Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  “Next stop.” The young assistant and Boriskof braced themselves with the handles above their heads.

  Swiftly, Rei flipped the ring over and grabbed the same handle. The doctor’s hand jerked as the needle brushed his skin. He looked directly into Rei’s eyes and reached up with his other hand to grab Rei’s coat.

  “He appears ill,” Rei yelled to the associates. They both turned and grabbed the slumping professor, keeping him from falling to the floor. Others, on the outside, pressed in.

  The car jolted to a halt and the doors to Rei’s side slid open. Rei handed the professor’s limp arm to one of the associates and stepped back.

  “Someone help this poor man!” Rei yelled.

  “Doctor Boriskof!” his older assistant screamed as he propped the old man up.

  “I think it’s his heart,” Rei said, reminding himself not to leave the car too quickly.

  The other, younger associate grabbed the emergency cord, jolting the train to a stop while still in the station.

  “Good God, please get help!”

  “I’ll go.” Rei left the car at a slow pace, then ran up a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs, he saw an attendant, a gray-haired, fat-bellied man in a subway attendant uniform.

  “A man just had a heart attack.”

  “Yes? Where?”

  “Down on the platform.”

  Just then, a much younger man grabbed Rei from behind, a big hand on his shoulder. Rei turned.

  “Sir, I’m with the police. What’s the problem?”

  Rei stiffened. “A man had a heart attack on Platform one A.”

  “Yes, show me.”

  Rei ran down the stairs, dragging the officer behind and feigning concern. “There they are,” he said.

  The two associates had pulled Boriskof out of the car. Leaning his heavy body against a support beam on the platform, they pulled his shirt open, his white-haired chest showing. Then, one associate gently laid the body down as the other pushed down on his chest in a futile effort at CPR.

  The officer took in the scene, pulled out a whistle, and began blowing it.

  “This is Doctor Boriskof of the university,” said one of the assistants.

  “Yes, we are getting help,” said the officer.

  “He is a man of great importance.”

  “Yes,” again he repeated, “and we are getting him help.”

  “Keep trying,” Rei urged. As he did, the old man’s eyes opened and he clutched at Rei’s pant leg.

  “You,” the professor gasped, his blue eyes looking deep into Rei’s.

  “You,” he gasped again, drool rolling down to his cheek and onto the collar of his frayed white shirt.

  “Yes, I know you need help,” Rei said.

  “No…you.” The dying man’s grip held Rei’s pants, as if it were the only way to hold onto life.

  Rei knelt and put a hand on the professor’s shoulder. “Take it easy. Help’s on the way.”

  The professor gasped his final breath and went limp, his gray eyes, tinted with a white circle of cataracts, staring directly at Rei. Rei stood and stepped backward. Just then, as if orchestrated for his benefit, two white-jacketed paramedics brushed him aside and surrounded the old man.

  Rei stepped away, subtly slipping the gold ring from his finger. He covered it with cloth inside his pocket. He could feel his heart thumping, a cold sweat on his forehead.

  “I’ll need to talk to everyone,” the officer said, looking at him. “It’s a matter of procedure.”

  Chapter 14

  Fort Myer, Virginia

  The redbrick building and its long, freshly painted gray porch reminded Will of a country club in his native South. At Fort Myer, the VIP apartment of the bachelor officers’ club was on the top floor of the three stories. As Will came back from his run, he loped up the stairs. The brass railing on the stairway, polished to a golden sheen, sparkled in the dawn light.

  “How are you, sir?” A tall, young black man stood up, stiff from leaning next to Will’s door. He wore a plain black suit, and with his starched white shirt and dark tie appeared more in place at a funeral home. Yet the sharp, close haircut left little doubt about his occupation. Will noticed the bright Corfam shoes, shining like glass.

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m Sergeant Carlson. I’m your assigned driver, sir.”

  “Okay, what’s the plan, Sergeant Carlson?”

  “Anytime you’re ready, sir, I’m to drive you to Quantico.”

