Point of Contact

by Mike Maden

  “Our submarines can break the back of any blockade,” the Korean People’s Army Navy admiral said. The KPAN had thirty-five submarines, many of them domestically built, and over seven hundred ships in total.

  “I appreciate the gallantry, Admiral, but our subs are vastly outnumbered by their antisubmarine forces,” Choi said. He pulled out a Gitanes cigarette from a fresh blue pack and lit it. He was the only person allowed to smoke in the room. A lead-crystal Baccarat ashtray sat to one side, a gift from one of his young mistresses after her last trip to Brussels. He took a few drags, thinking. His eyes fixed on the oily smoke curling from the end of his cigarette, whisking away into the ceiling ducts by the powerful fans circulating the filtered air—a gift of the Ukrainian Communists decades ago. It gave him an idea. He turned to the foreign minister.

  “What will the Russians do if we are blockaded?”

  “Given their current status with the Americans, I’m certain they will gladly ignore the embargo if for no other reason than to frustrate President Ryan.”

  “Contact your counterpart in Moscow. Confirm this, and find out precisely what items and services they might be willing to provide,” Choi said.

  “Immediately, sir.”

  Another minister spoke. “There is no question that we can survive an economic embargo. Our people are willing to make the necessary sacrifices for the sake of our country.”

  Choi stubbed out his cigarette in the expensive ashtray in small, precise movements. “Agreed. We can survive their economic embargo. But I’m not interested in merely ‘surviving.’”

  The paper in front of Choi caught his eye. He picked it up and read it. Another idea came to him. “We have the meeting confirmed, as well as the time and place. President Zhao, President Ryan, Prime Minister Hironaga, and President Yeo-jin will all be in attendance. Does this gathering of heads of state present us with an opportunity?”

  Everyone in the room knew Choi was referring to the 1983 Rangoon bombing by North Korean agents. That attack killed several high-ranking South Korean cabinet officials, who had all gathered for a public event. Dozens of other innocent civilians died as well—collateral damage in the long march toward the Idea. The president of South Korea survived only because the bomb went off before his scheduled arrival.

  The head of the Ministry of State Security’s foreign counterespionage cadre cleared his throat. “It would be nearly impossible to organize an assassination attempt on Chinese soil, especially in Beijing.”

  “Nearly impossible, but not entirely impossible, correct?” Choi asked.

  “Anything is possible if one has the will,” the MSS deputy, a cousin, said. “But a successful outcome would turn us into a pariah with our friends in the Chinese government.”

  Choi turned to the general of the rocket forces. “What about a decisive blow from one of our missiles, smashing the summit?”

  The general froze. Was he serious?

  “Would it even be possible?” Choi demanded.

  “Yes, it would be possible.”

  The chairman shook his head. “But not probable. The Chinese air defenses are impermeable.”

  “But our scientists are working tirelessly to defeat their systems,” a civilian offered.

  Choi waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, of course. But that doesn’t help us now, does it?”

  The man shook his head sheepishly. “No, sir.”

  “Do we have any other options available to us? Something that would at least disrupt their planned summit?”

  “Did you have something in mind, sir?” one of the generals asked.

  Choi suggested, “Another nuclear test, perhaps.”

  A civilian technocrat from the nuclear directorate answered. “We might be able to rush one forward, but we risk a failure by doing so, and that would damage our technical credibility in the international community. But if we succeeded it would only reinforce the concerns of the Americans and their lackeys.”

  “Agreed.” Choi folded his hands, thinking.

  The anonymous man in the rear of the room fought back a smile. The chairman was putting on quite a theatrical performance.

  The room sat in silence. No one dared speak until prompted by the dictator.

  “This is quite perplexing, isn’t it?” Choi finally said. “The capitalists aren’t stupid. They must surely have gone through a similar exercise as we are going through right now. Thanks to our valiant armed forces, they are deterred from significant military action. And another economic embargo won’t amount to much in the long run. They must know these things. So why have the summit? A failed summit is terrible propaganda. They must have a plan to destroy us. But how? What do they know that we don’t?”

