Origin - Season Two (17 page)

Rhee took the document from his pocket and handed it over. Pok looked at it for a moment, then folded it and put it in his pocket. “I’ll hold on to this, shall I?”

“If we’re compromised I doubt it will do you much good,” Rhee said.

Pok looked at him and smiled, exposing two rows of small, yellowing teeth. “It may not do
you
any good, general. But I am a humble servant of the state who only does what he is told.”

Had any other man made this statement, Rhee would most likely have had him shot. But Pok was not any other man. He was an anomaly within a state that was itself an anomaly. In fact, much of what was now Project 38 had once been Pok’s own brainchild.

In its first incarnation the project had been known as Red Storm. Pok, then a promising young army engineer with an uncle in the cabinet, had been brought in during 1964. Initially his proposals had been met with skepticism. But as is the case in all totalitarian states, no idea that ultimately serves the interest of the ruling power is ever truly dead. Thus, less than a year later, the hugely ambitious plan gained favor and Pok was given a small staff to begin setting it in motion. Over the next three decades Red Storm was abandoned and reborn no less than six times under various names, with Pok remaining the only consistent element. The project was shut down again in 1994 during the height of the famine, only to be resurrected by a chance event which saw the details of the plan in their entirety fall into the hands of a Chinese agent in Pyongyang.

Far from balking at the idea and reprimanding the belligerent state for its recklessness, some at the top of the Chinese hierarchy saw it as a possible component of their own ambitious plans for the future, albeit with a few modifications. Thus it was reborn two years later as a joint venture of sorts, with the Democratic People’s Republic now playing the reluctant “junior partner” in its own scheme in return for much-needed aid. That the world would come to see this aid as Chinese capitulation to the double dealings of its rogue neighbor was an irony lost on all but a few people on either side. Rhee had been appointed to run the operation, now renamed Project 38, after his predecessor proved incapable of walking the fine line between absolute obedience to the state and collaboration with a foreign power. That Rhee himself had managed it for over a decade now had as much to do with the long reach and unscrupulous savvy of Duan as his own political prowess.

When they reached the round building at the end of the compound Rhee opened the door and held it for Pok. Unlike the exterior, the inside was still incomplete.

Rhee followed the old man down the hall into a large, windowless room. In the middle, laid out over two adjoining tables, was a large map of the Korean peninsula and the Yellow Sea. Several locations were marked with pins, including the port of Huludao on the Chinese mainland, and the Jangdan-myeon mine.

“How is our fearless colonel getting on?” Pok asked.

“Everything is on schedule,” Rhee said.

“And the engineer we were promised?”

“Duan assures me the matter is in hand.”

“
Does
he now?” Pok said. “No doubt on the assumption that his charge will apply himself with great enthusiasm to the task at hand as soon as he’s with us. The process of coercing a foreigner to cooperate can take weeks or even months. I’m sure I’ve made that clear already.”

“Commander Duan is well aware of what is involved,” Rhee said.

“You give him too much credit. You assume that because he can throw money at us he understands what it is we are doing. The man is a fool.”

“You forget how much things have changed, old man,” Rhee said. “You think if I had a choice I would turn to the Chinese for salvation? We do what we must. In that you are no different than I.”

“Indeed we do what we must,” Pok said.

“I’m glad you agree.”

Pok surveyed the map in silence with the air of a proud father witnessing the coming of age of a favored son. “To think I should have lived this long, only to expire on the eve of victory.”

“How long do they say you have?” Rhee asked.

“Three, four months. Six at best,” Pok said. “I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my life. If anything, I always thought it would be my liver that gave up first.”

Rhee could think of no reply to this.

“Anyway,” Pok said. “I don’t plan to be idle just because I’m dying. Has Duan given you any indication as to when the weapons will arrive?”

“Soon,” Rhee said. “I’d say no more than a couple of weeks.”

“Then I guess we had better get busy,” Pok said.

