by Adams, P R
We’re always being watched, just like he said. It’s Lee’s work. He placed this data. The Pingfang mission was a fake. Why? What’s he stand to gain from this? Extortion? Intimidation? A false trail? A hidden message? Something else?
Rimes tried to come up with other possible reasons. None stood up to even cursory challenge.
It can’t be extortion. Lee knows all about me. I don’t have anything he’d want.
If I could figure out it’s fake data, anyone who gives it a serious look could, so it’s not effective as a false trail.
Intimidation? Maybe. Why, though? It’s not my case. This is the Bureau’s problem. Lee knows that. Why not scare Metcalfe off?
There must be a hidden message, something he wants me to find. But he’s using Tymoshenko. No one else knows about him. Yet. He means this just for me. What did he say, that we’d find what we were looking for if we looked hard enough? Something like that.
Why me? What’s he hiding from IB?
Rimes searched for Pingfang District and LoDu, tying the results back to several potential criteria: Tymoshenko, murders, Korea, EEC, T-Corp, and genies. Nothing stood out.
He tried several permutations with no better luck. He broadened his criteria set, adding in LoDu and X-17. Again, he found nothing.
Frustrated, he set his earpiece down and stood. He stretched, then paced for several minutes. The idea of a jog was appealing, but he decided to give the data another try before abandoning it. He settled back at the desk and put the earpiece back on.
After another set of searches proved fruitless, he decided to return to the China mission itself.
In the photo, which should have shown the horrible coffee shop’s glass wall and cartoonish sign, a blank stone wall stood.
Chewing on his lip, Rimes inspected the image. He rotated it inside the workspace. He flipped it, reversed it, created a depth-accurate version. He pulled the focus out and pushed it in on Tymoshenko. Nothing came to him. There simply wasn’t that much of Tymoshenko to see. The pedestrian traffic blocked everything below his chest. Only the hooded jacket and Tymoshenko’s face stood out.
The jacket!
Rimes crossed to the closet where his own hooded jacket hung. Frowning, he spun it around by its hanger, looking for anything of interest. He photographed it and uploaded the photo for comparison.
Tymoshenko had been wearing the same jacket, identical except for size. Rimes rotated his own jacket inside the workspace and cut away everything he couldn’t see of Tymoshenko’s jacket. He shaded his jacket to match Tymoshenko’s. That done, he ran a comparison of the images.
His headset beeped. It had only taken a few seconds for it to find what his eye was missing. He magnified and enhanced the difference, rotating it around to see it in three dimensions. He couldn’t see any difference.
He ran interpolation analysis against it, and the image resolved: on the jacket near the collar, the number 731 was printed. Kwon’s number at LoDu.
Hastily, Rimes returned to his queries and added 731 to the criteria, but they returned nothing. Rimes’s brow wrinkled in frustration. He felt confident with his find: Lee had planted the message for him. There was some sort of connection between 731, Tymoshenko, and Pingfang. He just wasn’t seeing it.
Recalling the roadblocks he’d encountered in his thesis research, Rimes decided to purchase access to archived print media. He billed the access to his hotel room and re-ran his query.
Long seconds passed as backend transactions ran through the orbital banking system’s intricate web. Finally, the query returned. Rimes looked at the results in disbelief.
What had returned were references to Pingfang District during World War II and a Japanese biological weapons research group: Unit 731.
After some thought, he decided to read through the first few articles the search had returned.
Disgust washed over him at some of the atrocities the Japanese had committed: amputation, induced gangrene, surgical mutilation. The atrocities seemed too extreme to be real. Unit 731 must be one of Lee’s fabrications.
After thinking for a moment, he decided to add a name to the search criteria: Dr. Hwang Sung-il, Kwon and Lee’s creator.
A recent article—from the Grid rather than the archives—moved into the top list of returns; the date matched that of Kwon’s arrest in Seoul and the false China mission.
Korean spy Sim Duk-ryong honored as World War II hero by President Park Myung-hwan.
