Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  Dewey felt his body start to send him warning signals. The lack of oxygen was killing him. With every ounce of strength he could find, Dewey sent his elbow backwards in a fierce thrust, hitting Yong-sik in the rib cage. Yong-sik grunted in pain.

  Dewey fought for breath as he climbed to his feet, gulping oxygen. Dewey established strategic position before Yong-sik could attack again. He squared up and backed off a few feet, giving himself precious time. Yong-sik stood up.

  The North Korean was a superior martial arts fighter. But Dewey had survived. That fact alone, he knew, was unexpected—at least in the mind of his opponent.

  Dewey and Yong-sik were now squared off against each other. Both men glistened with sweat, their faces bright red.

  “Who do you work for?” said Yong-sik, panting, wiping perspiration off his face.

  The two combatants circled each other in the luxurious living room of the suite. Dewey ignored the question.

  “The CIA?” said Yong-sik. “Calibrisi?”

  Dewey glanced down. A small drop of red was visible where the needle had pricked him above the heart. He scanned for the needle, seeing it to his right. Yong-sik’s eyes followed where Dewey was looking.

  “Go ahead,” said Yong-sik, taunting him. “Reach for the poison. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  Yong-sik moved aggressively toward him, both hands raised. Yong-sik lurched forward, his right arm slashing and again, out of nowhere, came his foot, slashing air and hitting Dewey in the side of the head, near his lip. He felt his head snap right. He tasted blood and spat a red mouthful on the carpet.

  Dewey knew the importance of staying on his feet now.

  Yong-sik parried again, his fists flying low, at Dewey’s torso. This time Dewey thrust his left arm out, guarding his neck, just as Yong-sik again kicked the air from behind. Dewey blocked Yong-sik’s foot at the ankle but Yong-sik’s other foot slammed below his arm, striking his chest, a brutal kick that sent Dewey backwards.

  Dewey reeled, struggling to maintain his balance. But he had a free half second and as Yong-sik charged again toward him, he attacked. He surged forward, lunging left as he kicked his right foot into Yong-sik’s thigh, bending his leg awkwardly at the knee. Yong-sik fell forward, a pained cough his only sound. As his head was about to land on the carpet, Dewey had already spun a 180 with his other foot, slashing clockwise, catching Yong-sik in the chin with brutal force, taking the North Korean down.

  Dewey paused, his hands squared off as he caught his breath. He looked down at Yong-sik, whose eyes rolled about in his eye sockets, like marbles. The North Korean was dazed. But he would live.

  Dewey grabbed the gun, then retrieved the needle. He stepped above Yong-sik, who looked up at Dewey in a state of confusion. Dewey knelt lower, the gun in his left hand, the suppressor just inches from Yong-sik’s head. He suddenly slammed the needle down into Yong-sik’s neck, pushing in the plunger with his thumb.

  Dewey stood back up and waited for Yong-sik to regain some semblance of recognition. The North Korean lay on the floor for more than a minute, his eyes closed. Dewey stepped to the window and opened it, tossing the empty syringe out.

  Dewey stepped to the chair where Yong-sik had been sitting. The glass of vodka was on the cushion, half full. With the gun still aimed at Yong-sik, Dewey picked up the glass and chugged it in two gulps.

  Finally, Yong-sik stirred. He sat up and looked at Dewey.

  “You have twenty-four hours until it kills you,” said Dewey. “In a little while, you’ll get a fever. It won’t last, maybe a few hours. You’ll feel fine, long enough to fly home and do what I told you. If you don’t, things will start getting ugly at about twenty hours. Very rapid heartbeat, fever. You’ll know you’re about to die when you start to lose vision.”

  Yong-sik appeared to be more awake. He listened carefully.

  “What is it?”

  “Poison.”

  “Obviously it’s poison. What kind?”

  “The kind that kills you in twenty-four hours,” said Dewey.

  “What do you want?”

