Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation (21 page)

When Mi-sook told him, Yun Jin-ho had no choice but to come clean. He confessed everything. From his initial defection to the constant surveillance and threats.

Mi-sook took the news better than Yun Jin-ho ever expected. In the end it was her decision that the couple stay strong and plan against all odds to defect—so that one day Yun would be afforded the opportunity to take his revenge against the little man in Seoul.

I
N THE DARKNES
S
Janson felt Yun Jin-ho's presence at his side. They were linked in more ways than Janson had initially imagined. He now felt affection for the man.

They had both lived the double life of a spy.

They had both selflessly served their nations.

They had both been used as pawns.

But what really mattered to Paul Janson, as he and Yun Jin-ho made their way silently through the blackened streets of Pyongyang, was that they shared a common enemy.

They had both been betrayed by Nam Sei-hoon.

Tiananmen Square
Dongcheng District, Beijing

K
incaid wished Janson were here with her. His ability to see through mobs of people for the one face he was looking for nearly matched his proficiency at blending in. Kincaid, though skilled in other ways, wasn't nearly as adroit at either.

She'd burned Gregory Wyckoff's image into her memory days ago. She'd placed a hat on him, given him sunglasses. Even colored his hair a jet black. Still, she had to examine each individual feature on each individual face she surveyed before moving on to the next. She just couldn't quite grasp the complete picture the way Paul Janson had tried to teach her.

As she continued to work her way down the infinite line of people waiting to gain entrance to Mao's Mausoleum, Kincaid became acutely aware of the clock. Wyckoff's meeting was scheduled to take place less than forty minutes from now.

The clock is always ticking, she reminded herself.

The faces she examined turned their gazes back on her. Since visitors couldn't enter the exhibit carrying anything, they'd had to lock their cameras and handbags and smartphones—even their
coats
—in a group of lockers a few hundred feet away. So the people Kincaid studied were incredibly bored. Bored and cold and frustrated and annoyed. Particularly annoyed, it seemed, at this American woman who scrutinized their expressions as though she were preparing to paint a mass portrait without their consent.

Nevertheless, Kincaid maintained her intense focus. She dismissed Asians without hats and sunglasses but had to examine those who she thought could have been Caucasians in disguise. A surprisingly high percentage, she soon realized.

She experienced a strange sensation, felt the slightest tickle at the back of her mind.

Something about her thinking was decidedly off.

Something.

But what?

She peered into a young Korean man's eyes and finally realized where she'd gone wrong. She shouldn't have just been searching for Gregory Wyckoff. There continued to be a threat not just to her and Park Kwan and Kang Jung, but to Wyckoff as well.

She should have been watching for someone like herself.

She should have been watching for a Cons Ops agent.

She should have been watching for Sin Bae.

A high-pitched shout suddenly spun her around. Her eyes immediately fell on a young woman who'd just been knocked to the ground.

Looking past the woman, Kincaid spotted the back of a young man in a brown leather jacket, running for all he was worth.
Sprinting
toward the security checkpoint at the closest entrance.

The crowd near the entrance instinctively began to disperse. Kincaid could no longer see the runner, but she became acutely aware of two distinct sets of footfalls over the surprised cries of dozens of bystanders.

She locked on a second man obviously chasing the first.

Cursing herself under her breath, she bolted after them both.

S
IN
B
AE MOVED LIKE LIGHTNING
. Where had his impeccable awareness been just now?

He had screwed up yet again. After a career boasting five dozen flawless kills, he suddenly seemed to be falling apart at the seams.

He had no choice but to make things right. This time there would be no second chances. With Ping nearby in the city, he knew he would pay the ultimate price for his failure. If the American boy lived, Sin Bae would pay with his life.

He pushed himself harder. Knocked over an old man then a child but did not dare slow down.

As he ran after the boy in the brown leather jacket, he could not help but analyze what had gone wrong back in the square. But it was simple. Instead of hunting the boy, he'd had his eyes on the American woman who had been searching the long line at Mao's Mausoleum. He had been
distracted
when he suddenly heard a female shriek.

He'd spun and found that a young woman had been knocked to the ground, her attacker already twenty yards away in a dead run.

The boy, he thought. He recognized me.

It was something Sin Bae would have thought an impossibility. The hanok where he had killed the girl was as black as pitch. The boy had been asleep.

True, when Sin Bae saw his sister's image in the mirror across the small room, he hesitated. And when he hesitated, the girl managed to kick over a lamp.

But as soon as it happened Sin Bae had clutched the girl by her throat and squeezed, turning away from both the boy and the mirror in two seconds flat.

He
knew
he hadn't been seen.

When the boy came at his back to help the girl, Sin Bae had simply thrown an elbow, catching the kid square in the face.

By the time the boy got back to his feet the girl was already dead. The boy had been left with no choice but to run.

