Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  “Maybe it’s good to have things so predictable here,” he thought aloud. His life at the office was anything but that.

  Suddenly, Keiko came running from her room. Her long raven hair framed her vampire-pale face.

  “Father, there’s a man on my cell phone,” the teenager said. “He wants to talk to you.” She held out the purple phone.

  “Someone called for me on your phone?” Fujima asked.

  “Yes. He cut in while I was talking with Kenji. He said it’s urgent. He sounds foreign,” she added. “His Japanese is terrible.”

  Fujima took the phone and thanked her. He turned back to the balcony. “This is Fujima,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to call this number,” said the voice on the other end. “It was the only one listed in the directory.”

  Keiko was right. The man’s Japanese was awful. But the voice was familiar. “Who is this?” Fujima asked.

  “It’s Paul Hood at Op-Center,” he said in English. “I’m sorry. I was using a god-awful translation program on the computer. My phonetic Japanese is not particularly good.”

  “Neither is your timing, Mr. Hood,” Fujima said. “This call is extremely—”

  “Unorthodox, I know,” Hood said. “My apologies, Mr. Fujima. But we need to speak.”

  “I was just about to have dinner with my wife,” Fujima told him. “And this is an unsecured line.”

  “I know that, Mr. Fujima,” Hood replied. “So I hope you will understand when I tell you that materials are missing from your backyard. Materials that should have been left at the 130-5 site.”

  “I see,” Fujima said. Hood was referring to radioactive waste. Suddenly, dinner did not seem so important. Fujima used his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he lit another cigarette. “Please go on, Mr. Hood,” he said as he drew hard on it.

  “We are looking for it with the help of Singapore and Australia,” Hood went on. “But someone is watching us. They’re using a Chinese satellite, and we don’t believe it is the Chinese. We think it may be the traffickers. We need to know who might have access to that platform. I thought you might be able to get that information.”

  “I can tell you that right now,” Fujima said. “South Korea conducts naval maneuvers in that region. North Korea has full access to three satellites in the region. The satellite you’re interested in is called the Fong Sai.”

  “Who would run that operation for the North Koreans?” Hood asked.

  Fujima heard his daughter yelling from behind. “Father, my phone! That man had the operator break in!”

  Fujima covered the mouthpiece. “A moment, Keiko,” he said. He returned to Hood. “The man you want is Colonel Kim Hwan of the North Korean Reconnaissance Bureau. He’s a very low-profile fellow.”

  “Do you have any contact information for him?” Hood asked.

  “We have his office telephone and E-mail,” Fujima said. “I’m sure you have that on file.”

  “If not, I’ll let you know,” Hood said.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Fujima asked.

  “Not at the moment, thank you,” Hood said. “We have people on the scene and more en route. If anything happens, we’ll talk again.”

  “You had best use my home phone,” Fujima said. He gave Hood the unpublished number. “It will help to keep peace here. You have a teenage daughter, as I recall.”

  “I do,” Hood said. “Go and have your dinner. Again, I’m sorry to have interrupted.”

  “Not at all,” Fujima said.

  The intelligence officer clicked off the phone and returned it to his daughter. The young woman hit Redial and disappeared into her room. She closed the door with her foot. Fujima shook his head and ran a hand through his short black hair. It was damp with sweat. Anxiety never showed in his stoic expression, his dark eyes, his strong mouth. When he was worried, he perspired.

  Fujima continued to smoke his second cigarette. He wondered whether he should go back to his office at Gaimusho, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He felt he should do some research into the 130-5 site. Perhaps get a schedule of the drop-offs, collect background data of the ships and their crews. But Op-Center was probably doing that already. It would be better if he rested tonight. That way he would be fresh for whatever happened the following week.

  The slender thirty-five-year-old intelligence officer turned as his wife came from the kitchen. She told him that dinner would be ready in five minutes. He thanked her, winked, and said he would be in shortly. She smiled back. Then Fujima leaned on the railing and looked down at the street.

  “What a world it is,” he said.

  Fujima’s father would never have believed it. The nation that had dropped a pair of nuclear bombs on Japan was asking him for help to find missing nuclear material. And Fujima had given that aid. In the space of one generation, loyalties had shifted that dramatically. Yet that was not the most astonishing part. What was remarkable was that warlords and rogue groups could work in the shadows to create Hiroshima-level destruction. And not to end a war but to start one.

  “What a world,” Fujima said again.

  For the moment, however, Fujima was going to leave the responsibility for it to someone else. Dinner and his wife were waiting. His daughters would join them.

  He intended to enjoy them.

  That, after all, was what he was fighting for.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 8:57 A.M.

  It was time for Bob Herbert’s wake-up call.

  After Paul Hood hung up with Shigeo Fujima, he brought up the dossier on Colonel Hwan. While he read the file, Hood had his assistant Bugs Benet put in a call to the cockpit of the TR-1. Hood was patched through to his groggy intelligence chief. As Bob Herbert answered, it occurred to Hood that in all the years they had been working together he had never had to wake Herbert. It seemed like the man was always on the job or socializing. The first-time experience was disturbing. Clearly, the Mississippi native was not at his most alert or Pride-of-the-Deep-South charming when yanked from a dead sleep.

