Sunday morning dawned on an uncertain note in Washington. Ominous, dark gray folds of cloud hung over the capital, giving credence to a disc jockey's prediction of snow, though the weather bureau forecast called for something else. Nate Highsmith had just finished breakfast when the phone rang. He kept a small supply of "Sierra" floppy disks at home for such occasions. After giving Burke the identification, he activated his scrambler.
"I'm glad to hear you're back," Nate said with relief. "I worried about you. How did it go?"
"Fantastic!" Burke said. "I got the full pedigree on our 'old tiger.' He had apparently sent somebody after Ahn Wi-jong recently, but Ahn's son has an army of his own. When I made contact with the old guy, he was ready to bare his soul."
Burke laid out the details the old Korean had provided, provoking Nate to observe, "You've undoubtedly found our man, but some of it still doesn't make sense. How do you plan to approach it from here on?"
Burke outlined what he had in mind.
"I'd better pass it by Kingsley and General Thatcher," Nate replied. "The General will want to brief the President and get his blessing."
"Fair enough. I won't be ready for another day or two. I hope Duane can pick up on Hwang Sang-sol if they bring him into the game."
"Evidently you were right about An Kye-sun, Burke," Duane said on his extension. "As soon as he found out you were gone yesterday, he started asking questions. Then this morning Mitch Steele called me. Said you hadn't showed up down there but somebody had called looking for you. Wouldn't leave a name or number, just said they would contact you later."
"Must have been An Kye-sun's handler," said Nate.
Burke agreed. "Probably one of Colonel Han's NSP types. I think we could dispense with Mr. An's services."
"You'll have to find some good pretext," Nate said. "Could you engineer some sort of heated disagreement, Duane? Maybe give Burke an excuse to fire him?"
Duane chuckled. "You know me, Chief. I could stir up a steamy dispute with the Devil himself."
"Since the Agency can't give us any help on this," Nate said, "I'm sending a couple of other people over there. They can share the burden with Duane. Colonel Han might decide to use some of his domestic forces as well as Hwang."
"Who's coming?"
"I'll discuss it with some of the others first. But I think one will be Rudy vanRoden. He practically wrote the book on counter-surveillance."
"Rudy's good," Duane said.
"Since it's Sunday, it may be tomorrow before I can get them on the way," Nate said. "They should be there by Tuesday evening, your time, at the latest."
Chapter 64
It didn't take Duane Elliston long to pick a fight with An Kye-sun. He hadn't been especially enamored of the brash young Korean writer anyway. Their personalities were too much alike. It was early on Monday when Duane stormed into Burke's office shouting, "I refuse to work with that sonofabitch any longer!"
Burke summoned An and Travis Tolliver into the office, where Duane proceeded to tick off a list of imaginative grievances. An did not understand the necessity for handling the Funland USA campaign as Duane wanted it; he objected to copy changes Duane insisted on making; An wanted to re-focus parts of the campaign based on his own preconceptions rather than the research findings. And on and on and on.
Travis took An's side and attempted to gloss over the differences.
Burke finally asked the two Americans to leave and announced his "most difficult" decision in face-saving privacy.
"In a small operation like this, Mr. An, it's vital that everyone fit in harmoniously." He spoke with the gravity of a judge pronouncing sentence. "Since it appears you and Duane have irreconcilable differences, I'm afraid it will be necessary to terminate your services. I'm sorry it's come to this. I had hoped things would work out differently. We'll give you two months' salary as severance pay. I think it would be best to go ahead and clear out your desk now."
Sober-faced and silent, his bravado gone, An Kye-sun gathered up his belongings and departed sullenly, not unlike a baseball player banished to the dressing room for brawling.
Afterward, Burke left word for Lieutenant Yun to call. The young policeman got back to him during his lunch hour.
"I just returned from Thailand last night," Burke told him. "I picked up some information I think you'll find quite revealing."
"What kind of information?" Yun Se-jin asked.
"It has to do with the man I believe ordered your father's death."
"When can we talk?"
"Would you be available for dinner this evening?"
"Yes, certainly."
"By the way, have you ever been to a kisaeng house?" Burke asked.
"Once," said Se-jin. "As a guest. At the Jang Jung Gak. It's quite expensive."
"So I understand. Duane Elliston and I would like to give it a try. He has a businessman friend who promised to make the arrangements for us. We'll pay for it if you'll sort of guide us along. Neither of us speaks Korean."
"It sounds fine with me, Mr. Hill. My fiancee might not be too thrilled. I'll assure her it's in line of duty." He gave a slight chuckle, then added, "A kisaeng house is hardly the place for a serious private conversation, though."
"You have a point. Why don't you meet us in the lounge at the Chosun and we can chat before going to dinner."
Han Mi-jung, who had a lively curiosity and not the slightest sense of insecurity about her boyfriend, thought the kisaeng house idea was great. She relished the thought of going there herself, but Se-jin assured her that was not possible. He had merely called when he got home from work to tell her about it.
"Then I guess I'll have to go knock on Mr. Min's door and see if he'd like company for dinner," she said.
"Is he back again already?"
