Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation, page 22
As he ran after the boy in the brown leather jacket, he could not help but analyze what had gone wrong back in the square. But it was simple. Instead of hunting the boy, he’d had his eyes on the American woman who had been searching the long line at Mao’s Mausoleum. He had been distracted when he suddenly heard a female shriek.
He’d spun and found that a young woman had been knocked to the ground, her attacker already twenty yards away in a dead run.
The boy, he thought. He recognized me.
It was something Sin Bae would have thought an impossibility. The hanok where he had killed the girl was as black as pitch. The boy had been asleep.
True, when Sin Bae saw his sister’s image in the mirror across the small room, he hesitated. And when he hesitated, the girl managed to kick over a lamp.
But as soon as it happened Sin Bae had clutched the girl by her throat and squeezed, turning away from both the boy and the mirror in two seconds flat.
He knew he hadn’t been seen.
When the boy came at his back to help the girl, Sin Bae had simply thrown an elbow, catching the kid square in the face.
By the time the boy got back to his feet the girl was already dead. The boy had been left with no choice but to run.
How was it possible that the boy had seen him that night? Seen him so well as to be able to recognize him in the smog-drenched throngs of Tiananmen Square?
No matter, he thought now, as he sprinted down the bicycle lane chasing the boy.
All that mattered now was that he catch him. Kill him.
Kill Kincaid and Park Kwan and, regrettably, Kang Jung.
Then Sin Bae would turn his attention to Janson. Killing Janson would be fun.
THIRTY-NINE
More goddamn tunnels? Janson had thought when he first heard Yun Jin-ho’s plan. But now, from up high on a dark hill in the northern outskirts of Pyongyang, he saw only the idea’s genius.
The moment he caught a glimpse of the five-square-mile leadership complex in the Ryongsong district, Janson realized there was no other way inside. The compound burned so bright, he wondered whether it could be seen from space, a solitary bulb in an ocean of darkness.
Back at the safe house, Yun Jin-ho had warned Janson of the palace’s defenses. The complex was surrounded by an electrified fence (the capabilities of which were still fresh in Janson’s mind). Of course there were more landmines. And checkpoints every few thousand yards.
“There is an underground headquarters,” Yun Jin-ho had told him, “for use in a time of war. The walls are protected with iron bars, and their concrete is covered with lead in case of a nuclear attack.”
“The American bastards?” Janson said with a half smile.
Yun Jin-ho didn’t look up from his map. “Exactly.”
“What kind of firepower do they keep up there?” Janson asked.
“Mass-scale conventional weapons for certain. I suspect more.”
“Chemical? Biological?”
Yun Jin-ho shrugged as though Janson had asked whether the residence contained an adequate number of restrooms. “There are a dozen military units ready to fend off any threat. I do not think they will need to use mustard gas against one individual. Even if he is American. Even if he is Paul Janson.”
“You’d be surprised,” Janson said with a straight face.
Yun Jin-ho lifted his head and studied his guest. “I like you, Mr. Janson. You are not bad.” He looked back down at his map. “For an American bastard.”
Now as he peered at the complex through his field glasses, Janson thought he could make out some of the on-campus structures Yun Jin-ho had described, including large houses hiding among massive administrative buildings made of concrete.
Every structure represented an achievement in architecture, something Janson could be confident of even with his amateur eye.
Surrounding the residences were perfectly manicured gardens. Artificial lakes dotted the entire property.
On his haunches Janson peered at the elaborate swimming pool, which according to Yun Jin-ho’s map was 50 feet wide, 160 feet long. At its center stood the most immense waterslide Janson had ever laid eyes on. There were horse stables, a running track, and an athletic field. Janson lingered a moment on the shooting range then took in the racecourse that could have been designed for Kyle Busch or Danica Patrick or some other hotshot NASCAR driver.
“I’ve seen enough,” Janson said, pocketing his field glasses. “I’m ready to join Kim Jong-un for a late supper.”
Yun Jin-ho turned to him with a smile Janson could barely see in the moonlight. “I am afraid that American bastards must use the designated entrance, underground.”
Janson stood. “Well, what are we waiting for, then? Lead me to it.”
* * *
YUN JIN-HO LED Janson belowground.
“This is a station,” Yun said, “that very few North Koreans have ever seen. You are the first foreigner to enter, and you are very likely to be the last.”
Janson was thankful that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness aboveground. Because this underground station was every bit as dark as the bottom of the sea. He slowly followed Yun Jin-ho along the tiled wall.
“This particular station,” Yun said, “has been closed for some time.”
“What was it built for?”
“It was built to transport North Korea’s First Class passengers around the country.”
Janson’s brow furrowed in the darkness. “First Class passengers?”
“There have been three First Class passengers in the history of North Korea: Kim Il-sung, Kim Jong-il, and Kim Jong-un. Four, if you count Kim Jong-il’s tiny white Maltese.”
“Kim Jong-il had one of those little toy dogs?”
“He received him as a puppy. That puppy was the only true love in the Dear Leader’s life once his father died. Seeing Kim Jong-il playing with that tiny white dog, it was the only time I ever felt any compassion for the man.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Janson said. “Hitler, after all, had a female German shepherd named Blondi.”
