by Gregg Loomis
“But as far as we know, neither the North Koreans nor the Russians have a clue as to the thing’s purpose,” Wildstein protested.
“That didn’t stop either from trying to make sure I didn’t get home from Croatia.”
“You could have told me the thing involved certain risks.”
“Had I known, I never would have bought it.”
“Small comfort! Just what do you suggest I do?”
“It’s the only comfort I have to offer. Do you own a gun?”
Lang might as well have inquired about sexual relations with the professor’s mother. “Civilized people do not own firearms, Mr. Reilly,” he huffed. “That is why we have a police force.”
No, that is why “civilized people” are victimized at twice the rate of barbaric gun owners.
But Lang said, “I’d suggest you get one and learn how to use it. Or take a prolonged leave of absence.”
The professor had more to say, a lot more but Lang felt he had fulfilled whatever obligation he might have had. He feigned another call and rang off.
43.
Directorate X
Sluznha Uneshny Razvedki (SUV)
Yasenervo 11 Kolpachny
Moscow
At the Same Time
(21:20 Local)
Eduard Avalov took a deep drag from the Prima Lux Blue. As a smoker, he came under official disapproval. A lower-level government employee would have twenty minutes added to his daily eight hours to compensate for the four five minute cigarette breaks allotted. Until June. At that time smoking would be banned at and within twenty-five feet of all government buildings as well as in restaurants, bars, transportation hubs, and a list that included just about anything under a roof.
Avalov suspected that like most laws in Russia, this one would be selectively enforced. Varenichnaya No 1, on ul Arbat, with its book-lined walls, old films on its black-and-white TV and high government official clientele, would have the same blue tobacco haze clinging to the pressed-tin ceiling as ever. The American Burger King, Subway, and the other low-priced fast-food franchises would see rigid adherence to the new health laws.
He stubbed out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray bearing the Romanov double headed eagle. There were, he thought, more Czarist memorabilia in the offices of Russian government than in all the museums of the world.
But neither political irony or the threatened smoking ban was the reason he was in the office at this hour when the streets below had become ribbons of moving auto lights as Moscow’s night life awakened. Instead of joining his coworkers for hours of schastivy chas, Russian happy hour, before heading home, he had remained here, waiting for the call that would come from the embassy in Washington. As usual, he had no idea when it would come, only that he must be here to receive it. A glance at his watch confirmed what he already knew: It was only a little past lunchtime in the American capital. He could be waiting well past midnight.
He swung around, taking his eyes from the scene outside his window and began to review the file open on his desk although he had long ago all but memorized every word.
The crew, the Russian equivalent of the American Navy Seals, Spetsnaz, had failed on the street in London, failed again in the Atlanta parking lot and, most recently, apparently failed on the Croatia-Italy ferry. “Apparently” because Avalov was looking at a grainy but quite recognizable photo of Reilly descending the ferry’s gangplank in Ancona and the two men who were to dispatch the American had not been heard from.
He was getting daily calls from the upper levels of the SVR (Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki), the Russian intelligence organization that included Directorate X. Technically, one of the thirteen departments of Directorate S, the sub-agency that dealt in sabotage, assassinations, and the like should be handling the Reilly matter. But since his office, Directorate X, had commenced the operation, he was stuck with it.
Bureaucracy, even in the intelligence business, was the art of shifting both blame and burden elsewhere. He was sure his babushka would have had a Georgian proverb for it: Not every day is Shrove day; in time it will be Lent, the wolf is not beaten because he is gray but because he ate the lamb. She had a saying for everything but Avalov rarely understood what was meant.
He. . .
The phone on his desk, the one with a single, secure line, rang.
Avalov resisted the impulse to snatch up the receiver. He took a deep breath and let it ring twice more. He had no intention of betraying the anxiety that was a lead weight in his stomach. One more failure and Siberia would be all but assured of an increase in population by at least one.
“Avalov.”
The voice on the other end made no pretense at the niceties of conversation. “We are prepared to go forward once you give the final word.”
In other words, any possible failure and probable political fallout would be Avaov’s. His choice was between failure to carry out his instructions with banishment a likely penalty and failure to succeed in a mission of which he was only a spectator--with Siberia a likely result of failure.
He heaved a deep breath. “Go forward as instructed.”
Without further conversation, he hung up.
For a moment he stood, his hand still on the receiver as though frozen. He nodded once, then twice, a decision made, before opening a desk drawer from which he produced a half-full bottle of Putinka vodka and a glass. Filling the glass, he held it up as though inspecting the clear liquid for impurities.
Vodka spoils everything but the glasses, he thought, one proverb he understood all too well.
44.
Kim Il Sung Square
Pyongyang
Democratic People’s Republic of Korea
10:42 Local Time
The morning sun glistened on patches of snow that were, at last, melting. The cloudless sky held a promise of spring. Across the river, the naked branches of the Sha Li trees reached upward in supplication for an end to winter, but it required little imagination to see instead the clouds of white pear blossoms that would soon surround the base of the Juche Tower. The square below was alive with people, some preening in the long absent sun like animals exiting winter boroughs.
