Op-Center o-1
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Hwan's eyes shifted to the side.
"Director Yung-Hoon," he said with surprise. "Where is—"
"Hongtack? On his way, by now, to his new post— a fishing boat monitoring Chinese broadcasts in the Yellow Sea. He seemed to believe that our different styles were a weakness and not a strength."
"Perhaps you should reserve me a seat next to his," Hwan said. "I feel that way too."
Yung-Hoon winced. "We may have seemed to be working at cross-purposes from time to time. But after today, that won't happen again."
Someone in the government must have leaned on the Director about his handling of this case. It wouldn't surprise him to learn that Bob Herbert or Paul Hood had made a few calls on his behalf. Yung-Hoon had always responded to things like that.
The Director lay a hand on Hwan's. "When you get out of here, we'll see about arranging things differently, giving you responsibilities where you don't have to report to my office—"
Someone had definitely called him.
" — where you can work things your own way. I've also recommended to the President that we set up a scholarship at the University. Something for Mr. Donald in the political science department."
"Thanks," Hwan said. "Don't forget Cho's wife. She'll need help."
"Already done," said Yung-Hoon.
Hwan watched the Director carefully as he asked, "And how is Ms. Chong?"
Yung-Hoon looked as though his necktie was too tight. "She's gone. As you— requested, we allowed her to drive off."
"She saved my life. I owed her that. You followed her, though?"
"Well yes," Yung-Hoon said. "We were interested to know where she'd go."
"And?"
"And," said the Director, "she ended up in Yangyang. At your uncle's house."
Hwan smiled. They'd never find her. Uncle Pak would sneak her out on his boat, which they wouldn't dare board, and he'd arrange somehow to get her into Japan.
"Don't you think she'll spy for the North again?" Yung-Hoon asked.
"No," Hwan said. "She never wanted to be doing this. I'm glad she'll be able to find what it is she really wanted."
Yung-Hoon patted his hand. "If you're sure, Hwan." The Director rose. "I've put one of your men outside, Park. If you need anything let him know or call me."
Hwan said he would, and Yung-Hoon left him— not alone, but with his ghosts, the bittersweet memories of Soonji and Gregory Donald, of his poor driver Cho and the guarded but entrancing Ms. Chong. He wasn't sure his own uncle would tell him where he'd taken the woman, but he vowed he would find her somehow. As this day had underscored, there were friendships and allegiances that transcended political boundaries, and there wasn't always the time to explore them.
Time had to be made for those bonds to be strengthened. Because in the end, what he remembered about all of those people was what they had in their hearts, not in their dossiers.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, 9:00 P.M., Op-Center
The President arrived at Op-Center unannounced.
He came in his stretch, armor-plated limousine, with two Secret Service agents, his driver, and no one else— no aides, no reporters.
"No reporters?" Ann had remarked when the sentry at the front gate of Andrews AFB announced his arrival to Paul Hood. "Then it's got to be a former President."
"You're too cynical," Hood said, sitting back behind his desk. He had just finished bringing the heads of all the departments up-to-date— Bob Herbert, Martha Mackall, Darrell McCaskey, Matt Stoll, Lowell Coffey, Liz Gordon, Phil Katzen, and Ann— and also thanking them not only for their industry but for their ingenuity and cooperation: he told them he'd never seen a team mesh more effectively, on all fronts, and he was proud of the job they'd done proud of them, individually.
He had been about to leave his office when the call came, and so he sat back down to wait.
Ann waited with him.
She couldn't stop smiling. Ann was not just happy because things had worked out for Op-Center; not just because the TV networks had all broken into the prime-time schedule with news of the destruction of the Nodong; not just because she and her counterpart at the Pentagon, Andrew Porter, had sold to the press that what Gregory Donald and General Michael Schneider did were the acts of humanists, not partisans. They had gotten out with that story fast enough, honest enough, and strong enough so that whatever the North Koreans said about Major Lee's plot would sound ungracious and vindictive.
Ann was also happy for Paul.
