The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2)

by Chester D. Campbell

  The reception had been planned to give the Embassy staff an opportunity to socialize informally with some of the capital's most influential news media people. Key foreign journalists stationed in Seoul were also invited. The hope was that it would promote a better understanding of America's interest in maintaining close and friendly ties with the Republic of Korea. Staffers involved in major areas of contact with Koreans had been instructed to stress ways in which they were working to improve relations. Several American businessmen who understood both American positions and Korean sensitivities had been invited also. Following the function's bilateral theme, buffet tables were set up in two areas, one featuring an array of popular Korean dishes, the other including typical American fare. The decorations involved numerous sets of flags pairing the Stars and Stripes with the Taekukki, South Korea's unique banner, which surrounded the blue and red yang and yum symbol with four trigrams.

  A talented quintet of symphony musicians alternated Korean and American songs in one corner of the large room as Burke and Jerry arrived. Burke had warned that cocktail parties ranked just a little above root canals on his hierarchy of favorite things to do. But he promised to fly the flag proudly and make an effort to cultivate some helpful contacts. One of the first persons they met was Ambassador Shearing, who greeted them with a firm handshake. He was a strikingly handsome, white-haired man in his sixties.

  "Sorry I missed you this morning, gentlemen," the ambassador said in a precise, cultured voice. "I wish you the greatest of success with your venture. If we can be of any help to you here at the Embassy, be sure to let us know. And I intend that to include me, personally."

  "Thank you," Burke said. "That's mighty generous. Damon Mansfield was very helpful this morning."

  "I'll be running the office here, Mr. Ambassador," said Jerry Chan. "I'd like to reciprocate that offer. We would be most happy to assist your people in any way we could."

  Shearing lowered his voice a few decibels. "The way things are going at this juncture, I'm sure it will take all of our efforts to keep Uncle Sam from looking like the village villain. Do you speak the language?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "That will certainly be a plus." He turned as a member of his staff approached with an urgent look on his face. "What is it, George?"

  The man offered an apologetic smile. "Pardon the interruption, but there's someone over here from the Ministry of Culture and Information you need to meet."

  Ambassador Shearing folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow with a look that seemed to say "how interesting." He turned back to Burke and Jerry. "The Ministry has been going out of its way to ignore us lately. Maybe this is a good sign. Circulate around and meet some of the poeple. The editor of Koryo Ilbo is here. He's one you should definitely get to know."

  "Daily newspaper," Jerry advised Burke as the ambassador moved away.

  They stopped at the Korean buffet, which included a display of colorful dishes presided over by smiling, white-jacketed chefs. Spread out beside the napkins were forks, spoons and chopsticks. Burke picked up a plate and looked into a large metal bowl containing strips of meat. The chef standing behind it said, "Pulgogi.'

  Burke held out his plate. "I don't know what it is, but it looks good."

  The short, bespectacled man in front of him turned and gave him an inquisitive look. He spoke slowly, his words carefully enunciated. "It is one of our most popular dishes. Could be pork but usually consists of marinated beef slices, cooked over coals. You must be new in our country."

  "I'm new all right," Burke said. "Just arrived last night." He held out his hand. "Burke Hill with Worldwide Communications Consultants."

  A man in his late forties with thick black hair and dark, searching eyes, the Korean bowed. "I am Kang Han-kyo, editor of Koryo Ilbo, a national newspaper."

  "Nice meeting you," said Burke, returning the bow. With this kind of luck, he felt a little better about the reception already. He nodded toward Jerry. "This is Jerry Chan, Mr. Kang. He'll be heading a new office we're opening in Seoul."

  They filled their plates, and Burke invited Kang to join them at a small table that another group had just abandoned.

  "What communications is your company involved in?" Kang asked.

  "We counsel our clients on building effective communications in all areas," Jerry explained. "We're public relations consultants. We facilitate dissemination of news about the companies we deal with, and we work with them on being good corporate citizens."

  "My knowledge of the American practice of public relations is rather sketchy," said Kang. "Isn't that what some would call media manipulation?"