"Is or will be shortly. My artist friend on the other side said the Reijeo cleaning crew was out this afternoon." They had learned the cleaning crew's appearance was a sure sign of Mr. Min's impending arrival. She enjoyed needling Se-jin but knew he'd take it as a joke. The man sported long hair and a mustache.
"I'll tell you all about the Jang Jung Gak when I get back," he said.
"Just don't bring a kisaeng home with you. I might have to practice my yudo on her."
Burke and Duane Elliston were waiting in the Ninth Gate bar, where Duane was engaged in his usual clowning act with the waitress, when Lieutenant Yun arrived. As soon as they had ordered drinks, Se-jin wasted no time in getting to the point.
"Tell me about the man who ordered my father's death," he said, his voice cold as the night outside.
"I think it might be well to give you a little background first," Burke said.
He outlined briefly the course of Captain Yun's investigation and told him about the hired assassin his father believed responsible for the murders. Then he explained what the Captain was doing in Pyongyang and how he had followed up Yun's lead with the trip to Chiangmai.
"I have a plan to unmask the Young Tiger," Burke said. "He's hardly young any more, of course. But I need your help. Hopefully, it will lead to the man who killed your father."
Se-jin sat there for a moment, looking numbed by the enormity of what he had just been told. His father's death was no longer an inexplicable, senseless act but a cold, calculated murder, ordered from the top levels of the government. "I'll help," he said. "What do you want me to do?"
When Burke had finished detailing his plan, it was time for their reservation at the Jang Jung Gak. Se-jin was quite familiar with the place, since it lay within the jurisdiction of the Tongdaemun Police Station.
Burke found the atmosphere somewhat similar to that of the Dokjo Restaurant, a slice of traditional Korea wedged inside the modernistic canyons of downtown Seoul. The famed kisaeng house was much larger and more elaborate than the Dokjo, however. It was located in a walled compound and contained large dining rooms plus smaller, individual pavilions arranged in a garden setting.
The kisaeng, like Japan's geisha, were a dying breed.
They had their beginnings in the royal court during the Koryo Kingdom, rulers from 918 to 1392. They flourished in a male-dominated society with an elite class composed of the very wealthy. Selected on the basis of charm, beauty, and talent, they were trained from childhood to become elegant, highly skilled and refined consorts. The kisaeng were the best educated women in Korea. They were companions to kings, scholars, artists, the top officials. They could sing, dance, paint, play various musical instruments and carry on intelligent conversations with the high and the mighty. The demise of the kisaeng and their employers actually began around the turn of the twentieth century and was accelerated in recent years by two factors. The modernization and democratization of Korea had eroded the former elite class and brought disfavor upon some of its more discriminatory practices. But even more important, the cost of operating a kisaeng house had become prohibitive. With the availability of factory and office jobs, few young girls chose the rigors and isolation of the kisaeng. And the high standards of food and service and the ever-growing cost of labor had served to steadily deplete the dwindling ranks of the houses. At a price of several hundred dollars per person, the clientele had become quite limited.
Burke was glad to be the one charged with scrutinizing extravagant expense vouchers. He would have had serious questions for anyone turning in an entertainment expense account with this sort of tab on it. But if it produced the desired results, it would be worth it.
As they were ushered through the labyrinthine structure toward their private room, Burke noticed a young girl watching from one of the doorways. "Did you see that one?" he asked Se-jin. "She couldn't be much more than early teens."
"Some may be older than they look," said the Lieutenant. "But she's undoubtedly a trainee. They aren't allowed to work that young now."
There were more than enough others to do the job, though. As soon as they arrived in their tastefully furnished room, a bevy of young beauties dressed in colorful hanbok began to ply them with such attention that Burke was left shaking his head in wonder. Duane loved it. He had grown up among the country club set, but this beat anything that group had ever experienced. The girls served them drinks and a vast array of food. They did lots of smiling and giggling, particularly at the Westerners' attempts to follow Korean customs. Lieutenant Yun stayed busy explaining what was going on, translating their comments and attempting to keep Burke and Duane informed on the proper way to handle various dishes.
While some of the girls sat with them, doing everything from pouring drinks to mopping their brows, others played various instruments and sang or danced. As the evening moved along, Burke noticed one girl in the background playing a twelve-string kayagum zither. She had a beautiful singing voice, but instead of the glued-on smiles of the other girls, she had a rather wistful, almost melancholy look about her. She also appeared somewhat older than the others, who seemed to generally ignore her.
When she began to sing one song, Burke grinned at Lieutenant Yun. "I recognize that one. Arirang, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Yun. Then his face turned sad. "It makes Koreans weep, you know. Do you know the words?"
"No."
"'Arirang, Arirang, Arariyo, we are going over Arirang hill. If you, my love, go along without me, before you have gone a few miles, you will have sore feet. "
Duane cocked his head with an I'm-not-believing-this expression. "It must lose something in the translation."
Burke nodded at the singer as he leaned toward Se-jin and spoke in a soft voice. "She's the one we want."
"Are you sure?" the Lieutenant asked. "She's older, more reserved."
Burke smiled. "Exactly."
