Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation, page 31
Janson narrowed his eyes. It was something he’d lost sight of in all this. The financial cost. He’d been so caught up in the human price that would have to be paid to reunify the peninsula that the monetary aspect had escaped him entirely. The United States’ black budget had recently been exposed. And Congress was tracking every penny. How could he have missed this? Someone else—another nation?—had to be backing this operation. But who?
“Cui bono?” Janson said aloud to himself.
General Jang appeared nonplussed. “Excuse me?”
“Cui bono?” Janson repeated. “It’s a Latin adage, General. It essentially means ‘Who benefits?’”
There had to be a hidden motive beyond regime change. When Janson started his career with Consular Operations, an agent’s worst enemy was often his own government—directors like Derek Collins who were so goddamn certain of their cause, they cared nothing of the cost of collateral damage. But these days, with slashed budgets that could be exposed by wayward NSA contractors, intelligence directors couldn’t wield that kind of power. At least not without help.
But help from whom?
Today nothing made sense unless it made financial sense. Violations of human rights—even the worst atrocities—only spurred action when they affected someone’s bottom line.
Shanghai.
In his mind he heard the shots ring out, felt the pounding of his heart in his chest as he tried to lose himself in the crowd. Picturing himself in the sights of a sniper’s rifle as he pushed his way to the taxi stand, he thought of Silent Lynx, and of his own narrow escape from the People’s Republic of China.
He flashed on his client, Jeremy Beck. Jeremy Beck, who’d spent millions just for evidence of the Chinese government’s ongoing campaign of cyber-espionage and data theft.
“Who else is going to do it?” Beck had said when he first hired Janson. “Certainly not the Justice Department. Certainly not the US Congress. Washington won’t go to war with Beijing over this. At least not in the current geopolitical climate.”
“So?” General Jang said. “Are you going to answer the question? Or are you posing it to us? Who benefits, Mr. Janson?”
“Governments no longer wield absolute power, General. Global corporations do. They’ve been running countries for decades. Now they’re running superpowers.”
The general held a finger to his ear.
Janson continued. “Once the North Korean regime is gone and Seoul has control over the entire peninsula, the United States will have an ally directly on China’s border. Beijing’s days of stealing billions of dollars’ worth of trade secrets from US corporations, including the military industrial complex, will be over.”
* * *
THE BABY-FACED private first class who had days ago driven Lawrence Hammond and his guest Paul Janson from the tarmac to the very administration building in which he was now standing knocked again at the door. There was still no response from the senator’s chief aide, and Senator and Mrs. Wyckoff were getting antsy. Understandably so. Given what they’d been through over the past few days, the private’s own parents would have been antsy too.
He glanced down the hall and knocked once more.
“Mr. Hammond?” he called out.
Finally he twisted the door handle to the office and poked his head inside.
“Mr. Hammond?” he called again.
The first thing the private noticed was the shattered bottle on the floor near the refrigerator. It appeared to have been a bottle of Snapple Green Iced Tea.
Then he saw Hammond’s hand lying open on the floor. He followed it up Hammond’s arm, past the shoulder, all the way to his face.
“Mr. Hammond?” he said quietly, though he knew it was unnecessary.
The private recognized a dead man when he saw one. He’d seen dead men before.
* * *
“YOU PRESENT AN interesting set of facts, Mr. Janson,” General Jang said. The chairman had yet to utter a word. “But it is for the very reason you state that the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea will never fall to the American bastards and their puppets to the south. Our neighbor China has far too much to lose to ever allow it.”
Janson said nothing.
“You see, Mr. Janson, South Chosun is not the only nation on the peninsula with security agreements in place.”
“China will never enter a war started by the North,” Janson said.
“Indeed, you are right. And what transpired in the demilitarized zone this morning is insufficient cause to escalate the conflict. Which is why, within the next ten minutes, our covert agents in the South will launch a ballistic missile at Pyongyang.”
Janson and Jina Jeon exchanged nervous looks.
“Of course, we have nothing to fear,” Jang said with a tight grin. “The missile will land harmlessly in a field hundreds of kilometers from here. It will only appear as though it was fired at the palace.”
“You son of a bitch,” Janson said, looking the general directly in the eyes. “You’ve been waiting for this.”
General Jang said, “We are well aware, Mr. Janson, that the world will not accept a unified Korea born of a successful invasion by the North. But the Democratic People’s Republic has every right to defend itself against the imperialist aggressors and their puppets.”
Janson said nothing.
“Unfortunately,” Jang said, motioning to members of the Guard’s Command, “the three of you will not be around to witness the triumph of a unified socialist Korea.”
Several of the Guard’s Command lined up directly behind Janson, Jeon, and General Han.
In a booming voice that echoed off the vaulted ceilings and green marble walls, Jang announced: “Having been found guilty of espionage against the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, the three of you are sentenced to be executed by firing squad immediately.” He removed a small device from his ear and motioned to the men standing behind the convicted. “Guard’s Command, take them away.”
