A Northern Thunder (14 page)

The officer took in the scene, pulled out a whistle, and feverishly began blowing it.

“This is Doctor Boriskof of the University,” said one of the assistants.

“Yes, we are getting help,” said the officer.

“He is a man of great importance.”

“Yes,” again he repeated, “and we are getting him help.”

“Keep trying!” Rei yelled. As he did, the old man’s eyes opened, and Boriskof lunged forward and grabbed Rei’s arm, clutching his torn, brown sleeve.

“You,” he gasped.

The old man’s blue eyes looked deep into Rei’s.

“You,” he gasped again, drool rolling down to his chin and onto the collar of his frayed white shirt.

“Yes, I know you need help,” Rei said.

“No, you.”

Rei placed his hand, as gently as possible, over the man’s mouth, telling the gathering crowd, “Take it easy, old man. Take it easy.”

A gasp of air was followed by a final breath. He became limp again. Rei gently laid Boriskof ’s head down, stood, and stepped backwards. Just then, as if orchestrated for his benefit, two white-jacketed paramedics brushed him aside and laid the man down again.

Rei backed up, quietly reaching his hand into his coat and, using the other fingers, pried the gold ring off his hand. He covered it with cloth inside his pocket. Rei could feel his heart thumping, a cold sweat on his forehead.

“I’ll need to talk to everyone,” the officer said. “It’s a matter of formality.”

T
he red brick building and its long, freshly painted gray porch reminded Will of a country club in his native South. At Fort Meyer, the VIP apartment of the bachelor officer’s club was on the top floor of the three stories. As Will came back from his run, he loped up the stairs. The brass railing on the stairway, polished to a golden sheen, sparkled in the dawn light.

“Colonel, how are you, sir?” A tall young black man stood up, stiff from leaning next to Will’s door. He wore a plain black suit, starched white shirt, and dark tie, and would’ve been more in place at a funeral home. Yet the sharp, close haircut left little doubt about his occupation. Will noticed the bright Corfam shoes, shining like glass.

“What’s up?”

“I’m Sergeant Carlson. I’m your assigned driver, sir.”

“Okay, what’s the plan, Sergeant Carlson?”

“Anytime you’re ready, sir, I’m to drive you to Quantico.”

“Good, give me ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant leaned back against the hallway wall. As Will passed to open his door, he noticed the bulge and black butt of a Beretta 9-mm under the lapel of the sergeant’s suit jacket.

The door swung open too easily and banged against a dark, cherry wood desk to its side. The brass lamp with its green shade rattled as the door hit the desk. Reaching over to turn on the lamp, Will noticed the sergeant glancing over his shoulder into the living room of his quarters, large enough for two separate couches and a sitting area.

“Come on in, Sergeant,” said Will.

“I’m fine, sir.”

“No, come on in.”

The sergeant sat on the first couch, on the edge of the seat, barely comfortable in the affluent surroundings. He glanced over to the bedroom.

“Don’t sleep much, sir?” The bed was clearly undisturbed.

“Got out of the habit years ago.” For Will, getting out of the habit had begun with nightmares about the crash of his parents’ PanAm flight. Over time, sleep became a habit of an hour or two in a chair or on the couch.

“How about an orange juice?” Will said.

“Sir?”

“Or grapefruit or grape. You name it.” Will walked behind the bar and flipped the light switch to reveal crystal glasses on several shelves in front of a mirrored backlight.

“Yes, sir, orange juice.”

Will reached below the bar, opened a mini-refrigerator full of canned drinks and little alcohol bottles, and tossed an OJ across the room to the sergeant before opening one up for himself.

“What branch?”

“Army, sir. Ranger.”

“My father was a Ranger.” Will paused. “Let me get a quick shower and we’ll get out of here.”

The sergeant noticed the scar under the Colonel’s left shoulder blade as Will pulled off his jogging shirt.

“Sir, I’ll get the car and bring it around to the side.”

“The side by the general’s quarters?”

“Yes, sir.”

