Rings of Fire

by Gregory Shepherd

  “Come in,” she said.

  In walked Harmon Phibbs. The hot, humid weather added a sheen to his pulpy complexion that looked like plastic that had exploded in a microwave.

  “Just checking to see how you’re doing here in sashimi-land,” he said with a probing smile. He was already closing the door behind him when Kirsten held out her hand and said, “I like to keep it open.”

  “Oh, sure, no problem,” he said. He came into the room and helped himself to a seat in front of her desk. “So. How do you like this country so far? Kind of like ‘Goodbye America, Hello Kitty,’ right?”

  Kirsten started to answer, but Phibbs was just getting warmed up. “I been here like five years and can’t seem to get a rotation out of it. I guess Langley really wants me here. I’d love to have my last assignment before I retire be someplace like Costa Rica where they appreciate the U.S. of A. and don’t go around stabbing us in the back like this country does. Or maybe Scotland, but that’s probably because I’ve spent so much time drinking the place. Hey, you ever wonder why you never see any American cars in the streets here? It’s ’cause they have these humongous tariffs on anything from our country. American beef? Forget it, they got this thing where they say that Japanese intestines can’t digest it, therefore it can’t be imported. Then they’ve got the whole guilt trip they try and lay on us for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which was the only thing that would have ended WWII. Plus, it’s not like they were sitting around singing ‘Kumbaya’ in Esperanto during the war. Ever hear of the Rape of Nanking? There were these two lieutenants in the Imperial Army who competed with swords for the number of beheadings they committed, and the newspapers reported it every day like they were McGwire and Sosa. Don’t suppose you remember those two, do you? Baseball sluggers?” Kirsten shook her head, too aghast to say anything. Phibbs shrugged. “On the plus side, they don’t have all the nonsense we have with the diversity thing, mainly because they only have one race.”

  “I’m part Arab,” Kirsten said with a weak smile.

  “Whoops.” To change the subject, Phibbs reached over and picked up one of the files Kirsten had been reading. Kirsten looked at him with her mouth half open in astonishment, too shocked at his serial boorishness to say anything.

  “I see you’ve gotten the latest data on the situation in Norkland,” he said. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” she said guardedly.

  “Actually, I think I may have an inside track on where this is all going,” Phibbs said with a look of I-know-something-you-don’t-know. “I know you’re an analyst and psych profiler for the Feeb, so you might find this of interest. I met a guy from the Chinese embassy the other night at a bar I go to in Roppongi. Nice guy, down to earth. Likes his booze. Maybe too much. Anyway, he was being coy about it, but the gist of what he was inferring was that there might be more to China’s interest in North Korea than meets the eye.”

  “You mean more than fortune cookies and Hu Flung Dung?” Kirsten said. Phibbs chuckled and looked down in amused embarrassment.

  “Yeah, I know, I sometimes let loose with some stupid stuff,” Kirsten was nodding, “but I’ve got a pretty good track record when it comes to getting juicy inside dope. You know how in movies there’s the big boss, and then there’s the guy who actually gets things done in the background but doesn’t get credit? I’m that guy. My second language training was in Chinese, by the way, I’m nowhere close to fluent, I’m the first to admit it. To my ears, it’s always sounded like sound effects for a kung fu movie, but I can read it pretty good. Anyway, I was talking to this guy, Chen was his name, and we got to discussing communism and capitalism. He kept saying that capitalism is done for because the work ethic in the West is gone and that’s the only thing that keeps capitalism going. He said once we run out of people willing to haul butt and make a lot of money at the top end of the salary scale, there’s not going to be any wealth to trickle down. I had to agree with him. Everyone in the U.S. is looking for instant gratification, especially these snowflakes in college who go off to Europe on their junior year abroad and see places like Germany where the government pays for their education and gives them a stipend, but that’s only because we’re paying for their defense. At the end of four years, the kids are commies and the parents are bankrupt.

  “You seem pretty smart and savvy, so you probably understand something that a lot of people don’t realize, and that’s that there’s no one more practical on the face of the earth than the Chinese. I told that to Chen, and he was all flattered that I understood that fact, but I was, pardon my French, bullshitting him to get him to open up, so I went on to say that the Chinese are so practical that none of them could possibly believe in communism, which is as impractical a system as is possible. You follow where I’m going with this?”

  Kirsten shrugged. “Not really, but what else did he say?”

  “He kind of agreed with me without coming out and saying it, but he did say that everyone in the Zhongnanhai—that’s their Politburo…”

  “I know.”

  “Everyone in their Zhongnanhai believes in the whole China as Middle Kingdom thing, but not in the sense of ‘between two other kingdoms’ or something. They see it as China as the center of the universe. Chen said that his country needs communism in order to keep 1.2 billion people in order. That’s the whole reason for it, not any kind of belief in the ideology. To my mind, communism and fascism are two suits in the same closet.”

  “So what did he say about North Korea?”