  The room waited for his answer.

  “Do I have to do all the thinking? Our enemies are set to strangle us. Speak up!”

  Shocked by the rare display of emotion, the officers and ministers immediately conferred among one another briefly, then silenced again, confounded.

  The anonymous young man stood up, his chair scraping on the concrete floor. Every head turned in unison.

  “Chairman, gentlemen, I have a slightly different view of the situation,” he began.

  The heads around the table turned back toward Choi. Their quizzical faces all asked the same question: Who is this interloper?

  “Gentlemen, this is Deputy Ri from the General Administrative Services Directorate.”

  This answered nobody’s question. No one had heard of the obscure department. The only way anyone in the room could have known about it was to have memorized the organizational chart of the State Commission for Railroad Construction. They would have needed a photographic memory to recall that near the very bottom of that extensive document was a row of organizational boxes stemming beneath the machine tools division. Further beneath that division was the lubricants and petroleum distillates department, administered by a subunit simply abbreviated as GASD.

  In reality, GASD was one of the most important agencies in the vast North Korean intelligence apparatus. GASD was so obscure that its existence was unknown even to the head of the Ministry of State Security. This is why Western intelligence agencies had no idea of its existence. It reported directly to Choi.

  Choi watched the room’s unresolved confusion turn to frustration. “I trust Deputy Ri’s opinions completely.”

  That was all everyone else needed to hear. The officers and technocrats turned back around and listened in rapt attention to the arrogant young GASD official.

  “The enemies of our republic are many and powerful, and they are constantly plotting our destruction.” Ri spoke with command authority. The military men recognized it at once even if they didn’t recognize him. Ri wasn’t his real name, of course. In a previous life Ri had been a noncommissioned officer in one of the nation’s elite combat units, but he was plucked from his platoon when his particular genius was discovered.

  “Fortunately, their great strengths are matched by a singularly cataclysmic weakness. A weakness my department is prepared to exploit. But it must be done so quickly. A window is rapidly closing.”

  The chairman sat up. “With what result?”

  “Two results, sir. First, the peace, safety, and security of our republic. And second, the end of China as we know it, and the West along with it.”

  The stone-faced chairman smiled.

  9

  HENDLEY ASSOCIATES

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Paul Brown sat behind his desk studying an Excel spreadsheet dense with numbers, the glow of the computer screen reflecting on his bifocal lenses. The figures danced in his brain the way sheet music played in the ear of a symphony conductor. He loved accounting and forensic auditing in particular, and, in his humble opinion, he was pretty good at it. But working at Hendley Associates, a private equity management firm, was the icing on the cake. T
he company had grown exponentially in the five years since he’d been hired, and both his salary and responsibilities had grown with it.

  In fact, the job probably saved his life.

  Paul was so focused on the task at hand he forgot to finish his morning tea, now tepid in his favorite Iowa State ceramic mug. His leather chair squeaked as he shifted around to alleviate the sciatica pain shooting down his leg—sitting too much was a professional hazard. His executive assistant urged him to get a stand-up desk (“Sitting is the new smoking,” she claimed), but he couldn’t ever pull the trigger. Probably just a fad, he kept telling himself. Besides, he really liked his desk. It was just the right size. Held everything he needed, right where he needed it. The framed photo of his beloved Carmen stood on the right-hand corner, her plain, gentle smile a constant comfort to him.

  God, how he missed her still.

  His doctor urged him to lose weight to help with the bad left knee and creaking lower back, but Paul found it a struggle to even mount the stairs at work, let alone attack a gym. Even he had to admit he was beginning to look like Wilford Brimley without the mustache. He couldn’t grow one to save his life.

