by Ward Larsen
“Such as?”
He paused an extra beat. “It’s pretty straightforward. Christine and Davy have gone missing.”
For the first time he saw a softening in her gaze. Sorensen had spent three days safeguarding Christine and Davy on their previous convergence. She knew them both well.
“Missing?”
“It’s only been a few days,” he said, his voice hollowing out. “But honestly, Anna … it feels like a lifetime.”
* * *
They shared an empty bench in the least raucous corner of the Opernplatz, the broad terrace adjoining the opera house. Slaton explained everything that had happened since Gibraltar. When he covered two killing sprees in Vienna, keeping oblique on details, he noticed Sorensen’s gaze go distant. He imagined her recalling a briefing, sometime in the last twenty-four hours. Perhaps a junior analyst from the Central Europe desk going over the latest news from the Continent. Or maybe a curious wave of police reports from the Vienna station.
At the end he gave her a moment to digest it all.
“Highly enriched uranium has been stolen? By a senior man at IAEA?”
“He was senior before he was gunned down.”
“And you’re saying your family was dragged into this by a former Mossad department head who was working at IAEA?”
“That about sums it up. You need to understand—I never wanted to get involved in any of this. Unfortunately, my reputation has a way of following me.”
“If what you say is true … then we have a problem.”
“A problem? We’re talking about bomb-grade nuclear material, half what you’d need to build a crude weapon! There’s no telling where it’s gone, Anna!”
She nodded slowly, as if the thoughts running through her head somehow dampened her movement. Slaton sensed something in the background, a secondary concern he wasn’t seeing. That thought was interrupted by a new disruption. The phone that was supposed to be his link to his wife—the one he’d begun to ignore—was vibrating in his pocket.
In one motion he pulled it out and checked the screen. The stunned look on his face must have been evident.
“What is it?” Sorensen asked.
The phone was a reliable mid-range item, and as such, had a screen with decent resolution. Slaton saw a photograph that had been sent via text. He tapped until the image filled the screen and felt his blood run cold.
It was a picture of Christine and Davy. They were in the cabin of a small aircraft, some kind of business jet. His son was sitting next to his wife and grinning, full of innocent good humor as he was entertained by someone behind the camera. Christine was staring straight ahead. The look on her face was one of dread.
FIFTY-SIX
If there was one thing that set Slaton apart as an assassin, it was his innate ability to detach emotion from operational priorities. He felt fear and empathy like any sane person, yet when necessary had the ability to wall them off, shrouded behind the bastions of mission objectives. Sitting in front of the Alte Oper on a frigid January night, that ability all but left him.
His phone’s screen was now facing Sorensen. “They’re on a private jet,” she surmised from the photo’s background.
Slaton nodded.
“Do you have any idea where they departed from? Or where they’re going?”
“No.”
“Did anything come with that? Any text or an attachment?”
“Not yet.”
“I need to send it to Langley. I’ll tell our people to go over it—they’re the best. We might be able to identify the aircraft, or at least the type.”
Slaton was doubtful. He guessed the picture had been sanitized—edited before transmission so as to not give anything away. He set the phone on the bench, followed by the flash drive. Sorensen picked up the phone, tapped in a number, and sent the image. It would end up, he was sure, somewhere in the state of Virginia, but only after running some tornadic electronic routing that would prevent it from being tracked to its destination.
He watched her in silence. It was directly before him now: proof that his family had been taken. Never had he felt so close to surrender. Felt such soul-crushing guilt.
“I don’t know what I’d do, Anna … if I lost them. If they’re harmed because of me, because of what I used to be…”
“David, you can’t blame—”
“Do you know what I did this morning?” he cut in, his voice distant.
She looked at him patiently.
“I went into a church and prayed. I can’t remember the last time I did that.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. But if God doesn’t want to get involved … the CIA is the next best thing.”
On any other day he would have smiled.
She handed back the phone. As Slaton took it she held his wrist for a moment. It had the desired effect—it got his attention.
“I know Christine,” she said. “I know Davy. I will do everything in my power to help you get them back.”
Slaton saw her level gaze. Her resoluteness.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “I mean … I’m glad it was you. It’s rare for me to admit it, Anna, but I need help on this one. I can’t do it alone. And I don’t mean just the resources. I’m too close—not objective enough. I need someone I trust to help me see what I’m missing.”
“Well … what the hell. I just came across a damned ocean, so I might as well keep going.”
Whatever edge Slaton had been nearing, he felt himself pull back. The disorientation, the anger. It gave way to something better.
“I’d like you to promise me one thing,” he said.
She raised an inquisitive blond eyebrow.
“I have a lot at stake here. I want the lead, from beginning to end.”
“You know I can’t guarantee that, David … not all the way. But for the time being, you’ve got a big head start. So what’s our next step?”
“Park. I think he’s the one who’s taken Christine and Davy.”
“But you can’t be sure of that.”