He had managed to handle both the responsibility of Op-Center and the responsibility of being a father and husband, neither job easy, neither job part-time. She didn't know how he had managed to hold up. Sharon Hood might never know how much this day had taken out of him, but Ann did. She wished there were some way she could let her know but nothing occurred to her.
The Press Officer speechless! she laughed to herself.
No, that wasn't entirely true. What Ann had to say was nothing a devoted admirer had the right to tell a wife. It was that Paul Hood was a very special man, a man with a good heart, integrity, and what she knew was a deep reserve of love. What Ann would tell Sharon, if only in her fantasies, was to nurture Paul and let him nurture her to remember that one day he would lay aside his work, the children would be grown, and the love they'd sustained would flower and enrich them.
Paul was telling them all about how he wanted a memorial service organized for both Gregory Donald and Bass Moore, though she didn't really hear much of what he had to say. Her mind, and her heart, were elsewhere with Paul, in an imaginary world where he would hold her when they'd all left, take her to dinner at some place fast and informal, and then drive her home and make love to her and fall asleep with his chest pressed against her back- "Mr. Hood?" Bugs said through the computer.
"Yes?"
"The President is coming."
Hood laughed as Bugs put a picture from the corridor video camera on the screen. The President was waving at Op-Center employees in their cubicles, barely stopping to shake hands with people he didn't know, making eye contact only as long as it took to search out the next face.
Paul rose as the President walked into the room, along with those department heads who weren't already standing. The President made a tut-tut face and motioned for them all to sit down.
They did, save for Paul. The President made his way through the office and shook his hand.
"Nice job, Task Force head."
"Thank you, sir."
Behind them, Ann sizzled. It wasn't the Task Force. It was Paul and Op-Center.
The President turned, rubbing his hands together. "Excellent, excellent job. Everyone involved in this project, from Paul to the Striker team to Steve Burkow's National Security personnel to all of you, have performed beyond all reasonable expectations."
"We all had help," Hood said. "Gregory Donald, Kim Hwan at the KCIA, the North Korean officer at the Nodong missile—"
"Naturally, Paul. But it was you who put that support system into place. The credit is yours, along with everything the various departments did to manage the crisis. Though General Schneider did say he plans to request a civilian citation for Mr. Donald. He says he wants to award it himself. There will also be commendations for the Striker men who made sacrifices."
Made sacrifices, Ann thought. That's what presidents say when they aren't sure how many people have died and how many were wounded. But she refused to let President Lawrence spoil this moment for her, and hoped Paul would keep plugging for the people who helped. Everything he did seemed to elevate him in her eyes.
"Dear Sharon" she began composing the letter in her head, "I hope you'll forgive me, but I've kidnapped your husband. I'll return him when I'm carrying his child, because I very desperately want a piece of this man to have for my own, forever "
"But," the President was saying, "I didn't come here just to commend and thank you all. When I founded Op-Center six months ago, it was on a trial basis— what I and a few ot
hers like Secretary Colon and Steve Burkow felt might be a useful adjunct, a crisis management team interfacing with our existing intelligence and military operations. None of us had any idea if it would work out." The President smiled broadly. "Certainly, none of us had any idea how well it would work out."
Lowell Coffey applauded softly.
The President continued, "As far as I and my advisors are concerned, Op-Center has earned its wings. You are no longer a provisional operation, and I'd like to formally and finally christen you tomorrow at a private lunch at the White House. After that, Paul, we can discuss what else you think you need to make your operation more effective. Not that Congress will give it to us, but we'll give it a damn good effort."
"Mr. President," Hood said, rising, "we all appreciate the vote of confidence. As long as the past six months have seemed at times, today seemed a whole lot longer and we're happy it all worked out. But as for tomorrow, I'm afraid I can't make the lunch."
For the first time since she'd known the President, Ann Farris saw him recoil in surprise.
"Really?" the President remarked. He scratched his forehead "If it's play-off tickets, I'd like to come."
"It isn't, sir," Hood said. "I'm going to be taking tomorrow off so I can teach my son to play chess and read a few violent comic books with him."
The President nodded and smiled sincerely.
Ann Farris applauded softly.
THE END
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