A Northern Thunder

by Andy Harp

  The party descended the short steps to four vehicles waiting in line with their drivers. Sang directed the general to the first vehicle, a Soviet-made jeep, and as he stepped into the backseat with Tae Nam-Ki, Won saw the four nearly identical men climb into the second and third jeeps. As the vehicles sped away, Won noticed that the road, though topped with gravel, was unusually smooth. The gravel must be for appearance’s sake, he thought as the vehicles sped down the valley. Surely, there must be a substructure of cement.

  “Captain,” he said, “is this road well-built?”

  “Yes, sir. Twenty miles of gray cement topped with gravel,” said Captain Sang. “It can handle all our support vehicles, but shows no additional signs of traffic wear. Even the potholes were planned to show some wear, but not too much. It also has special subdued lighting for night travel. We have a thermal blanket that protects the truck engines from heat discharge and makes the engines virtually undetectable. Without difficulties, trucks can come from Wonsan in the deepest snowfalls or heaviest rains.”

  What a curious nation of people, Won thought. Highly capable. Potentially a dangerous enemy.

  Across from the road, beyond a small, green-carpeted rice field, a man hoed a thin, sparse garden, his worn, tired clothing draped over his frail frame. The man was hunched over, his curved back welded into place by years of constant, nagging malnutrition, caused by an emaciating diet of a single daily bowl of rice. The general remembered seeing thousands upon thousands of similar huts and garden plots in his China, but always with wives, children, and grandchildren in sight. China fed its people, and malnutrition was rare.

  As the lead vehicle rounded a curve along a small mound, Won noticed the road entering a short subterranean tunnel. A tight group of trees shaded another mound above the tunnel, but as the automobile drove down the tunnel ramp, he saw light at the other end where the road climbed back up. The vehicles stopped at the base of the tunnel and, in a quick motion, the captain jumped from the car and opened the door.

  “General and Colonel, please come this way quickly.”

  Won and Tae Nam-Ki stepped out of the car, and almost as quickly, the convoy of cars continued through the tunnel and back up to the surface.

  Ingenious, Won thought as the vehicles pulled away. To the eye of a satellite, the convoy would have passed into a small group of trees and then continued on. The satellite would have been unable to detect the stop. Won chuckled as he thought of the U.S. spy satellite following the vehicles for another ten or so miles until they pulled into a covered barracks somewhere north of the DMZ.

  The captain led the group into another tunnel running perpendicular to the drop-off point. As they entered the facility and passed through a large gray blast door, a crowd of soldiers and white-frocked scientists appeared to meet them. To his side, Won noticed the four Nampos follow him into the entranceway. One of the four turned toward another vault-sized door and entered a combination on the security pad. The door clicked faintly as it swung open. As Won stepped through the door, he realized the depth of the Taepo Dong-3X Project, the entranceway leading to an enormous metal-grate balcony, through which he saw three massive subterranean floors.

  “General, welcome to my home and to the Taepo Dong-3X Project,” said the man, who stepped forward and held out his hand. “I am Comrade Peter Nampo.”

  Chapter 7

  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, and well before five. 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.

  The trial of the drug dealer last week had gone well. The jury had taken less than an hour to reach its verdict of guilty. Ilkins, the defendant, sank back down in his chair after the foreman read the verdict, which carried a sentence of decades in prison—state, not federal, prison. Ilkins was looking at dirt-hard time. His lawyer already knew Judge Roamer’s reputation for sentencing on drug dealer cases. His client’s best hope was an appeal bond, which, if granted, would be substantial, allowing Ilkins the opportunity to escape south to Colombia.

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

  Clark left 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 boy 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 well for a pimply, purple-haired delivery boy.

  Clark undid the deadbolt and door chain as she thought how foolish both she and her roommate were for living in an apartment without a peephole. But it was five-ish, and the chances of a deranged rapist or murderer standing at her front door were remote. Plus, this was Vienna—folks weren’t supposed to lock their doors here.

  As she swung the door open, her heart stopped.

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

  There, standing at her door—tall and handsome in a sharply-fitted black tux—was 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 LaGrande 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 she turned the lock, it occurred to Clark, Am I locking the door to keep someone out or someone in? She turned red at the thought and quietly giggled.

  “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 down 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. Handing her the champagne, he 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. Once, she had even looked it up in Webster’s—“a partial or total loss of consciousness; a state of bewilderment or ecstasy; a daze; a rapture.” Now she knew what it meant.

  “I have until midnight,” Will said. After years of prosecuting countless criminals who would say anything for a break, and after the loss of his parents, Will let few people into his life. Clark was one of those few. “At that time, I’m leaving on a jet, and in all likelihood, you may never see me again.”

  It scared her. The rumors were flying around town after the visit last week. Will Parker always had some secret part of him that the town always suspected but never knew. Perhaps it was the loss of his parents, but no one, as much as Clark and others cared, seemed to get close.

  Clark reached over and kissed him. She then stood up and grabbed his hand. “Well, then, come with me,” she said, surprising herself.

  Clark 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

  Three Weeks Earlier

  The customs official was nearing the end of his shift. A darkly dressed young man stood before him and the exit.

  “Sir, why are you traveling to Boston and the United States?” said the official.