“The difference, I would imagine, is that Blondi was not the only dog in Germany that was not ultimately made into a meal for the starving.”
Janson felt an uneasiness splash around in his stomach as they continued along the wall.
“Stop here,” Yun Jin-ho said. “This is where you will jump down onto the tracks.”
Janson reached into his pocket and removed the miniature Maglite but didn’t turn it on.
Yun said, “And this, I am sad to say, is where we must part ways, Mr. Janson.”
Janson offered his hand but Yun Jin-ho instead pulled him forward by the shoulders and gripped him in a tight embrace.
“Godspeed, Mr. Janson.” His voice was quivering. “Once you have what you seek, you will head out of the compound at the northernmost checkpoint, as we discussed.”
“You’re absolutely certain I can trust the guard at that checkpoint to let me out?”
“Sure as shit, as you American bastards say.”
“I don’t think anyone says that. At least not very often.”
“Whatever floats your balloon, Mr. Janson.” Yun Jin-ho took a step backward. “Once you are out of the compound, you will find a military jeep waiting for you on the far side of the road. It is painted black. Mi-sook will be behind the wheel. She has been instructed not to use headlights under any circumstances. The taillights have been removed.”
Janson didn’t like this part of the plan. “Without headlights—”
“Believe me, Mr. Janson, as I told you before, it is the only chance you have, the only way to make certain that they will not spot you and kill you on the road. Mi-sook has been practicing driving these roads blind for months.” Yun’s voice began to fade. “She knows what she is doing. Trust her and you will be fine.”
“You never explained to me why you won’t be coming with us,” Janson said. “If you and Mi-sook are under surveillance, they’re going to realize she’s gone. And when they find out, they’re going to come to collect you. They’re going to kill you.” Janson sighed. “Please, reconsider coming with us.”
In the darkness, Janson listened but there was no reply. Even Yun Jin-ho’s footfalls had faded into silence.
FORTY
With Wyckoff and Sin Bae popping in and out of her sights, Kincaid sliced through the smog, her arms pumping at her sides, her heart jackhammering in her chest. Gregory Wyckoff’s dossier raved about his intellect but provided little about his physical abilities, suggesting there wasn’t much to tell. Regardless, she strongly suspected that Sin Bae was in far better shape, and that the assassin would catch Gregory Wyckoff sooner rather than later. So Kincaid kicked it into high gear, giving the chase every last bit of strength she had.
But it soon became clear that it wouldn’t be enough.
As she ran, bicycles whizzed past her on either side, nearly every rider shouting expletives for her sprinting against traffic in their bike lane.
Her body acted before the thought even reached her mind. A good thing since had she given the notion even the slightest reflection, she very likely would have decided against it.
But just then her body was running the show. Kincaid’s left arm shot straight out from her body in a clothesline milliseconds before a bicycle blew past her. The moment she felt impact she closed her fist around a stretch of material and yanked as hard as she could.
For a moment she thought her arm would be ripped right out of its socket, the momentum was so great. But instead, the male cyclist was severed from the bicycle and both he and the bike were thrown into a circular skid.
Although Kincaid genuinely hoped that the helmeted cyclist was all right, she didn’t stop to ask.
She snatched the bike off the ground and propped it up on its wheels. Then she faced it in the opposite direction, gave herself a running head start, and hopped aboard, pedaling as though she were the team leader in the Tour de France.
After a few seconds she had both predator and prey in her sights again. Sin Bae, as she’d assumed, was quickly closing the gap. She didn’t have much time to catch up.
Shit. Wyckoff was approaching an intersection, where he’d have to stop or risk getting struck by traffic.
Kincaid leaned forward, lifted her rear end from the seat, and pushed even harder.
She eyed both men through the smog. Wyckoff was slowing, Sin Bae was preparing to pounce.
From the corner of her eye she caught a black Audi A7 careening down the near lane, moving faster than any of the other vehicles on the road.
Wyckoff apparently locked on the Audi with his peripheral vision as well. Just before entering the intersection, the kid dropped to the ground like he’d been shot.
But Sin Bae’s reflexes were just as good. The assassin stopped on a dime, and in one liquid motion he reached across his body for his left wrist.
Kincaid saw the glint of the white-gold cuff link as Sin Bae yanked it from his sleeve. The razor-sharp wire that trailed was barely visible but Kincaid knew it was there, knew that in a moment it would close around Gregory Wyckoff’s throat just as it had around hers.
Her muscles went to war with her mind, which demanded she squeeze the brakes immediately. Instead Kincaid opened her fingers wide and steered directly at Sin Bae.
As soon as the bicycle collided with the assassin, it toppled end over end; the unforgiving sidewalk leapt off the ground to strike Kincaid in the head.
As she hit the concrete, she tried to keep her eyes wide open, her gaze fixed on Sin Bae.
The assassin had been caught completely off guard, his body thrown into the roadway just as the black Audi A7 reached the intersection.
Sin Bae’s body bounced atop the hood of the car, shattering the windshield completely. The Audi shrieked to an immediate halt, flinging Sin Bae’s bloodied form forward at least thirty feet, where it hit the road and rolled to a stop.
