A Northern Thunder (21 page)

Suddenly, as quickly as they came into the woods, they came out. They were near a line of rounded, tin-roofed Quonset buildings, all still, dark, and apparently abandoned. A sign on the side of one door, red with yellow lettering, said “CAMP UPSHER BARRACKS B.” It was the second one down the line. The camp was empty of Marines—or any others, for that matter.

Will turned to the third one and slammed his upper body against the door. Another boom of thunder sounded nearby, and the metal-roofed building shook with the force of the sound wave. She followed him into the building. Inside, two rows of bunk beds lined up straight. A few buildings away, a security light provided a dull yellow glow through small rectangular windows the height of a man’s reach.

Again, a boom of thunder whammed through the building, and Mi saw another flash of light illuminate the barracks. As it did, Will grabbed her from behind. She jumped, startled. He brushed the snow off her back and arms and then turned her around, looking directly into her eyes, grabbing both her arms as he pulled her closer.

“Now it’s time,” he said, his blue eyes staring directly into hers. “It’s time for you to decide.”

She looked down.

“No,” he said. He wouldn’t let her look down. As he bent over her small frame, she felt his grip pull her up off the ground. “What’s it going to be?”

She was tired of deciding. All her life, fate had pulled her toward decisions of life and death. And she thought herself toughened by these decisions, both in North Korea and when working with the CIA. When she defected, it had cost several lives. Some died simply for being too close to her. But this time was different. He was different.

“Yes,” she said.

“Yes, what?” He pushed for a definite answer.

“This time, no government. This time—you.”

Will kissed her and pulled her to the bunk bed. He reached behind her, pulled the mattress down to the floor, and leaned down onto the bed above her. They were both wet from the melting snow.

As the thunder shook the building again, they stayed locked in embrace.

“This thunder. . .” he said.

“Yes,” she said, turning to face him.

“For snow like this. . .”

“Yes?”

“We have a name for it.”

“What?”

“A northern thunder. . . a cold, northern thunder,” Will said.

A cold, frightening thunder
, she thought, laying still. “What’s next?” Mi asked.

“We’re totally on our own,” Will said. “Don’t trust anyone.”

Personal experience had well prepared Will Parker for this. He had been alone for years now. Not trusting others was the easy part.

“Yes, I know.” This time, she grabbed him and pulled him closer, kissing him again.

Another boom of thunder struck nearby. He looked into her eyes again. “Now, this is what I need you to do. . .”

T
he SIOC’s operations center on the fifth floor of the FBI building was much larger than Tom Pope had remembered. Its forty thousand square feet of windowless, gray-carpeted workrooms were separated by a series of well-insulated walls. Massive fifteen-foot video screens covered much of the wall space in the separated work areas.

On his way to his office, Tom had often seen the one elevator with a guard in the back corridor, but had been called to the operations center only once before. This time, like the previous one, he had to get a bright red pass displaying today’s date in bold letters, emphasizing his very temporary clearance.

“The director has asked for this update and he wants to hear the news.” Dave Creighton was a man Tom Pope had known throughout most of his career, and as deputy director, he was a heartbeat away from the top. Every agency within the government needed dependable professionals who could help the government make a transition from one administration to another. Creighton was in that small group of top executives who transcended politics and changing administrations.

“Do you have a Powerpoint for him?” Creighton asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And a hard copy?” For all executive-level briefings, the director was given a hard, printed copy as an aid and a record.

“Yes, sir,” said Tom.

“It has to be classified,” Creighton said.

“Yes, sir. It’s already marked.”

“If he doesn’t want to keep it at the end, you must collect all copies and either keep custody of them or place them in a burn bag.” Most secure offices at the Bureau had a red-striped, trashcan-like paper bag, similar to a small grocery bag, where sensitive documents were deposited every day and destroyed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you ready?”

The procedural details made Tom nervous, but from his time in Washington, he knew Creighton to be a concerned boss trying only to help an underling do well.