  “I already told you. A schematic of North Korea’s internal military nuclear force complex. That means capability set, devices, locations, how they’re moved and when. We want to know how many devices there are, where they are, and where you are in terms of the ballistics. HEU count down to the kilogram. Make no mistake: we’ll know if you’re bullshitting, and if you are, you die. It’s already in your body.”

  “Why do you think I would have access to this—”

  “You do. We both know it. It’s up to you. Either you’re willing to die to protect it or you’re not. We’ll find out in twenty-four hours.”

  “So I give it to you? You’ll just let me die.”

  “That’s a risk you’re going to have to take,” said Dewey. “But I don’t lie. There’s one antidote. It’s already inside Pyongyang. You give us what we want, we tell you where the antidote is. It’s a custom poison. There’s no hospital in the world that can save you, even if you had a week—and you don’t. The only way you live, General, is give us what we want.”

  “How do I contact you?”

  “Send the information to one one at one two dot com. One one at one two dot com. Very easy to remember. Can you remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Dewey walked a few feet away from Yong-sik.

  “I’m going to leave,” said Dewey, the gun still trained on Yong-sik, who was slowly starting to stand up. “I’ll tell your men you’re not feeling well. Don’t try and do anything: I don’t know where the antidote is. You’d be wasting your time trying to take me.” Dewey looked at a mirror on the wall, straightening his hair and tucking his shirt in. “Not that you could,” Dewey added. “I’d kill all of them, and then I’d kill you.”

  Dewey walked to the door. As he was about to open it, he turned and looked at Yong-sik, obviously in pain from the kick, but lucid enough to watch Dewey as he left.

  “By the way,” said Dewey, “congrats on that first hand. We didn’t have time to play but I saw the cards and you had an ace and a jack. Blackjack, buddy. Tonight’s your lucky night.”

  * * *

  Dewey tucked the weapon into his pants as he stepped into the hall; two of the gunmen trained their weapons on him.

  Dewey raised his hands.

  “Where are you going?” said Colonel Pak.

  “The general does not feel well,” said Dewey, his accent again a rough Spanish.

  Pak moved by Dewey and entered the suite. Dewey looked back to see Yong-sik standing in the foyer. He watched as the other soldiers stepped quickly inside. Dewey and Yong-sik made eye contact. One of the men asked Yong-sik a question, which he answered.

  Dewey’s hand moved to the butt of the pistol, tucked into his belt. But nothing happened. A moment later, one of the gunmen shut the door and Dewey moved quickly to the stairs.

  26

  IRAN DESK

  CIA HQ

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Calibrisi sat on a metal chair inside the crowded room that served as the CIA’s Iran desk. He was next to Lloyd Edgington, one of the Agency’s primary analysts.

  Edgington was examining the photos of Abu Paria. It didn’t take long for him to positively confirm Paria’s identity. A mole next to his eye and a scar on his forehead erased any sort of doubt. Of course, it was probably unnecessary. Paria’s viciousness came through even in death, as if he might suddenly leap up and attack at any moment.

  “So, why was he there?” said Calibrisi.

  Edgington leaned back and unbuttoned his collar.

  “I don’t know,” said Edgington. “But I’ll find out.”

  27

  ASSOCIATED PRESS

  PYONGYANG

  The next morning, Talmadge sat down with Kae Myung Bin, his assistant, and Lee Song Hui, the AP photographer.

  “I have an idea for a story,” said Talmadge.

  Lee Song Hui sat up ent
husiastically. She was only twenty-two years old and dreamed of someday working for the AP outside North Korea, so whenever Talmadge had ideas for stories she became excited. There were only so many stories a reporter could write about North Korea that avoided controversial topics.

  “Let me guess,” said Kae Myung Bin, lighting a cigarette. “A story about a certain reporter’s decision to donate the rest of his care package to one of his colleagues?”

  Talmadge laughed.

  “No, nothing so absurd,” said Talmadge. “You’ve seen the tourism statistics. Tourism is up. Just this past week, a delegation of more than thirty people from Sweden came to Pyongyang.”

  “We’ve written about the rise in tourism, Ross.”

