The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2) Read online

  He had calculated correctly. As he strolled into the room filled with uniformed and drab-looking men, the styling of their clothes giving them the appearance of sullen clones, he noted that seating was available only in the back two rows. He also saw a stage up front furnished with a standing lectern and two large, well-stuffed chairs. In a different setting, they would have been called thrones. The ever-present, larger-than-life portraits of President Kim and his son flanked the stage.

  "So, over here," a hoarse voice whispered.

  He saw his friend Suh Po-hee in the next to the last row to his right. He almost smiled, then thought better of it. Levity was not looked upon favorably at functions such as this. Anyway, the tension that had been mounting inside him all day was now reaching its peak. He would find his amusement in a macabre way soon enough. He moved over to take an empty seat next to Suh.

  "I waited outside as long as I dared," Suh said. "I was afraid you weren't going to make it. That would've earned you a big black mark."

  Suh was an opportunistic functionary in the Defense Ministry who owed his good fortune to So Song-ku, who held a key position in the Central Committee of the Korean Workers' Party.

  The ability to laugh at life in this bleak land, even if reserved for times when he was alone or with only the closest of friends, had helped bring a sanitizing balance to So's otherwise schizophrenic existence. He had spent virtually his entire adult life carrying out an audacious deception. While a young South Korean soldier during the war of the fifties, real name Chun, he had been chosen for special training and a unique mission, code named DRAGON. As the war ground to a sputtering halt, he had been thrown in with prisoners from the North who would one day be repatriated. He took the identity of a soldier whose entire unit had been wiped out. A soldier whose hometown had been obliterated in a B-29 raid on a munitions dump. In the prison camp, he made a name for himself as a staunch communist who seized every opportunity to frustrate his imperialist captors. On his "return" to the North, he was hailed as a revolutionary hero and welcomed by the Party brass. He possessed a knack for political intrigue, and it had helped propel him up through the ranks to his present position.

  Rather than feeling any great apprehension at his secret existence as the DRAGON, So saw his code name more as a protective shield. He had been reared in a rural Korean home where shamanism influenced daily life the way the Great Spirit affected life in American Indian culture. A major shamanist influence was in art, where its various symbols appeared all around in bold, colorful splendor. One of the Five Symbols which Repel Evil was the dragon. And So, the DRAGON, had his work cut out for him.

  Less than a handful of people in Seoul knew of his existence, chief among them his handler in the NSP, the Agency for National Security Planning, formerly known as KCIA. The DRAGON had provided invaluable intelligence over the years, but he was called on sparingly to protect his cover. It was So who had communicated details of today's ceremony, and he was the one who had received the secret instructions, the most shocking of his career. They came with a supposed gift, a shiny new wristwatch.

  The sound of music from a military band echoed off the marble walls of the stately hall, and the assembled crowd rose to its feet as one. A thunderous round of applause began as Kim Jong-il escorted his father to the stage. The old communist war-horse, gray-haired and hesitant, appeared to resemble more a churlish grandfather than the fiery tyrant of the past. But decades of manipulation through counterbalancing threats and favors had kept him in absolute control. He had insidiously encouraged those in positions of power to inform on one another, so that no one was certain of whom he could trust other than Kim and his son.

  The music faded as the elder statesman leaned against the lectern and favored his followers with a thin smile. He raised his arms, then made a downward gesture. The audience followed his motion, taking their seats as if obeying a hypnotic command. When he spoke, his voice had a measured cadence, as though it had slowed along with his other bodily functions.

  "Comrades, you do me great honor by your presence here today. For many years, we have been involved in a great and historic mission. While others have grown weak and faltered in their commitment to socialist principle, we have remained steadfast and true to our cause. The focus of our crusade remains the same, liberation of the South from its imperialistic path."

