Persian Gulf
Saturday 9 June 2007
1830 GST
Francis ended the call and looked at Titov. “You need to get off this boat.”
Titov shook his head. “Not a hope in hell, my friend.”
“I’m serious,” Francis said. “You can use the lifeboat. I’ll draw them away. Someone will pick you up sooner or later.”
“And turn me over to the police so I can spend the next thirty years rotting away in a cell somewhere? Not a chance. Besides, you can’t fly a plane.”
“We’ll never make it to that island,” Francis said. “It’s a suicide mission.”
“If that’s what it turns out to be, then fine.”
Francis considered trying again, but the look on Titov’s face made it clear the discussion was over.
“Okay,” Francis said. “Just don’t come crying to me when we’re both dead.”
Titov laughed. “How could I? You’ll be in hell and I’ll be basking in the glory of the Almighty. Hopefully with a virgin on each arm.”
Francis pulled the throttles back to idle and opened the small hatch beneath the instrument panel. He peered inside, then reached in with one hand and felt around until he found the bottom of the throttle mount. Straining, he grasped the plastic bracket and pulled until the veins stood out on his neck.
“Move,” Titov said.
Francis did.
Titov reached in, found the bracket and ripped it off with no apparent sign of effort. He held it out to Francis, smiling.
“Yeah, alright,” Francis said. “Save the gloating until we know it means something.”
It did.
When Francis pushed the throttle levers forward again they cleared the etched markings by another inch. The yacht lurched forward and was soon outpacing its previous top speed by almost five knots.
“It’s not enough,” Francis said, “but it’s better than nothing. I suggest you go downstairs and ask our host if he keeps any weapons on-board.”
While Titov was gone, Francis steered the yacht onto the course Almila had specified, then found a pair of binoculars in one of the drawers and scanned the port horizon. There was no sign of the patrol boats. Titov returned not long after with a shotgun in one hand and a flair gun in the other.
“Great,” Francis observed. “At least we’ll have something to shoot ourselves with if things get hopeless.”
“I know you’re the master spy,” Titov said, “but could I at least make a suggestion?”
“Please do.”
“Am I right in saying that you intend to use the people downstairs as hostages?”
“It may be our only option,” Francis said.
“What if they don’t care? I mean, there aren’t exactly any news cameras out here. This isn’t Europe, after all.”
“So what do you propose?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Let’s hear it anyway.”
Titov told him his idea.
Francis didn’t like it.
The Pandora
Saturday 9 June 2007
1800 EEST
“What the hell are they doing?” Richelle asked.
On the screen the yacht was now stationary and the patrol boats were less than a mile away.
“Maybe they’ve run out of fuel,” Mitch said.
“I had him check,” Almila said. “The tanks were full.”
They watched helplessly as the pursuing boats closed the gap. When they were only a few hundred yards away the three split, two moving around to flank the yacht on both sides as the third slowed down. There was no sign of life at all on the yacht. Then a blond woman in a red dress emerged onto the deck. She ran down the side of the boat, arms in the air and flailing hysterically. When she reached the launch on the stern she jumped into the water and began splashing desperately. The patrol boat seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment. It moved forward and one of the men threw a life ring into the water. The woman swam toward it, still splashing. As soon as she grabbed it two of the men began to pull her in.
“I don’t get it,” Richelle said.
“Looks like they’re negotiating,” Almila said. “Perhaps they’ve released her to show they’re willing to cooperate.”
“I don’t think so,” Mitch said.
“Then what are they doing?” Richelle repeated.
Mitch zoomed in on the woman and said, “You have to give it to him, he’s one crafty son of a bitch.”
“What do you mean?” Richelle asked.
“Watch.”