  “Yes, but how about a series of articles on some of the things to do and places to go when visiting?” said Talmadge. “Starting with the national museum.”

  “I like it,” said Lee Song Hui.

  “It’s boring,” said Kae Myung Bin.

  “That’s the point,” said Talmadge.

  “Yes, I suppose it will fly by the censors,” agreed Kae Myung Bin.

  * * *

  Talmadge was brought by two operatives from the North Korean Information Bureau to the national museum. He spent the morning walking through the entire museum. Whenever he wanted to take a photo, he asked permission.

  Finally, they arrived at a large, high-ceilinged room with only one painting: a massive portrait of Kim’s grandfather, Kim Il-sung, the founder of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Both government officials, as well as Talmadge, bowed before the painting.

  “Would it be permissible if I sit down?” asked Talmadge in Korean, pointing at a bench across from the great portrait. “I would like to describe the painting as I look at it. It might take a few minutes.”

  The two men looked at each other, then one of them shrugged, as if to say to the other, “Fine with me.”

  “Please do so,” said one of them to Talmadge.

  Talmadge sat down and started to write. After several minutes, he shook his pen, trying to get more ink. Mildly frustrated, he took the pen and put it in the pocket of his blazer. He removed another pen—as well as the antidote, which was in a small syringe, with an adhesive on one side. He pretended to start writing again, watching the agents, making sure they weren’t looking, then quickly reached beneath the bench. He pressed the small syringe against the wood on the underside of the bench, making sure it held. Then he started writing again.

  28

  GRAND HYATT HOTEL

  MACAU

  Dewey returned to his suite at the Grand Hyatt. He went into the bathroom and took off his shirt. He leaned into the mirror and examined the spot where the needle had hit him. It was barely visible, only the tiniest of red marks, like a mosquito bite.

  He took his phone and punched in a three-digit sequence.

  #8+

  He hit Send. The message would convey a simple fact: Yong-sik has been poisoned and the ultimatum spelled out. Operation successful.

  He stripped off his pants and climbed into the shower. He took a long, relaxing shower, gradually lowering the temperature of the water, from warm, to tepid, and finally to cold, as cold as the hotel could offer. It wasn’t Maine cold, but it was cold. He was trying to cool down and stop the sweating from the fight.

  Dewey finally climbed out of the shower and dried off with a towel. He stepped to the mirror. His face was even redder than before. Soon, his dry face was wet again as he started sweating. He stared into his own eyes in the mirror—then glanced down at his chest, registering the small red mark where the needle had accidentally dragged. It had only been a few minutes, and yet the red mark was no longer small. It had spread out and was the size of a quarter. The redness was turning into a deep purple. The colored area was also elevated, puffed out a small bit from his chest.

  You didn’t press it. It’s not possible. You injected it all in Yong-sik!

  He told himself it hadn’t happened, yet his eyes couldn’t look away from the growing purple patch on his chest.

  He took his phone and opened a proprietary Agency application called Vision, designed to enable the phone to conduct a number of basic diagnostic medical functions. The screen lit up and he pressed an icon shaped like a square, then placed the phone’s camera against his neck. A few moments later, the phone made a low beep. Dewey looked at it.

  HEART: 149 BPM

  BP: 244/165

  TEMP: 105.2 F

  Dewey stared at the screen an extra moment, then hit his phone. A dull monotone came on and Dewey spoke:

  “Twenty-one.”

  A second later, a voice came on the line.

  “Andreas,” said a man. “What’s the problem, sir?”

  “I need Jenna Hartford immediately,” said Dewey, walking slowly, indirectly toward the bed.

  “Hold, sir.”

  Dewey sat on the edge of the bed. Suddenly, the room was reeling, spinning around, and he felt unbearably hot.

  “Dewey?” came Jenna’s aristocratic British accent. “We received the message. Excellent job.”

  Dewey fought to hold on to the phone. It wanted to drop to the ground.

  “Jenna,” Dewey said calmly, as calmly as he could. “How much of the poison does it take to infect someone?”