  “He said…man, he was getting wasted…he said that there’s a lot more to this China Solution than anyone thinks. I bought him another drink and asked what he meant, but the guy got this distant look and then fell asleep right there on the bar. Anyway, I thought I’d pass that on to you for your analysis. It looks like China has something up its sleeve. I’ll see if the guy shows at the bar tonight, and maybe I can pin him down. I’ll let you know if I find out anything else.”

  “I appreciate it, Mister Phibbs.”

  “Harmon. Call me Harmon. Maybe we could have a drink sometime? Kirsten?”

  Kirsten smiled queasily. How about when hell freezes over? Harmon? she thought.

  She saw him to the door and thanked him for dropping by. She closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 23

  Toyama Storage

  July 27

  A grim-faced Mr. Lee returned to the corpse hotel. His heart had sunk when he learned earlier in the day that the second wave of attackers had been caught up in the dragnet that the JIA had established throughout the country. Hundreds of people of Korean ancestry who were even remotely suspected of having ties to Chosun Restoration had been quietly arrested, among them Mr. Lee’s reinforcements. Further, Prime Minister Adegawa had just issued a statement that Japan would stand firm in the face of terrorism and that the Games would continue. As Mr. Lee entered the building, Pung immediately summoned the Bong Boys, who hurried downstairs to the viewing room. Once they had come to attention, Lee began.

  “I have the unfortunate duty to inform you that your reinforcements have been arrested. It is now all up to you.”

  The Bong Boys stared at him with shock in their eyes. That means there’s only three of us left! they thought in unison. Lee continued.

  “But as I said after we suffered our first casualties at the Self-Defense Force headquarters, we are united in our desire to restore our glorious Kim family to the seat of power, and thus, although our numbers are small, if we think as one, we shall prevail. Make no mistake: there is nothing easy about reclaiming one’s rights, especially when the whole world sees our country as backward and insignificant. But, believe me, when we are finished, the whole world will know that the DPRK is a great nation thanks to courageous young men like you who are willing to sacrifice everything for the cause of justice.”

  At the words “sacrifice everything,” the three youn
g men shifted on their feet. The great battle for which they had been recruited was now not so much one of glory but rather one that could well end their lives. It was too late to back out now, that much was certain, so the only option left was to continue to follow Mr. Lee and trust that his leadership would see their efforts to a triumphant conclusion.

  “It seems that our message has not yet penetrated,” Lee continued in an acid tone, referring to the Prime Minister’s official statement that the Olympics would continue. “Therefore, we will be moving to the next phase of our mission.” Lee turned to Mr. Pung, who spread out a map of Tokyo on the large dining table where they had enjoyed their ortolan feast. Lee proceeded to outline in minute detail the next attack which would usher in Phase Three of their mission: attacks on infrastructure. After his presentation, he looked up at the young men. “Hahn Doo-won, step forward.”

  The lad’s eyebrows shot up like circumflexes. He had not expected to be charged with a mission of the magnitude that Mr. Lee had just described. Mr. Lee looked deeply into his doe-like eyes.

  Like all of Mr. Lee’s squad of North Korean rich kids, Hahn Doo-won took his nickname from a member of a South Korean boy band—in his case, “Dreamboy.” The name was fitting, since he was of a wistful, introspective nature who enjoyed reading and art and wrote original poetry, most of it love poems to one of his many crushes. What he could never let on to anyone, though, was that all of his crushes were fellow students. Male students. Although homosexuality is not addressed in the North Korean criminal code, it is regarded as decadent and “against the socialist lifestyle,” with a number of gay couples having been executed during the Kim years.

  Dreamboy had actually been looking forward to his ten years of mandatory military service starting at age twenty, since he saw it as a chance to rub shoulders (at the very least) with fellow conscripts, some of whom, by the intransigent laws of human nature, had to have sexual urges like his own. With the downfall of Kim Jong-un, though, those dreams perished along with his privileged Pyonghattan lifestyle.

  Now, living with Casanova and Tyson, he struggled mightily to tamp down his feelings, especially for Tyson, the tough guy of the trio. Dreamboy sometimes caught himself staring with his mouth open at the older boy, admiring his studly physique and aura of danger, especially after Tyson’s role in the Novichok attack. One time, when Tyson turned quickly and caught him gawking, Dreamboy saved himself by pointing to Tyson’s nose and telling him he had a large snot hanging precariously, and when Tyson rubbed his nose, Dreamboy said, “Got it,” with an air of having saved Tyson from a grave social faux pas.

  Now he was face-to-face with Mr. Lee, who was obviously fully aware of his secret.

  “You know why I have chosen you, yes?” Lee said with his head tilted down and his eyes looking up at the lad. He handed Dreamboy a glossy color photo of a smolderingly handsome man in his mid-thirties with chestnut hair and cobalt-blue eyes.

  Dreamboy gulped and nodded. “I reaffirm my commitment to Chosun Restoration!” he fairly shouted, his heart beating wildly against his ribcage.

  Mr. Lee made an about-face and exited Toyama Storage, and Pung dismissed Tyson and Casanova. He then met with Dreamboy, outlining the logistics of his mission. Dreamboy took the photo of the handsome man with him to his room. He would study it, he told Pung, who sneered in disgust and walked quickly away.