  “Good, give me ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant leaned back against the hallway wall. As Will passed to open his door, he noticed the bulge and black butt of a Beretta 9mm under the lapel of the sergeant’s suit jacket.

  The door swung open too easily and banged against a dark, cherrywood desk to its side. The brass lamp with its green shade rattled as the door hit the desk. Reaching over to turn on the lamp, Will noticed the sergeant glancing over his shoulder into the living room of his quarters, enormous enough for two separate couches and a sitting area. Rich green and blue Persian rugs squared off the sitting area and another small dining table. Above the glass hung two oversized mahogany doors, inlaid with glass and brass knobs, and white lace curtains halfway parted, revealing a bedroom of similar elegance.

  “Come on in, Sergeant,” said Will.

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “No, come on in.”

  The sergeant sat on the first couch, on the edge of the seat, barely comfortable in the surroundings. He glanced over to the bedroom.

  “Don’t sleep much, sir?” The bed was clearly undisturbed.

  “Got out of the habit years ago.” For Will, getting out of the habit had begun with nightmares about the crash of his parents’ flight. Over time, sleep became a habit of an hour or two in a chair or on the couch.

  “How about an orange juice?” Will said.

  “Sir?”

  “Or grapefruit or grape. You name it.” Will walked behind the bar and flipped the light switch to reveal crystal glasses on several shelves in front of a mirrored backlight.

  “Yes, sir, orange juice.”

  Will reached below the bar, opened a mini-refrigerator full of canned drinks and little alcohol bottles, and tossed an OJ across the room to the sergeant before opening one up for himself.

  “What branch?”

  “Army, sir. Ranger.”

  “My grandfather was a Ranger. He was at Normandy.” Will paused. “Let me get a quick shower and we’ll get out of here.”

  “Sir, I’ll get the car and bring it around to the side.”

  “The side by the generals’ quarters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The VIP quarters were tucked away between tennis courts, several barracks, and a row of generals’ quarters that occupied a bluff looking out over Arlington Cemetery and the Washington basin. The Army’s chief of staff occupied one of these mansions; when Will had jogged past the flag quarters before dawn, he’d noticed through the windows a white-jacketed servant turning on the lights. An enormous chandelier lit up the opulent dining room behind a broad bay window. No wonder they have to be dragged into retirement, he thought. Left to their own devices, generals rarely, if ever, left the service before mandatory retirement age.

  Ten minutes later, Will climbed into the back of the government vehicle, smiling as a platoon of young soldiers jogged by in formation. A few at the tail end glanced over toward him. From their glances, he knew they had to think him some important official—certainly more than a reservist officer.

  The trip south to the Marine base took less than an hour on the interstate. The sergeant seemed well prepared. Instead of driving through the main gate and base, he took another interstate exit farther south and cut across to the FBI facility. Abnormal mounds of grass and dirt stood out as
they passed the aging ammunition dump, guarded by two young Marines standing at the gate, M4 rifles slung over their shoulders.

  The high-rise buildings and modern campus, comprising the main training facility for the FBI and its new field agents, seemed oddly out of place in the north Virginia woods. “Sir, are you familiar with the facility here?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Will. TBS, or the basic school, in the Marine Corps’ simplistic vernacular, lay through the woods, a short distance from the FBI facility. Every Marine lieutenant trained there, learning patrolling, weapons tactics, leadership, and the art of war. Will had spent countless days on compass work and squad tactics, setting up ambushes for the “enemy.” It had been a common sight on the roadway: a green, camouflaged patrol of Marines emerging from the woods.

  The car stopped at the main entrance to the FBI Academy. As he swung the door open, Will stared up at a familiar face—Scott’s.

  “Hello, Colonel.”

  “Mr. Scott, I thought we dropped the rank.”

  “Hello, Mr. Parker.”

  “Ready to get to work?”

  “Yes, let’s play.”