  “Why? Did you not hit him well enough? Don’t worry—we’ll know soon enough. In fact, we know Yong-sik’s jet was just powered up at the airport. He’s getting ready to leave.”

  The words were meaningless to Dewey as he fought to remain lucid, despite the sweat that now poured over his body and the fever which had grabbed him in a noose.

  “Please just answer me,” said Dewey.

  “Oh, right. A drop. A fraction of a drop.”

  “Why did I need to inject an entire vial?”

  “Insurance,” said Jenna. “But in case all you could do was nick him, even then his goose would be cooked.”

  “What are the first signs?” said Dewey, already knowing the answer.

  “Fever. A sharp fever. It was manufactured that way. That way, Yong-sik knows the toxin is real. It stops after a few hours. He has time to retrieve the documents. Then it kicks in again, in case he has second thoughts.”

  Dewey slipped off the bed, landing on the floor.

  “Dewey?” said Jenna. “Are you still there? Is something wrong—”

  The sound of Jenna’s abrupt, pained moan hit Dewey’s ears.

  “Dewey,” she said. “You’ve spiked a fever, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “What’s your temperature?”

  “A hundred and five. But that was a few minutes ago. I’m about to lose consciousness.”

  The phone went quiet.

  “Jenna–”

  “I warned you, Dewey,” said Jenna. “Why don’t operators ever listen? I told you. I made it so clear. There’s one antidote. It’s in Pyongyang.”

  “Can’t they make another?”

  “Not in time,” said Jenna. “It was a proprietary strain. A one-off. We needed to be sure Yong-sik couldn’t simply walk into a hospital and take care of it.”

  Slowly, Dewey leaned down toward the carpet. The lights in the hotel room were still on. He was naked. He held the phone to his ear as he felt the first spike of deep, flu-like chills in his spine and neck.

  “Dewey, if you’re still listening, you don’t have an option,” came Jenna’s soft, polite, but firm English voice. “I need you to get to the airport.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to need to go to North Korea. You’ll need to get to Pyongyang. It’s that simple. If you want to live, you must find a way to get to Pyongyang. In the meantime, you have precious little time. Can you stand up?”

  Dewey lay on the ground, his body shivering and convulsing.

  “I’ll try.”

  “I’ll have a plane ready by the time you get there. Ju
st stand up, get dressed, and get a cab to the airport. Can you do that for me, Dewey?”

  Dewey tried to speak, but felt his hand shake, and then came numbness, a horrible sense of dizziness, and the phone dropped to the floor.

  He heard Jenna’s voice, shouting for him from the phone, but he couldn’t move. She was shouting something, her words coming through in painful bursts. He shut his eyes, awakening a few minutes later to the loud, insistent sound of his phone beeping. He felt as if his entire body was on fire. He shut his eyes again as he fell into unconsciousness.

  29

  CIA

  Jenna stood still, her eyes transfixed on the phone in her hand. She felt her heart racing and then a strange sensation, a cold shiver that ran through her head and body.

  She picked up the phone on her desk.

  “I need Dave Morris,” said Jenna. “It’s urgent.”

  “Hold, please.”

  Jenna’s office was small, with a desk, a credenza, and three chairs—one where she sat, and two in front of the desk, pressed against the glass wall that looked out into the horseshoe-shaped suite of senior staff offices. Jenna’s desk had several neat stacks of papers and files, along with the phone console. Behind her were bookshelves. They were largely empty. The only personal item was a framed photo of Charles, an old photo of him on a beach in Marbella, where they had gone on their honeymoon.

  “Hi, Jenna,” said Morris. “Any news?”

  “Yong-sik has been poisoned, but Dewey somehow pricked himself. He—” She paused, trying to keep her emotions under control. “He’s spiked a fever.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Oh no,” said Morris. “Jenna, I made it clear—”

  “I know, but it happened. First if all, did you save any? Can we dispatch a jet with another antidote?”

  “The poison was custom,” said Morris. “The antidote is created with the poison. The only way to create a new antidote would be if we had more poison.”