How was it possible that the boy had seen him that night? Seen him so well as to be able to recognize him in the smog-drenched throngs of Tiananmen Square?

No matter, he thought now, as he sprinted down the bicycle lane chasing the boy.

All that mattered now was that he catch him. Kill him.

Kill Kincaid and Park Kwan and, regrettably, Kang Jung.

Then Sin Bae would turn his attention to Janson. Killing Janson would be fun.

M
ore goddamn tunnels?
Janson had thought when he first heard Yun Jin-ho's plan. But now, from up high on a dark hill in the northern outskirts of Pyongyang, he saw only the idea's genius.

The moment he caught a glimpse of the five-square-mile leadership complex in the Ryongsong district, Janson realized there was no other way inside. The compound burned so bright, he wondered whether it could be seen from space, a solitary bulb in an ocean of darkness.

Back at the safe house, Yun Jin-ho had warned Janson of the palace's defenses. The complex was surrounded by an electrified fence (the capabilities of which were still fresh in Janson's mind). Of course there were more landmines. And checkpoints every few thousand yards.

“There is an underground headquarters,” Yun Jin-ho had told him, “for use in a time of war. The walls are protected with iron bars, and their concrete is covered with lead in case of a nuclear attack.”

“The American bastards?” Janson said with a half smile.

Yun Jin-ho didn't look up from his map. “Exactly.”

“What kind of firepower do they keep up there?” Janson asked.

“Mass-scale conventional weapons for certain. I suspect more.”

“Chemical? Biological?”

Yun Jin-ho shrugged as though Janson had asked whether the residence contained an adequate number of restrooms. “There are a dozen military units ready to fend off any threat. I do not think they will need to use mustard gas against one individual. Even if he is American. Even if he is Paul Janson.”

“You'd be surprised,” Janson said with a straight face.

Yun Jin-ho lifted his head and studied his guest. “I like you, Mr. Janson. You are not bad.” He looked back down at his map. “For an American bastard.”

Now as he peered at the complex through his field glasses, Janson thought he could make out some of the on-campus structures Yun Jin-ho had described, including large houses hiding among massive administrative buildings made of concrete.

Every structure represented an achievement in architecture, something Janson could be confident of even with his amateur eye.

Surrounding the residences were perfectly manicured gardens. Artificial lakes dotted the entire property.

On his haunches Janson peered at the elaborate swimming pool, which according to Yun Jin-ho's map was 50 feet wide, 160 feet long. At its center stood the most immense waterslide Janson had ever laid eyes on. There were horse stables, a running track, and an athletic field. Janson lingered a moment on the shooting range then took in the racecourse that could have been designed for Kyle Busch or Danica Patrick or some other hotshot NASCAR driver.

“I've seen enough,” Janson said, pocketing his field glasses. “I'm ready to join Kim Jong-un for a late supper.”

Yun Jin-ho turned to him with a smile Janson could barely see in the moonlight. “I am afraid that American bastards must use the designated entrance, underground.”

Janson stood. “Well, what are we waiting for, then? Lead me to it.”

Y
UN
J
IN-HO LED
Janson belowground.

“This is a station,” Yun said, “that very few North Koreans have ever seen. You are the first foreigner to enter, and you are very likely to be the last.”

Janson was thankful that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness aboveground. Because this underground station was every bit as dark as the bottom of the sea. He slowly followed Yun Jin-ho along the tiled wall.

“This particular station,” Yun said, “has been closed for some time.”

“What was it built for?”

“It was built to transport North Korea's First Class passengers around the country.”

Janson's brow furrowed in the darkness. “First Class passengers?”

“There have been three First Class passengers in the history of North Korea: Kim Il-sung, Kim Jong-il, and Kim Jong-un. Four, if you count Kim Jong-il's tiny white Maltese.”

“Kim Jong-il had one of those little toy dogs?”

“He received him as a puppy. That puppy was the only true love in the Dear Leader's life once his father died. Seeing Kim Jong-il playing with that tiny white dog, it was the only time I ever felt any compassion for the man.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Janson said. “Hitler, after all, had a female German shepherd named Blondi.”

“The difference, I would imagine, is that Blondi was not the only dog in Germany that was not ultimately made into a meal for the starving.”

Janson felt an uneasiness splash around in his stomach as they continued along the wall.

“Stop here,” Yun Jin-ho said. “This is where you will jump down onto the tracks.”

Janson reached into his pocket and removed the miniature Maglite but didn't turn it on.

Yun said, “And this, I am sad to say, is where we must part ways, Mr. Janson.”

Janson offered his hand but Yun Jin-ho instead pulled him forward by the shoulders and gripped him in a tight embrace.

“Godspeed, Mr. Janson.” His voice was quivering. “Once you have what you seek, you will head out of the compound at the northernmost checkpoint, as we discussed.”

“You're absolutely certain I can trust the guard at that checkpoint to let me out?”

