Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  “General, welcome to my home and to the home of our missile,” said the man, who stepped forward and held out his hand. “I am Comrade Peter Nampo.”

  Chapter 7

  A Friend’s Home

  The knock on the door startled Clark Ashby. It was an early Thursday evening, her roommate had gone home to Atlanta for the weekend, and court had wrapped up several hours earlier than usual. Judge Roamer, uncharacteristically, had told all employees to go home. He usually took great pride in giving the voters no chance to criticize his courtroom for quitting early. Perhaps he was celebrating the trial of the drug dealer last week, which had gone well. The jury had taken less than an hour to reach its verdict of guilty. Whatever the judge’s reason, Clark didn’t question it.

  While driving home, she’d planned out the evening in detail: a long, hot bath, blue jeans, and a series of rented movies. Then came the knock on the door.

  Clark crossed over her bedroom in bare feet, pausing briefly at her mirror to comb her hair. With little makeup on, she felt comfortable answering the door, figuring it was a pizza delivery at the wrong apartment. Just to be sure, however, she quickly dabbed some perfume on the nape of her neck. Clark laughed for prepping herself so for a pimply, purple-haired delivery boy.

  Clark undid the dead bolt and door chain, and as she swung the door open, her heart stopped.

  “Well, of all the people I expected to see tonight…”

  In her doorway—tall and handsome in a sharply fitted black tux—stood Will Parker.

  “Miss Clark, as I promised.” From behind his back, he pulled two champagne glasses in one hand, and in the other, a chilled bottle of 1954 La Grande Dame champagne.

  “I didn’t know you made house calls.”

  “Only for you.”

  Not that it took much from Will Parker, but she was charmed.

  “Please come in.”

  As Clark turned the lock, it occurred to her: Am I locking the door to keep someone out or someone in? She turned red at the thought and suppressed a laugh.

  “Is it something I said?”

  “Not yet.”

  Will walked over to the table near the television, set the glasses down, and in one quick motion, popped the cork by striking it on the table’s edge. He poured champagne into the two glasses and crossed back over to the sofa, where Clark had seated herself. As he sat next to her, she shuddered. His deep blue eyes were piercing, especially at such close range.

  Clark noticed the small scar over his left eyebrow and smelled the subtle cologne. He handed her the champagne, lifted her legs, and placed them over his lap.

  Then he leaned over and kissed her.

  In all the romantic novels she had read, Clark had seen the word swooned countless times. Now she knew what it meant.

  “I have until midnight,” Will said. “At that time, I’m leaving on a jet, and in all likelihood, you may never see me again.”

  She looked into his eyes, seeking some hint of wry humor, but finding none. What could he mean? Rumors had been flying around town since last week. Will Parker was known as a man who let few people in. Clark had, on occasion, been one of those few. Still, Will always had some secret part of him that the town always talked about, but no one knew. Many thought it had to do with the loss of his parents long ago.

  Clark simply nodded at his remark, then stood and grabbed his hand. “Well, then, come with me,” she said.

  She turned off the bedroom light, leaving only the flicker of the television to illuminate the room. “I think we can accomplish several things in that amount of time.”

  Will loosened the black tie and flung his coat on the chair near her bed.

  “I hope so,” he said.

  Chapter 8

  Boston, three weeks earlier

  The customs officer was nearing the end of his shift when a darkly dressed young man came before him.

  “What’s the nature of your visit to Boston and the United States, Mr., uh…Chang?” asked the officer.

  “I’m in the cable television business in Korea,” the man said. “I just finished a conference in Paris, and I’m here to meet the Boston Public Television people for some possible joint ventures.” He smiled, using another of the techniques he’d learned in training. At the intelligence school in Moscow, his instructors had always recommended tailoring one’s legend to subjects evoking local civic pride.

  “Where are you staying, Mr. Chang?”

  “I believe they have me at the Marriott at Copley Plaza.”

  “All right. I hope you enjoy your stay in Boston.”

  Despite the pleasant farewell, Chang—his real name was Rei—didn’t like the way the customs officer Jones had looked at him. Despite his misgivings, he used a casual stride to leave the airport. In the arrivals area, he stopped at one of the many airport billboards advertising rental cars. It was important to not go too fast or too slow. Mingle, merge…and don’t stand out.

  After a few moments, he proceeded to the taxi line.

  “Where are you going?” asked his cabdriver.

  “The Marriott at Copley Plaza,” said Rei.

  As the taxi dodged through the light traffic, he noticed the dome of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s main campus across the Charles River.

  “Has it been this hot for long?” Rei asked.

  “No, sir, but the last several days have been very hot for Boston…very hot, indeed.”

  The taxi wheeled through Boston traffic for half an hour. It took much less time than Rei had anticipated to make the trip from the airport through the Ted Williams Tunnel, up the Charles River, and into the Copley Plaza area.

  “Here’s the Marriott,” said the driver. “That’ll be twelve-fifty.”

  Rei gave him a twenty. “Keep the rest.”