Slaton considered it. “Not completely, no. But I am sure their disappearance is related to this uranium theft. It’s exactly the kind of thing that causes people to take hostages. That makes them send out kill teams.”
After a thoughtful pause, Sorensen said, “This friend of yours from Mossad, Mordechai … his message to your phone got hijacked and replaced.”
Slaton picked up the handset from the table. “I think so.”
“And Christine had a phone exactly like it.”
“Yeah.”
“So we can assume she was manipulated in the same way.”
“Most likely.”
“That takes some know-how,” she suggested.
“Park again? North Korea?”
“It fits. Of course, there are other rogue states, and even a few criminal enterprises with techies who could play that game. But the signature is solid—it’s how the North Koreans run their cyber.”
The flash drive was still on the bench. Slaton pushed it toward her. “This will be more useful to you than me. You’ve got the resources to dig.” She took the drive and inspected it. Slaton held up his compromised phone. “Over the last few days, I’ve been turning this on regularly to check for messages. I’m guessing it could be used to track me?”
“Probably. Keep checking, but at random intervals. If they’re sending you proof-of-life pictures, they’ll be in touch again. They want something.”
“I’m guessing they want me. With El-Masri and Mordechai out of the picture, I’m the only one who knows enough to threaten their scheme.” Slaton paused for a time, carrying that thought forward. “The big guy who killed Mordechai … I think he was searching for the flash drive. I think they knew it existed. Maybe El-Masri told them about it.”
“They also tortured Mordechai.”
Slaton nodded. “But now they don’t know where it is. There’s a chance I’ve got it, but…” He let his voice trail off, inviting her along
.
“But they can’t come out and ask, because you might not know about it.”
“Exactly.”
Slaton turned his burner off. He felt like a man overboard at sea on a dark night watching the only life ring get pulled back on board.
He said, “The first file on the drive is El-Masri’s confession. What would happen if you copied that, then sent it to my phone from an untraceable IP address here in Frankfurt?”
“They’ll see it—and it would prove you have information that could compromise their operation.”
“Exactly,” Slaton said.
“Which forces their hand—they’ll have to get in touch again.”
He looked at her encouragingly.
“We might be able to trace any incoming call or message.”
“It’s worth a try.”
“Not bad,” Sorensen said. “But if this is North Korea, or any competent state actor … it probably won’t get us much. There will be cutouts, electronic cul-de-sacs to keep us from tracing any contact.”
“Probably. But it’ll at least rattle some cages. Make it so they’re the ones reacting.”
Sorensen’s thoughts seemed to drift for a moment, then she said, “You’re right about Christine and Davy—their being taken is connected to this HEU theft. Yet there could be more to it.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know … something.”
He looked out across the plaza, the sharpness in his gaze back. “How long will your people need to go over that photo of Christine and Davy?”
“We should have an initial take within an hour.”
“All right. In the meantime, you can send me that page from El-Masri’s cover letter.”
“And then?”
“Then we get ready to move.”
“How?”
“What kind of airplane did you fly in on?”
“No, David. You can’t be—”
“Serious?” His gray eyes held her like a gunsight. “This isn’t only about my family. If North Korea has been stealing weapons-grade uranium, that’s a serious national security threat to the United States. You want my help in getting to the bottom of it? Give me the support I need.”
Sorensen sighed. “Citation Ten. I’ll have it ready.”
“Full tanks, fresh crew.”
“By all means.”
He looked at her imploringly. “I’m glad to have your help, Anna. But please tell your people to work fast. Give me a vector … show me where to start.”
“And then?” she asked.
Slaton didn’t respond.
FIFTY-SEVEN
General Park had left standing instructions to be informed immediately of any traffic on Slaton’s mobile phone. Because his orders were always followed to the letter, he was awakened by a cautious knock on his door minutes before six o’clock that morning.
Park stirred.
For the first night in weeks, he had slept in the comfort of his private retreat on the slopes of the Taebaek Mountains, the north-south topographic spine of the Korean Peninsula. Conceived in the image of a Swiss chalet, the architecture was all exposed beams and weatherboarding and sharply peaked gables—a gingerbread vision, if ten thousand square feet of living space could be imagined as such. More critically, the retreat was situated 110 miles from Residence Number 55 outside Pyongyang—where Chairman Kwon had been for weeks, and where he would remain for the foreseeable future. As head of SSD, it was Park’s duty to know such things.
Another soft knock.
Gathering his wits, Park half rolled and encountered something soft. The contact was followed by a gentle moan. The girl was still next to him, an ivory-skinned waif with short black hair. She wasn’t as pretty as most, but she’d made up for it with surprising enthusiasm. If she had a name he’d forgotten it, so he simply nudged her bare rump with his knee.
The girl woke with a start, looked blearily at Park and vised her face into a smile. He responded with nothing more than a shooing wave, and didn’t even bother to leer as she shuffled naked to the adjoining room.