Other vehicles approaching the intersection screeched to a standstill; several were rear-ended.
Kincaid heard shrieks like dying birds rise all around her. She tuned them out and turned her focus on Wyckoff.
With her ears ringing, she helped the boy up onto his feet and shouted, “It’s going to be all right. I’m Jessie, I was hired by your father. You’ll be safe with me.”
Wyckoff, though clearly in a daze, looked into her eyes and nodded carefully.
Kincaid gripped his arm, said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Then together they vanished into the chaos and smog.
FORTY-ONE
An hour and a half after Yun Jin-ho left to return to the surface, Janson spotted the door he’d been searching for.
It had been a rough ninety minutes, Janson navigating the maze of underground tunnels using nothing but the miniature Maglite and his memory of a crude map Yun Jin-ho sketched at the table back at the safe house.
Now that he’d finally reached his destination, Janson extinguished the Maglite and dropped onto his haunches to search his go-bag for the items he needed for the next phase of his mission.
No killing anyone who doesn’t try to kill you can be a tricky rule. Obviously, had Janson not tunneled across the border in the demilitarized zone, the two soldiers he’d killed would still be alive. But then, in Janson’s world not everything was black-and-white.
The gauge he found himself increasingly using was: Is this for the greater good?
Whenever feasible, of course, Janson used nonlethal force.
Toward that end he removed from his bag a dart gun containing the incapacitating fluid known as carfentanil. An analogue of the synthetic opioid analgesic fentanyl—a popular painkiller frequently prescribed in patch form—carfentanil had a potency ten thousand times stronger than morphine and a hundred times stronger than fentanyl itself.
Janson double-checked the .33-gauge needles and 1-millimeter vials of carfentanil citrate. The dosage was sufficient to take down a bear. Janson had earlier worried that it would be lethal to North Korean soldiers whose growth had been stunted by the Great Famine of the nineties. But there were few alternatives. In the end he’d decided carfentanil citrate was by far his safest bet—and theirs.
With his go-bag on his back and the dart gun in his hand, Janson reached for the door handle in the darkness. When the handle began to twist under the weight of his fingers he experienced a mixed sensation of relief and apprehension. He was about to enter the palace.
He turned the handle and swung the door open, raising the dart gun as he stepped into the frame.
The door opened onto a long, narrow hallway, as white and sterile as a hospital wing. At the far end of the hallway, a single soldier from the Guard’s Command sat on a metal folding chair, his head leaning back against the white wall behind him. His eyes were closed. And he was snoring.
Janson gently closed the door behind him and started up the hallway. Of course, he couldn’t leave it to the Sandman to determine when the guard awoke, so as Janson drew near, he fired a dart into the center of the guard’s chest.
The guard stirred for a few seconds, just long enough to open his eyes and look up at Janson.
“I’m just a dream,” Janson whispered.
The guard’s eyelids fell shut and his breathing became shallower.
Janson plunged his fingers into Sleeping Beauty’s front shirt pocket and relieved him of his key card. Then he checked the guard’s pulse—you’ll be just fine, buddy—and moved on.
He turned right down the next hallway, at the end of which was a closed metal door with a card reader. He casually slid the guard’s card through the reader as though he were purchasing a pack of gum with a debit card at the local 7-Eleven. Then he cautiously opened the door.
As he entered another short corridor, he immediately heard multiple sets of footfalls. Quickly he pressed his back against the far wall.
The two men who were approaching seemed to be making chitchat, but of course Janson couldn’t make out a word they were saying. According to the layout Janson had memorized, they could only be coming to check on Sleeping Beauty.
Both men laughed as they turned the corner.
Janson threw his left arm around the throat of the man closest to him and fired a dart into the other.
As that second guard dropped to his knees, Janson fired a dart into the lower back of his captive.
The guard instantly slumped in his arms.
As Janson was setting him down he noticed a blue-and-white metal canister slipping from the fingers of the guard’s left hand.
He tried to pluck it from the air but the metal canister hit the ground from about two feet up and rolled all the way to the opposite wall.
Janson grimaced at the noise and backed up against the wall, ready to fire again.
After several tense seconds his pulse began to slow. He knelt next to the canister and immediately identified its contents.
Xpec3 shaving foam manufactured in South Korea.
Janson absently ran his hand through his beard. Then he turned over one of the fallen comrades and found a small green feather duster jutting out of his mustard-colored waistband.
Janson smiled as he considered the prank that the two guards were about to play on Sleeping Beauty.
Maybe you’re not so different from us American bastards after all.
He pushed himself to his feet and continued up the new corridor.
Stepping through another door, he entered a hall in which the lights were dimmed. At the end of the hall stood a red steel door. There was no guard in sight. He took a deep breath and moved quickly.
Once more Janson slid the card through the card reader. The door came unlocked. Janson swung the door open.
On the other side a large guard went for his weapon.
Janson fired a dart before the guard could get a shot off.
The dart struck the man in the side of the neck. He crumpled immediately.
Janson stepped into the anteroom.
This is it, he thought.
At the opposite end of the room was a final door. On the wall to its left was a metal keypad.