“You can’t get away with this,” Janson said calmly as one of the guards gripped him by the arms.
Jang smiled. “What a wonderful way to conclude this meeting, with one of your awful Hollywood clichés.”
Little did Jang know that Janson had already initiated Plan B. In fact, he’d stolen a page from Gregory Wyckoff’s playbook: If North Korea won’t heed your warning, warn China.
The double doors behind the general suddenly swung open.
Janson watched as a member of the Guard’s Command scurried forward, calling General Jang’s name.
The general turned, and the guard spoke to him urgently in Korean.
Janson pulled away from the soldier who was holding him by the arms. The soldier, who was listening, did not attempt to regain control of his prisoner.
The double doors slowly began to close.
Jina started to say something, but Janson held up a hand. “No translation necessary.”
With his other hand he reached into his waistband and raised Han Yong Chol’s smartphone. He aimed the phone’s video camera into the next room just in time to capture the image of a surprised young man standing awkwardly before a group of military commanders. Dressed in a black tunic, the young man was short and heavy, with a round face creased deeply with concern.
Janson muttered, “Say ‘cheese.’”
Just before the heavy doors swung closed.
FIFTY-NINE
In his office in Washington, DC, Edward Clarke watched the live stream of CNN’s coverage on his desktop in silent disbelief. For the past ten minutes Clarke had been focused on Wolf Blitzer’s qualification: “We remind you that we at CNN have yet to verify the authenticity of this recording, which is apparently coming to us via a feed from the former Soviet republic of Estonia.”
Thus far, there had only been audio.
But then all of a sudden an image appeared on the screen. The image was of an opulent room with vaulted ceilings and green marble walls. The camera then zoomed in on another luxurious room located behind two slowly closing steel doors. Standing in that room were a group of military commanders and a young man in a black tunic.
Christ, it can’t be.
On-screen Janson muttered, “Say ‘cheese.’ ”
And then the doors finally closed.
* * *
NAM SEI-HOON STARED UP at the beautiful young woman holding the gun. Sweat had started pouring down his face but he didn’t dare reach for a hankie or attempt any other furtive movements.
“Please,” he said in Korean, “I beg you to reconsider.”
The woman, still smiling, shook her head.
“There are people out there,” Nam said as he tried to catch his breath. He was beginning to feel faint. “You will be arrested before you leave this office. You will spend the rest of your own life in prison. Are you certain you want to live behind bars?” A white glaze suddenly framed his vision. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
The smile finally melted from the young woman’s face.
Nam Sei-hoon thought he might have broken through.
But then in clear English the young woman said, “Sure. As. Shit.”
And squeezed the trigger.
* * *
GENERAL JANG SNATCHED Han’s phone from Janson’s hand and squashed it underfoot.
“Kill them,” he shouted.
One of the Guard’s Command immediately grabbed Janson from behind and wrapped his arm around his throat. With his right hand Janson gripped the guard’s fingers and bent them backward until they broke. With his left elbow Janson delivered a vicious blow to the guard’s solar plexus.
Another guard approached. Janson slammed his forehead into the guard’s chest, then whipped his head back up, cracking the guard’s jaw.
With the heel of his palm, Janson drove another guard’s nose upward, knocking him out cold. Then he threw an elbow into another guard’s throat.
From behind, he snatched by the ears one of the two men grappling with Jina Jeon and hurled him across the green marble floor.
He then ran toward Han, delivering a sliding kick to the knee of the man who had the general in a headlock. Another guard turned toward him, and Janson thrust his boot up into his groin.
When he got to his feet, Janson found that most of the men left standing were running as quickly as they could toward the exit.
General Jang and the officials had fled into the next room behind the closed steel doors.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he shouted to Han and Jina Jeon.
They ran out the door they’d entered and retraced their steps toward the stairs.
At the bottom of the stairs they found Han’s men holding their weapons on the runaway members of the Guard’s Command.
Janson led the group out of the palace and jumped into the rear of the waiting troop transport. He turned and extended his arm to Jina Jeon, pulling her up onto the tailgate.
The other soldiers piled in after them.
General Han hurried toward the front passenger side, opened the door, and climbed in.
A moment later the troop transport was off, speeding down the empty streets of Pyongyang.
* * *
IN EDWARD CLARKE’S OFFICE, his private line began ringing. He sat motionless, in the dark, as a second line rang, then a third. His cell phone lit up and vibrated across the smooth surface of his desk, until finally falling over the edge and landing on the carpet. How did a man who already lived in the shadows disappear?
Paul Janson’s true audience was Beijing, not Washington. Beijing, because China was essential to the North’s strategy. Without China, Pyongyang would fall within weeks, if not days. But China could no more enter a war openly started by the North than the United States could enter a war openly started by the South.
Sure, Beijing was Janson’s target audience. But Washington was where Janson’s conversation with the leadership in Pyongyang would resonate loudest. Albright and Hildreth and Ella Quon would bitch and complain at their next conference at the Meridian, but in the end they’d have no choice but to cover their own asses.