  He sipped at a glass of water and, appearing somewhat revived, launched into a vicious tirade against those in Europe and the former Soviet Union who had capitulated to the capitalists, mainly the evil Americans. Lastly, he thanked his stalwart friends from China and Cuba. Then, obviously tiring, he moved back to the large chair in the center of the stage as the crowd again rose as one to roar its unanimous approval, a throng of robots activated as if by the press of a button.

  Kim Jong-il strode to the lectern and called on Vice Premier Yip to come forward and make his presentation.

  The representative of the Peoples Republic of China, a short, heavy-set man with a benign look, marched to the stage accompanied by two Chinese security men. Exhibiting the exaggerated moves of mimes, but with great care, they transported the large, peach-colored Ming vase on a laquered wooden carrier mounted across two poles like a sedan chair. With their slow, almost reverent pace, they might have been a pair of high priests carrying the ark of the covenant to the Temple Mount. They placed the carrier at Kim's feet.

  As the Chinese entourage was approaching the stage, So, whose position in the audience put him about forty-five meters away, carefully removed the new watch from his wrist and cast a furtive glance at its face. A battery-operated quartz watch, it had a somewhat bulky molded plastic case with small buttons on the sides to set functions such as time and date. The watch was an inexpensive stock production model not uncommon in Pyongyang, with a Made in China label. However, the mechanism inside the case was like nothing to be found anywhere else. It had been hand-crafted in Seoul by a young electronics genious who had formerly designed subminiature components for aircraft weapons systems at a California defense contractor's laboratory. The time mechanism of the watch worked perfectly and would not have raised the slightest suspicion had one of Kim's paranoid security men examined it. But, in addition, the case had been crowded with other components. There was a separate button battery that powered a tiny radio transmitter, which operated on a frequency in the 600 megahertz range. It required only a small antenna that was nothing more than a short length of wire curled around beneath the face of the watch. Wired into the circuit was a tiny silicon memory chip containing a coded signal that would activate the detonator planted at the bottom of the Ming vase.

  As all eyes around him were focused on the activities at the stage, So reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and started to brush it against his nose but let it fall to the floor at his feet, as if by accident. When he saw the vase placed in front of Kim, he took a deep breath and leaned foward to retrieve the handkerchief. At the same instant, he pressed one of the watch buttons, then another one.

  As the DRAGON reached for his handkerchief, concealing himself behind the protective shield of rows of the Party faithful, a tremendous explosion ripped through the Presidential Palace hall, sending shards of five-hundred-year-old ceramic material tearing like shrapnel into the bodies of those on the stage and nearby. Kim and his son died before they could comprehend the perfidy of the moment. Others were found later with looks of shock frozen on their faces. The deafening roar reverberated like thunder about the marble walls, creating a startling sound that was heard around the world.

  Brig. Gen. Henry Thatcher, Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, sat alone in his office nursing a hot cup of black coffee and watching TV. He was on the job early as usual, a habit ingrained over a thirty-year Army career. The obligatory picture of the man occupying the Oval Office hung on the wall behind the plain wooden desk. Other walls sported photos of a young officer standing beside a World War II vintage tank in West Germany, a more mature soldier in jungle
fatigues outside a tent in Vietnam, a still older officer in the Saudi desert, posing in a sand-camouflage uniform with a smiling Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf. The picture on the TV monitor suddenly showed an attractive blonde anchor in Atlanta.

  "We switch now to an important developing story in Pyongyang, North Korea. Here is ITN's Sylvester Bromley."

  There was no live picture, only a map showing the location of the North Korean capital and the identification of the British reporter.

  "There has been a massive explosion at Pyongyang's Presidential Palace," said an accented English voice, "where a ceremony was being held in honor of the world's longest reigning head of state, Kim Il-sung. First reports are sketchy, and nothing can be confirmed as yet, but word from the Chinese Embassy indicates both Kim and his son and heir apparent, Kim Jong-il, are dead, along with Chinese Vice Premier Yip Mun Tong. One difficulty in obtaining confirmation of these reports is the absence of high-ranking North Korean officials. Virtually all of them were at the Presidential Palace and many were apparently killed or injured. We are making every effort to obtain additional details and will update the story as soon as anything becomes available. This is Sylvester Bromley, ITN, Pyongyang."

