The 731 Legacy (4 page)

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in a sweat of fear and doubt. No more wondering if such a small, frail woman in an obscure, closed society could reach out and strike down so many of her hated enemy.

Again she pulled the photograph from the pocket of her coat. As she gazed at her mother and father, she trembled with excitement at the thought of what she was about to do. And when her task would finally be over—when she had accomplished her mission to punish those who brought pain and suffering to her parents, her friends, her people—she planned to retire in her adopted homeland with all the benefits and privileges of a native-born North Korean high official. Protected from the retaliation that was sure to come, and secure from the ruthless imperialist aggressors, she would be well taken care of in her final years.

Moon's parents had been studying medicine at Kyoto Imperial University during the Sino-Japanese War when they were recruited by the head of the secret Japanese biological warfare center named by Emperor Hirohito as Unit 731.

Her parents were honorable and noble people who dedicated their lives to defending Japan, but after the war they became outraged as they watched their country get in bed with the Americans. Unlike the Japanese government, which seemed to ignore the catastrophic destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the generations that would suffer later, her parents could not forgive America and its allies, nor could they excuse Japanese leaders from such a betrayal. Before many of their colleagues were brought to trial by an Allied war crimes tribunal, Moons mother and father escaped to Korea, renouncing their Japanese heritage, even discarding their Japanese surname of Nakamura, and taking on the Korean name of Chung. They were determined to carry on what Unit 731

had started. Shortly after their arrival in Pyongyang, Moon was born.

At age six, during the last days of the Korean War, Moon witnessed the rape and murder of her mother by the imperialist aggressors. Time had not dimmed that vivid memory, nor did she want it to. That memory was what fed her, what drove her, what gave her purpose. Moon squeezed her eyes shut to ward off the tears as the hatred for the Americans bloomed on her face. She focused on the photograph again—this time studying the face of her beloved father—a brilliant man, loyal husband, loving father. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek to relocate the pain in her heart and squelch the urge to sob aloud.So young then. So vibrant. This was the photograph she preferred to carry with her—when her parents were young, with bright eyes and promise in their smiles.

Moon's father was the one who made her understand the importance of her parents' work and why it was done in secret. Her father had once said, "After all, if germ warfare was so terrible that it had to be banned by the Geneva Protocol, then it had to be a very good weapon. And in war, you must win." It had not only been biological warfare her parents studied, but also methods to best treat injured soldiers and civilians.

Small sacrifices were imperative for the validity of the experiments. Most

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people appreciated the results, but preferred not to know how those results were attained. So few understood how much good had come from their work, like the discovery of how to best treat frostbite, which had saved thousands around the world from amputations.

It had taken Moon a long time to recover from her father's death eleven years ago. Staring up from his deathbed, he asked her to look into his eyes. "Do you see, there is no more fire left inside?" he said. "It must now burn within you, Daughter." Those were his last words. She held his hand until it grew cold, and promised she would avenge her parents. Moon would use the secrets her father revealed to her to punish the imperialist aggressors and their lap-dogs, bring them to their knees, and watch them scream in agony as they died a terrible death.

As Moon put away the photograph, she caught a glimpse of her tired eyes and runaway silver strands of hair in the limousine window's reflection. She smiled at how ironic it was that those whom she was about to kill already carried the manner of their death inside themselves.

***

"What did they just say?" Moon froze as she stood in the kitchen of her high-rise apartment in the official Communist Party residence section of Pyongyang. Ready for bed, she had just emptied the remaining tea from a china cup into the sink and was about to rinse it.

Her housekeeper, a tiny woman in her seventies, had stopped wiping the counter to watch a flat-screen plasma TV mounted underneath a cabinet. It was connected to only a handful of government sanctioned satellite dishes and was tuned to an American news broadcast with Korean subtitles. She turned to Moon.

"What didwho say, Dr. Chung?"

Moon motioned to the TV. "That person. What did she just say?

"Oh. She spoke of a man who died suddenly after walking into the news organization's New York offices."

Moon glared at the image of a woman with light brown hair and dark eyes filling the screen. The woman was being interviewed, and across the bottom of the frame was her title: Cotten Stone, SNN Senior Correspondent.