The same was true of Nam Sei-hoon and Ambassador Young in Seoul. Everyone now needed to focus their efforts on damage control. Even Javers, Hastings, and Paltrow. They didn’t have jobs to lose, but they had reputations. Even the filthy rich had asses that could be sent to federal prison, Wall Street bankers notwithstanding.
There would be inquiries, to be sure. The press would initially latch on like a dog to a bone, but only until a squirrel scampered into their peripheral vision and drew their attention away. This entire fuckup went down in Korea, not Kansas City. The American public would lose interest in no time. Hell, half the public couldn’t find Korea on a map. There was a reason the first Korean conflict was known as the Forgotten War.
So a few soldiers died in the Korean Demilitarized Zone; so what? If no one paid attention to Iraq and Afghanistan, who the hell was going to give a damn about this? Not Congress. Not with elections around the corner. They’d fling some shit at each other across the aisle, and maybe five years from now some obscure House committee looking to score political points would hold a hearing that no one would attend.
Clarke’s phones continued ringing but he hardly heard them anymore.
Paul Janson. He was the son of a bitch Clarke would have to worry about going forward. But then, Janson didn’t believe in revenge. It wasn’t in his blood. By live-streaming his conversation at the palace in the North Korean capital, he’d effectively defused Diophantus. Shut it down for good. Made it so that Pyongyang couldn’t retaliate, couldn’t escalate. Not after Beijing had heard their plans. Now Seoul and Washington would simply deny everything, and some poor schmuck who got killed in the shoot-out in the DMZ would be blamed for discharging his weapon into North Korea.
Janson got what he wanted. No one he cared about died. And he’d completed his mission the moment that chickenshit Hammond drank the poison meant for the Wyckoff kid.
The phones continued ringing.
Clarke finally pulled the jack out of the wall and reveled in the resulting silence. Leaning back in his chair, his thoughts slowly drifted from Korea to the Russian Federation. Vladimir Putin was hell-bent on rebuilding the Soviet Union. Pyongyang didn’t pose half the threat Moscow did. Clarke rose and stepped out from behind his desk. It was time to move on. The hell with a second Korean War. There was a second Cold War coming. And US intelligence needed to prepare.
* * *
KINCAID FIRST SPOTTED them through her field glasses. They were now on foot, scrambling toward her through the Joint Security Area. She lowered the glasses, lifted her weapon, and charged forward, providing suppressive fire against North Korean soldiers as Janson and Jina Jeon pushed south.
Kincaid ran along the tree line, motioning Janson and Jeon into the forest.
Once they were clear of gunfire, she dropped her weapon and wrapped her arms around Janson and held him close. There were so many times over the past few days when she thought she’d never be held by him again.
Gripping her just as tightly, Janson glanced around. He first nodded to Jina, then looked Kincaid in the eyes with an exhausted expression.
“Sin Bae?” he said.
Kincaid frowned. “Last I saw him, he was walking up the dirt path, heading north, mumbling something about a girl named Su-ra.”
EPILOGUE
Wailea Beach
Hawaiian Island of Maui
Janson set the paperback down on his lap and gazed at the horizon through his Wayfarer sunglasses. Jessie stood in the shallows with one hand held over her brow to soften the glare of the sun off the water. She’d spotted a pair of humpback whales the day they’d touched down on Maui; she’d been searching the azure Pacific for more ever since.
Leaning over the side of his lounge chair, Janson dug into his duffel and fished out his phone. He’d been meaning to make this call since arriving in Hawaii, but it kept slipping his mind. He scrolled through his list of contacts and hit “Send.”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t hang up.”
“No reason that I can think of anymore,” Janson said. “I’m just calling to tell you that your services are no longer needed. I have someone else.”
Janson hung up before Morton could reply.
“You didn’t need to do that, you know,” Jessie said as she dropped into the lounge chair next to him. “You could have just stopped calling him.”
Janson laid a hand on her tanned wrist and dragged his fingers lightly up her forearm to the crook of her elbow. “Sometimes it’s OK to do things just because they feel good.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” she said.
“Besides, after what Kang Jung—excuse me, Lord Wicked—pulled off with a borrowed laptop and General Han’s cell phone, I don’t think we’ll need anyone else with her particular set of skills, ever.”
He smiled at the thought of the girl going straight at thirteen, with a legitimate role in CatsPaw. Now there was something out there for her. Not just a job but friends she could always count on. Friends who loved her. Friends who would give their lives for her.
A few minutes later Jessie picked up her new cell phone and dialed for her messages. When she hung up, she said, “Park Kwan called. He’s getting major props from the department for his role in solving Lynell Yi’s murder.”
“Good for him. Any further word about Mi-sook?”
“She’s still in jail; the judge didn’t grant bail. But Park Kwan said the lawyer you hired for her is the best in South Korea. Kwan thinks that given Nam Sei-hoon’s involvement, the prosecutor will want to deal.”