LoDu Senior Scientist and luminary Dr. Hwang Sung-il attended the ceremony that finally granted official recognition to one of the few Koreans killed by the infamous Japanese Unit 731, Sim Duk-ryong. Also in attendance were Chinese historian Zhou Ji and Russian novelist Jerzy Tymoshenko, descendants of the men Sim Duk-ryong had been working for in China at the time of his capture.
Rimes ran a few more searches, confirming that Anton Tymoshenko was related to the Jerzy Tymoshenko mentioned in the article.
He still couldn’t see the connection. With a frustrated sigh, he exited the workspace.
It was approaching three-thirty. He’d wasted nearly an hour on the effort. The results were useless, meaningless. He assumed they were fake. The odds of both families having such a legacy in espionage and tragedy were outrageously slim.
Just like that, I’m seeing Kwon, Lee, and Hwang as a family. But Kwon and Lee are genies.
Rimes closed his earpiece and considered returning to bed. He could use the sleep, but he knew it wouldn’t come for him. The wasted time and money had him wound up—but his failure to make sense of Lee’s message irked him even more.
He realized he was rubbing his chin, chafing it. He straightened in the chair. Failure had never been easy for him to accept. Failing spectacularly had irritated him, so he set his mind back to work.
Although he knew better, Rimes had expected the offline archived print data to be reliable. He’d fancied it safe, the uncorrupted key to unlocking Lee’s message. But Unit 731 had been too much of a coincidence; it had to be faked. Realizing the print data could be compromised disturbed him, but not as much as Lee not leaving any obvious clues.
Rimes considered that thought—that Lee would leave a trail with no clear end.
No. There’s an end. I’m missing something. It’s not Lee, it’s me.
A flick of his finger and the earpiece was reopened and resting on his ear. The virtual interface materialized before his eyes, and he reopened the workspaces. He stared at them, trying to determine the best course to take.
He decided to work from the premise the article on the Pingfang District ceremony was a fake, too. That would make it the best starting point. Lee must have left a trail of breadcrumbs rather than an obvious message.
Rimes skimmed the article, stopping to fully read when he reached the details on Unit 731.
His skepticism about the unit quickly faded. He’d heard claims about atrocities during older wars, but most were considered exaggerated. And the Japanese atrocities of World War II were something he’d never heard of before.
However, the article detailed so many, so thoroughly, that they seemed frighteningly authentic.
After a second read-through, Rimes looked at the notes box he’d created. Three things stood out. First, the words “family” and “honor” were repeated throughout. Second, the article cast the Russians as cruel, almost cardboard villains. Third, Dr. Hwang Sung-il’s home was explicitly identified as “bordering the southeastern Seoul fringe.” The data seemed trivial, out of place—yet the article had made it sound important.
Rimes checked the time again. He wouldn’t have breakfast with Kleigshoen and Metcalfe until nine; he had five hours. They were probably still asleep.
A quick check confirmed the temporary Bureau connection they’d given him in D.C. was still intact. Rimes searched Bureau records on Dr. Hwang Sung-il; they listed a possible location for him. Rimes pulled the address to his earpiece and checked it against a map.
Got him! But if I’ve figured this ou
t, who else might have? If Dr. Hwang is important, would LoDu move him? Would they silence him?
Rimes started to open a call to Kleigshoen. He stopped, finger hovering over the virtual button. He closed the communication application.
No. I’ve been playing their game long enough. I want this one without their interference. If I blow it, it’s on me. But if I’m right and Dr. Hwang is where Lee is pointing me, I don’t want there to be any chance someone could interfere.
Rimes opened the communication application again. He thought for a moment, then called Chae. Three rings passed before there was an answer.
Chae answered crisply in Korean.
“Inspector Chae, this is Jack Rimes.”
Sheets rustled faintly, and a female voice mumbled something in the background. Rimes imagined he heard footsteps.
After what felt like an eternity, Chae said, “It is not even four in the morning.”
“I need to speak to Dr. Hwang Sung-il,” Rimes said. He struggled to remain calm. “It’s very important to the Kwon case.”