As she listened, Moon's hands clenched, and heat surged up her neck to her face. She felt as if an invisible fist had just struck her in the gut, and she didn't notice the cup slip from her grasp until she heard it shatter on the floor.

There was no mistake. Moon had heard the woman utter two words that cut through the air like a blast of winter wind. Two simple words.

Black Needles.

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DEADBOLTS

Cotten started up the third flight of steps in the Bedford Stuyvesant tenement, last known residence of Jeff Calderon. The pungent smells of simmering Jamaican jerk spiced meat mixed with the faint odors of urine and mildew hung heavily in the air. A skin of dark-green paint covered the walls, giving the surroundings a feeling of anonymity—a place to hide secrets and identities, Cotten thought. Scars of a slightly darker green revealed where someone had painted over graffiti. The audio of a Saturday morning cartoon seemed out of place.

Moving along the hallway, she noticed that the cooking odors were stronger on this floor. So was the cartoon soundtrack. Cotten stopped in front of an apartment door and checked the number written on the note Ted gave to her. She knocked, wondering if Calderon had lived alone.

"You ain't gonna get an answer knocking like that, lady."

She turned to see a mountain of a black man approaching— easily three hundred pounds and over six feet tall. He wore a long-sleeved shirt under blue coveralls and a hardhat, and carried a lunch pail.

As he passed, he said, "Stoned most of the time. Won't hear you unless you pound."

"Are you referring to Mr. Calderon?" Cotten asked, feeling slightly on edge by the sheer bulk of the man.

He stopped and stared at her. "Do I know you?"

"I'm with SNN," she said. "You might have seen me on the news."

"Thought so."

As he turned to leave, Cotten said, "Do you know Mr. Calderon?"

"Don't know nobody, news lady."

She heard his heavy footfalls fading down the stairs and took the Hulk's advice, rapping hard on the door. Thirty seconds later, she was about to give up when there came a faint sound from inside the apartment.

"I ain't got the rent, okay?" a voice said. "I'm just getting my shit, and I'll be out of here."

"I'm not here to collect rent. I'm Cotten Stone from SNN. May I talk to you?"

No response, as if the person on the other side of the door was weighing options. Then Cotten heard the clicking of multiple deadbolts. The door opened a few inches, still tethered by a rusty chain. Half a face peered through—one squinting eye and pinched brow, and a turned-down corner of the mouth.

"You a cop?" the man whispered.

"No, like I said, I'm from SNN, the cable news channel." She watched as he opened the door enough to reveal more of his face and a short, scrawny frame. Ruts and pockmarks, evidence of rough mileage over the years, she supposed, crisscrossed his features, making it hard for Cotten to accurately judge his age. But she guessed late forties. The whisker stubble had to be a

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week's worth.

"What you want?" His eyes nervously scanned the hall behind her.

"Do you know Jeff Calderon?"

"Shit. I knew it. I friggin' knew it."

He started to close the door, but Cotten caught it with her hand. "You're not in any trouble, I promise. I'm just looking for some information on Mr. Calderon."

"I told him we were screwed. That they'd come looking." He pushed on the door to close it.

"Please, sir, I only want to talk. You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. Please. Just want to ask you a few simple questions. That's all. Then I'll leave."

The door closed, but then the chain rattled.

"You better not be lying," he said as the door opened. Stepping away with obvious reluctance, he let her enter.

"Thank you, Mr. ..." Cotten walked into the apartment and heard the click of the door behind her. The foul smell of a landfill greeted her nostrils. Trash littered the floor, the sparse furniture, and the kitchen. Food wrappers, heaps of clothes, a mountain of dishes and plastic food containers encrusted with moldy remains—layer upon rancid layer contributed to the odor causing her to cover her mouth and nose. Her eyes focused on a bloody rag that had dried to a deep brownish rust color wadded in the corner of the sofa.

"Franks," he said.

"Pardon?"

"I'm Franks. Jimmy Franks."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Franks." Cotten didn't extend her hand, and Franks didn't offer his.

