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  He refused to take his eyes off the hearse, though his tired mind roved in a stream-of-consciousness state, thinking of the last meal he had with Soonji, the last time they made love, the last time he had watched her dress. He could still taste her lipstick, smell her perfume, feel her long fingernails on the back of his neck. Then he thought back to how he had first been attracted to Soonji, not by her beauty or poise but by her words— her incisive, clever words. He remembered the conversation she had had with a girlfriend who worked for outgoing Ambassador Dan Tunick. As the Ambassador finished his farewell speech to the staff, the girlfriend said, "He looks so happy."

  Soonji regarded the Ambassador for a moment, then said, "My father looked like that once, after passing a stone. The Ambassador looks relieved, Tish, not happy."

  She'd hit it on the head in her open, irreverent way. As the crowd drank champagne, he'd walked over to her, introduced himself, told her the hearse story, and was smitten even before her eyes had opened. As he sat here now, out of tears but not memories, he took consolation from the fact that the last time he saw Soonji alive, as she ran back to his side after finding her earring, she was wearing a look of profound relief and happiness.

  The Mercedes followed the hearse off the highway and toward the airfield. Donald would see his wife to the TWA flight that was taking her to the States, and as soon as it had taken off, he would board the waiting Bell Iroquois for the short hop to the DMZ.

  Howard Norbom would assume Donald had gone around him to get what he wanted, and he felt some guilt over that. But at least the General wouldn't be implicated when he tried to contact the North. Thanks to the phone call, whatever fallout there was would land on him and on Op-Center.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Tuesday, 11:45 P.M., KCIA Headquarters

  When he got the call from Bae Gun that the arrest had been successful, Hwan was of two minds: they'd done the right thing, though he was sorry to lose a most interesting figure in Ms. Chong. His cryptanalysts had not yet cracked her code, even though they knew the contents of some of the data she was sending, having fed it to her through Bae, who told her he had a son in the military and occasionally gave her real but unimportant troop strength, map coordinates, and changes in command. Now that she was in custody, Hwan doubted that she would help them along.

  The KCIA had spent four years monitoring but not interfering with the current crop of North Korean agents in Seoul. By watching one they had found another, then another and another. The five operatives seemed to form a closed loop, with Kim Chong and a pretzel-maker at their hub, and Hwan felt he had them all. With the woman's capture, he would have the others watched round the clock to see whom they contacted or what new agent might be moved in to take her place.

  It bothered him, though, that in what little of her code they had broken, there hadn't even been a hint of today's attack. Indeed, the pretzel-maker— who baked information into salt-free nuggets— had even been told to attend the festivities and gauge the mood of the crowd toward reunification. While it was true the North could have executed the attack on a need-to-know basis and not told their operatives, Hwan doubted they would have put one in danger like that. Why bother sending him at all if they intended to terrorize the celebration?

  The Desk Sergeant phoned up when the agents arrived, and Hwan stood behind his desk to receive them— and Ms. Chong. He had never seen Kim Chong herself in the flesh, only in photographs, and went through a traditional exercise Gregory had taught him to do when meeting someone he knew only by picture or voice or reputation. He tried to fill in the blanks, to see how close his guesses came to reality. How tall they were, what they sounded like— in the case of suspected enemies whether they would be irate, abusive, or cooperative. The process served no purpose other than as a useful review of what Hwan knew about the people before meeting them.

  He knew Ms. Chong was five-foot-six, twenty-eight, with fine, long, coal-dust hair and dark eyes. And that according to what Bae had told his contact here, she was a tough nut. Hwan suspected that she would also have a musician's sensitivity, the thorny temperament of a woman who had to endure the advances of men at Gun's bar, and the habit of all foreign agents to listen more than she spoke, to learn rather than divulge. She would be defiant; most North Koreans were when dealing with the South.

  He heard the elevator door slide open followed by footsteps in the corridor. Two agents walked in with Kim Chong between them.

  Physically, the woman was exactly as he'd pictured her: proud, intense, alert. She was dressed more or less as he'd expected, in a tight black skirt, black stockings, and a white blouse, the top two buttons open— the uniform for women who played in lounges and bars. He'd missed the skin, though, not having imagined it to be so sun-bronzed. But of course it would be, since her days were free and she spent them poking about the city. He was also surprised by her hands, which he saw when he told the men to uncuff her. Unlike other musicians he had known, the fingers were not thick and strong but slender, delicate.

  He asked the men to shut the door and wait outside, then gestured toward an armchair. The woman sat down, both feet on the floor, knees together, those graceful hands folded upright in her lap. Her eyes were on the desk.

  "Ms. Chong, I'm Kim Hwan, Deputy Director of the KCIA. Would you— care for a cigarette?"

  He picked up a small case on his desk and raised the lid. She took a cigarette, caught herself as she went to tap it on the face of her watch— it had been taken from her, lest she use the glass to try to slit her wrists— then put the cigarette in her mouth.

  Hwan walked around the desk and lit it for her. The woman drew deeply and sat back, one hand still on her lap, the other on the armrest. She still didn't allow her eyes to meet his, which was more or less standard with women during an interrogation. It prevented any kind of emotional connection from being made, which kept the meeting formal and tended to frustrate many interviewers.