  "No, no," Jerry said. "We work to see that the press gets whatever information it desires. What we want to do here is determine how the Korean consumer feels about American products and services, then counsel our companies on what they need to do to improve public acceptance. Along the way, we hope to promote better understanding between Koreans and Americans."

  Burke took up the theme. "We're well aware of the current strain in relations with your country, Mr. Kang. I believe anything we can do to improve the situation would be to our mutual benefit."

  "Yes, Mr. Hill. With that I can agree. But our government argues the U.S. would prefer to hold us back, not unlike the Japanese did. I wasn't born until a year before their occupation ended. But your country has dominated our affairs for virtually my entire lifetime, an even longer period than the Japanese occupation."

  Burke frowned. "Why would we want to hold you back?"

  "Your invocation of Section 301 certainly makes it appear that way." He referred to Section 301 of the U.S. Foreign Trade Act, which applied sanctions against countries that refused to open their domestic markets to wider participation by U.S. firms.

  "Wasn't that in reply to South Korea's restriction of American goods and services?" Burke asked. "It seems to me we've worked all these years to assure your freedom, to help make you strong economically, to give you the option to move in whatever directions you chose."

  Kang revealed the barest hint of a smile. "But most of that time we were your debtor. Debtors are not so free to choose, don't you think?"

  As for holding the Koreans back, the only thing that came to Burke's mind was the pressure America had put on South Korea in years past to keep them out of the nuclear arms arena. Could Kang know anything about the secret Israeli agreement? Surely not. From what he had heard, the generals didn't trust journalists. They were part of the chief opposition group, the intellectuals.

  Two men paused beside the table, looking down their noses at Kang as they spoke in Korean. Without betraying the slightest hint of emotion, he pushed his chair back, stood and bowed. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, gentlemen. Perhaps we can talk again after you have had an opportunity to test the waters, so to speak."

  Burke and Jerry stood and returned his bow. "I'm looking forward to it," Burke said with a smile.

  "To peopgetssumnita," said Jerry, bringing a flicker of uncertainty to Kang's face as he walked away.

  "What was that?" Burke asked.

  Jerry grinned. "See you again. Obviously he didn't know I understood Korean. The men who spoke chided him with, 'You're getting quite chummy with these Americans.'"

  If Kang were any example, Burke realized, there was a deep-seated mistrust of if not outright hostility toward America among the Korean media. Duane Elliston and Travis Tolliver were about to step into the cage with a very suspicious, sharp-toothed tiger. He hoped they were adept at fancy footwork. As for how it would affect HANGOVER, he wasn't sure.

  Jerry suggested they split up and work their way around the room, meeting near the bar in about thirty minutes. Burke found himself more in a reactive mode, talking with those who spoke to him first rather than making any great effort to push himself on others. One of those who stopped to chat introduced himself as Vincent Duques, a political officer at the Embassy.

  "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hill," Duques said, giving a sort of salute with his hi
ghball glass. He was about Burke's height, but slimmer, with a V-shaped hairline and a pair of dark, probing eyes. His face reflected a half-smile that Burke suspected could change into a sneer with little effort. "Ambassador Shearing tells me you're in the PR business."

  "That's right. Worldwide Communications Consultants. We're setting up an office here in Seoul."

  "I don't think the Kwak government is terribly interested in good public relations for Americans these days," Duques said. "My advice would be to watch who you're dealing with. It's getting pretty difficult to tell friend from foe around here."

  "We're not looking for confrontation," Burke said. "Quite the contrary, our intention is to try and smooth things over. Convince the Koreans that Americans are good guys, that they ought to patronize our business folks."

  Duques nodded. "Lotsa luck. Trouble is, they don't want real competition. No more than the Soviets used to. They want us to play by their rules. It's a fixed game, Hill, believe me."

  It suddenly dawned on Burke that he had likely encounted the CIA station chief. Duques was frustrated over the current turmoil in South Korean politics because he didn't know whose loyalty he could count on. That was why the Amber Group had been sent here. Then Duques' hint of a smile suddenly widened.