  CHAPTER 24

  July 28

  After Chosun Restoration had issued its demands several days earlier, nothing more was heard from the group, and everyone involved in Olympic security was cautiously hopeful that the group’s demands would not be backed up by further attacks, especially after the JIA had been given extraordinary and sweeping powers in an effort to root out the group. Anyone suspected of having ties to Chosun Restoration was being held without charge for the legal limit of twenty-three days, which would go well beyond the duration of the Games. So far hundreds of people of Korean descent, including Mr. Lee’s contingent of ninety-four reinforcements, would be spending the Olympics being interrogated under harsh conditions. The draconian measures appeared to be working.

  With the pressure somewhat off halfway through the track-and-field events, Patrick and Kirsten made plans to meet again for lunch after their respective morning meetings. Patrick’s daily calendar was free for an hour or so before he was scheduled to meet Kirsten, and as he sat at his desk thumbing through paperwork with the outline of the Olympic stadium in the distance, he suddenly bolted upright in his chair. He had completely forgotten to call Yumi. He immediately picked up his office phone and was relieved when she answered on the first ring. They spoke for five minutes, mostly about Dae-ho’s condition, and he signed off by telling her how much he loved her and how much he missed her and the boy.

  He sighed in reassurance when he hung up. But then he felt butterflies in his stomach and realized why: he was a bit too eager to meet Kirsten for lunch.

  Idiot, what are you thinking? You and Yumi are making such good progress together, don’t jeopardize it, for God’s sake!

  Lighten up, it’s just lunch! I’m not going to do anything stupid, okay?

  For her part, Kirsten’s mind wandered during her morning meeting with the JIA bigwigs. They were conducting the meeting in Japanese with only an occasional translation for her from young Minoru Kaga. As she sat nodding at them without comprehension, her mind went back as it always did when she wasn’t occupied to the man she had married and divorced, the man she still found herself calling her husband. She and Landon had been in the same FBI Academy graduating class, and while she went into intelligence analysis with an assignment in Hawaii, Landon’s risk-taking nature and dislike of a regular schedule had led him to surveillance and a posting in Southern California, although they alternated visiting each other every month. His half-Puerto Rican lineage had given him a smoldering sex appeal and fluency in Spanish, and his first undercover assignments were as a midlevel coke dealer to lower-level gangs in the Boyle Heights section of Los Angeles. He thrived on the thrill that filled his days, to the point that Kirsten had to wonder if she had made a mistake in at least not waiting a while longer before accepting his marriage proposal.

  After her misgivings grew into suspicions, and she hired a Honolulu private investigator to keep an eye on him during one of his monthly visits. Sure enough, his risk-taking personality type had taken him into the beds of at least four other women that he admitted to when she confronted him with the evidence. Less than half a year after they had committed to each other for life, they stood in awkward silence outside the office of a lawyer she had hired to take care of the formalities. Even as he was about to sign the papers ending their marriage, he told her tearfully that he had made “a” mistake that would never happen again. The lawyer cleared her throat, urging them to get it over with, and although Kirsten might have forgiven him had it really been “a” mistake, four mistakes constituted a deal breaker. Still, aside from his incorrigible weakness for women, she knew he was a decent sort at heart, and she grieved for what might have been between them. He would have made a wonderful father, although a terrible role model had they had sons.

  Anyone observing her face during the JIA meeting would have noticed a gradual look of muted agony creeping into her eyes. She was recalling the day when her immediate supervisor, Ronan Coyle, had broken the news that Landon had been outed by unknown people while undercover as a member of a San Bernardino motorcycle gang that had entered into a business arrangement with a Mexican drug cartel. She remembered knowing as soon as Ronan had come on the line that Landon was dead. She didn’t ask for details of his murder, and Coyle was not forthcoming with any. They both knew what had happened to Kiki Camarena of the DEA when he was outed back in 1985, and the cartels had become even more sadistically violent in the intervening years.

  After a morning of morbid thoughts during a meeting she could not understand, Kirsten found that her step was nothing short of s
pringy as she left the meeting room and began walking to her upcoming lunch with Patrick. She told herself that her eagerness was a function of wanting to pass on to him the information that Phibbs had given her. Now that she was sufficiently oriented to the area around the embassy, she had told Patrick that she felt comfortable finding her own way to the soba restaurant where they would meet. Five minutes later, she saw him waiting outside, smiling and waving.

  “This place has AC,” he said.

  “Oh good, I wasn’t looking forward to a muggy lunch. Shall we go in?”

  They walked to a table that the owner’s wife led them to. She apologized to Patrick that they were extra busy today but gave them cups of water. Patrick told her there was no rush. After she had left, he turned to Kirsten. She was grinning.

  “You’ll never guess who I was talking to,” she said. Patrick shook his head.

  “Harmon Phibbs,” she said with a chuckle.

  “Harmon, is it? On a first name basis already?” Patrick teased.