  “Here’s your security pass,” Scott said, handing it to Will. “We’ve increased security substantially for your arrival. Though all the agent trainees have had extensive background checks and top secret clearances, you’ll still be segregated from the classes. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Where to now?” asked Will.

  “We have the training team waiting. This way.” Scott turned and crossed the walkway to the main entrance.

  It was a warm, not yet muggy morning in northern Virginia. Even rows of Bradford pear trees lined the campus. As he passed through the courtyard, Will noticed several agents in training, sitting on the benches with their logoed Polo shirts, studying as students would on any college campus. Each shirt, though varied in color, had the same FBI logo, and its bright seal stitched above.

  The doors to the conference room were marked No Admittance. Two other men, in black suits similar to Sergeant Carlson’s, stood near the entranceway. Running diagonally across the bright blue passes clipped to their lapels was a bold red stripe with a small photograph in the upper right corner. Their passes—Will’s, too—stood out from those of the few student agents in the yard, and earphones with wires running into the collars of their jackets emphasized the point. As he and Scott entered the room, four men and one woman stood up from their seats around a long, rectangular mahogany conference table.

  It was the woman who instantly caught Will’s eye.

  “Mr. Parker, this is your training team.” Scott stopped, turned, and waited for one of the security guards to close the conference room door. “I’ll let each of you introduce yourselves,” he said.

  Will made an effort not to turn toward the side of the table where the woman was seated.

  “I’m Steve Underwood,” said the first man. “I’ll be defense training and general physical fitness. Judging by your personal regimen, I understand I may have the easiest job.”

  “Sir,” said the second, “I’m Lieutenant Jimmy Hamilton, Navy SEAL. I’ll be working with you on underwater training, the ASDS, using rebreathers, insertion issues—things like that.”

  “I’ve had a little diving experience,” said Will.

  “I’ve seen your records, sir—USMC recon with training at our dive school in San Diego. BUDS school. Not much for me to do but update you. I imagine all I’ll be doing is giving you an update on some of the comm equipment, and maybe exposure to ASDS.” The radio communication gear would be encrypted to ensure that all would be secure.

  “Great. I’ve never worked with the ASDS,” Will said. The ASDS would be his taxicab ride from the Trident sub to North Korea.

  “Also, I’ll show you the Soviet version of the AN/PSC-10. There’s not much to it, especially since you know Russian. You plug in a few cables, and it’s ready to go.”

  Will turned to the next man, who was built like a fireplug—short and darkly tanned.

  “I’m Mike Punaros, but you can call me Gunny.”

  “Marine Gunny?” asked Will.

  “Yes, sir. USMC recon trained. Two tours in combat, goddamnit. Twenty-four years and out, sir.”

  Punaros was an old salt. Two recon combat tours meant membership in a small club. Few Marines had endured two insertions into the jungle well behind the Vietcong’s lines.

  “I know you’ve got a hell of a lot of experience, Gunny, but what’s your specialty?”

  “Weapons, sir, particularly the Soviet type,” he said. “I’ll teach you the Tokarev TT-33 pistol, type-64, and Makarov pistol from top to bottom. Also, I’m supposed to be the Agency’s expert on Spetsnaz training and Spetsnaz forces. I’ll teach you everything I know, sir.”

  “Thanks, Gunny,” said Will, glancing to the next man to his right. Beside him sat the woman, her beautiful features a unique combination of Caucasian and Asian. Will guessed she was the child of some Army soldier on tour in the Philippines or South Korea, who had fallen in love with and married a local woman.

  “I’m Frank Darlin,” he said. “I’m your expert on the intel you’ll need in-country. I’ll show you the topography, the escape routes, anything that’ll help you get in and out of there.” The voice was that of a New Englander, probably Harvard-trained, and just as probably the descendent of an old New England family.

  Will had met the Darlins of the world before, and frankly, didn’t always understand them. Harvard or Yale or Columbia, and then work for the CIA? It was an odd sequence. He supposed their intellect craved the challenge. But after the CIA, he wondered, wouldn’t they find life on Wall Street—or anywhere else—boring?