“I have no idea where Dr. Hwang Sung-il lives. LoDu is very protective of the privacy of its senior staff.”
“Lee gave us the address,” Rimes said, unconcerned that he was crafting a selective truth. He realized his voice was growing louder with each word. He took a breath to calm himself. “I think Lee’s saying that Dr. Hwang is the key to understanding this Kwon situation. I’ll need you to get me through the security. The address is in the middle of a LoDu campus just outside Seoul, not even an hour from here.”
Chae went silent again. “I will need an hour. I can pick you up at the hotel.” He disconnected.
Rimes smiled. He had a lead.
22
6 March 2164. Seoul, Korea.
* * *
During the drive, Rimes flipped through the Bureau’s data pack on the Gwangju Gardens LoDu campus. Construction had begun in December 2096. It had reclaimed a three-kilometer stretch of valley southeast of Seoul, including parts of the Gwangju city ruins. According to the Bureau, the campus was home to thousands of LoDu employees, including hundreds of privileged elders.
Like Dr. Hwang Sung-il.
Rimes looked up as Chae’s SUV approached the compound’s front gate. As was usual with Korean architecture, towering skyscrapers covered most of the campus. Even during the early morning hours, it was brilliantly lit, a hypnotic neon rainbow.
They had to wait for seventeen minutes at the campus gate.
The guards never took their eyes off Rimes the entire time. Then a message came through; after some muttered exchanges and another check of Chae’s badge, the guards waved them through. Rimes watched the guards shrinking in the passenger side mirror; they watched the SUV until they were out of sight.
A few minutes later, Rimes found himself standing beside an elevator cage at the base of Orchid Building 6. In the pre-dawn light, the building threw off a brilliant pink glow. Rimes counted twenty stories. His research indicated Hwang resided alone at the top.
Chae pressed the intercom for Hwang’s floor. A dry, quavering voice angrily replied in Korean. Chae bowed his head and replied contritely, embarrassed. The elevator cage opened, and Chae nodded for Rimes to enter.
The surrounding buildings became their horizon as the elevator climbed. Rimes marveled at the startling aesthetics of the daring architecture—abrupt angles, hanging terraces, glass walkways. Midnight blue, jade, and burnt orange glows predominated their quadrangle. Beyond, the colors were equally bold and vivid. He could recall nothing so audacious and beautiful in his experiences at home or abroad.
With quiet clangs and rattles, the elevator cage came to a stop, and the door opened onto a short stretch of earth that ended in a rustic stone wall. Rimes stepped onto a path of river stones that led to a wrought-iron gate; Chae followed. As they approached, the gate opened.
An elderly man dressed in a grimy, gray hanbok stepped into view, his face inscrutable under his bushy eyebrows.
Rimes reached the gate. “Dr. Hwang.”
His skin was dry and scaly and his hands wiry. “Yes?”
“I’m Jack Rimes. I asked Inspector Chae here to help me to reach out to you. I apologize for the early hour, but I greatly appreciate you giving us a few moments of your time.”
Hwang stepped back and waved them in, closing the gate behind them. He shuffled down the path toward his apartment. Vines stretched across the path; the closer they came to the front door, the thicker the vines. Rimes and Chae were forced to choose their steps carefully.
Most of the plants were long dead, leaving only the hardiest to battle the weeds. Rimes glanced at Chae. Chae looked as disturbed as Rimes felt.
The apartment’s façade was better maintained, but even it seemed forgotten. Chipped stone, cracked wood, dented metal—it was a blemish on the campus’s complexion.
Hwang opened the front door and escorted the two of them inside. The air inside the apartment was thick with rot and filth. The door opened onto a foyer. Crumpled food containers, tattered wrapping paper, and moldy food covered everything, but Hwang showed no sign he was aware anything was amiss.
“Some tea?” Hwang asked.
Rimes shook his head; he’d be afraid to drink it. “Doctor, I was hoping you might be able to help us with a serious problem.”
