Threat Level Black Page 6

  “Of course,” said Weber. “We were going to suggest a joint operation.”

  Hunter asked who would be lead agency. It was a political faux pas: Had he not asked, he could have claimed sovereignty in any discussion with his CIA counterparts.

  “If it’s overseas, I’d prefer the CIA,” said the President.

  “Of course,” said Weber quickly. Whatever he lacked in police abilities he made up for in political acumen. He rose from his chair, obviously intent on getting out before Hunter blundered further.

  “Stay with me a second, Professor,” the President told Blitz. “I have a few minutes before my next appointment, if John’s timeline is right.”

  When the others were gone, the President asked Blitz if he thought the North Korean government would collapse soon.

  “Hard to say,” said Blitz. “It might fall apart tomorrow. Then again, no one thought Kim Jong Il would even last this long. We may be talking about this twenty years from now.”

  “You and I won’t,” said the President.

  “We’re ready for an attack if it comes,” said Blitz.

  “You’re still in favor of a preemptive attack, aren’t you?” said the President.

  “That’s not what I was in favor of,” said Blitz.

  “No?” The President took a shot and missed.

  “It would solve certain problems, and create many others,” said Blitz. “Ultimately it doesn’t make sense.”

  “But if it did, it would save a lot of lives,” said the President.

  Blitz wasn’t about to argue with that.

  “Have you found a new head for NADT yet?” asked the President, picking up his golf ball and stowing his putter as he changed the subject.

  “I’m still working on Colonel Howe. We’re supposed to have lunch, actually.” Blitz glanced at his watch, more for show than anything else: There was no way now that he’d make the appointment.

  “Money not enough?”

  “I think the money’s part of the problem,” said Blitz. “I think it may scare him.”

  “Tell him he deserves it. More than most of the fat cats running corporations around here who think they’re God’s gift to America.”

  “Nonetheless,” said Blitz.

  “He can always arrange to take the equivalent of his government salary.”

  Blitz frowned, even though he knew D’Amici was only joking. Right or wrong, financial compensation was one way defense contractors and Washington kept score; Howe had to have a salary commensurate with his responsibility or he wouldn’t be taken seriously.

  “Who’s your backup?” asked the President.

  “Trieste, I guess,” said Blitz, mentioning a retired two-star Army general whose name had been floated around.

  “Not my first choice,” said the President. His tone made it clear Trieste wasn’t even on the list of acceptable candidates.

  “What about my former assistant, Howard McIntyre?”

  “Way too young for that job,” said the President.

  “So is Howe.”

  “Howe has considerably more experience, and he’s a hero,” said the President. “And he’s older than Howe—who is a good man; don’t get me wrong.”

  “I’ll keep working on Howe,” said Blitz. “I haven’t given up.”

  “You think you can control him?” asked the President.

  “No,” said Blitz. He didn’t want to control Howe, necessarily, just steer NADT a little more toward the administration’s agenda than in the past.

  “Maybe you should take the job yourself,” suggested the President.

  That snake pit? Blitz knew he wouldn’t last six months.

  “I’m happy where I am,” he said. “We need someone qualified and independent but who won’t come with their own ax to grind—and won’t be in the pocket of people looking to get rich. Howe’s perfect.”

  “Be careful, Professor, you may get what you wish for,” said the President.

  Chapter

  12

  The fact that he was supposed to be Swedish rather than American didn’t particularly bother Fisher; he’d always had vaguely Nordic ambitions despite his dark hair and lack of a sauna fetish. Nor did he worry that the few phrases of Swedish they’d given him to memorize were unpronounceable tongue twisters; Fisher figured that anyone he was likely to meet in Moscow would understand even less Swedish than he did. Not even the ridiculous nonstop hopscotching across Europe as he made his way to Russia threw him off his game. On the contrary, it gave Fisher a chance to sample terrible coffee in a succession of small airports, confirming his opinion that the java brewed at airport terminals belonged in a class all its own.