When the woman reached the boat, two of the men pulled her out of the water and set her down on the deck. Just then a second woman emerged onto the deck of the yacht. Instead of running to the stern she headed straight for the bow and jumped. Everyone on the patrol boat turned to see what was happening. When they did, the woman in the red dress kicked the man closest to her and sent him flying over the side. Before the man who had been standing next to him could turn around, he had joined his colleague in the water. By the time the rest realized what was going on, Francis had disarmed a third, pushed him over the side and raised the machine gun he had taken. The rest of them slowly lowered their own weapons to the deck and stepped away. Then, like ducks to a pond, they obediently marched to the rail and jumped in one at a time.
“He’s nuts,” Richelle said, but the tone in her voice was one of awe.
“It’s taken you this long to figure that out?” Mitch said.
Francis pulled off his wig, ran to the wheel of the patrol boat and quickly brought it alongside the yacht. On cue, Titov appeared and jumped aboard. By all appearances, the other two patrol boats were still unaware of what was happening. The first hint either got was when Francis turned toward one of them and opened the throttle. They watched as Titov mounted the machine gun and began firing. Half the men on board abandoned ship, while the rest hit the deck. Francis swerved to avoid a collision. As they passed, Titov peppered the instrument panel, sending up a shower of sparks as the wheel and everything around it was obliterated. Then they were in open water, moving again at full speed in the direction of the island. The remaining boat took up the chase, but soon began to fall behind.
“Holy shit,” Mitch muttered. “This is heavy.”
“They’re not exactly home free yet,” Richelle said.
“I don’t want to put a damper on things,” Naoko cut in, “But has anyone figured out exactly
where
they’re supposed to go? I mean, even if they get off that island they’re still going to be in the middle of nowhere.”
Richelle looked at Almila, who consulted the chart and frowned. “Well, the closest place would be Iran.”
“No way,” Richelle said.
“Then, depending on how far they can fly, I’d say either Pakistan or India. Pakistan is closer, but India seems like the safer bet.”
“How far?”
“Five hundred miles,” Almila said. “Nine hundred to the Indian border.”
Beijing
Saturday 9 June 2007
2330 CST
Commander Duan, head of special projects inside the intelligence directorate of the People’s Navy, was at his desk when the call came from Pyongyang. He listened patiently, his weather-beaten face betraying none of the excitement he felt. As soon as he put the phone down he walked to the safe in the wall behind him and removed the folder labeled
Project 38.
He left his office and walked to the rear entrance of the building, where his car sat waiting. Ten minutes later it pulled into the underground parking bay of a nondescript two-story concrete building near the Peking University.
Waiting inside were four men. Two were senior army officers. The older of the civilians appeared to be in his late seventies or early eighties. This was Tsung Kuan Yew, deputy minister of defense and one of the longest serving members of both the Chinese Communist Party and the Politburo.
Duan entered the conference room, first bowing to the deputy minister, then standing to attention and saluting the senior of the officers, a navy admiral.
“Sit, commander,” Yew said, pointing to the only vacant seat.
Duan did as he was told and placed the folder he had brought on the table in front of him.
“So the time has come,” Yew said.
Duan nodded. “The supreme leader was officially declared dead two hours ago.”
“And the son?”
“He has already been arrested and charged with the murder,” Duan said. “The news will be broadcast shortly. General Rhee assures me Kim Jong-sul’s appointment will be announced within the week.”
Yew turned to the junior officer, an army general. “Is everything in place?”
“We’re ready, sir.”
Yew nodded somberly. “It appears your faith in General Rhee was well placed, commander.”
Duan only nodded.
“Gentlemen,” Yew said, “this marks the beginning of a new era for the People’s Republic. If all goes well, we shall be remembered. But let us not forget that if we fail, the consequences will be severe. I expect you all to maintain the upmost level of secrecy from here on.”
“It’s not us I’m worried about,” the admiral said. “It’s them. How can we be sure they’ll keep their word?”
Yew passed the question to Duan with a nod.
“I have known General Rhee for a long time, sir,” Duan replied. “His loyalties lie with us. I have no doubt of it.”
“And Kim Jong-sul?” the admiral said. “Are you equally confident of
his
loyalty?”
Duan looked at Yew.
