Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation, page 29
Janson continued driving. After a few minutes, Jina Jeon put down the phone.
“What did Mi-sook say?”
“She insists she’s not abandoning her baby. She said she just needs to take care of something before she returns.”
“You mentioned her parents?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t thinking. Of course she’s not going to return her baby to North Korea. And her parents aren’t coming here. Her father’s a general in Kim Jong-un’s army.”
Janson accelerated. There was little time. Back at the Gangnam safe house, Vik Pawar had finally divulged the details of the Diophantus operation.
“Inside the demilitarized zone,” Vik had said breathlessly as Janson stepped over to the door to allow in Jina Jeon and Sin Bae.
Janson held the knob tightly in his fingers but didn’t turn it. “Inside the demilitarized zone, what?”
“Inside the DMZ, several Cons Ops agents are embedded with the ROK soldiers protecting the border.”
“What are they going to do?” Janson said, fearing he already knew the answer.
“They’re going to make a brazen incursion over the border. They’re going to engage the North.”
Christ, Janson thought. He knew there had been hundreds of incursions over the past sixty years—just about every one of them committed by the North. In the 1960s a series of skirmishes resulted in the deaths of 750 soldiers, including 43 Americans. In addition, North Korean commandos disguised as ROK soldiers had crossed the border numerous times in attempts to raid the Blue House; none had succeeded, and very few had even survived. And that was just scratching the surface.
“When?” Janson demanded. “When is this supposed to go down?”
When Vik Pawar said nothing, Janson walked back to Vik’s chair and grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt.
“When, Vik? When?”
“Just after dawn.”
Now as Janson sped north, he couldn’t tell if the sky was lightening or whether it was his imagination, and he didn’t dare ask anyone else in the car for fear of the answer.
While none of the previous incursions had escalated into full-scale war, this operation had war as its very objective. It was a perfect storm. As part of its new zero-tolerance policy, the South Korean president had vowed to launch ballistic missiles at Pyongyang if the North fired so much as one shot over the border. Now rogue US agents planned to provoke North Korean soldiers into doing just that.
What Nam Sei-hoon, Edward Clarke, and the other imbeciles involved in Diophantus didn’t know was that the North was prepared to respond to force with force—a level of force no nation on earth could have anticipated from the hermit kingdom.
“What will happen if we’re too late?” Kincaid said as they neared the DMZ.
Janson drew a breath. “Once the North retaliates, hostilities will escalate, and the South will take advantage of the United States’ security guarantees, drawing the world’s only superpower into a second Korean War.
“Once the US is involved,” Janson went on, “China will issue a statement condemning the action. Then they’ll act in a way consistent with Chinese interests, which include not having the US or her ally sitting right on the Chinese border. China will enter the conflict, and hostilities will immediately spiral into a proxy war between the first and third most powerful militaries in the world.”
It was a war the United States would ultimately win.
But at what cost?
Having studied the plans he stole from the palace, Janson knew at least part of the answer to that question. Early in the conflict, the North would attempt to take Seoul. Failing that, they’d burn the city of over ten million to the ground.
Once the war became unwinnable for the North, the regime would turn their weapons on Pyongyang and their own people.
Millions would die. If the North successfully launched its nuclear weapons, tens of millions.
Because no one in the West except Paul Janson knew that the new Supreme Leader of North Korea, Kim Jong-un, had secretly adopted the ultimate scorched-earth policy.
FIFTY-FOUR
Janson slashed through the dense mist hanging over the demilitarized zone, one of Cal Auster’s M15s slung over his shoulder. He listened for shots but heard only Kincaid’s footfalls as she thudded against the dampened earth just behind him.
In the distance Sin Bae and Jina Jeon were swallowed by the fog. Janson wished for a moment that they hadn’t separated. But it was the right call. Dawn was fast ascending on the horizon, and they needed to find the embedded agents before the first shots were fired.
In less than ten minutes, however, Janson realized it was an impossible mission. There were too many soldiers, spread out in too many directions. There was too much ground to cover in too little time. The darkness and fog were working against them. It was difficult enough to see a few feet in front of them, let alone spot an individual soldier who looked as though he was on the verge of firing. Even if they did spot him, could they stop him in time? Only with a perfect shot in far-from-perfect conditions.
The team regrouped, all four of them breathing hard.
“It’s no good,” Janson said. “We’ll never find them in time.”
“What do we do?” Kincaid said.
Janson thought about it with his hands on his hips. “We’ve got to warn the North. If we can’t stop the incursion, the only way to prevent a full-scale war may be to keep it from escalating.”
“How the hell do we do that?”
“Pyongyang. Look, the palace doesn’t want a regime change. They may be prepared to invade on the slightest provocation, but if they knew about Diophantus being a product of a rogue US intelligence agency, they’d know it was a fight they ultimately couldn’t win. Sure, they might burn Seoul and eventually Pyongyang to the ground, but they’d die in the fire. They don’t want that; they want reunification with Kim Jong-un as the Supreme Leader of all Korea. The North’s invasion plans are predicated on theirs being a surprise attack. If they know the South is ready for them, they’ll hold back. At least I hope so. As I see it, it’s the only chance we have.”