  “Sorry to get you up,” Hood said after Herbert had grumbled something into the headset.

  “The world better be ending,” Herbert said. Those were his first coherent words.

  “It isn’t, though it might be roughed up pretty bad if we don’t do something,” Hood informed him.

  “Now that I think of it, I don’t give a damn about the world,” Herbert said. “Just us. The U.S.”

  The intelligence chief sounded as if his mouth were full of sand. Hood waited a moment.

  “Are you sure you’re with me?” Hood asked.

  “I’m here,” Herbert said. “But damn, I wish I had coffee.”

  “Sorry about that,” Hood said.

  “It’s okay. What’s on the table?”

  “A North Korean colonel named Kim Hwan,” Hood said. “Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Colonel Kim Hwan,” Herbert muttered. “Yeah. I came across his name in the files I brought. He’s a surveillance guy, I think.”

  “Right,” Hood said.

  “Is he with us or against us?” Herbert asked.

  “He may have used a Chinese satellite to have a look at what we’re doing in the Celebes Sea,” Hood said.

  “How do you know that?” Herbert asked.

  “I asked Shigeo Fujima,” Hood said.

  “The prick finally took your call?” Herbert asked.

  “He had no choice,” Hood replied. “I had the operator cut in on his daughter’s cell phone.”

  “Nice,” Herbert said. “Well, Fujima would know who is running what in that part of the world.” The intelligence chief was sounding much more alert now. “So Colonel Hwan is against us. Why?”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Hood said. “Coffey’s team found an empty concrete block at the bottom of the Celebes Sea. The block was supposed to have nuclear waste inside.”

  “North Korea gets whatever nuclear material they need from China,”
Herbert said. “Why would they be interested in unprocessed waste material?”

  “That’s the go-for-broke question,” Hood said.

  “South Korea doesn’t need to go buccaneering for it either,” Herbert said. “We supply them. So Hwan wouldn’t have been watching to see what the enemy does either.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “That suggests a third party,” Herbert said.

  “Which is where we run into problems,” Hood said. “I’ve got Colonel Hwan’s dossier on the computer. It’s pretty thin stuff. He’s a career man, no family, completely off the Western radar.”

  “Does he attend seminars, go to retreats, travel in a private capacity?” Herbert asked.

  “We don’t have that information,” Hood said. “As I said, he’s not even a blip to our intelligence allies.”

  “That worries me.”

  “Why?” Hood asked. “It could be he isn’t a heavyweight.”

  “It could,” Herbert agreed. “More often than not, though, those are the real professionals, the ones who manage to stay hidden and anonymous. Let me think for a second.”

  While Hood waited for Herbert, he scanned the dossier. They did not even have a picture of the man. That seemed to support Herbert’s interpretation. A low-watt intelligence officer would not mind being photographed. Hood came from the worlds of politics and finance. Voters were wooed according to complex demographics. Banking and investments were done with precision. Crisis management was different. It unnerved him to consider how often the only barricade between security and disaster was seat-of-the-pants thinking by men like Bob Herbert. In the same breath he thanked God that he had men like Bob Herbert around him.

  “Okay,” Herbert said. “Did Hwan go to school?”

  “You mean college?”

  “Yes,” Herbert said.

  Hood scanned the dossier. “He did. Hwan studied in Moscow and then in London. Why?”

  “Nearly seventy-five percent of the people who are recruited for intelligence service jobs studied abroad,” Herbert told him. “Other cultures and colloquial languages are familiar to them. If Colonel Hwan studied in London, he probably speaks English.”

  “How does that help us?” Hood asked.

  “We can talk to him,” Herbert informed Hood. “What time is it in North Korea?”

  “Just after ten P.M.,” Hood said.

  “Spies collect information during the day and disseminate it at night,” Herbert said. “Hwan probably gets up early to read intelligence reports that came in during the night.”

  “Why does that matter?” Hood asked.

  “He’ll probably be at home now, sleeping,” Herbert said. “Can you get me that number?”

  “I’m sure Matt can dig it from a computer system somewhere,” Hood said. “Why?”

  “Because sometimes a classic, low-tech approach is the best one,” Herbert replied.

  “I’m not following you,” Hood admitted.

  “How did I behave when you called me just now?” Herbert asked.

  “You were cranky. Disoriented,” Hood said.

  “Exactly,” Herbert said. “It’s the old POW gambit. You drag a guy from his cell or cot during the middle of the night. His guard is down. His head is fuzzy. You don’t even have to beat him. You hammer him with questions. A man who is scared and tired will respond to force. His mouth will engage before his brain can prevent it.”

  “So you call Colonel Hwan and wake him up,” Hood said. “He’s not a prisoner of war. He’s probably not going to be very scared in his own home. What makes you think he’ll tell you anything?”