After the girl was gone, he donned his robe, and said, “Come.”
Jong appeared.
Even at this hour he was his decorous self. Park thought of him as something of an English-style valet, and he dressed the part in a rigidly pressed vest and trousers. He held a silver tray with both hands. On it was the usual pot of tea and soft-boiled egg, and between them a secure tablet device. The morning service of an intelligence chief.
“An urgent message, sir.”
“Who is it from?”
“I was told Bureau 121. Also…” a hesitation from a man not prone to it, “your wife called last night.”
“You explained how busy I have been?”
“Of course,” said Jong.
Park rubbed his face with both hands. He had not seen his wife in weeks. In truth, he would be happy to never see her again. She knew about the girls but didn’t much care. She’d most likely called to ask for another junket to Beijing. It was the only place she was permitted to shop for her essentials: Gucci, Hermes, Prada. The real ones, not the knock-offs the Chinese so openly hawked. Her trips came more or less monthly, and Park rarely denied them—the price of marrying Chairman Kwon’s older sister. This was the bond that had installed him as head of SSD, one rung from the top of the ladder. And the bond that, so far, had kept them both alive.
“Tell her I will arrange a trip, but it will have to wait another week.”
Jong bowed to say he would. Park sent him away with an order for a second pot of tea. It was going to be that kind of day.
He woke the tablet and pulled up the message in question. It contained an intercepted image that had been sent to Slaton’s mobile phone. Park manipulated the screen to get a better look, and saw a photo of a document. He read it through once, his pace slowing with each word. If the signature and content could be believed—and he strongly thought it could—he was looking at the confessional of Tarek El-Masri. Wanting to be sure he had it right, Park read through once more, then went over the translation provided by the bureau. There could be no doubt. From his grave, El-Masri was laying bare the plot Park had so painstakingly orchestrated.
He stared at the teapot for a time, then very deliberately poured a stout cup. He walked to a window, drew the high curtains aside, and took in the sweeping view. The nearby hills were firmly in winter’s grip, a dusting of new snow bright in the morning sun. He did not doubt the authenticity of the letter—he’d suspected there might be something like it. Given how things had gone off-rail in Vienna, he also wasn’t surprised it had turned up in someone else’s hands. He was mildly curious as to how it had been intercepted. Might Slaton have been juggling documents himself, sending them from one device to another? Had a third party become involved? Or … had someone wanted him to see it over breakfast this morning?
He retrieved his phone and placed a call to the supervising officer at Bureau 121. “The images you sent to me—where did they originate?” he asked.
“We are trying to determine that, sir,” replied a vaguely familiar voice. “It arrived only twenty minutes ago. We intervened and the transmission was interrupted.”
“So this never reached Slaton’s phone?”
“That is correct. Should we leave it that way or allow it to pass through?”
Park pondered his options. If Slaton had sent the image to himself via another device, he would become suspicious when it never arrived. On the other hand, there was a possibility that others were now involved.
“What are the chances of discovering where it originated?” he asked.
A hesitation. “That may prove difficult. From what we have determined so far, the routing is very complex, at least three consecutive address shifts upstream from the primary node which—”
“What are the chances?” Park interrupted in his general’s tone.
“Poor,” the technician admitted.
Park frowned. In truth, he’d been ex
pecting such a leak. Even hoping for it, in a way. What vexed him was the timing—he needed to control the flow of information. For all its complexity, his plan was nearly realized. The only problem was Slaton. A complication, like Mordechai’s interference, that Park never could have foreseen.
“All right,” he said, “hold the message back. If anything else is sent to this number, contact me immediately.”
The supervisor, sounding relieved, said that he would and cut the connection immediately. Park regretted not having seized the last word—an ill-veiled threat to instill some motivation. He would make no such mistake in his next calls.
He retrieved paper and pen from the bedside stand, and composed a message in straightforward English. He read it through twice to make sure the meaning could not be misconstrued. Park called his personal aide at headquarters, dictated the message word for word, and with a final tirade that reflected his acidic mood, he ordered it sent to Albatross.
The next connection took time to run, utilizing a specially encrypted radio link. Khang finally answered, his voice backed by white noise.
“When will you land?” Park asked.
There was a pause while Khang researched the answer. It took nearly a minute. “We arrive in Urumqi in two hours and ten minutes,” he finally said.
“Tell the pilots to waste no time. I am advancing our timetable.”
“Advancing … but I thought—”
“We planned for this contingency! If you had handled things better in Vienna, there would be no need!”
Khang didn’t reply.
“Is your injury serious?” Park prodded, pressing his advantage. Of course, he already knew the answer. He’d spoken to the embassy doctor in Vienna. Two gunshot wounds to Khang’s leg had left him limping—a handicap, but no permanent damage.
“It is nothing,” Khang said.
“Good. The woman and boy … you have followed my instructions?”