The only darkness was the mood of Kwak Pum Ji.
He had correctly guessed the route of the American’s departure from Dubrovnik in time to have Reilly’s car met at the Bosina “neck” by a pair of Special Operations Commandos, members of the world’s largest and, arguably, most elite, special forces.
But not elite enough, it would seem. The survivor of the encounter at the customs shed described his and his partner’s surprise that Reilly was not only not alone but armed. They had, the man said, been virtually ambushed by their prey.
Excuses were not going to work. There would be questions for which he had no answers: Why had he not known the American was not alone, particularly after he knew that Reilly had left the scene at the base of the Dubrovnik lift in the company of two men whom he should have presumed to be with some branch of American intelligence?
No, he was going to have to take immediate, radical action.
Except for South Korea, The People’s Democratic Republic rarely, if ever, sent assassins into other countries and wisely so, considering their most notorious effort. The plot had involved their neighbor to the south and ended in disaster: Accurately perceiving the United States was too heavily embroiled in Vietnam to be of assistance in January 1968, North Korea had sent thirty-one specially trained members of Unit 24 of the Korean People’s Army to assassinate South Korea’s president. The plot unraveled in two days, leaving twenty-nine dead, one a prisoner, and another presumably escaped back into the North. None got within gunshot of The Blue House, the residence of South Korea’s president.
The international repercussions had been enough to convince the Kim regime to leave political liquidations to nations more adept at it.
What Kwak had in mind was not as elaborate nor did it entail killing the leader of a sovereign nation, although committing murder on
American soil by foreign nationals would cause trouble enough were he not successful in disguising the identity of the perpetrators. Hopefully, it would be more successful than what was known as the January 21 Incident or his recent previous attempts.
His life could well depend on it.
45.
Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson Airport
International Terminal
3:26 pm
Two Days Later
Park Seo-hyeon was exhausted. The flight from Seoul always wore her out but one round trip in the Airbus A380 fulfilled her maximum flight-crew hours for an entire month. She would spend the next day and a half relaxing at one of several hotels within earshot of the Atlanta airport. Maybe she and Hee-Young, her best friend, would take MARTA down to Atlantic Station in midtown Atlanta and see a movie. The airline encouraged flight attendants to see American films. They really did improve her English.
But first, she had to help clean the aircraft, or at least pick up loose trash before the cleaning crew came on board. The amount of litter that could accumulate in a little over fifteen hours was. . . awesome? Yes, awesome, that was what Americans would say.
She was leaning over, stuffing some sort of food wrapper from the floor in front of seat 53B, well in the back of the aircraft, into a plastic garbage bag when she noted a slip of paper stuck between the seat cushion and the reclining back. She started to add it to the collection in the bag when she noted handwriting on it. Specifically, she noted guillemets, the double arrow-headed marks North Koreans used instead of quotation marks.
It was not unknown for citizens of North Korea to travel on Korean Air but it was unusual enough to notify the authorities whenever it occurred. Having no airline of their own (or right to travel, for that matter), North Korean officials, almost always under bogus credentials, traveled with their neighbor’s carrier when for some reason using their own military aircraft was impractical. Such as when travel needed to be covert.
Seo-hyeon stared at the rear bulkhead, trying to remember the passenger who had sat in 53 B. Three hundred and one economy passengers, but fifteen hours was a long enough time to notice someone. A man, a man in a cheap black suit that looked like it had been manufactured in China. Now she remembered there had been three others, all in the same type of black suit, all wearing sunglasses. Hee-Young had remarked that the flight had its own double version of the Blues Brothers, a reference to an old American film they had seen on TV one night in a motel near LAX.
These Blues Brothers had not communicated with each other nor had they been seated together but somehow all eight economy class flight attendants agreed they seemed to be acquainted.
She looked at the scrap of paper again. Directions of some sort. But to where? She would have simply used the Map Quest app on her iPhone had she wanted to go somewhere. But few if any North Koreans had iPhones. Or any other device that might give the user a view of the world outside.
“How’s it going?”
Seo-hyeon stood erect so suddenly she nearly banged her head on the overhead storage bin. She had not heard Captain Park Dong Yu come up behind her. With his square jaw, rugged brow, and brilliant smile, the captain was a combination of father figure and heart throb to the much younger and all-female cabin crew. He frequently joked about being related to Seo-hyeon because of their mutual name, Park, although it was the third-most-common family name in South Korea. Other than that, he was always friendly but never flirtatious. That, plus his wife and four children did little to diminish his place in his subordinates’ fantasies
She had to compose her reply in English before replying, proffering the paper, “I think this may be interesting to both the American and our own authorities.”
The captain’s eyebrows met as he studied it. “North Korean.”
She remained silent rather than mentioning she had already made that deduction.
“Looks like an address,” he observed. “Do you know where it came from?”
Seo-hyeon pointed to 53B. “It was stuck between the back and the seat.”