  “Because I’m a professional, too,” Herbert replied.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Celebes Sea Friday, 11:09 P.M.

  Lowell Coffey was belowdecks in the captain’s cabin. The attorney was lying on the small bed with his arms at his side and his eyes shut. Though it was black outside, the shade was pulled over the porthole. Coffey did not want to open his eyes and see the swaying of the stars. It was bad enough that he had to feel the constant movement of the corvette, hear the waves brushing the hull. He had come down here a half hour before, after Jelbart and Loh had both decided to remain at the site. There was no point of going to Darwin or Singapore until they had some idea where their next stop would be. They could not do that until they located the vessel that had deposited the empty concrete block. It bothered him that the naval might of two nations had to wait for some slippery civilian ship to turn up on someone’s radar. He felt as useful as Scylla and Charybdis after Odysseus had sailed through the Strait of Messina.

  There was a rap at the narrow metal door.

  “Come in,” Coffey blurted. The attorney sat up slowly on the edge of the bed. Even so, he had to stop and prop himself on an elbow as his stomach remained horizontal.

  A young sailor entered carrying a large radio handset. “Sir, there’s a call for you.”

  “Thank you,” Coffey said weakly as he extended his free hand.

  The young seaman gave him the unit, then left and shut the door. Coffey lay back down.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Lowell, it’s Paul.”

  “Hey, Paul,” Coffey said weakly.

  “Wow,” Hood said. “It sounds like I’m waking everyone today.”

  “No, you didn’t wake me,” Coffey said. “I’m just trying not to make any excessive moves. That includes my vocal chords.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “Whatever the opposite of water baby is, that’s me.”

  “I see,” Hood said.

  “What’s been happening?” Coffey asked.

  “Your ships are being watched,” Hood said.

  That opened Coffey’s eyes. The attorney rolled onto his side. He ignored the complaints from his belly. “How? By whom?”

  “By a Chinese satellite,” Hood told the attorney. “It’s apparently being time-shared by the North Koreans. We have an idea who may be running the actual surveillance, though we don’t know who may have ordered it. Bob is looking into that now.”

  “You know, it could be nothing at all,” Coffey said. “It may be a planned reconnaissance. I’m sure the North Koreans routinely watch the military activities of other nations in this region.”

  “They do, but military traffic is uncommon in that sector,” Hood said. “This is not someplace they would have targeted without a reason.”

  “That reason being we may have been seen or heard or ratted out,” Coffey suggested.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Hood replied. “We don’t know yet how it happened. What’s the latest over there?”

  “Jelbart and Loh are still trying to find the ship that made the drop-off here,” Coffey replied. “The only thing we’re sure of is that it did not leave the way it was supposed to.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The ships that come here are required to file an itinerary with the International Nuclear Regulatory Commission,” Coffey told him. “FNO Loh called Paya Lebar Airbase and asked for an air force F5 Tiger II flyover of the route. The jet didn’t find any ship there. Jelbart informed the INRC and asked for their help. They were useless.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Roughly half the ships are spot-checked on their way to this site, when they are carrying nuclear materials,” Coffey told him. “They are boarded and checked for radiation leaks, security, general seaworthiness. The ships are not checked after they leave the site.”

  “So no one knows if they have even made the drop,” Hood said.

  “Correct.”

  “That’s insane,” Hood said.

  “I agree. So do Warrant Officer Jelbart and FNO Loh,” Coffey said. “The problem is that maintaining a fleet is expensive. The INRC is financed by grants from the United Nations, environmental groups, and dues paid by nations that use the waste fields. That gives them about fifteen million dollars a year to oversee all international nuclear shipments, not just waste product.”


  “That’s all?” Hood said.

  “Yes, and that doesn’t take into account whatever kickbacks are being handed out,” Coffey added.

  “That’s a helluva low priority we give the security of nuclear material,” Hood said with disgust.

  “That’s true, Paul. But to be honest, people who want to smuggle nuclear material are going to do so whether the INRC increases its activities or not,” Coffey said.

  “That does not mean we have to make it easy for them,” Hood pointed out. “We wouldn’t even have known about this incident except for the attack by the sampan.”

  “Not everything is as well-ordered as law and finance,” Coffey said.

  “Funny you should say that,” Hood said. “I’ve been thinking about the nature of our business, and it should be more structured. We live in a high-tech world. We can watch someone key in a cell phone number from outer space. Losing ships and radioactive waste are inexcusable.”

  “Only in hindsight,” Coffey said. “When I was in college, I interned with a criminal lawyer. I used to go to prisons with him to interview clients. Once we had perpetrators locked up, it was easy to kick ourselves in the ass and realize what we should have done to save lives. These people we’re dealing with now, the smugglers and terrorists, are full-time sociopaths. How do you compete with that? How do you stop someone from putting botulism in an ATM deposit and poisoning the money supply? How do you prevent someone from filling a glass water bottle with acid and carrying it into a jetliner?”

  “I don’t know,” Hood admitted. “But we have to figure it out. We’re talking about hundreds of thousands of lives!”