  “And I am Mi Yong,” the woman said. “I’ll teach you about North Korea and the North Korean people,” she said. “I’ll teach you Hanguk. Do you know what Hanguk is?”

  “Annyong hashimnika, Mi-Shi.” As a Marine reservist, Will had done several language exercises in Korean.

  She smiled. “And Russian. Do you know that as well, Mr. Parker?”

  “Actually, Ms. Yong, I know Russian, but have little experience in Hanguk.”

  “We got you the best.” Scott leaned forward in his seat. “She’s originally from the coast of Korea.”

  “I’ll be spending every waking moment with you over the next several months,” said Mi. “We don’t have a lot of time, and the only way to make this work is to have you talk and think in Hanguk every day. Any questions?”

  “No, Ms. Yong.” He dampened the smile.

  “Let’s all have a seat,” said Scott. “I have a proposed training schedule for you. It has a physical workout each day from seven until nine, intel classes from nine until noon, weapons from one until three, scuba and SEAL training until six, and language training until ten. We’ll have other pop-up training as we go along.”

  “Mr. Scott, that’s a good start-up, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I’ll need two workouts and two runs daily. The first run will be ten miles, starting at five. The first workout will be from seven to nine. Then another workout and run at four.” Will knew that the one thing he would have going for him was the ability to do physically what the North Koreans never expected. If that meant covering a hundred miles of mountainous terrain in twenty-four hours on foot, he would be prepared.

  “And Mr. Scott?” said a smiling Mi Yong.

  “Yes?”

  “Just a reminder that I need to accompany him to all his classwork. As I said, he needs to be able to think in Hanguk, not just speak it. I need to use every class to talk to him in Hanguk.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible, Ms. Yong.”

  “Make it possible, Mr. Scott,” said Will.

  “Parker, you don’t know the whole story,” said Scott.

  Mi cringed. She had heard similar comments
before.

  “I know this much,” Will said. “For this to work, I don’t need a tourist’s knowledge of these people and their language. I need a whole lot more.”

  “Understood.” Scott paused to return to his agenda. “The first week is to be spent in medical and dental. Starting tomorrow, any dental work will be redone, and I have Lasik set up for Friday.”

  Will had little need for glasses, but was intrigued with the idea of vision correction.

  “Let’s show you around the place and get you settled in. Everyone knows the drill. Any questions?”

  Chapter 15

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  Choe Hak-son rarely used his office. On the top floor of the Nuclear and Chemical Defense Bureau, it was too ornate and oversized for his taste. He had learned to always appreciate less.

  “Decadence feeds the monster within,” the Supreme Leader had said to Choe on several occasions. And for this reason, Choe, a Kim disciple, preferred a closet-sized office in the government’s main building several blocks away.

  Choe thought of himself as the protector of Kim Il Sung’s Juche—the art of self-reliance that enabled the people to overcome starvation, cold winters, and the death of their children. But the younger generation of leaders, especially Kim’s son and grandson, were not as committed to the cause. Choe constantly had to push them toward self-denial and self-sacrifice even as the son, Kim Jong Il, savored the decadence of capitalistic living, smuggling in Western movies and consuming more cognac than any other Hennessy customer. The grandson seemed to have some restraint, but many thought it only because the climb to power had not been completed.

  Choe was committed, but with age, he learned that others expected the show of influence and power. A stark, antiseptic closet of an office did not convey to important visitors the fact that this man could affect decisions within the government.

  “Vice Chairman?” said a young aide.

  “Yes?”

  The aide stood in the dark, mahogany double doorway across the room. Like a president, the elderly Choe sat behind an oversized table that served as his desk. Immediately in front of the desk were two small sofas on a large Persian rug, which faced each other. And for every vase in the room, there was another across the room in a symmetrical location. It was this subtlety of balance that suggested control, power, and influence.