“Show him,” Yew said.
Duan opened the folder and removed several photographs. Each showed the soon-to-be supreme leader of North Korea standing with a woman and a small boy.
“They were secretly married during his time here,” Duan said. “The boy is his son.”
The admiral picked up one of the photos and looked at Yew. “You knew of this?”
“Yes,” Yew said.
“They live in Jiuzhaigou,” Duan said.
“So we are blackmailing him?” the admiral asked.
“Not at all,” Duan said. “Kim Jong-sul hates his father more than anyone. He will not fail us, sir; he is
one
of us.”
Persian Gulf
Saturday 9 June 2007
2000 GST
“There,” Titov said, pointing at the horizon.
A moment later Francis saw the island, too.
“And our friends?” Francis said.
Titov picked up the binoculars and looked back. “Still with us.”
“Take the sixty off the mount,” Francis said. “I’m going to try and talk them out of getting too close while you see about the flight out of here.”
Titov unhinged the machine gun and lifted it off its stand. “Good luck hitting anything without a tripod.”
“I’ll manage,” Francis said. “I’m more worried about the plane we’re supposed to find. Knowing our luck it’ll be stripped down for maintenance.”
“How can they be so sure there’s a plane there at all?” Titov said.
“I have no idea, and I don’t really care as long as it’s there.”
Titov frowned at this.
“You and I both,” Francis said. “But I don’t think she was lying.”
As if to prove the point, they could now see the runway—and in the rippling distance, a blurry shape that might or might not have been a plane.
“Get ready,” Francis said.
He pulled back the throttle and let the boat coast the last twenty yards to the shore. As soon as the bottom touched the sand Francis jumped out. Titov passed him the machine gun and did the same. When they reached the small outcrop of rocks halfway between the beach and the runway, Francis stopped. “This is as far as I go.”
From where they stood they could now see the twin-engine propeller plane sitting just off the runway.
“Well, thank God for that at least,” Titov said.
“Can you fly it?”
“In my sleep.”
Francis knelt behind the tallest of the rocks and put the machine gun on top. Less than a minute after Titov had set off, the first bullet crashed into the grounded boat on the beach. It was followed by several more bursts. Francis peered over the top of the rock and saw the oncoming patrol boat was now only a hundred yards or so from the shore. He lifted the rear sight and adjusted it, then aimed at the hull just above the waterline. All three shots were off by several yards, but the sound brought on another burst of fire from the approaching boat. Luckily for Francis they seemed to think he was behind the beached patrol boat. He took aim again, this time picking the machine gun up and pushing the stock into his shoulder. He fired another three-round burst and managed to hit the hull with one shot. The boat immediately made a sharp turn and headed back out to sea. Francis fired three more bursts, hitting the boat two more times before the small box magazine ran dry. With nothing left to do but join Titov, Francis stood and set off toward the runway. He’d made it only a few yards when something stung his lower back and sent him twisting to the ground. A second later the sound of the distant burst caught up with the bullet. Francis let out a scream that was as much frustration as pain and looked down at his shirt. The small crimson stain was already spreading. The bullet had gone straight through, missing his spine, but that was the only good thing about it. He tried to stand and quickly sank back to his knees. From the other end of the runway he heard the first of the engines on the plane sputter to life, quickly followed by the second. Francis began to crawl.
The Pandora
Saturday 9 June 2007
1930 EEST
Richelle let out a small gasp of horror and put her hand to her mouth.
“Oh Christ,” Almila said.
On the screen Francis stood, fell again, and began to crawl. Richelle watched for a moment longer, then turned away. They stood there, helpless, as Titov stopped the plane at the end of the runway and jumped out. He picked Francis up as if he were a child and pushed him inside. Then the plane was turning around and picking up speed. It soared into the air and banked sharply to the south with a grace that might have meant something had the world not just turned upside-down. Mitch put a tracker on the plane and looked around, but could think of nothing to say. Richelle walked off the bridge. A moment later Almila followed her.