“Sure as shit, as you American bastards say.”

“I don't think anyone says that. At least not very often.”

“Whatever floats your balloon, Mr. Janson.” Yun Jin-ho took a step backward. “Once you are out of the compound, you will find a military jeep waiting for you on the far side of the road. It is painted black. Mi-sook will be behind the wheel. She has been instructed not to use headlights under any circumstances. The taillights have been removed.”

Janson didn't like this part of the plan. “Without headlights—”

“Believe me, Mr. Janson, as I told you before, it is the only chance you have, the only way to make certain that they will not spot you and kill you on the road. Mi-sook has been practicing driving these roads blind for months.” Yun's voice began to fade. “She knows what she is doing. Trust her and you will be fine.”

“You never explained to me why you won't be coming with us,” Janson said. “If you and Mi-sook are under surveillance, they're going to realize she's gone. And when they find out, they're going to come to collect you. They're going to kill you.” Janson sighed. “Please, reconsider coming with us.”

In the darkness, Janson listened but there was no reply. Even Yun Jin-ho's footfalls had faded into silence.

W
ith Wyckoff and Sin Bae popping in and out of her sights, Kincaid sliced through the smog, her arms pumping at her sides, her heart jackhammering in her chest. Gregory Wyckoff's dossier raved about his intellect but provided little about his physical abilities, suggesting there wasn't much to tell. Regardless, she strongly suspected that Sin Bae was in far better shape, and that the assassin would catch Gregory Wyck­off sooner rather than later. So Kincaid kicked it into high gear, giving the chase every last bit of strength she had.

But it soon became clear that it wouldn't be enough.

As she ran, bicycles whizzed past her on either side, nearly every rider shouting expletives for her sprinting against traffic in their bike lane.

Her body acted before the thought even reached her mind. A good thing since had she given the notion even the slightest reflection, she very likely would have decided against it.

But just then her body was running the show. Kincaid's left arm shot straight out from her body in a clothesline milliseconds before a bicycle blew past her. The moment she felt impact she closed her fist around a stretch of material and yanked as hard as she could.

For a moment she thought her arm would be ripped right out of its socket, the momentum was so great. But instead, the male cyclist was severed from the bicycle and both he and the bike were thrown into a circular skid.

Although Kincaid genuinely hoped that the helmeted cyclist was all right, she didn't stop to ask.

She snatched the bike off the ground and propped it up on its wheels. Then she faced it in the opposite direction, gave herself a running head start, and hopped aboard, pedaling as though she were the team leader in the Tour de France.

After a few seconds she had both predator and prey in her sights again. Sin Bae, as she'd assumed, was quickly closing the gap. She didn't have much time to catch up.

Shit.
Wyckoff was approaching an intersection, where he'd have to stop or risk getting struck by traffic.

Kincaid leaned forward, lifted her rear end from the seat, and pushed even harder.

She eyed both men through the smog. Wyckoff was slowing, Sin Bae was preparing to pounce.

From the corner of her eye she caught a black Audi A7 careening down the near lane, moving faster than any of the other vehicles on the road.

Wyckoff apparently locked on the Audi with his peripheral vision as well. Just before entering the intersection, the kid dropped to the ground like he'd been shot.

But Sin Bae's reflexes were just as good. The assassin stopped on a dime, and in one liquid motion he reached across his body for his left wrist.

Kincaid saw the glint of the white-gold cuff link as Sin Bae yanked it from his sleeve. The razor-sharp wire that trailed was barely visible but Kincaid knew it was there, knew that in a moment it would close around Gregory Wyckoff's throat just as it had around hers.

Her muscles went to war with her mind, which demanded she squeeze the brakes immediately. Instead Kincaid opened her fingers wide and steered directly at Sin Bae.

As soon as the bicycle collided with the assassin, it toppled end over end; the unforgiving sidewalk leapt off the ground to strike Kincaid in the head.

As she hit the concrete, she tried to keep her eyes wide open, her gaze fixed on Sin Bae.

The assassin had been caught completely off guard, his body thrown into the roadway just as the black Audi A7 reached the intersection.

Sin Bae's body bounced atop the hood of the car, shattering the windshield completely. The Audi shrieked to an immediate halt, flinging Sin Bae's bloodied form forward at least thirty feet, where it hit the road and rolled to a stop.

Other vehicles approaching the intersection screeched to a standstill; several were rear-ended.

Kincaid heard shrieks like dying birds rise all around her. She tuned them out and turned her focus on Wyckoff.

With her ears ringing, she helped the boy up onto his feet and shouted, “It's going to be all right. I'm Jessie, I was hired by your father. You'll be safe with me.”

Wyckoff, though clearly in a daze, looked into her eyes and nodded carefully.

Kincaid gripped his arm, said, “Let's get the hell out of here.”

Then together they vanished into the chaos and smog.