Hwang ignored him, shuffled into the equally filthy kitchen, and gathered a teapot from the top of the stove. Charred bits of food and containers covered the black cooking-stone stovetop. With a gentle shove, he cleared space at the overflowing sink to fill the teapot, unleashing a domino effect that sent tottering piles of dishes, pots, and pans onto the counter and floor with a crash.
Hwang didn’t react to the clatter.
After filling the teapot, Hwang set it on the stove and turned on one of the heating elements, then stared at it, unmoving.
After a few moments, Rimes said, “We’re looking for Kwon Myung-bak.”
Hwang turned, his eyes focused on nothing. “What has he done?”
“Well,” Rimes said, looking to Chae for support. “We believe he’s involved in something that extends beyond the LoDu metacorporation. He seems to be operating without their approval.”
Hwang frowned.
“He assassinated a high-profile politician in Indonesia recently,” Rimes said. “He also seems to be connected to an operation in India involving a T-Corp research facility. LoDu has made it clear these were unsanctioned operations.”
Hwang searched through a pile of dirty dishes, clumps of molding rice, and discarded packaging until he secured a mug. He scraped black paste out of it, dumping it on the floor. He muttered, then opened an empty cupboard, searching it repeatedly.
“Dr. Hwang?”
Rimes looked at Chae, who shrugged.
After several seconds, the muttering resolved into words, first Korean, then English. Hwang turned to look at Rimes as he spoke. Hwang’s brow wrinkled as he struggled to concentrate.
His voice sounded clearer, less shaky. “What makes you believe LoDu?”
“They’ve provided a good deal of evidence implicating Kwon,” Rimes said.
Hwang looked into the cup, then returned to the sink and rinsed it. He sighed. “What evidence?”
“Videos, communication records. Images. Enough to hold up in court. Lee Sang-woo … was our intermediary.”
Hwang looked at Chae, who nodded.
“Brother turns on brother,” Hwang said, eyes drifting to Rimes. “Do you have children?”
“One on the way.”
The teapot began to whistle. Hwang poured water into the cup, then stared at the steam.
“I have dozens. They are stars in the sky while we are … rocks. Dirt. You understand?”
Rimes shook his head. He assumed Hwang was referring to the genies’ engineered superiority, but the old man’s mind seemed fragile and unpredictable.
“My final children for LoDu were 729, 730, and 731,” Hwang said. He stared into the distance as he
breathed in the steam rising from the mug. “Lee, Kim, Kwon. They were my favorites, my best work. Kim and Kwon, at least. 729 was a disappointment.”
“Kim was your favorite?” Rimes asked.
Hwang smiled gently and nodded once. “Kim Jang-yop, they named him. They always gave them names, sometimes made up, sometimes from someone in history. To make them special. They were brothers, and I was their father.” Hwang sipped his water. “And now he is gone.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Rimes said. They must have told him.
“Nothing pleases a father so much as a son who succeeds him.”
“I understand, sir.”
Hwang stared into his mug. His brow wrinkled. “How did he die?”
Rimes hesitated. “In battle. He fought bravely.”
Hwang took another sip. “We have fallen.”
Rimes looked at Chae. “I don’t understand,” he whispered.
Chae watched Hwang for a moment, then said in a hushed tone, “The family’s honor has been undone. Lee because of his weakness, Kwon because of this betrayal. Kim’s reputation will be undone. Their failures will reflect on Dr. Hwang. They will destroy his legacy.”
Rimes wasn’t sure if it was anything he could use to get Dr. Hwang to tell him what he wanted to know. Besides, direct questions seemed more effective for the moment, despite Hwang’s erratic behavior.
Is he senile? Crazy?
“Dr. Hwang, can you tell me about 731? About Pingfang?”
Hwang’s eyelids fluttered. He looked around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time, wincing at the filth. His eyes traveled across Rimes and Chae’s faces blankly, then returned to Chae’s face, squinting.
Rimes and Chae exchanged looks of surprise.
Pingfang? 731? Something had changed. A trigger word?
“I know you,” Hwang said, his voice stronger, his hands suddenly steady. “I can help you. Quickly.”