  Rei walked into the Marriott and headed directly to the main floor restaurant. He ordered a quick meal—tuna fish on wheat toast with coffee—and ate it in silence. Then he paid the bill, dropped a five-dollar tip on the table, and took the elevator to the fifth floor. He intended to stay at the hotel for the shortest period of time possible.

  On the fifth floor, he walked to the end of a hallway and quickly stepped into a stairwell. There, he opened up his bag and pulled out a short-sleeved white shirt. After he changed his clothes, he placed two mechanical pencils in his shirt pocket and removed a plain pair of black, horn-rimmed glasses with nonprescription lenses from the bag. Glasses did more to disguise the memory of a face than anything else—another trick he had learned in Moscow.

  Rei disposed of the bag in an air duct and headed down two flights of stairs. On the third floor, he came out of the stairwell and took the elevator down.

  As he stepped into the main lobby crowd, Rei noticed the escalator to the second floor exhibit hall. Walking quickly through the hall, he found a desk with two young women near a sign on a tripod. The sign, in bold blue letters, read MIT ALST Conference.

  “Is this the registration desk for the MIT conference on advances in light satellite technology?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like to register?”

  “No, thank you,” said Rei. “I’m Charles Won with United Press International, and I’m here to cover Dr. Walter’s presentation. Do you know what time he’s going to speak?”

  The young lady stood up when she heard UPI’s name mentioned. Whether it was because of the remote chance of getting one’s name in the paper or because the reporters were considered lesser celebrities, Rei tended to find easy cooperation in America when posing as a news correspondent.

  And it was the perfect dodge. Americans might know their television correspondents, but virtually no one could recognize a newspaper writer.

  “He’s to speak at one o’clock. Can I help you with anything? We would be happy to get you a seat up front.”

  “That’s all right
. Thanks.” There would be no need for her favor. Rei planned to be well south of the city by one o’clock.

  It was nearing noon when Rei walked across the bridge heading toward the MIT campus. The Charles River was covered with small, single-person sailboats and rowing shells. The sails had varying striped colors of blue, red, and yellow on the white field of the sail, and the vessels darted back and forth over the wide river.

  One small sailboat turned into the wind, its fluttering sail pausing in the changeover of the tack. The flutter caught Rei’s eye. It reminded him of a similar small sailboat on a lake not too far south of Moscow—and of her.

  Rei had been assigned to the Soviet intelligence school with three other agent trainees, one of them a woman, from the People’s Republic of Korea’s intelligence service. Several years later, he learned of her defection to the West. Rei had been incredulous.

  In part, he had taken this latest intelligence mission because it would require numerous trips to the United States. At every airport, Rei had glanced through every crowd, at every face. His standing orders were clear: If given the slightest opportunity, whatever the cost, he was to find the female defector and kill her. He hated her, not only for her betrayal, but because it had held him back for years. They all knew how close she was to him. How could they not suspect Rei as well? It took years of working meaningless small jobs to build back their trust. He despised her for that lost time.

  Rei crossed over the bridge and dashed across the street to the campus. Second building. Advanced engineering.

  As he approached the stairs, Dr. Lin Walter opened the door.

  Dr. Walter was not the typical genius. Well-dressed, young—thirty at most—he had soared over every academic hurdle he had ever faced. Admitted to MIT at the age of fifteen, he’d obtained his PhD in engineering at twenty-two.

  “Excuse me,” said Rei, stopping Dr. Walter, “but I’m looking for an MIT conference at a hotel near here. Could you tell me where the Marriott is?”

  Lin Walter raised his eyebrows, then smiled.

  “Not only can I tell you where it is, I can personally take you. I’m going to the Marriott to give a talk at one of the conferences there.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’m not from here and would greatly appreciate your help.”

  “Follow me.”

  Dr. Walter took off like a racehorse, a fit, well-conditioned man on a mission. Together, they crossed over the campus, following the identical trail Rei had taken. Rei knew exactly at what point he needed to strike. As they came to the street that paralleled the Charles River, he saw the professor preparing to cut across the traffic instead of walking the thirty meters down to the pedestrian walkway. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted several bicyclists at the crosswalk and knew this would provide him a small advantage.

  When Walter paused for the traffic, Rei moved up quickly to his side, turned the gold ring on his finger, and carefully flipped the small cap.

  “Doctor, you’re too fast for me. Please go ahead and I’ll find it myself.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “See that second tall building? That’s the Marriott. You shouldn’t have any trouble at all finding it.”

  “Thank you.”

  As Lin Walter shook the stranger’s hand, he felt a slight prick and yanked his hand back. The palm, at the base of his ring finger, had a dot of red blood. “Damn.”

  Rei withdrew as Walter, still in a hurry, turned and darted for a brief gap in the traffic.

  A taxi honked and slammed on its brakes as the young professor fell to his knees in the second lane of traffic; despite its driver’s best efforts, the vehicle struck Walter with tremendous force, apparently killing him instantly.

  Rei turned from the street and walked slowly back toward the campus, leaving behind a crowd of students and citizens to tend to Dr. Walter.