  Hwan offered her an ashtray and she set it on the armrest. Then he sat on the edge of the desk and regarded the woman for nearly a minute before speaking. For all her polish, there was something about this one he couldn't quite get a handle on. Something wrong.

  "Is there anything I can get you? A drink?"

  She shook her head once, still staring at the desk.

  "Ms. Chong, we've known about you and your work for quite some time. Your mission here is over, and you'll be tried for espionage— within the month, I imagine. The mood running as it is after today, I suspect that justice will be quick and unpleasant. However, I can promise you some measure of leniency if you help us find out who was behind the explosion at the Palace this afternoon."

  "I know nothing more than what I saw on television, Mr. Hwan."

  "You were told nothing in advance?"

  "No. Nor do I believe that my country was responsible."

  "Why do you say that?"

  She looked at him for the first time. "Because we are not a nation of lunatics. There are some madmen— but most of us don't want war."

  That was it, he thought. That's what was wrong. She was following the rules for interrogation, and would probably stonewall wherever she could. But her heart wasn't in this. She'd just made a very clear distinction between "some madmen" and "us." Us who? Most operatives came from the military and would never say anything against their countrymen. Hwan wondered if Ms. Chong might be a civilian, one of those North Koreans who served against their will because they had a criminal record, were fighting to regain lost family honor, or because a sibling or parent needed money. If that was true, then they did have something in common: both of them desperately wanted peace.

  Director Yung-Hoon would not approve of revealing privileged information to the enemy, but Hwan was willing to take that risk.

  "Ms. Chong, suppose I were to tell you that I believed you—"

  "I'd ask you to try another tack."

  "But what if I meant it?" Hwan slid off the desk and squatted in front of her where she had to tu
rn away or look at him. She looked at him. "I did poorly in the reverse psychology training, and I'm a terrible poker player. Suppose I also told you that while someone tried very hard to make this look like the work of your military, and the evidence points to that, I don't believe it is."

  She frowned. "If you were to tell me that, then I'd implore you to persuade others."

  "Suppose they didn't believe me. Would you help me prove my suspicions?"

  Her expression was wary but interested. "I'm listening, Mr. Hwan."

  "We found footprints near the bomb site— the prints of North Korean military boots. For someone to frame your military, they'd need the footwear, of course, as well as the proper explosives and possibly weapons from the North. We don't know in what quantities these might have been taken not a large amount, I'd imagine, since a group like this would want to remain close and very small. I need you to try and find out if such a theft has occurred."

  Kim stubbed out the cigarette. "I think not."

  "You won't help?"

  "Mr. Hwan, would your superiors believe me if I came back with such information? There's no trust between our nations."

  "But I'll trust you. Can you contact your people any way other than through the bar?"

  "If I could," Kim said, "what would you do?"

  "Go with you and hear what they have to say, find out if any other matériel was taken. If these terrorists are as desperate as I suspect, they may be planning other attacks to push us toward war."

  "But you said yourself that your superiors don't agree with your suspicions—"

  "If we can find evidence," Hwan said, "anything to support my suspicions, I'll bypass my people and contact the head of the crisis Task Force in Washington. He's a reasonable man, and he will listen."

  Kim continued to look at the Deputy Director. He sighed and rested his temples in his thumb and index finger.

  "Time is very short, Ms. Chong. The result of today's explosion may not just be war, but the end of reunification talks for our lifetime. Will you help me?"

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. "You're certain that you trust me?"

  He smiled faintly. "I won't give you the keys to the car, Ms. Chong, but in this matter— yes, I trust you."

  "Ah right" — she rose slowly— "we'll work together on this. But understand, Mr. Hwan, I have family in the North— and I will only go so far for you or even for peace."

  "I understand."

  Hwan walked briskly back to his desk and punched the intercom. He told the Desk Sergeant to arrange for his car and driver, then regarded his prisoner.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "I'll direct your driver as we go, Mr. Hwan. Unless you would care to give me the keys, in which case—"

  "I'll let you guide us, thanks. However, I'm required to file an itinerary in case there's a problem, and that's the first thing the Director will ask for when he returns. Give me a general direction."

  Kim smiled for the first time and said, "North, Mr. Hwan. We're going north."

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, 10:10 A.M., Washington, D.C.

  Hood felt as though he'd been cut off at the knees, but he didn't dislike the President. He couldn't.

  Michael Lawrence wasn't the brightest man who ever held the office, but he had the touch, he had charisma, and that worked on TV and at rallies. The public liked his style. He certainly wasn't the best manager to hold the office. He didn't like getting his hands dirty with the nitty-gritty of running the government: he wasn't a detail man like Jimmy Carter. Trusted aides like Burkow and Lawrence's Press Secretary Adrian Crow had been allowed to create their own little fiefdoms, power bases that won over or alienated other government agencies by rewarding cooperation and success with access to the President and increased responsibilities, punishing failure with backwater assignments and busywork. Even when he was making his rookie failures in foreign policy, this President didn't suffer the kind of bad press that dogged his predecessors: by wining and dining the Press Corps, increasing perks and amenities for reporters, and carefully doling out leaks and exclusives, Crow had put all but a few crusty columnists in her hip pocket. And no one read the Op-Ed pages anyway, she maintained. Sound bites and advertising controlled the voters, not George Will and Carl Rowan.

