Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation (29 page)

L
awrence Hammond gazed out the office window and watched the Embraer 650 touch down at Hickam Field. He'd convinced the senator and Mrs. Wyckoff to allow him to board the jet first. For their safety, of course. Hickam had lost communications with the Embraer long ago, and they didn't know quite what to expect. The senator suggested that a pair of soldiers greet his son on the plane, but Hammond argued that a military presence would only frighten Gregory after all he'd been through. The senator and Mrs. Wyckoff finally agreed—Hammond would take the lead.

Watching the jet taxi along the runway, Lawrence Hammond lightly shook the contents of the bottle of Snapple Green Iced Tea.

The knock at his door meant that it was time to step onto the tarmac.

T
HE KNOCK AT
Nam Sei-hoon's door meant that his interviewee had arrived. He straightened his tie. Removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses. Checked his email for updates, but there were none.

Initial reports had come in. There had been an incident at the DMZ. But details were murky at best. Nam had ordered his deputy Jae-suk to keep him informed. If the situation worsened, Nam Sei-hoon would take a motorcade to the Blue House to consult with the president.

“Enter,” Nam said in Korean.

The door opened. In its frame stood two guards, between them one of the most beautiful women Nam Sei-hoon had ever laid eyes on.

Nam remained seated. Not out of impoliteness but because he was ashamed of his height, especially around beautiful women.

He motioned to the leather chair opposite his desk and asked the woman to have a seat. Then he dismissed the guards. One began to protest, but Nam shot him a look that made it clear this was not an issue subject to debate.

When the door closed behind the guards, Nam said, “Let me be among the first to welcome you to the Republic of Korea.” He bowed his head. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Nam Sei-hoon. I am the director of North Korean Affairs here at the National Intelligence Service.”

A lovely smile materialized on the young woman's face.

“I know who you are,” she said.

N
INE MEMBERS
of the Guard's Command preceded three high-ranking military commanders whom Janson didn't recognize.

Only once everyone was standing at attention did an old man in a black suit appear in the frame of the double steel doors. He wore a steel-gray tie, small gold-rimmed glasses, and his hair (what little was left of it) was dyed jet-black.

As the chairman stepped forward the line of Guard's Command members parted to allow him through. He was followed by one of his military commanders, who Janson could now see held the rank of general.

As the pair moved forward the general touched a finger to his right ear.

The old man halted roughly ten feet from Janson, Jeon, and General Han. From this distance, Janson realized the chairman had to be approaching his nineties, if he wasn't there already.

“I am General Jang Yong-sun,” the uniformed man said in English. “You are standing in the presence of the chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme People's Assembly, Comrade Tak Dong-gun.”

On either side of him, Han and Jina bowed, so Janson did too.

“State your business,” General Jang ordered.

Janson glanced at Han but immediately realized all eyes were on him.

“My name is Paul Janson,” he said. “I am a former covert agent for the United States government. I presently work as a private security consultant. I was recently hired by United States senator James Wyckoff of North Carolina to locate his teenage son, Gregory Wyckoff, who has been falsely accused by the South Korean government of murdering his girlfriend, Lynell Yi.

“Ms. Yi had been working as an interpreter for the US envoy in connection with the four-party talks currently being held in the Joint Security Area of the Korean Demilitarized Zone. I'm here because my colleagues and I, in the course of our investigation, learned that Lynell Yi was murdered by an agent working on behalf of a rogue faction of a United States intelligence agency.

“Gregory Wyckoff was subsequently put in the frame in order to remove him from the equation. Ms. Yi was murdered because she overheard a conversation between the US and South Korean envoys. The conversation was about a clandestine operation called Diophantus. The objective of Diophantus, we have since learned, is to provoke the North into starting a second Korean War that would ultimately collapse the current regime here in Pyongyang.

“
That
is why shots were fired across the border in the demilitarized zone this morning. And that, General, is why you
must
refrain from escalating hostilities. Rogue US factions, in cooperation with rogue factions within South Korea's National Intelligence Service,
want
you to respond with an attack on the South, so that the United States military will be drawn into the conflict in accordance with US-ROK security agreements.

“Once the United States is involved, this war—as you know, General—will result in the slaughter of your military and, eventually, your civilian population.”

General Jang remained expressionless as he placed a finger to his right ear. At his side the chairman appeared profoundly bored.

“Comrade Chairman?” Janson said to the old man.

It was General Jang who responded. “We find it difficult to believe that the United States government is unaware of this so-called plot, Mr. Janson. What you describe would cost massive sums of money, particularly if, as you suggest, the ultimate objective is to remove the regime here in the Democratic People's Republic and reunify Korea. All of us on the peninsula appreciate the fact that reunification, no matter how desperately we want it, will cost
billions
of your US dollars.”

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.”

T
HE 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.

“Y
OU 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.

I
n 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.

N
AM
S
EI-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.

G
ENERAL
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.

I
N
E
DWARD
C
LARKE'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.

K
INCAID 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.”