When they were about finished with all they could handle in the eating and drinking department, Se-jin got up and approached the girl, as if to compliment her on her performance. He had been instructed to tell her that Burke was a writer who wanted to interview a kisaeng for a book he was working on. He would pay her well just to talk with him a short time.
After a short discussion, he came back to the table. "She gave me the address of a friend where she'll be available at eleven-thirty," he said. "She doesn't want the other girls to know anything about it. I told her they wouldn't."
Mr. Min, who was known in some circles as Hwang sang-sol, checked out the weapons and other supplies and information left in his apartment by the "Reijeo cleaning crew," whose real cleaning mission was something quite different than that presumed by his neighbors. Their normal job was to tidy up the scene of NSP operations that had turned messy. "Restoration specialists" was the euphemistic name by which they were sometimes known. They could quietly dispose of bodies and erase all evidence of violence, restoring an area to its former appearance. In the case of Hwang, they brought in whatever items he had requested for the job assignment. It allowed him to operate without resort to risky underworld connections, a fact that had served him well over the past year of frequent employment by the Agency for National Security Planning. There had been only one slip-up, which had necessitated the elimination of the old Namdaemun Market information peddler, Mr. Chon.
He went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of maekju, Korean beer, and sat at the table to toast his good fortune. His contact had just informed him that the policeman he had eliminated in Pyongyang was the man who had put Mr. Chon on his trail. What a stroke of luck. He had removed an irritation that had been plaguing him with the persistence of a piece of gravel in a shoe. As he downed the bottle of Crown beer, he studied the material the "cleaning crew" had left on his new target. An American, he noted. This should be interesting.
A sharp, muffled noise outside in the hallway set off a mental chain reaction, causing his head to snap around, his ears tuned to catch the slightest warning sound. He heard nothing. Then he realized it had been the door slamming shut in the next apartment. The pretty policewoman. She would make a worthy chase, he thought. It would probably mean getting rid of the mustache. But he quickly discarded the idea. He had a firm rule against mixing business with pleasure. Furthermore, he realized he was becoming a bit too familiar around here, a little too complacent about his surroundings. In this business, a lack of vigilance was an invitation to disaster.
Koh Suk-cha, the kisaeng, was still attractive in a wistful way but more resembled a flower stripped of most of its petals without her makeup and hanbok. She sat nervously in the living room of her friend's apartment, dressed in rather nondescript brown blouse and slacks, and answered Burke's questions. He did most of the talking. Duane sat by in silence and Se-jin helped with the translation. Her English was not too good. Burke asked how she got started and what was done in the training period. Then he turned to her present role at the Jang Jung Gak.
"I am the oldest kisaeng there," she replied. "I am only allowed to play and sing now."
"Do you perform for President Kwak's party on Tuesday nights?" Burke asked.
"Oh, no," she said, frowning. "They use only the younger girls."
Burke raised an eyebrow. "It sounds like you're being discriminated against because of your age."
She looked down at her slender fingers. "Yes, it is true. I will probably lose my job soon. I am not sure what I will do then."
Burke led her on with questions and comments that revealed her unhappiness over the way she was being frozen out. By the time he admitted that they were interested in more than just information for a book, she was ready to cooperate. She had talent as a sketch artist, and she made precise drawings of the pavilion used by President Kwak and his cronies.
When they left well after midnight, Burke had everything he needed. Miss Koh had confirmed his suspicions and given them all the details necessary to carry out his plan.
Chapter 65
The morning dawned bright and sunny and seemingly not as cold as in recent days. But the news reports painted a much darker picture for the Japanese islands to the east. Brittany Pickerel informed Burke of the weather forecast on her arrival at the office. She had become his chief morning news sour
ce, since the shutdown of the Armed Forces Network radio and TV stations had forced him to rely solely on the English language newspapers. He couldn't seem to find the time for much newspaper reading. That was particularly true today, as he had a long list of materials to round up before noon.
"There's a really bad storm heading out of Siberia toward Honshu, the main island," Brittany said.
"Isn't that where Tokyo is?" Burke asked.
"Right. The forecasters say they might get the heaviest snowfall they've seen in decades."
Mid-December was when the frigid Siberian air masses began to descend on Japan from the northwest. Originally filled with cold, dry air, they would pick up moisture over the Sea of Japan and dump most of it as snow on the west side of the islands and the western slopes of the central highlands. Tokyo, on the east, usually escaped the snow. But this storm appeared so massive that the capital was unlikely to be spared.
"Let's be thankful it's not in Korea," he said. He was anxious that nothing interfere with the progress of his plan. "Ask Duane to come in here, please."
When Elliston had closed the door behind him, Burke held up a sheet torn from a ruled pad. "I think I have everything we need here. Take a look."
Duane checked it over, then jotted a couple of other items at the bottom. Maybe they were necessary, Burke thought, but it was more likely Duane's penchant for one-upmanship. Whatever you do I can do better. He shrugged it off, determined to make the best of what he had been forced to accept.
"Okay," Burke said. "You know where I'm going. I want you to stay well back so you can pick up on any surveillance."
"No problem. When are the guys due in from Washington?"
The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2) Page 42