  "Sylvester," prompted the anchor, "do you have any idea at all of what caused the explosion?"

  "I'm sorry, none at all. It has been very difficult getting anyone to talk. But the sound of fire apparatus and ambulance sirens have been filling the streets ever since it happened some twenty or so minutes ago."

  "Thank you, Sylvester Bromley in Pyongyang. We hope to hear more from you shortly."

  General Thatcher reached for his phone to call the family residence upstairs. The President would be up but may not have been watching TV. He would shed no tears over the demise of Kim Il-sung, but the likely effect of the despot's death on deteriorating Korean-American relations would certainly bring no feelings of joy. The Kwak government had pressed the U.S. to negotiate the withdrawal of its 40,000 troops. American forces had been stationed there to help protect against another North Korean invasion ever since the end of the fighting in 1953. Congress, eager to continue cutting back on defense expenditures, had enthusiastically applauded the move.

  Budapest, Hungary

  Chapter 5

  To a seasoned traveler, the glowing signs on the buildings flanking Vaci Utca, Pest's fashionable shopping street now converted to a pedestrian mall, were a far cry from the neon glitter of Hong Kong's Nathan Road or Tokyo's Ginza. Rather than a frantic rush in search of bargains, most shoppers seemed to prefer the easygoing sociability of an early evening stroll, while some heeded the beckoning tables and aromas of the sidewalk cafes. Lori and Burke Hill wandered leisurely among them, scanning the shop windows for a gift for Margit Szabo.

  The lunchtime flap over Burke's failure to inform Lori that she had a twenty-something stepson had been more or less resolved by his contrite promise to never withhold anything else from her. He also vowed to track down his son at the earliest opportunity to straighten out the record and make amends for failing to contact him earlier.

  After catching bits of the news about the bombing in North Korea, which Burke took as no concern of his, he and Lori had spent the afternoon touring the National Gallery and the other museums in the Royal Palace, a massive edifice that had been restored as the crown jewel of the Castle Hill complex. With all the walking and standing, Lori appeared to be a fading lady-in-waiting. But when she saw a cute ceramic music box that played a theme from one of Franz Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, she glowed with the knowledge that she had found her gift.

  With the handsomely-wrapped box in hand, they walked to a nearby intersection and hailed a taxi. Burke gave the driver their destination, and the cab whisked them off to one of the city's culinary landmarks. A one-time gathering place for writers, artists and intellectuals, it had suffered the ignominy of having its unique name changed to a rather dull Cafe Hungaria during the Cold War, an affront most Budapest natives ignored. But now the famed restaurant was enjoying a reincarnation, not as something new but a return to its original name and glory as the Cafe New York.

  The restaurant occupied two levels of the old New York Insurance Company Building. Lori and Burke chose the upper level, where they could watch the diners come and go below. In the old days, this was where the affluent gathered to peer down disdainfully on the writers and artists who subsisted on the cheaper fare of the lower level, called Melyviz, or Deep Water.

  They had just placed their order—Lori recommended the paprikas csirke, which she described as paprika chicken covered with sour cream, and a side dish of cucumber salad—when a waiter came over and handed Burke a business card.

  "The gentleman asks if he might join you."

  The waiter gestured toward a nearby table. Burke glanced at the smiling face, then at the card. "Benjamin Shallit," he read aloud. "Managing Director, Integrated Digital Development, Limited." There was a Tel Aviv address.

  Lori had a puzzled look. "That's the man I saw watching you at the airport. He was also sitting near us in the restaurant at the Hilton."

  Burke gave her a curious grin. "This is quite a surprise. Would you like to meet an old acquaintance of Cam Quinn's?"

  "Really?"

  "Send the gentleman over," he told the waiter.

