A Northern Thunder

by Andy Harp

  The KGB had its informants, but rarely were they World War II veterans—too opinionated and stubborn. In a way, he respected that.

  As the train pulled into the north St. Petersburg station, Rei grabbed his small, torn bag from the shelf above his seat. During a short visit to Moscow’s traders market, he had bought it and some clothes—all of which had enabled him to blend in. Now, he threw the bag over his shoulder and said his goodbyes. The only risk he took was moving deliberately and quickly.

  Occasionally, Rei had to slow himself down, particularly in train stations. He knew the KGB covered all the stations from door to door.

  Rei walked from the train directly to a small booth.

  “A coffee,” he quietly ordered. He drank the coffee slowly as he walked through a side exit onto the crowded street. Rei cut across two streets and down a small one before walking four blocks or so to a small grocery. The shelves were empty except for a few sparsely-placed canned goods. The bread shelves were full, and though he wasn’t there for bread, he bought two loaves and placed them in the plastic bag he was carrying. At the right moment, he stopped and turned toward the store window.

  Rei knew KGB training firsthand, and thus knew that KGB surveillance would have to keep him under a constant eye without entering the store. He looked across the street and saw no one. So far, so good.

  He also bought a small pint of the cheapest vodka. He crossed the street to the public toilet where, in a foul smelling stall, he took a large gulp of the vodka, swilled it around in his mouth, spit it out, and spilled a little on his brown, thread-thinned cloth coat. Anyone close to him would smell a whiff of cheap vodka and assume he was just another country Russian.

  The metro took him to the edge of the St. Petersburg Technical University campus. Rei had studied the maps carefully. He was not comfortable with St. Petersburg, although, and perhaps because, he and Mi—another North Korean trainee at Moscow’s KGB intelligence school—had taken a holiday here once. Rei was the son of an ironworker from Pyongyang. His father helped build the new Pyongyang, and as a skilled worker in the big city, always had food. Mi, also from Pyongyang, was less fortunate. She was the daughter of a Russian engineer married to a Pyongyang schoolteacher.

  They were very far from home then. They didn’t see much of Moscow, living in a KGB flat near the train station. It was merely a brief break from training.

  This summer day, Rei did not dare enter the Laser Technology Centre. He waited across the street at a metro entrance until he saw Imode Boriskof leave the Centre shortly after three in the afternoon.

  Dr. Boriskof, and two young associates with him, headed across the street toward the same metro station. Rei would not risk a confrontation, but he had already formulated his plan as the three crossed. I’ve got at least three hours before the flight to Paris.

  He jumped in behind the trio as they entered the metro. Rei guessed that the two students would eventually peel off from the professor as they headed north and he home.

  As they all entered the subway car, Rei lowered his bags to the floor and reached into his pants pocket. There, in a white cloth, he had the gold ring—he’d been careful not to wear it on the train or even in Moscow. He felt the chilled metal as he slipped it on his finger.

  Rei picked up the bags and moved closer to the three and their conversation.

  “We still have the problem with the progression.” Boriskof ’s younger aide appeared to be making a point, although the doctor was distracted.

  “I have some ideas on that.” The other aide seemed more experienced.

  “Let me have them. . . Monday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the subway car jolted through a turn, Rei was nearly on top of Boriskof. The old doctor’s frayed collar was crumpled up in his brown, pinstriped coat. His black, paisley tie was tied in an oversized knot. Heeding his suspicions, Rei looked down to see the doctor’s arthritic hands. He imagined the difficulties the professor must have had every morning tying that knot.

  “Why don’t you both come home with me for supper tonight?” said Boriskof. Rei’s heart froze.

  “Thank you, Doctor. We would be most pleased,” the older of the two associates said.

  He weighed his options—wait or go. As he stood there, the train came to a stop at a station, and virtually everyone except he and the scientists left the train.

  Damn, damn, damn, he thought.

  “Next stop, the Moscow station,” the metro clerk yelled as he headed through the car. Boriskof looked at Rei and smiled, as if acknowledging the stupidity of a clerk yelling at them from only a few feet away.

  Rei smiled back.

  The train lurched to a stop, and a flood of people poured into the car. Rei quickly stepped to one side of Boriskof, placing himself between him and the door. The two younger men were on the other side.

  Rei knew he would have but one very brief opportunity. If he stayed in St. Petersburg to await other chances, the risk that Boriskof ’s comrades would recognize him would be substantial.