The VIP quarters were tucked away between tennis courts, several barracks, and a row of general’s quarters that occupied a bluff looking out over Arlington Cemetery and the Washington basin. The Army’s chief of staff occupied one of these mansions, and when Will had jogged past the flag quarters before dawn, he’d noticed through the windows a white-jacketed servant turning on the lights. An enormous chandelier lit up the opulent dining room behind a broad bay window.
No wonder they have to be dragged into retirement
, he thought. Left to their own devices, generals rarely, if ever, left the service before mandatory retirement age.

Later, Will climbed into the back of the government vehicle, smiling as a platoon of young soldiers jogged by in formation. A few at the tail end glanced over toward him. From their glances, he knew they had to think him some important official—certainly more than a reservist colonel. Their shaved heads reminded him of boot camp, during which his girlfriends called him a “boxcar” because of the bald sides and short-cropped hair on top.

The trip south to the Marine base took less than an hour on the interstate. The sergeant seemed well prepared. Instead of driving through the main gate and base, he took another interstate exit farther south and cut across to the FBI facility. Abnormal mounds of grass and dirt stood out as they passed the aging ammunition dump, guarded by two young Marines standing at the gate, M-16 rifles slung over their shoulders.

The high-rise buildings and modern campus, comprising the main training facility for the FBI and its new field agents, seemed oddly out of place in the north Virginia woods. “Sir, are you familiar with the facility here?” The sergeant didn’t usually venture into small talk with his passengers, but Colonel Parker seemed a lot more personable than the others.

“Oh, yeah,” said Will. “Every Marine lieutenant trains at The Basic School near here.” TBS, or The Basic School, in the Marine Corps’ simplistic vernacular, was, through the woods, a short distance from the FBI facility. It was the infantry officer’s training course where, for months at a time, young lieutenants learned patrolling, weapons tactics, leadership, and the art of war.

Will knew this base and the surrounding woods exceedingly well. He had spent countless days on compass work and squad tactics, setting up ambushes for the “enemy.” It had been a common sight on the roadway to see a green camouflaged patrol of Marines emerge from the woods.

The car stopped at the main entrance to the FBI Academy. As he swung the door open, Will stared up at a familiar face—Scott’s.

“Hello, Colonel.”

“Mr. Scott.”

“Ready to get to work?”

“Yes, let’s play.”

“Here’s your security pass,” Scott said, handing it to Will. “We’ve increased security substantially for your arrival. Though all the agent trainees have had extensive background checks and top secret clearances, you’ll still be segregated from the classes. We don’t want to risk an encounter with a disgruntled, washed-out trainee.”

“Where to now?” said Will.

“We have the training team waiting. This way.” Scott turned and crossed the walkway to the main entrance.

It was a warm, not yet muggy morning in northern Virginia. Straight, evenly-formed Bradford pear trees lined the campus. As he passed through the courtyard, Will noticed several agents in training, sitting on the benches with their logoed Polo shirts, apparently studying as if on any well-dressed, uniformed college campus. Each shirt, though varied in color, bore the same “FBI” logo, and its bright seal stitched above.

The doors to the conference room were marked “No Admittance.” Two other men, in black suits similar to Sergeant Carlson’s, stood near the entranceway. Running diagonally across the bright blue passes clipped to their lapels was a bold red stripe with a small photograph in the upper right corner. Their passes—Will’s, too—stood out from those of the few student agents in the yard, and earphones with wires running into the collars of their jackets emphasized the point. As he and Scott entered the room, four men and one woman stood up from their seats around a long, rectangular mahogany conference table.

It was the woman who instantly caught Will’s eye.

“Colonel Parker, this is your training team.” Scott stopped, turned, and waited for one of the security guards to close the conference room door. Once the door closed, no one from the outside could enter. Although it was an FBI facility, Scott was taking no chances—the room had been scanned several times prior to the meeting.