  His mother called him “big-boned” when he was a kid, but he was an ace on the wrestling mat in high school, placing third in the state championship in his weight class in his senior year and earning him a college scholarship. Those were his glory days, at least physically. But that was nearly forty years ago. A lot of water—and chocolate glazed doughnuts—had passed under the bridge since then. His only concession to physical fitness was a set of Zenith hand grippers that he worked at his desk every day.

  “There you are,” he muttered to himself, his bleary eyes finally landing on a data cell he’d been searching for. He highlighted it, then pushed his mouse aside. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. It was only eight in the morning, but he’d come in three hours earlier in order to get a running start on today’s work. Technically he was three days ahead of schedule on his end and the project wasn’t due for another week. But he liked to get his work done ahead of time. His father, a beat cop in Chicago in the fifties and later in Des Moines, where he was killed, taught him as a kid: “Ten minutes early is on time.”

  He was thinking about the salami-and-cheddar sandwich in his lunchbox when his intercom buzzed.

  “It’s Mr. Hendley, for you,” his assistant said. “Line two.”

  Paul hesitated. Why was the director of the firm calling him? He picked up. “Paul Brown here.”

  “Paul, it’s Gerry Hendley. How are you?”

  Paul smiled. The soft-spoken South Carolina accent sounded quaint in Paul’s midwestern ear. He and Hendley didn’t speak often, but Paul liked the man immensely. He hoped it was mutual.

  “Fine, sir. And you?”

  “I could use a favor, Paul. I don’t suppose you have a minute to come up to my office?”

  Paul glanced at the unblinking computer screen, beckoning. Hours of work lay ahead of him. “Maybe later this afternoon? Say around two?”

  “If it’s not too much of an imposition, how about right now?”

  The gentility of the former senator’s voice didn’t fool Paul. That was a summons, pleasant as it was.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I’m grateful. See you in a bit.” He rang off.

  Paul cradled the receiver, saved his document, and shut his computer down as per the privacy and security protocols his department required. Protocols that he had written himself.

  He pushed himself up with his arms and stood, hoping desperately that he hadn’t committed some heinous error in his work. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might have done something to hurt the firm’s stellar reputation or to have disappointed Gerry Hendley. He brushed the powdered-sugar dust off his gray polyester slacks and reached for the matching suit coat hanging on the door, trying to decide if he should be worried or not.

  “Not,” he said out loud, pulling on his coat. If he’d done something wrong he’d fix it, no matter what it took.

  —

  Hendley’s secretary was on the phone when Paul appeared in front of her. She covered the receiver, smiled, and pointed him to the tall mahogany door on the far side of the spacious waiting room. “Head on in. He’s expecting you.” She returned to her phone call.

  Paul limped over to the door but couldn’t bring himself to just barge in, so he knocked gently with a thick knuckle. He heard voices on the other side, and soft laughter, too. He recognized Hendley’s voice. The other seemed familiar. He felt stupid standing there and he hated to interrupt them, but he was practically eavesdropping at that point. Obviously they hadn’t heard him, so he knocked louder. A moment later the heavy door swung wide and Hendley’s beaming face greeted him.

  “Paul! So glad you’re here. C’mon in! I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

  Paul forced a jowly smile. In truth, he didn’t like surprises. Not even when he was a little kid, when surprises were usually more benign. As an adult, he found surprises usually meant trouble.

  Hendley laid a guiding hand on Paul’s shoulder as he waved him in. A handsome middle-aged man in a fashionably tailored designer suit sat on the tufted black leather couch against the wall. He stood and flashed a bleach-white smile.

  “Paul Brown, surely you remember Senator Weston Rhodes?” Hendley asked.

  “Of course he does. We’re old friends,” Rhodes said. He stepped forward, extending his hand. He reminded Paul of a tennis star or a movie actor.

  “Senator Rhodes, it’s good to see you again,” Paul said. They shook hands. Paul noted the athletic build and strong grip. Except for the immaculate silver hair, the senator had hardly aged. Unlike Paul, Rhodes seemed to have won the genetic Powerball. Twice.