  No, the real problem with his cover were the European cigarettes he was forced to smoke for authenticity. He’d settled on some British smokes as being the closest thing to real tobacco he could find. But for all their storied contributions to civilization, the English had yet to come up with a smokable cigarette.

  Worse, the damn things were filtered.

  On the other hand, smoking was permitted and seemingly mandatory throughout much of Russia; he’d even been able to light up on the airplane into Vnukovo Airport outside of Moscow without anyone looking cross-eyed at him. It seemed particularly ironic that the country that had given the world gulags, mass murder, and fermented potato juice had such an enlightened attitude toward cigarettes. Fisher was sure this was a good omen for the country’s future and even thought about the possibility of buying a retirement home here. The fact that he couldn’t speak the language was surely a plus, since it would spare him from knowing what was going on around him—one of the prime benefits of living in a foreign country.

  The CIA officer who had assumed control of the operation, Hans Madison, met him in the terminal. Vnukovo was southwest of Moscow and used mostly for regional flights. While it was watched by the FSB, one of the internal security agencies that had succeeded the KGB, the Russians felt that any spy forced to use it must be pretty low on the feeding chain and therefore of less interest than the big shots who flew directly into the main airport, Sheremetyevo-2. This meant that the FSB put its own second- and third-stringers here. Within a few minutes of arriving, Fisher and the CIA officer in charge of the operation—he introduced himself as Hans Madison, a name so goofy Fisher thought it might be real—were free of their shadow and riding in a bus toward the city. The bus was more like a six-wheel minivan with a trailer welded to the body; it was operated by a brand-new company capitalizing on the inefficiencies of the existing public transport system by inventing its own. Capitalizing on government inefficiency was a growth industry in Russia, but then again, the same might be said for just about anywhere in the world.

  “Our man arrived last night. He’s staying at a youth hostel,” said Madison as they rode.

  “Youth hostel?”

  “Cleared it out for the conference. They’re putting up foreign scientists from North Korea and China there. Rest have to stay in real hotels.”

  Amanda Kung’s flight was supposed to arrive at Sheremetyevo-2, within a few hours. Kung had agreed to come to Moscow and let the scientist contact her. For some inexplicable reason she’d insisted on having Mathers as her FBI bodyguard. Mathers had been equipped with a cover claiming she worked with Kung as a junior engineer and had come to take notes.

  “We’ve already bugged the conference rooms,” said Madison, continuing to lay out the operation. “You’ll be inside with two other agents. A little tricky to wire everybody, so we’ll have to go silent com. We have some small radio units, but they’re very short-range. You’ll have to back up with sat phones. The phones are encrypted, but the Russkies will know you’re using them, so obviously that’s a last resort. What do you know about power companies and electrical generation?”

  “They turn off the lights if you don’t pay the bill on time,” said Fisher.

  “Guess that will have to do,” said Madison. “We have a portfolio for you as a Swedish electricity minister.”


  “Cattle prod come with the job?”

  “Not this time around,” said Madison.

  Chapter

  13

  Dr. Park made his morning ablution to his ancestors, trusting himself today especially to the memory of his great-grandfather, who had told him stories about fighting against the Japanese. A more objective observer might have questioned whether his great-grandfather had personally been involved in the battles he spoke of, but Dr. Park accepted them uncritically. His great-grandfather was for him a warrior, and he needed that quality now.

  The American had sent word that she would attend the conference. His salvation was at hand, if he was brave enough to seize the opportunity.

  Dr. Park dressed quietly. Chin Yop, the minder sent to accompany him through Moscow, snored loudly in the bunk a few feet away. It occurred to Dr. Park that he might take this chance to simply run for freedom: go out on the street and find a cab, then take it to the American embassy. But he didn’t know Russian, and even his English was halting. Besides, there were undoubtedly others watching him besides the mild-mannered man who had accompanied him from P’yongyang, Russians as well as Koreans.