Goa, India

Tuesday 12 June 2007

1300 IST

The Beixiang arrived shortly before one in the afternoon. Waiting on the dock to greet her were two dozen customs officers, complete with plans of the ship and several sniffer dogs. Mohindar watched them board the ship as soon as it had docked and turned to the man sitting in the car beside him. “Thanks for this. I owe you one.”

Damir, the chief customs official, smiled and said, “You owe me a lot more than one.”

They didn’t have to wait long. Less than twenty minutes after they boarded, a man was led off the ship in handcuffs. Mohindar recognized Jasper right away.

“That him?” Damir said.

“Yes.”

Damir got out and walked to meet the men at the bottom of the gangway. Mohindar watched as Jasper was led into the customs building. A few minutes later Damir came out and returned to the car.

“Everything okay?” Mohindar asked.

Damir laughed. “According to the captain, your friend was found hiding onboard after they set sail. A stowaway, no less. I guess the port authorities in Dubai are slipping. He claims they were going to hand him over to the authorities as soon as they arrived in Huludao.”

“Why is that so funny?” Mohindar said.

“Because we found him freezing his balls off in the fridge at the back of the kitchen.”

Mohindar was about to say something when one of the customs officers came running out of the building. When he reached the car he said something to Damir in a tone of obvious incredulity.

“What?” Mohindar said.

Damir dismissed the officer, then pointed at the ship. An Asian man in a dark gray suit was making his way down the gangway. He intercepted the officer on his way back to the building and began remonstrating with him.

“What the hell is going on?” Mohindar demanded.

Damir opened the door. “It seems the Chinese are insisting we return their prisoner. Care to join me?”

Mohindar got out and followed Damir. When the Asian man saw Damir approaching, he stopped arguing with the officer and removed a passport from his suit jacket. He handed it over and said, “My name is Syun, the diplomatic officer on board. I have called our embassy. They should be in touch with you shortly.”

Damir ignored the statement and examined the passport. Written in large gold letters at the top was the word
DIPLOMATIC
. Damir handed it back and turned to Mohindar. “Looks like this is a problem for immigration control.”

It took Mohindar a moment to realize what Damir was doing. Syun shifted his gaze to Mohindar and said, “We must insist that the man you apprehended be returned in accordance with international law.”

Mohindar turned to Damir and said, “You say he was found in the refrigerator?”

Damir nodded. “Yes.”

Mohindar gave Syun a disgusted look. “Your professed devotion to international law seems a little limited, sir. I’m afraid we have no choice but to refuse your request on humanitarian grounds.”

Syun shook his head. “The allegation is false.”

“You’re saying the officers lied?” Mohindar said.

“Clearly,” Syun said.

“In that case I’ll have to refer the matter to the foreign office and recommend a full enquiry,” Mohindar said, then turned to Damir. “Do you mind if I have a word with this gentleman in private?”

Damir shrugged. “Not at all.”

When they were alone, Mohindar took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to give you one opportunity to walk away. No awkward questions, no diplomatic incident.”

Syun began to say something, but Mohindar raised a hand. “Let me finish. If, however, you insist on his return, I will make sure the American consulate is made aware of the circumstances under which Mr. Klein was discovered.”

Syun eyed Mohindar warily for a moment and said, “You’re bluffing.”

“Try me,” Mohindar said. “Now I suggest you turn around and walk back to your ship before I change my mind.”

Syun held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and slowly walked away. When he reached the gangway he looked back and said, “I hope for your sake we don’t meet again.”

When Damir rejoined Mohindar he said, “Do we still have a problem?”

Mohindar shook his head. “No.”

But the word felt hollow somehow, untrue to his own ears.

The Pandora

Tuesday 12 June 2007

1200 EEST

Professor Watkins looked up to see four expectant faces, each more apprehensive than the last. He consulted the notebook on his lap for what must have been the hundredth time and added another line to the growing translation. Seemingly oblivious to his audience, he read what he had written again, studied the glowing keyboard in front of him and began to tap one letter at a time with his index finger.

“Sorry about this,” Watkins said, looking at Mitch. “If this young man had taken my advice and attended the Saishan lessons I offered, things would be going a lot faster.”