  "Now I know who you are." He said it as though pleased at having solved an enigma. "I knew the name and face rang a bell. You're the guy who nailed Hawk Elliott and General Kostikov."

  That cinched it. The two main plotters in the Jabberwock conspiracy were the CIA's Hawthorne Elliott and KGB General Vladimir Kostikov. It was doubtful anybody but an Agency man would recall that.

  Burke grinned. "You have a good memory, Mr. Duques. Not many outsiders knew Elliott by his nickname."

  Duques' smile turned sour. He knew he'd been had. "You hear a lot of things around an Embassy, Mr. Hill. Nice meeting you." He turned and moved on through the crowd.

  Burke was happy that he did, although it was doubtful anyone would make anything of that brief encounter. But some of the journalists in the room could easily suspect Duques' real identity, and Burke wanted to avoid anything that might even hint at a relationship with the CIA.

  He saw Jerry near the bar and headed that way. Just as they were about to order another drink, Damon Mansfield strolled up, a glass in one hand, the other tugging at the arm of a dour-looking individual in a conservative navy blue suit. Mansfield's collar was unbuttoned behind the knot of his tie. He appeared to have beaten a path to the bar.

  "Mr. Hill, Mr. Chan," Mansfield said hurriedly, "meet Kurt Voegler, our commercial attaché. I'm sure he can tell you all you'd want to know about Korea Electric Power. See you around." He was off to greet another press person.

  Burke considered the commercial attaché with a feeling of ambivalence. Voegler was in a position to be of significant help in pursuing their objectives, but his appearance did nothing to inspire confidence. His dark hair was complemented by a matching mustache that appeared to have been waxed at the ends. He had the wistful, melancholy look of a man who had tasted defeat. It was as though he had just watched the Embassy guards lower the flag in Saigon for the last time.

  Burke held out his hand. "I'm Burke Hill, Mr. Voegler. In case Damon Mansfield didn't tell you, we're with Worldwide Communications Consultants, a PR firm out of Washington. Jerry Chan is manager of the new office we're opening in Seoul."

  Voegler nodded. "I was warned you would be here."

  That sounded like Vanderpool, Burke thought. He rumpled his brow. "Warned?"

  "I have a difficult enough job as it is, trying to placate the Koreans. I hope you won't make it any worse."

  Jerry was upbeat. He smiled. "We're going to make it better for you, Mr. Voegler. We have some great ideas to create new excitement among the Koreans, get them talking and thinking about America in a positive way."

  The attaché did not appear impressed. "What were you wanting to know about Kepco?"

  "Bartell Engineering is one of our clients," Burke said. "They're building a nuclear power plant. We wondered how politicized Kepco might be. What kind of problems we might run into there."

  The attaché toyed with his drink for a moment. "It's owned by the government. But over here, only the top jobs are controlled by patronage. The rest are civil service. I don't know how political he is, but the head of the company is Dr. Nam U-je. He's a nuclear physicist and an engineer, very knowledgable in the field."

  Burke nodded. Interesting. Dr. Nam would certainly merit close scrutiny. His credentials made him a definite prospect for involvement in the nuclear conspiracy. And he would be a natural contact for Duane on the Bartell account. It emphasized the need for Jerry to get an office lined up as quickly as possible so they could get the staff in action.

  As if reading his mind, Jerry inquired, "What would you recommend regarding an office location, Mr. Voegler?"

  He looked thoughtful. "I'd say there were three possible areas. Downtown, of course, would probably be the best location. You might also consider Yoido, the island on the south side of the Han. The Daehan Life Insurance Company Building there is Seoul's tallest. Then there's the area around the Korea World Trade Center in Yongdong, south of the river. That's where the Kepco building is located."

  "Know a good real estate agent?" Burke asked.

  Voegler took out a business card and wrote a name and phone number on the back. "This fellow will do you a good job."