  “Trust us,” the American had said in her message.

  It was his only option. Dr. Park finished dressing, then woke his minder, telling him he was going to the day room for breakfast.

  Chapter

  14

  There was black, and there was black. And then there was the blackness of Russian coffee, a shade beyond the naked oblivion beloved of philosophers from Plato to Sartre. Plato had his cave, Nietzsche had his superman; Fisher had his coffee.

  It occurred to Fisher that the great German philosopher Immanuel Kant could not have been a true coffee drinker; he was too much of an idealist. Or, rather, given his syncretistic leanings, he would have been the sort who added milk and sugar, botching the whole operation and skewing his view of the universe in the process.

  Coffee like this—strong, black, so full of caffeine that the surface buzzed—this sort of coffee was the reason Russia had produced musicians and writers rather than philosophers and poets; the liquid was as thick as sandpaper, scrubbing away the ethereal coatings of your esophagus, a region much given to philosophical thoughts. And the heartburn that would surely follow tended to wipe out lyrical expression.

  Fisher, never much for poetry or philosophy, decided he would have to drink more of this on a regular basis. Maybe he could get his local Dunkin’ Donuts to import it.

  The FBI agent achieved these insights while sitting at the back of Assembly Room Two in Meeting Hall Pavilion A, Government Facility Conference Buildings, Moscow, listening as an engineer sang the seemingly unlimited praises of microcurrents. Fisher was sitting two rows behind Kung and Mathers, who were themselves two rows behind the Korean subject, who had come with his minder and sat in what appeared to be rapt attention, though his dossier said he spoke little English, the language of the presentation.

  There were another dozen people in the room, including one Russian agent and one of the CIA backup team members. Fisher had also spotted a Chinese conferee sipping coffee with cream; this was a dead giveaway that the man was either an intelligence agent or a German philosopher trying to reform.

  The speaker droned on in an English that came from somewhere between London and Düsseldorf. Apparently there was a brave new world lurking in the circuits powering modern life; Fisher didn’t understand most of what the man said, but it did give him a new respect for his cordless shaver.

  He remained in his seat as the session broke up, watching Dr. Park up close for the first time. Thirties, no family to speak of, the man was a mid-level drone in the Korean scientific community. As far as that went, he had a relatively sheltered life; in that society he would even be considered privileged.

  So why did he want to defect? Beyond the obvious appeal of apple pie and Chevrolets?

  Fisher got up as Kung and her gnomish bodyguard passed by his seat. Mathers wagged a finger at him as if they were in junior high; Fisher set his glare on stun and fended her off.

  Outside, the hallway was crowded with scientists, engineers, and spooks assigned to make sure they didn’t make off with too many doughnuts. Fisher sifted to the far end of the snack table, making like he was checking the program listing.

  Fisher had emphasized the importance to Kung—and to the gnome—of letting Dr. Park come to her. So far she was sticking to the program, nibbling on cookies with Mathers at one end of the long table while Dr. Park stood almost motionless on the other. A Finnish engineer came up to the two women and started talking about alternating current, obviously some sort of codeword for threesomes involving short people.

  Fisher slid through the crowd and got closer to Dr. Park. He had a minder and a shadow: The shadow had registered as a scientist from China, but Madison ID’d him as a Korean agent. A pair of Koreans from the embassy were watching outside in a car.

  A lot of company for a mid-level scientist, unless they suspected he wanted to defect. But if that were the case, wouldn’t they have stopped him from attending the conference in the first place?

  Fisher watched as Kung and the gnome walked off toward the next session. Dr. Park moved in the opposite direction.

  Where were the professional matchmakers when you needed them?

  “From Swiss National Electric?” asked a cheery balding man, glancing at Fisher’s name tag. His accent was very British, and his name tag revealed that he worked for the London Power Company.