  “I’m in the cable television b
usiness in Korea,” the man said. “I just finished a conference in Paris, and I’m to meet your 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 references to subjects evoking local civic pride.

  “Oh, you’re aware of our Public Broadcasting programs, Mr. Chang?”

  “Yes, your television and radio shows are well-known.”

  Although Chang didn’t dress much like a television executive, the customs official had learned years ago not to judge Pacific Rim visitors by their clothing. And he was a young television executive—probably creative and maybe a bit odd.

  Benjamin Jones had worked customs for well over two decades and took great satisfaction in reading the character of a person by his appearance. On more than one occasion, his wife had accused him of being a poor amateur spy, though she knew Ben was very insightful. He would look at her friends and figure out their economic backgrounds, education levels, and even their greatest sins just by their clothes, rings, tattoos, and characteristics.

  On top of that, Ben had been given detailed profiles by U.S. Customs. After years of experience, the organization had formulated the commonalties of drug carriers and criminals—on the one end, a certain dress, and a gold Rolex. Or on the other, a mule—one too poor to be traveling on his own, but carrying drugs for the cartel. A poor, sad victim of the drug cartel would be paid an airplane ticket and a small amount of money to bring cocaine into the United States. Ben knew the cartel played the odds—if one carrier out of five made it, profits from the uncut, raw cocaine would run into the millions. Four or forty desperate souls caught were simply the price of doing business.

  “Where are you staying, Mr. Chang?”

  The traveler thought the use of Chang a little too obvious, even for North Korean intelligence. Surely, names like Chang increased the risks for operatives entering and leaving the United States.

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

  Good answer, Ben thought.

  “Thank you, Mr. Chang. I hope you enjoy your stay in Boston.”

  “Oh, yes. I look forward to some of your famous seafood.” He thought he might be overplaying his role.

  As the man gathered his black leather travel bag and walked away, Ben looked over his shoulder at the next passenger, before noticing a small glitter of light from the Korean man’s hand. In the brief glance, Ben saw an ornate, dragon-shaped gold ring. I need to remember this guy, he thought.

  Ben had developed one trait during his years with Customs. He could remember like a Polaroid those he singled out as suspicious, different, unique, memorable.

  Ben had seen several thousand visitors from around the world, and it was rare for a Korean to travel here from Paris. And with the addition of the ring, this man had a suspicious air about him—darkly dressed, somber, unsmiling, taciturn, but easily conversant in English. Mr. Chang made Ben’s Mental Hall of Fame.

  Meantime, Chang—his real name was Rei—didn’t like the way Ben had looked at him. He too had a sense of how to read people, and made a point not to look back as he walked away slowly.

  Now I will have to go out of New York, he thought, and it will cost me an extra day of travel.

  Rei 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.

  “Taxi,” he called once he exited the airport.

  As the taxi pulled to a stop, the driver rolled down the window. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Where are you going?”

  “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 cab had a tired, musty smell of too many cigarettes. The ashtray in the back was layered with burn marks, as were the seats. Rei noticed cigarette butts on the floor and thought less of the driver.

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

  “Here’s the Marriott,” said the driver.

  The high-rise hotel occupied much of a city block.

  Rei looked at the back of the old driver, with his thick glasses and off-color tee shirt under a sweat-stained, short-sleeved shirt. Small holes poked through the worn out border of the tee shirt. “How much?” he said.

  “Twelve dollars and fifty cents.”

  Rei gave him a twenty. “Keep the rest.” Rei felt it ironic. This man is the perfect reason for our Stalinistic communism. He will work all his life, probably die of lung cancer, and never have a chance to do anything but pay this month’s bills.

  “Thanks, boss.”

  Trained to leave little or no trail, 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 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 from the bag a plain pair of black horn-rimmed glasses with clear, non-reflective lenses. Glasses did more to disguise the memory of a face than anything else—a trick he had learned in Moscow.

  Rei put the bag in an air duct, closed it, then headed down two flights of stairs. The hotel maintenance crew would find the bag several weeks after Rei left the country. 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 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 correspondent was considered a celebrity, Rei always found cooperation in America 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.

  “Mr. Won, 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.”

  “Thank you, but I must use this time to get some lunch. Do you expect Dr. Walter to be here early, should I have a few questions prepared ahead of his speech?”

  “He’ll probably be here by twelve-thirty at the latest. He usually walks over from the campus, which isn’t too far.”

  “Thank you again.” There would be little need for her to save him a seat. As planned, Rei would be well south of the city by one o’clock.

  He turned and quickly rode the escalator down to the lobby. As he walked out the door and turned toward the Charles River and the MIT campus, the Marriott doorman noticed the bespectacled, nerdish young Asian, thinking he was probably another MIT super-brain.

  It was nearing noon when Rei walked across the bridge heading tow
ard 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 against a large white field, and the vessels darted back and forth over the wide river.

  One small sailboat turned into the wind, its 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 took 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 meaningless little 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 blown past every academic hurdle he had ever faced. Admitted to MIT at the age of fifteen, he obtained his Ph.D. 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 thought it odd that this young man would be well into the MIT campus asking for directions to the Marriott, but he gave the matter only brief attention—more important thoughts were on his mind.