  As he neared Boriskof, pushed along by the influx of subway travelers, Rei detected the slight scent of vodka, and decided the good doctor was, indeed, a typical Russian. It will make the drug work even faster. At the same time, the doctor smelled Rei. It comforted him to encounter another vodka fan.

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

  Instantly, 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 now 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 exclaimed. As the car doors closed, Rei made the conscious decision not to leave 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 said as he ran out of the car and up a flight of stairs. It gave him the opportunity to exit the scene. At the top of the stairs, he saw an attendant, a gray-haired, fat-bellied man in a subway attendant uniform.

  “A man has 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?”

  Oh my God, Rei thought. “Officer, a man has had a heart attack on Platform 1A.”

  “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 feverishly 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 yelled. As he did, the old man’s eyes opened, and Boriskof lunged forward and grabbed Rei’s arm, clutching his torn, brown sleeve.

  “You,” he gasped.

  T
he old man’s blue eyes looked deep into Rei’s.

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

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

  “No, you.”

  Rei placed his hand, as gently as possible, over the man’s mouth, telling the gathering crowd, “Take it easy, old man. Take it easy.”

  A gasp of air was followed by a final breath. He became limp again. Rei gently laid Boriskof ’s head down, stood, and stepped backwards. Just then, as if orchestrated for his benefit, two white-jacketed paramedics brushed him aside and laid the man down again.

  Rei backed up, quietly reaching his hand into his coat and, using the other fingers, pried the gold ring off his hand. He covered it with cloth inside his pocket. Rei could feel his heart thumping, a cold sweat on his forehead.

  “I’ll need to talk to everyone,” the officer said. “It’s a matter of formality.”

  Chapter 14

  The red brick building and its long, freshly painted gray porch reminded Will of a country club in his native South. At Fort Meyer, the VIP apartment of the bachelor officer’s 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.

  “Colonel, 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, starched white shirt, and dark tie, and would’ve been 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 9-mm under the lapel of the sergeant’s suit jacket.

  The door swung open too easily and banged against a dark, cherry wood 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, large enough for two separate couches and a sitting area.

  “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 affluent 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’ PanAm 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 father was a Ranger.” Will paused. “Let me get a quick shower and we’ll get out of here.”

  The sergeant noticed the scar under the Colonel’s left shoulder blade as Will pulled off his jogging shirt.

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

  “The side by the general’s quarters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The VIP quarters were tucked away between tennis courts, several barracks, and a row of general’s 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, and 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.

  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 colonel. Their shaved heads reminded him of boot camp, during which his girlfriends called him a “boxcar” because of the bald sides and short-cropped hair on top.

  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, M-16 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?” The sergeant didn’t usually venture into small talk with his passengers, but Colonel Parker seemed a lot more personable than the others.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Will. “Every Marine lieutenant trains at The Basic School near here.” TBS, or The Basic School, in the Marine Corps’ simplistic vernacular, was, through the woods, a short distance from the FBI facility. It was the infantry officer’s training course where, for months at a time, young lieutenants learned patrolling, weapons tactics, leadership, and the art of war.

  Will knew this base and the surrounding woods exceedingly well. He 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 to see a green camouflaged patrol of Marines emerge 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.”

  “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. We don’t want to risk an encounter with a disgruntled, washed-out trainee.”

  “Where to now?” said 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. Straight, evenly-formed 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, apparently studying as if on any well-dressed, uniformed college campus. Each shirt, though varied in color, bore 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.

  “Colonel Parker, this is your training team.” Scott stopped, turned, and waited for one of the security guards to close the conference room door. Once the door closed, no one from the outside could enter. Although it was an FBI facility, Scott was taking no chances—the room had been scanned several times prior to the meeting.

  He had actually come to like Will’s idea of using this facility. The preferred CIA camp was under constant scrutiny by both satellites and high-tech surveillance. Here, there might be risk, but the risk was more internal, arising, perhaps, through an inopportune comment by a newly graduated field agent to the wrong person. By that time, Scott hoped, both he and Will would be long gone.

  “I’ll let each of you introduce yourselves,” Scott 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 physical background, 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. I imagine all I’ll be doing is giving you an update, and maybe exposure to ASDS.”

  “Great. I’ve not worked with the ASDS,” Will said. The ASDS would be Will’s 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.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It took some work to get one.” It was an understatement. A Russian unit in Vladovostak was one short on their last inventory, and it took the computer lab at Langley over a week to reprogram it into the U.S. satellite system.