He brushed back his straw-like hair that appeared combed with a Weed Eater and then stuffed his jittery hands in his pockets. Still, he couldn't hide having the shakes. Small facial tics and eye twitches combined with repeated sniffling were dead-on clues as to his malady.

Cotten had the feeling that Jimmy Franks was about to short circuit. "Are you all right?"

He gave a nervous laugh. "What the fuck do you want, anyway?" He looked around the room with the same anxious glances as when she stood in the doorway.

Cotten knew this conversation was going to be short-lived and limited to single-syllable words. "What happened to Jeff Calderon?"

"They fuckin' gave him some shit. Sick fucks. They gave him something that fucked him up."

"Who, Mr. Franks? Who made him sick?"

"All we wanted was to get in there and score some shit. We just wanted to get high and maybe pinch something we could pawn. Sick bastards. They fucked him up."

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"Do you know whothey are?"

"Yeah, a bunch of sick fucks."

"Okay, how about a location? Where did this all happen?"

He shook his head. "Some warehouse. I don't know. Over near the expressway."

"Queens Expressway?"

"Maybe." Franks rubbed his head. "I don't know—I was messed up." He clasped his hands on the crown of his head and bent his elbows in close to his face. "Oh, God, they're gonna come get me." Franks danced from one foot to the other, his hands dropping off his head to massage the back of his neck. "Off Furman or Doughty, maybe. Near the bridge. Called T-Kup."

"Teacup?"

"Yeah, that's right. I think. Shit, I was so fucked up."

"You and Mr. Calderon went there to buy drugs?"

Franks laughed, then sniffed and wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve. "We broke into the place—Jeff did, I kept watch outside. He never came out. Fucking sick bastards. He was in there forever. I left. Said fuck it. He finally showed up five or six days ago. Said he got away and had been sleeping in a dumpster for a couple of days. No sooner gets here and he starts getting really sick, man. Blood and shit coming out his nose and ears and everywhere." Franks turned his head and grimaced. "I never seen nothing like that kinda shit. Scared the hell out of me. I tried to get him to go to the clinic, but he was afraid they'd find out about what we done and he'd end up in jail. At first he thought he was going to get better, but he was fuckin' dying, man. Finally, he could barely open his eyes. Just laid there."

Franks motioned toward the couch and the bloody rag. "Watched TV

sometimes. In and out of it, like a really bad trip. Got to where he didn't make good sense. Confused, you know, really mixed up. Once he thought I was his friggin' mother for Christ's sake. Freaked me out. Then he saw some bitch on TV

and said he was gonna go find her. Tell her what happened. Like he could just get up, get dressed, and head into the city all perky like. I told him his ass wasn't going nowhere, not the way he was, but he swore he was gonna try—had to see her about what those bastards done to him."

Franks' eyes widened as if he noticed Cotten for the first time. He studied her for a minute. "Fuckin' A," he said, running his hands over his face, obviously making the connection. "It was you. Is this gonna be on the news?" Franks tugged at his hair. "No TV, lady. Oh, sweet Jesus, they'll see it and come for me."

"No, Mr. Franks. No TV. You don't have to worry about that." Cotten tried to calm him. "Just tell me what happened."

"I took off a couple of days ago—didn't want to catch whatever Jeff got. Put my stuff in a plastic bag and bailed, man. Was sleeping on the street—

anything's better than being around whatever the fuck got him so sick. Then I hear that Jeff's picture is all over the news and that he's dead. So I come back

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here this morning to get the rest of my shit." Franks started to pace, turning his back to Cotten, his hands on top of his head again. He seemed to forget she was there. "God damn."

"Mr. Franks, did Mr. Calderon say what happened to him?"

Suddenly, Franks became even more agitated. "Jeff said he didn't tell them about me being outside keeping watch, but I don't know." He wiped the sweat from his hands on the front of his shirt. "I don't fucking know. They're gonna come get me. Give me the same shit." He swabbed the perspiration from his face on his sleeve. "Oh shit, I'm fucked. That's it. No more talk. Get out." He started for the door.

Following him, Cotten asked, "Was there anything else he said? Anything at all?"