized, he would have to fight in order to leave. He walked over to Calibrisi, who was seated in the front row.

  “Dewey?” said Polk.

  Dewey ignored Polk and extended the release form to Calibrisi.

  “What is it, Bill?” said Dewey without looking up from Calibrisi.

  “We need you to go to Macau,” said Polk.r />
  Calibrisi looked up at him. His look was not cold, nor judgmental.

  Josh Brubaker, the White House national security advisor, stood up.

  “I’m not going to Macau,” said Dewey. “Wheeler can handle it. If not Wheeler, someone else. In fact, from the sound of it, anyone can fucking handle it.”

  Dewey looked down at Calibrisi. Calibrisi took a pen from his coat pocket and signed the release form, then dated it.

  “Your country needs you right now,” said Brubaker.

  Dewey returned Brubaker’s look with a cold, hard stare. His eyes found Jenna. Then he turned and walked to the door, grabbed his duffel, and lifted it over his shoulder. He looked back one more time.

  “I’m not doing it,” he said.

  All that was visible to the occupants of the room was Dewey’s back. His brown hair was thick and tousled, getting longer, down to his shoulders, still straight but unbrushed.

  They all knew he’d just gotten back from Tangiers; a personal mission of revenge; that he’d killed Peter Flaherty, ex-DDCIA Joshua Gant, and a brother-in-law of Vladimir Putin, along with a small army of thugs. That he’d done all that because one of the men on board had played a role in the death of his only wife, Holly, so many years before.

  Even Brubaker looked at the ground apologetically. He knew. As much as they needed him, Andreas was just another human being.

  Dewey turned.

  “I want to be left alone. Can any of you understand that?”

  He turned back and glanced around the amphitheater. There was a long, pregnant pause. Then someone spoke.

  “I understand,” said Jenna softly.

  Dewey met her gaze, then pushed the door open and walked out into the hallway and to the stairs, then to the parking lot. As he reached his car, he winced slightly as he fought off the shame he felt at that moment, the shame of walking away from the job he loved, from the country he loved.

  The shame he knew he would need to endure in order to find the happiness that, at that moment, was more important than any patriotism or duty; the happiness he needed in order to find a reason to keep on living.