  “Sweden,” said Fisher. He mimicked the man’s accent and threw a lisp in as a bonus, though it was a lot to weigh on a single word.

  “Spent time in the States?”

  “Too much,” said Fisher.

  “Many issues there, I suppose.”

  “It all comes down to too many volts,” said Fisher, shambling after Dr. Park.

  Miss Kung was plumper than he remembered, and a little older. Still, she had an exotic air about her. Her smile was not quite Korean, but it warmed the room nonetheless.

  Dr. Park had not realized until he saw her at the conference that he was attracted to her in a romantic way. Perhaps he had not been until that moment.

  He knew she was some sort of spy. The Americans routinely sent their agents across the world to enmesh unsuspecting males; he’d learned that as a child at school. They were devious, but that was one of the things that made dealing with them attractive.

  As he walked toward the conference room, Dr. Park realized with great disappointment that Miss Kung was not attending this session. He could not change his own plans, however, without arousing the suspicion of Chin Yop.

  A tall European with an absentminded, arrogant air bumped into him just outside the door. The man managed to knock the packet of handouts Dr. Park was carrying from his hand onto the floor.

  “Pardon, pardon,” said the man, bending and helping pick them up.

  Dr. Park stood motionless as the man handed him the folder.

  Was there a message in the papers he handed back?

  Chin Yop grabbed the folder.

  “Sorry,” said the man who’d bumped into him.

  Dr. Park wanted to run away: He thought of jumping on the man, grabbing his chest, demanding help.

  But he wasn’t even an American. All that would accomplish would be to expose himself and his plans. He would be dragged away, taken back home to Korea, shot.

  They wouldn’t bother taking him home. He would be shot in Russia, left in an alley for the dogs to eat.

  “You—cigarettes? Have some?” asked the European in broken English.

  Dr. Park couldn’t get his mouth to speak.

  “Cigs?” repeated the man. He took a pack out and held it in Chin Yop’s face. He said something in a foreign language that Dr. Park didn’t understand, then repeated it in English. “Where I can get more?”

  Confused, the minder shook his head.

  The European turned to Dr. Park. “You?”

 
Dr. Park managed to shake his head.

  “No smoke?” said the European. He turned back to Chin Yop, said something indecipherable, then switched to English. “I can tell you smoke. Where do you get your cigs?”

  The minder glanced at Dr. Park. “Is he crazy or what?” he said in Korean.

  Dr. Park shrugged. Chin Yop did, in fact, smoke: He had a box of Marlboros that he had picked up near the hostel in his pocket.

  “Cigarettes? You smoke American?” asked the European, pointing at the box.

  Chin Yop nodded hesitantly.

  “Can I have one?” said the European, pointing at the minder’s pack. “Two of mine for one of yours.”

  Chin Yop held up his hands, not understanding or at least pretending that he didn’t.

  Dr. Park explained in Korean, then added that he ought to hold out for three at least.

  “Three?” said the European when the trade was offered. But he made the deal, trading his entire pack for three Marlboros. He lit up immediately.

  “Where?” he asked as he exhaled. “Buy them? Where did you find them? American, right? I didn’t know you could get them here.”

  “Should I tell him where I got them?” Chin Yop asked Dr. Park as he deciphered the question.

  Dr. Park shrugged. Cigarettes were available throughout the city, though they had bought theirs from a black-market vendor near the hostel at a considerable discount.

  Was this man really a Russian policeman, checking on them?

  “You tell him,” said Chin Yop.

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I don’t know.”

  “You’re the senior man. Go ahead, it will seem odd if you don’t reply.”

  Dr. Park looked at the European and then at his minder. Probably the minder was simply worried about his English, but perhaps this was part of an elaborate trap: Dr. Park would be arrested for buying forbidden items, then thrown into a Russian jail.

  “Is he a policeman?” asked Dr. Park in Korean.

  “You think so?” answered Chin Yop. “No. Too confused. Look, he’s a geek like you.”