  Paul stood up a little straighter and squared his shoulders, but Rhodes was still two inches taller. The accountant didn’t bother trying to suck in his ample belly. That was a lost cause.

  “Senator? Please. It’s ‘former senator’ now, anyway. You knew me when I was Wes. Hell, we were both just kids back then, weren’t we?”

  “Yeah, we were.”

  “It’s been, what, three years since we’ve seen each other?”

  Five years, three months, and twenty-one days, to be exact, Paul thought. Carmen’s funeral. Rhodes came that day, unannounced. He was an important man back then, too. It was an unexpectedly thoughtful gesture that Paul never forgot. He didn’t blame the senator for not keeping in touch with an unimportant guy like him over the years. “Sounds about right.”

  “Please, let’s sit down, shall we?” Hendley said, maneuvering Paul toward an empty chair. Rhodes resumed his seat on the couch.

  “Something to drink, gentlemen? Coffee? Tea?” Hendley asked. “Orange juice?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Rhodes said.

  Paul remembered his tepid tea and his mouth watered. A cup of fresh hot tea would really hit the spot. But he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it in front of two former U.S. senators—one of whom was his boss. “No, thanks.”

  “Paul, I appreciate you taking the time to come up here,” Hendley said, taking his seat behind his expansive desk. “Senator Rhodes has an urgent matter he’d like to discuss with you.”

  Paul shrugged. “Of course.” But his mind was already back at that Excel spreadsheet on his desktop, running through the numbers.

  Rhodes leaned forward, clasping his hands. It looked like a prayer, Paul thought.

  “First of all, what I’m about to tell you is strictly confidential.”

  Paul nodded. “I understand.”

  “Good. Well, as you probably know, I’m now on the board of directors of Marin Aerospace Systems, one of the country’s largest defense contractors, and we’ve set our sights on a really remarkable firm that we think would make an excellent acquisition target. Well, not a ‘target,�
� of course, because it’s all very friendly, very aboveboard. We’re going to tender a formal offer to their corporate officers in the next ten days, and they’ve given us every indication they intend to accept.”

  “Is it a defense company, too?”

  “It’s a technology firm. Civilian applications, mostly, but very advanced, very innovative. We think they will add tremendous synergies to our side of the equation.”

  “How can I help?”

  Rhodes smiled broadly. “To be perfectly frank, our company has dropped the ball. We signed a letter of intent along with a contract to begin this process—you know how these lawyers are, and their lawyers over there—”

  “Over where?” Paul asked.

  “Singapore. Didn’t I mention that?” Rhodes brightened. “Have you ever been there?”

  Paul shrugged. “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, you’re in for a real treat. It’s a marvelous place. A truly world-class city. You have no idea. It’s the Paris of Asia, except it isn’t filthy and there aren’t any French people.” Rhodes laughed at his own joke.

  Paul shifted uncomfortably. The sturdy club chair groaned. “I’m traveling?”

  Rhodes saw the concern in Paul’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get ahead of myself. Let me read you in on the rest of it, then we’ll talk specifics.”

  Hendley smiled. “Paul, I want to assure you that there’s no pressure here. I know you don’t like to travel much. But if you don’t mind just hearing the senator out.”

  Paul nodded, but he already knew he wouldn’t do it. There was too much work for him to finish here. And he hated flying. He tried to remember how far away Singapore was.

  “So here’s the thing,” Rhodes said. “Our company has been going through a strategic transition—revisioning the mission, as it were. Going back to square one and asking the big questions like who we are, what we’re doing, how we want to do it—you get the idea. And what that all means is that we’ve had several changes in personnel lately, C-suite-level executives especially, and it just so happens that the woman overseeing this particular venture was recently poached by one of our major competitors. What I prefer to believe is that she apparently forgot about the contract of intent, or at least the important details. She hired someone at the last minute—a firm, frankly, I didn’t approve of, and I canceled their contract, and that means I’ve put my company at some risk.”