  As they waited for Shallit, Burke enlightened her. "You remember when Cam sent me to Israel to find out if Jabberwock was a Mossad operation? Shallit was the guy I met. He gave me the negative answer."

  The neat-looking, muscular Israeli sauntered over to their table. "Forgive my intrusion," he said. "I shan't stay long. But I did want to thank you for clearing up that business about Jabberwock."

  "I was happy to," Burke said. "Cam never really believed you were involved, but he had to know for sure. Please have a seat. Ben Shallit, I'd like you to meet my wife Lori. She was Cam Quinn's daughter."

  "Yes, so I heard," Shallit said, giving a slight bow toward Lori as he sat down. "I was quite fond of your father, as I had good reason to be. He was responsible for saving my neck on one critical occasion. It was most distressing when I heard of his death. It's a bit late, of course, but please accept my sympathies."

  "Thank you, Mr. Shallit. But I'm rather curious. Where did you hear about me?"

  "As your husband knows, and you may have noticed from my card, I'm in the computer business. I saw the two of you at the Hilton having lunch with one of our convention speakers."

  "Will Arnold," she said with an understanding nod. "He's a next door neighbor from back home in Virginia."

  Shallit smiled. "Yes, so I was informed. He's quite a voluble person. When I asked him if that were not Burke Hill I saw him with, he proceeded to tell me all about his interesting neighbors. Seasoned world travelers. I believe he said you, Mr. Hill, were with an international public relations agency? Your wife has her own travel firm? I gather you must have married shortly after the Jabberwock affair."

  Burke nodded. Good old Will Arnold. Count on him to provide all the details. It would only take a simple question to get Will rolling. Of course, there was no secret that Burke was chief financial officer for Worldwide Communications Consultants.

  "Will said there was a dinner tonight at the Hilton," Lori said. "You must have been tired of hotel banquet food."

  "I believe you call it the 'green pea circuit' in the States," he said with a chuckle. "I had a rather more serious reason for coming to your table, however. Cameron once told me quite proudly that his daughter was following in his footsteps."

  "The past tense is correct," Lori said. "As a matter of fact, my last assignment for the Agency, the one that did me in, took place right here in Budapest."

  She thought back to that last fateful visit in the early eighties. She was conducting a group tour for a travel agency out of Paris, a job that provided a convenient cover to allow a young CIA officer easy access to the East Bloc. She had received instructions to bring out a defecting Soviet scientist who was attending a convention in Budap
est. Through no fault of hers, things went badly wrong, blowing her Agency cover and ending her job with the travel firm. The upshot of that affair was a decision that one CIA career in the family was sufficient.

  Shallit smiled. "Then this must be a return to the scene of the crime, so to speak?"

  "You might say that. But it wasn't really what prompted our visit."

  "I understand. Let me explain my reason for approaching you." Shallit was now all business. "I saw the televised White House ceremony that followed Jabberwock. I know you both should have access to the Director of Central Intelligence."

  Burke's expression didn't change, but his senses went on full alert. He glanced around to be sure there were no nearby diners exhibiting any interest in them.

  Shallit picked up on it immediately. "I cleared myself first, then checked to make certain you were not being followed."

  "Why would anyone be following us?" Lori asked, frowning.

  "No reason. Merely a basic precaution."

  Burke chose his words with care. "We could probably wangle an interview with Kingsley Marshall, if we insisted on it. But in case you weren't aware, Mr. Shallit, my involvement in that operation was strictly at the behest of Cam Quinn. I was never a CIA employee. They'd never have laid on that public ceremony at the White House if I had been. Neither Lori nor I have any direct connection to the Agency any more."

  "All I ask," said Shallit, "is that you deliver a message to Mr. Marshall. It won't be a pleasant one, I'm afraid."

  "That sounds ominous," Lori said.

  "As I mentioned at our first meeting, I am no longer active as an intelligence officer. But my company develops and maintains the software used by the Institute, so I still enjoy close contacts there."