He had actually come to like Will’s idea of using this facility. The preferred CIA camp was under constant scrutiny by both satellites and high-tech surveillance. Here, there might be risk, but the risk was more internal, arising, perhaps, through an inopportune comment by a newly graduated field agent to the wrong person. By that time, Scott hoped, both he and Will would be long gone.

“I’ll let each of you introduce yourselves,” Scott said.

Will made an effort not to turn toward the side of the table where the woman was seated.

“I’m Steve Underwood,” said the first man. “I’ll be defense training and general physical fitness. Judging by your physical background, I understand I may have the easiest job.”

“Sir,” said the second, “I’m Lieutenant Jimmy Hamilton, Navy SEAL. I’ll be working with you on underwater training, the ASDS, using rebreathers, insertion issues—things like that.”

“I’ve had a little diving experience,” said Will.

“I’ve seen your records, sir—USMC recon with training at our dive school in San Diego. I imagine all I’ll be doing is giving you an update, and maybe exposure to ASDS.”

“Great. I’ve not worked with the ASDS,” Will said. The ASDS would be Will’s taxicab ride from the Trident sub to North Korea.

“Also, I’ll show you the Soviet version of the AN/PSC 10. There’s not much to it, especially since you know Russian. You plug in a few cables, and it’s ready to go.”

“Thanks.”

“It took some work to get one.” It was an understatement. A Russian unit in Vladovostak was one short on their last inventory, and it took the computer lab at Langley over a week to reprogram it into the U.S. satellite system.

Will turned to the next man, who was built like a fireplug—short and darkly tanned. “Yes, sir,” said the man. “I’m Mike Punaros, but you can call me Gunny.”

“Marine Gunny?” asked Will.

“Yes, sir. USMC recon trained. Two tours in Vietnam, goddammit. Twenty-four years and out, sir.”

Punaros was an old salt. Two recon combat tours in Vietnam meant membership in a small club. Few Marines endured two insertions into the jungle, well behind the Vietcong’s lines.

“I know you’ve got a hell of a lot of experience, Gunny, but what’s your specialty?”

“Weapons, sir, particularly the Soviet type,” he said. “I’ll teach you the Tokarev TT33 pistol, Type-64, and Makarov pistol from top to bottom. Also, I’m supposed to be the Agency’s expert on Spetsnaz training and Spetsnaz forces. I’ll teach you everything I know, sir.”

“Thanks, Gunny,” said Will, glancing to the next man to his right, and unconsciously smiling briefly at him. Beside this man was the woman, her beautiful features a unique combination of Caucasian and Asian. Will guessed she was the child of some Army soldier on tour in the Philippines or South Korea, who fell in love with and married a local girl.

But Will stayed focused on the other man in front of him.

“I’m Frank Darlin,” he said. “I’m your expert on the intel you’ll need in-country. I’ll show you the topography, the escape routes, anything that’ll help you get in and out of there.” The voice was that of a New Englander, probably Harvard-trained, and just as probably the descendent of an old New England family.

Will had met the Darlins of the world before, and frankly, didn’t always understand them. Harvard, or Yale, or Columbia, and then work for the CIA? It was an odd sequence. Oftentimes, he thought their intellect just needed the challenge. And after the CIA, he wondered, wouldn’t they find a life on Wall Street boring?

“And I am Mi Yong,” the woman said.

Will tried to remain fairly formal. “And, Ms. Yong, what is your specialty?”

“I’ll teach you about North Korea and the North Korean people,” she said. “I’ll teach you Hanguk. Do you know what Hanguk is, Colonel?”

“
Annyong hashimnika
, Mi-Shi.” As a Marine Reservist, Will had done several language exercises in Korean.

She smiled. “And Russian. Do you know that as well, Colonel?”

“Actually, Ms. Yong, I know Russian, but have little experience in Hanguk.”

“We got you the best, Colonel.” Scott leaned forward in his seat. “She’s originally from the coast of Korea.”

“I’ll be spending every waking moment with you over the next several months, Colonel,” said Mi. “We don’t have a lot of time, and the only way to make this work is to have you talk and think in Hanguk every day. Any questions?”