“How are we going to warn the palace?”
“Jina,” Janson said, “call Mi-sook back. Ask her what her father’s full name is and where he might be located at sunrise.”
“What are you thinking?” Kincaid said as Jina Jeon dialed Mi-sook.
“I crossed into the North before,” Janson said. “I can cross into the North again.”
Jina Jeon spoke a few words in Korean, then lowered the phone. “Her father’s name is General Han Yong Chol. This morning he should be somewhere near the Joint Security Area.”
Janson nodded as he contemplated what that meant. No tunnels; the tunnel would eat too much time off the clock. That was a relief. If Janson never set foot in another tunnel the rest of his life, he’d be content.
The Joint Security Area was convenient given their current position. But it was highly dangerous territory. He’d likely be shot at from both sides of the border. He’d need some sort of a diversion.
He looked from Jina Jeon to Sin Bae to Kincaid. He made a decision.
“Jina, you’re with me.”
Kincaid shot him a look.
“Sin Bae, I need you and Kincaid to provide cover.”
“Why am I remaining behind?” Kincaid protested.
“Because, unless you speak fluent Korean, General Han is going to be carrying two dead Americans back to the palace instead of a warning.”
* * *
THROUGH HIS FIELD GLASSES Janson watched the Joint Security Area with growing unease. Crossing the demarcation line there looked to be an impossibility. Even with Kincaid and Sin Bae providing suppressive fire, North Korean reinforcements would be on him and Jina in seconds.
He lowered the field glasses and sighed. “We can’t fight our way through. And a simple diversion won’t work.”
“So what do we do?”
“That leaves us only one option, Jina.”
“And that is?”
“Surrender.”
* * *
APPROACHING THE Joint Security Area, Janson looked to the east where a sliver of sun was now visible over the low mountain range. He couldn’t help but think, This is where it all started. At the “Truce Village” where the four-party talks went the way of all others. Maybe critics were right, that diplomacy here was impossible. Sixty years ago two superpowers—the United States and the Soviet Union—had divided a nation along a line that held no significance to the people on either side of it. One side prospered, the other failed famously. To Janson, reunification did appear to be the only way to save the twenty-five million people who, through no fault of their own, were born and brainwashed on the wrong side of the line.
But, no. Even if reunification was the only solution, it shouldn’t be the result of secret actions taken by rogue factions of US and ROK intelligence agencies. That was where Edward Clarke and Nam Sei-hoon were wrong. If the past decade and a half had taught Janson anything, it was that you can’t trick a public into going to war and expect a positive result. Transparency was necessary. Truthful dialogue and civilized debate were key. Those were the principles critical to democracy. Those were the principles that Americans died for in every war they fought from the creation of the republic through Afghanistan.
Transparency was what Lynell Yi had died for.
What Gregory Wyckoff continued fighting for.
What Janson would give his life for, if need be.
He raised his hands high in the air and Jina Jeon did the same. Within seconds of doing so they were spotted by a soldier from the Republic of Korea. The soldier lowered his binoculars and turned to a superior officer, who immediately lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth.
Three more soldiers materialized from around the corner of the blue building.
“Remember,” Janson said quietly, “our objective is to get as close to the demarcation line as possible. Close enough so that we can run to the other side without getting tackled. Or shot.”
“What if the South Koreans arrest us before we can get close enough?”
“We’re not going to give them the opportunity. On my mark, we split. You go left, I go right. Just be sure to keep your hands visible and hopefully we won’t get ourselves gunned down on this side of the line.”
“And the other side?”
“You can communicate with the North Korean soldiers. Just tell them that you’re a defector and you want to surrender yourself.”
“And you?”
“A fair question,” Janson said. “I’m just going to play it by ear.”
Janson was pleased to see that the ROK soldiers were not approaching. As long as they remained in the Joint Security Area at their posts, getting to the demarcation line shouldn’t present a problem for either of them.
Glancing over at Jina, Janson noticed that her raised hands were trembling. He felt a similar sensation in his stomach, but it hadn’t yet manifested itself to watchful eyes.
The ROK soldiers remained frozen in place, though the two on the outer flanks had raised their weapons.
“Just a precautionary measure on their part,” Janson tried to assure her.
But the truth was, he didn’t know their orders.
A soldier stepped forward with his right hand held out in front of him and shouted in Korean.
“He’s telling us to stop,” Jina said.
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
“We’re too far away.”
“Wait for my mark.”
The soldier with the raised palm called out to them again. When they didn’t respond he too raised his assault rifle. In the distance Janson could see the three North Korean soldiers standing at attention, watching their counterparts’ interaction with the trespassers.
To Jina, he said, “Tell them that we—”
Janson never finished the sentence. Because the soldier who’d just raised his weapon fell down dead, a wide entry wound visible just below his left eye.
Janson looked around; he had no idea where the shot had come from.
He and Jina lowered their hands.
“Run,” he told her.
They ran.