  Lawrence could be ruthless, blind, and stubborn. But if nothing else, he had a vision for the country that was bold and intelligent and was just starting to work. For a year prior to announcing his candidacy, Florida Governor Lawrence had met with industrial leaders and asked if, in exchange for considerable tax breaks and deferments, they would buy into the privatization of NASA with the government managing all launches and facilities, the companies assuming most costs for personnel and R&D. In effect, Lawrence was proposing to boost the space agency's budget nearly threefold without going through Congress. Moreover, government expenses on space would be cut by two billion dollars, money that Lawrence earmarked for crime fighting and education. He also suggested that one third of the new blue-collar work force for NASA be culled from welfare, making for an annual savings of half a billion dollars.

  U.S. industry agreed to the plan, and Lawrence's campaign advertisements reminded Americans of the lost glory of the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo days, of blue-collar and white-collar workers laboring side by side for a common goal, of high employment and low inflation. He tied them all together, and hammered voters with views of existing spinoffs— personal computers and calculators, communications satellites and cellular phones, Teflon and portable video cameras and video games— and with visions of anticipated spinoffs— medicines to cure cancer and AIDS, space-based generators to convert solar energy into electricity to reduce costs and reliance on foreign oil, and even weather control. During the campaign, every time his opponent argued that the money would be better spent on Earth, Lawrence countered that Earth had become a sinkhole, swallowing up jobs and tax dollars, and that his plan would put an end to that and also end foreign inroads in technological advances that were stealing American jobs.

  Lawrence won handily, and as soon as he was elected he met with those same business leaders and the new heads of NASA to get some tangible results, fast, while they worked on getting the space station into orbit before the end of his first term. Leasing the abandoned Russian space station Nevsky, they put medical researchers and engineers in space, and within eighteen months Adrian Crow's press machine was touting the developments: most startling of all were images of a young medic, paralyzed below the waist in Desert Storm, playing zero-gravity basketball with an astronaut. The President had cured the lame, and it was an image people would never forget.

  You could be frustrated with the man for his faults and for his frequent heavy-handedness, but you had to admire his vision. And even though his foreign policy faltered badly in the early going, he was smart enough to put together Op-Center to help run things. Burkow had argued that less bureaucracy and not more was what they needed to make things work abroad, but the President had disagreed with him on that— creating the ongoing tension between Hood and the National Security Council.

  But that was okay: Paul could live with that. Compared to some of the special interest groups and political correctness monitors he'd had to deal with in Los Angeles, Burkow was a day at the beach.

  Hood pulled up to the hospital, parked in the Emergency area, and hurried to the elevator. He had the room number, 834, from phoning earlier and went right up. The door of the private room was open; Sharon was slumped in the chair, eyes shut, and started when he entered. He kissed her on the forehead.

  "Dad!"

  Hood walked over to the bed. Alexander's voice was muffled by the clear tent, but his eyes and smile were luminous. He was wheezing slowly, his strong little chest righting hard to skim air off the top of each breath. Hood knelt on one knee.

  Hood asked, "Koopa Lord knock you for a loop, Super Mario?"

  "It's the Koopa King, Dad."

  "Sorry. You know me and video games. I'm
surprised you haven't got your Game Boy in there."

  The boy shrugged a shoulder. "They wouldn't let me have it. I can't even have a comic book in here. Mom had to read me Supreme and hold up the pictures."

  "We'll have to talk about some of the comics he's been reading," Sharon said, walking over. "Ripping off arms and punching out teeth—"

  "Mom, it's good for my imagination."

  "Don't get agitated," Hood said. "We'll talk about it when you're better."

  "Dad, I love my comics—"

  "You'll have them," Hood said. He touched the tent with the back of his hand, rubbing his son's cheek through it. Just now, medical advances seemed very important. He leaned closer and winked. "You worry about getting on your feet, and we'll see about convincing your mom later."

  Alexander nodded weakly, and his father rose.

  "Thanks for coming," Sharon said. "Crisis over?"

  "No." He wasn't sure if that was a dig, but gave her the benefit of the doubt. "Look, I'm sorry about before, but we're really swimming through it. What are you doing about Harleigh?"

  "She's going to my sister's."

  Hood nodded, then kissed Sharon. "I'll call you later."

  "Paul—"

  He looked back.

  "I really don't think those comics are good for him. They're very violent."

  "So were the comics when I was a kid, and look how well adjusted I am. Severed heads, zombies, and Uncle Creepy notwithstanding."

  Sharon arched her brows and sighed heavily as Hood kissed her again. Giving Alexander a thumbs-up, he hurried to the elevator, not daring to look at his watch until he was safely inside.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Tuesday, 10:05 A.M., Op-Center

  "What the hell's taking Viens so long?" Matt Stoll asked as he stared at his monitor. "You program in the time differential, hit Search, and it should go to the start of your bogus satellite imagery."