“Check the manifest, get the passenger’s name,” Dong Yu said. “Probably false. None of our business but, you are right, the Americans might be interested.”
He turned his head to watch her make her way up the aisle. Her baby blue blouse was tucked into the beige skirt, a skirt just tight enough to make the view worthwhile before he returned his attention to the piece of paper in his hand:
A local address?
No matter. As soon as he completed his final cockpit check, including squawking one of the transponders that had been intermitting, he would turn the paper over to the American Homeland Security people.
Not his business.
But he couldn’t help but wonder: Who or what was at 472 Lafayette Circle?
46.
Westminster
April 28, 1603
The procession was led by the queen’s lead coffin on a catafalque pulled by four black horses draped in black velvet. Atop the coffin was a regally dressed dummy whose lifelike image of Elizabeth amazed the crowd lining the streets. Behind were the peers of the realm, each dressed in black and preceded by flags bearing the family coat of arms. Following, also in black, were members of the court, the nobility and some of the late monarch’s favorites. Then came the mob, the mere citizens of London who wanted to say farewell to Good Queen Bess. Many of their soot caked faces showed the tracks of recent tears.
Among the lesser nobility and court favorites, an old man trudged along at a pace that suggested each step was influenced by rheumatism or arthritis that neither bergamot oil nor meadowsweet could ameliorate. His white beard was unfashionably long. Instead of clothing more normal to his station, he wore an ankle length robe displaying almost as many holes as fabric. His cap, long out of style, had seen better days before half the spectators had been born.
The casual, uninformed observer would have guessed him to be a physician, a stable hand, a cook, or some other lowly member of the queen’s retinue.
That observer, then, would have been astounded when a nobleman, elegantly attired, sword by his side and black plume in his matching cap not only stopped to speak to the old man but showed him considerable deference. That observer, or any other, would have instantly recognized Sir Walter Raleigh.
He stooped slightly so that his face was even with his elder. “’Tis a sad day, Master Dee. Now she is of the spirits with whom thee converse.”
Dee shook his head slowly. “ ‘Sooth, she is of the spirit world, Lord Raleigh. But the day is to be celebrated as well as mourned.”
Raleigh stood erect. “ ‘Celebrated?’ How so?”
“The queen was weary, ready to join those who served her well: Frobisher, Drake, Hawkins. Thou art the last of the Sea Dogs. Then there was her very favorite at court, Devereux, second Earl of Essex, whom she was forced to send to the Tower Green these few years past.”
Raleigh said nothing, remembering the strange case of Robert Devereux, undoubtedly the queen’s favorite, some said lover despite the age gap. She had sent him away from Court for some petty offense, no doubt to recall him shortly. He had appeared unbidden in her bed chamber before she was wigged or dressed, shocking both monarch and court, an unimaginable impertinence. Elizabeth had ordered him confined to his London town house in the Strand, which Essex promptly fortified, an act of treason.
Dee continued. “In the two years since Essex met the headsman, Her Majesty was listless, suffered ill humors. Even The Lord Chamberlain’s men were unable to amuse her with Master Shakespeare’s latest play preformed Epiphany before last at Whitehall. In her last few months, she refused to retire to her bed. Her ladies strew the floor of her apartments with pillows lest she swoon and fall.”
“You spoke of celebrating today rather than mourning, Master Dee.”
“I did and well we should. The Queen leaves us far better than when her reign began. England now hath many ships and hath grown from a tiny, insignificant nation to challenge even Spain, France
, the Dutch. The near morrow will bring a time when England rules much of this world, an empire so vast that at no time will the sun not shine on part of it. Already the East India Company doth trade in India and Cathay. The New World across the Atlantic will someday be British. The empire of England will exceed that of Alexander or Rome. All because of our late queen.”
The idea of empire, let alone one as vast as Dee described, was beyond Raleigh’s conception, even his imagination. But had not this man predicted the Spanish Armada and Queen Mary’s death? Did he not consort with angels and spirits?
“It is to be hoped, Master Dee. But no small credit is thine. Without thy sun instrument, measurements of east and west would remain more matters of speculation than fact. ‘Twas a thing that savest many days of a voyage.”
Dee bobbed his head. “Thou art kind, Lord Raleigh.”
The former Sea Dog stood in place as he watched the old necromancer hobble away. As improbable as his prediction might be, Raleigh might, just might, someday believe it.
47.
Atlanta
472 Lafayette Circle
3:02 am
Lang was dreaming of a beehive, about to flee an angry swarm of the creatures when he came awake with the realization that what he was hearing was not insects.
He turned to shake Gurt into consciousness but she was already sitting up, her torso limned against the dim glow of street lights flowing through the windows.
“The alarm,” she said matter-of-factly. “Someone is on the property.”
The yard was surrounded by an invisible electric beam. When interrupted, one of several alarms went off in the master bedroom as well as downstairs.
Lang yawned. “Or the Henderson’s German Shepherd has gotten out again.”
Gurt pointed. “If so, he brought company. There are at least two incisions.”