A few moments later all hell broke loose.
FIFTY-FIVE
This week most of Nam Sei-hoon’s colleagues at NIS had become accustomed to seeing him arrive at the office before daybreak. So as not to arouse suspicion, he made this morning no different.
Once he walked into his office and closed the door behind him, he sat at his desk and logged on to his computer. As he did most days, he went directly to his email client and entered his seven-digit pass code. There were nine new messages, most of which were addressed to the agency at large as opposed to him personally. One, however, instantly caught his eye. This email, addressed directly to him, was from his deputy.
Since he’d become involved in Diophantus, Nam Sei-hoon had taken a decidedly less hands-on approach to his job. He’d delegated many of his duties to his deputy, Jae-suk. Prior to Diophantus, Nam had gotten great pleasure out of debriefing North Korean defectors. Many were diplomats or high-level officials who had received permission to exit the country temporarily—and therefore could be sent back. Under Nam Sei-hoon’s control, of course. In the past decade, Nam Sei-hoon had recruited a number of members of the North Korean Guard’s Command and even a few agents from the Ministry of State.
Because the palace in Pyongyang was so compartmentalized and secretive, these agents seldom provided much actionable intelligence. After a year, Nam Sei-hoon would typically let them off the hook and bring them back to Seoul, providing them with an additional $20,000 to start their new lives. Once in a long while, Nam Sei-hoon caught a very big fish, someone in Kim’s inner circle. And when he did, he never let them go.
Now Jae-suk was alerting him to a new defector, whom Jae-suk referred to as “the wife of a deputy director.” He nearly dismissed it. After today, he would have far greater things to concern himself with, not the least of which was the reunification of the country. But then he realized how foolish it was to think that way. Once Diophantus was in play and the conflict began, he would need intelligence from the North more than ever. Even once the conflict ended, intelligence would be crucial to easing the inevitable pains of reunification.
Nam Sei-hoon picked up the receiver and dialed the campus where the defectors were kept. After identifying the defector by name and number, he instructed the official to have her brought to the NIS.
“I would like to conduct the brief here in my office,” he said.
“Very well, sir. Is this afternoon convenient?”
“No, no,” Nam said, glancing out the window at the approaching dawn. “Bring her now.”
* * *
AT HICKAM FIELD on the Hawaiian island of Oahu, Lawrence Hammond ended his call. He hesitated several seconds before rising off the couch in the otherwise empty office. He walked toward the refrigerator. Halfway across the room he stopped, his head rushing with thoughts that made him woozy.
It was one thing to provide information. It was quite another thing to kill.
Could he actually go through with this?
Hammond’s eyes welled with tears as he considered his options.
There were no options, were there? Clarke had made it clear enough: it was either the kid or Hammond himself. What had started as a simple deal to make a few extra bucks providing ammunition to the senator’s political adversaries had become Lawrence Hammond’s worst nightmare.
It would seem to be a great leap from collecting opposition research against his boss to murdering that boss’s only child. But it had all happened so fast that there had never been a moment to reflect on where all this was heading.
But now he knew.
Now he had no excuse.
This had been their plan all along, to use him for whatever their needs were, however diabolical they might be. Once Hammond accepted that first envelope, he’d surrendered the life of which he had dreamed.
He opened the refrigerator and collected the bottle of Snapple Green Iced Tea, Gregory’s favorite drink. Then he moved to his briefcase and set it on the desk.
He unlocked the briefcase using his four-digit code and extracted the vial of arsenic.
As he stared at its contents, his cell phone buzzed on the desk.
Grudgingly, he answered.
The plane, he was informed, was beginning its descent. It would touch down at Hickam in roughly a half hour.
FIFTY-SIX
Janson and Jina Jeon darted, unarmed, across the Joint Security Area as the sound of automatic weapons fire cut through the bitterly cold air. In the mix of confusion and fog, they were mercifully ignored by the soldiers on both sides.
As the bullets flew, Janson felt as he’d felt during firefights in Afghanistan. Felt as though he was caught in the middle of a war no one would ever fully understand.
As they approached a large hill, Janson slowed down, taking Jina’s arm as he did. Peering at its peak he saw a mass of North Korean soldiers charging forward, breaking through the thick predawn mist.
“Hands up,” he shouted to Jina. “Start calling to them. Tell them we surrender.”
Janson quickly withdrew a white hankie and swung it high above his head.
As soon as the soldiers spotted them, they raised their weapons.
For a moment Janson thought this was the end.
Then Jina Jeon shouted out in Korean. Though they shared a language, Janson knew that the North and South possessed two distinct dialects. He hoped like hell that these soldiers would understand her.
Several of the soldiers at the front of the line halted. They dropped to their knees and gazed into their sights.
Janson watched in horror. He and Jina Jeon were facing a firing squad.
Two troops emerged from the pack and moved forward, their weapons still raised.
As they neared, they spoke words Janson didn’t understand. Without turning his head, he glanced in Jina’s direction for the translation. But she was already engaged in a conversation with them. He listened carefully. Heard her utter the name Han Yong Chol.