  While Burke and Jerry were chatting with Voegler, not far away, closer to the musicians, Damon Mansfield stood with long arms folded, still clutching his glass in one hand. He was engaged in an animated conversation with a stocky Korean a good foot shorter than he was. A Mr. Ko, he was the representative from the Ministry of Culture and Information. Ko confronted Mansfield at close range, his feet slightly parted. He held his arms loosely at his sides, fingers slightly curled. It was a classic Eastern fighting stance, though Mansfield was not aware of it.

  "Your government has been bullying the Korean people far too long," Ko said. He had raised his voice, apparently to be heard above the music but making his words sound more threatening.

  Mansfield's forehead was wrinkled like an old man as he listened in disbelief. "What are you talking about...bullying?"

  "You wanted to dictate everything we did, militarily, economically, culturally. You threatened us—"

  Mansfield cut him off with a sharp, "Hey! We never threatened anybody." Who was this idiot, he wondered? He had never laid eyes on him before tonight. He had invited several people from the Ministry, though he didn't expect any of them to attend. Yet, despite all the inane formalities and unconscionable delays, he still maintained friendly relations with his old contacts there.

  With narrowed eyes, Ko blurted, "You are a black bastard, Mansfield!"

  The voices had become loud enough to attract the attention of others around them, including Burke, Jerry and Voegler, who turned their heads in that direction just as Mansfield reacted to the insult by unfolding his arms so quickly that some of his drink spilled out.

  Ko ducked away from Mansfield's arm, as though the spilled drink had been directed toward him. As he turned, he aimed a sharp elbow jab at Mansfield's stomach.

  The old All American reacted instinctively and pushed Ko away with both hands, dropping his glass to the floor in the process. He did not put enough force into the shove to do more than protect himself from any further blows, but Ko let out a yelp like he had been mortally wounded and fell backwards, appearing stunned.

  Voegler stood with mouth agape, eyes bulging. Jerry Chan sprang across to put himself between the two combatants, and Burke rushed over to check on the Korean, who lay still on the thick Embassy carpet. Several guests joined him and hovered over the prostrate form.

  "Are you all right?" Burke asked, leaning down.

  The man's eyes snapped open. He saw the Korean newsmen and began to babble in their language. Burke noticed one man, apparently a reporter, pull out a notebook and begin scribbling. Then h
e saw Jerry standing beside him.

  "What's he saying?"

  Jerry frowned. "He says they were arguing and Mansfield insulted their president. When he objected, Mansfield attacked him, knocking him to the floor."

  Burke couldn't imagine Damon Mansfield making an insulting remark about the president of the Republic of Korea. He pushed his way out of the crowd, looking for the cultural attaché. He found him standing back away from the confusion, being questioned by two fuming Embassy officials. They probably wouldn't appreciate his interfering, he realized, but this incident could have a dampening effect on Worldwide's PR program. He had to know what provoked the attack.

  Burke stepped between the two Embassy men and said, "Damon, did you say anything to insult the Korean president?"

  The two officials' jaws sagged, and Mansfield glared at him.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Mansfield asked. "Nobody said anything about the president. That guy called me a 'black bastard.'"

  Before Burke could reply, Ambassador Shearing abruptly appeared, eyes blazing. "Mansfield, I want to see you in my office at once!"

  Chapter 24

  Captain Yun arose early on Tuesday. He had not slept well. No doubt his subconscious had been wrestling all night with the loose ends of his investigation. Who was Mr. Chon's contact? Where was Hwang Sang-sol, the assassin? Who was behind the conspiracy, the man or men who had employed Hwang? And what was their motivation? With answers to those questions, he could march into Prosecutor Park's office with a satisfied look on his face. Not a smile, but a look of satisfaction. Unhappily, a fitful night on the sleeping mat had produced nothing but a dull ache in his head. He hoped it would go away with a cup of coffee and a bowl of udong, noodles, topped by a raw egg.

  While he dressed and shaved, his wife placed breakfast on the low table in the living room, along with chopsticks and spoons. Yun ate in silence. The only sound in the room was the slurping of noodles and an occasional "Ah!" According to Korean custom, the loudness of the eating noises signified how well the food was appreciated. When he had finished, his wife knew that this morning's breakfast had been well received.