Mitch smiled and said, “I have enough trouble with the one
terrestrial
language I’m supposed to speak to even think about taking up Martian.”

“Saishan,” Watkins corrected.

“That’s what I said; Martian.”

Watkins rolled his eyes and looked at Naoko, who shrugged and said, “He’s right. I’ve tried.”

It took him another twenty minutes. When Watkins was done, Mitch mirrored the small screen in front of him on one of the viewports. The three-dimensional diagram was of a flat cylinder with a slightly convex top and bottom. It was attached to three parachutes by an intricate mesh of thin lines.

“What did I tell you?” Mitch said. “Nothing to worry about.”

Richelle studied the image, her head slightly cocked to one side. “Alright. And do we have any idea what’s in it? For all we know it’s going to light up like a Christmas tree as soon as it touches down.”

“There’s an inventory,” Watkins said. “But it’s just made up of alpha-numeric designations. I’m guessing they’re part numbers. I can try to identify them, but it could take a while.”

“And what’s the plan once it’s here?” Richelle asked.

“We cover it,” Mitch said.

“With what?”

“Anything we can,” Mitch said. “Vegetation, dirt, rocks? Until we can construct something more permanent to hide it.”

“A fiberglass mold,” Heinz said. “Painted to blend in with the surroundings, supported by a steel frame of some kind. If we can drop it near the tree line, perhaps we could even move a few trees to block the view from the sea. The lease on the island permits the building of additional support structures, so I would suggest we erect something permanent as soon as possible. Call it an emergency shelter, perhaps.”

Richelle considered this for a moment. “And when do you propose to schedule the drop?”

“The dropship will be in range in eight days,” Heinz said. “As far as we can figure, it will take up a holding pattern on arrival. The window for the drop is limited by the increasing distance of the return trip. According to Watkins calculations it’s—”

“Just over six days,” Watkins said.

Heinz nodded. “Mitch has a point about the uncertainties we face with regard to Origin’s reaction now that the link is up and running. We have no idea what protocols the ship is operating on or if the drop will even be repeated. My advice would be to proceed right away. Two weeks is enough time to make the necessary arrangements.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve run any of this past Erik?” Richelle asked.

Heinz looked down at his feet and murmured, “He’ll just have to toe the line.”

Richelle frowned and said, “Will he now? What the hell is it with you two, anyway? Is there something I need to know?”

When she looked at Mitch he turned away, his interest suddenly caught by something in his lap.

“Heinz?” Richelle said.

“Nothing,” Heinz said. “I just meant that he’ll have to pitch in and make it work like everyone else.”

“Alright,” Richelle said, clearly not convinced. “In the meantime I want to know exactly what it is we’re letting ourselves in for. Chris, I’d like you to stay here and help until we know exactly what’s in that thing.”

Watkins nodded. “You’re the boss.”

“And Mitch?” Richelle said.

“Yes?”

“When it
does
arrive, try not to stand directly beneath it. I have a feeling we’re going to need your expertise more than ever.”

Everyone laughed at this except Mitch, who, for a wonder, said nothing at all. Clearly proud of having achieved what few ever could, Richelle walked off the bridge with a triumphant stride.

Mumbai, India

Tuesday 12 June 2007

1800 IST

Francis arrived at the house only a few hours after Jasper. Mohindar helped him inside and up the stairs where they found Titov sitting on the balcony with a bottle of cold beer in one hand.

“I’m glad to see you’re not straining yourself,” Francis said.

“I’m taking a well-deserved afternoon off,” Titov said. “If you don’t like it, I suggest you take it up with the union.”

“Where’s Jasper?” Francis asked.

“Asleep,” Titov said. “I think he’s had about as much fun as he can handle for one week. How’s your stomach?”

Francis put a hand over the bandage around his abdomen and said, “They say I’m lucky to be alive.”

Mohindar left the room and returned a minute later with a very puffy-eyed Jasper in tow.

“Well if it isn’t Mr. Klein,” Titov said. “Feeling any better?”

Jasper looked at Francis. “You guys don’t work for a research foundation, do you?”