  Chapter 9

  The Airport near Cordele, Georgia

  The half-moon illuminated much of the old Army Air Corps facility. In the dull light, shadows from the hangar darkened the line of small Cessnas and old Piper twin-engines tied down to the tarmac. Clumps of grass grew up through the broken asphalt. With its long, curved roof, the rust-brown hangar was shaped like a large Quonset hut, and was pitch-black inside its cavernous doors. Above the opening, etched in weathered paint, were the words Cordele Aviation.

  In the shadow of the old hangar, tucked next to its wall, Will and Clark sat, shaded and hidden, in an older, low-to-the-ground Mercedes sports coupe.

  Clark knew that prosecuting high-level drug dealers had serious risks, but she didn’t fully understand why the U.S. government thought the situation so serious as to fly an airplane to Vienna and pick up its prized passenger in the middle of the night. The events of the last few days only increased her curiosity, but Clark had learned a long time ago not to ask too many questions. She realized the risks didn’t matter—not to Will Parker, anyway. She didn’t think she loved him yet, but, given time, she very easily could.

  “I may not be coming back to Vienna for many months,” said Will. He pulled out a brown manila envelope and handed it to her. “This envelope has the keys to my condo and to this car. You can use them both as much as you like. I left you the title and deed, and signed both over to you. If you don’t hear from me after six months, they’re all yours.”

  The last comment startled her. It didn’t sound as if he expected to return at all.

  “Are you—”

  “Also,” he continued, “it’s important to keep this in a safe place and tell no one you have it.” Will handed her another envelope—a standard, white letter-sized envelope. As she took it, she felt an object, small and square, inside. “It may amount to nothing, but just keep it safe. My future may depend on that envelope.”

  * * * *

  Will took in Clark’s beauty in the dim moonlight. For years, local lawyers had mooned over her, but Will had always been too busy to pay much attention. She had sensed that, it seemed, and his unintended lack of interest had only intrigued her. Leaving her would be his greatest regret, he knew. And seeing her again his greatest incentive to survive and return to Vienna.

  A low jet hum came from outside the car. Will rolled the window down and, almost instantly, the runway lights came on.

  “How did that happen?” Clark wondered aloud.

  “The field has a special system. When the pilot keys the mike to a certain frequency, it switches the lights on for a while. It’s fairly common in rural fields without active towers.”

  Even with the lights on, Will could barely make out a long, sleek jet as it turned for its final approach and landing. He was surprised at how dark the aircraft looked; it seemed to have less navigation lighting than most aircraft. He heard the wheels screech as the plane touched down, but he remained amazed by the quiet of the two-engine jet.

  Will reached over and turned the Mercedes ignition, but he didn’t turn on the lights. A long, black jet taxied up to the hangar entrance and stopped. The jet engines continued to hum as Will recognized the shape of a new, unmarked Gulfstream V jet.

  The spy business must have its perks, Will thought, watching as the aircraft door opened, revealing a figure standing in the doorway. As the aircraft stairs moved to make contact with the ground, it became clear from the man’s shape that it was Will’s newfound friend, Mr. Scott.

  “Clark, be careful.”

  She leaned into him as he kissed her, long and deep. Then he touched her lips lightly with his fingers and exited the car.

  Will followed Scott through the small curved door into the jet, carrying a small bag over one shoulder. Dressed in a starched white shirt, neatly creased khaki slacks, black loafers, and a blue sport coat, he looked like a successful businessman leaving on his annual vacation.

  “Sir, may I take your bag?” A young woman in a white s
hirt with black and gold–striped epaulets took Will’s bag, which bore the well-worn imprint of the Cordele Health Club.

  Will saw on both sides of the center aisle a mahogany-paneled kitchen with gold-plated sinks, faucets, and a small refrigerator door. At the end of this short space, he could see dark wood panels broken only by the opening of a small door. Apparently, one could close off the cockpit and kitchen from the remainder of the aircraft.

  He stepped through the electronics cabin and another door into a large, open room with several oversized, tanned leather chairs on both sides of the aisle. It looked as if it was the private jet of an oil-rich Middle Eastern prince.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Parker, so we can get this bloody show on the road.”

  As he sank down in the deep chair across from Scott, Will heard the front hatch close and felt the turn of the aircraft onto the active runway. A bit of acceleration and, seconds later, the nose of the aircraft tilted sharply upward, pitching into the black sky. Will’s head sunk back into the chair, his eyes focused on the front wooden panel that formed the bulkhead between him and the electronics compartment. In the bulkhead wall were three small television screens. The top screen displayed a highly detailed map with the shape of a small airplane just above the word Cordele. The second television was blank, but the third displayed a muted CNN correspondent.

  “Well, are you ready for this?” Scott swiveled his chair toward Will. Almost in perfect sync with his comments, the aircraft tilted down to a level position.

  “I believe I am.”

  “What questions do you have?” Scott reached over and closed the door to the forward compartments.

  “Here’s what I’ve deduced: Peter Nampo has developed a high degree of computer, electronic, or engineering capability. He is in North Korea, using his talents to help that government, and thus has become a threat to the United States. Somehow, North Korea has hidden or camouflaged him to the point where we can’t find or identify him.”

  “Right on all fronts,” Scott affirmed. “Taking this job, handling this mission—flag rank may be in your future.”