“Yes, sir,” said Tom.

The elevator door slid open to a wood-paneled entrance with two armed guards. Behind their desks hung a large, oversized seal of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Below the seal was “SIOC” in large gold letters, and below that was the label “Strategic Information and Operations Center.” The “Sigh-Ock,” as it was called, had started sometime in the late nineties, and was known by several other names. After the September 2001 attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, SIOC became the FBI’s main operational center when responding to a national crisis. Congress authorized hundreds of millions of dollars to upgrade the center, its computers, and its communications.

Both guards stood at attention as Creighton flashed his badge. “He’s with me,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

Tom meekly lifted his temporary badge. He almost expected a laugh from the two, but they were accustomed to seeing guests on limited visits.

“Hey, thanks,” Tom mumbled as the men passed through another set of doors and into a hallway.

“Come, follow me,” Creighton instructed.

“Yes, sir.”

“Molly, this is Tom Pope.”

“Yes, sir.” A young freckle-faced woman with brown-blond hair, dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, greeted both men as they walked down the hall. Tom quickly noticed her nervous habit of pushing her wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, and, as she did, he noticed her fingers—the nails had been gnawed to the bone, the likely result of chronic nervousness.

“She’s our tech rep,” said Creighton.

“Agent Pope, do you need any help on the briefing?” said Molly.

Tom pulled a CD from his pocket. “Powerpoint.”

“Yes, let’s do a quick walkthrough.”

“Not much time,” Creighton said with a frown. An overpowering man who had played all four years at Michigan as middle linebacker, Dave Creighton was not particularly tall. He had shaved what little hair remained on his head, giving him a Yul Brenner look.

Liked and respected, Creighton had a reputation for complete fairness. Never political, he was seen as someone who would help the Bureau survive bad times. During Creighton’s rise to deputy director, the FBI had been confronted with several difficult incidents. Creighton had handled them all with candor and aplomb, displaying a willingness to criticize and accept criticism when needed.

“I’m ready,” said Tom.

“Okay, let’s go with it. He’ll be more interested in getting specific questions answered than seeing a dog and pony show,” said Creighton.

The two swept their cards on a scanner at another wood door within the entranceway, this one marked with brass letters, “FBI Operations Center.” Inside, several flat video monitors, massive in size and split-screened, immediately attracted Tom’s eye. A large conference table stood directly in front of the screens. Far behind the table were several aisles of computer-laden desks, attended by an assortment of men and women. In a glance, Tom noted that the screens had a variety of maps, video surveillance displays, and several people talking from what appeared to be other centers, either across the country or across the world.

Tom came down to a rostrum next to the screens, to one side of the conference table. A large blue leather chair monogrammed with the Bureau’s seal dominated the table. A glass panel, again with the FBI seal etched on, separated the conference table from the room with computer desks, and a set of sliding glass doors joined them.

“Okay, sir,” Molly said to Tom. “This dimmer controls the light here on your podium. I’ll control the lighting in the room. This clicker will control your Powerpoint. It’ll be all set up. And if there are any problems, I’ll be ready.”

Tom looked forlorn.

“Have you ever briefed this guy?” Molly asked sympathetically.

“No, this is just my second time even being here.”

She smiled. “He’s okay. He won’t embarrass you. Some of his assistants may take a swing at you, but he won’t.”

“Great.” He breathed a sigh of relief, then a side door swung open and in walked several men and women.

Tom recognized the director from his many appearances on CNN, Fox, and other news networks, and from the evening news the night before, when the anchor had interviewed him.
Boy, will I have something to tell my family
, he thought. The director went right to the big chair, where a yellow pad, pencil, and coffee cup had been set out for him.

“Okay, Agent Pope, what have you got?” the director said.

“Sir, we formed an integrated task force several months ago after a contact informed us of the deaths of certain respected scientists, and an apparent common thread connecting them.”

“That’s your Joan of Arc.” The director was well-informed, which immediately impressed Tom.

“Yes, sir.”

“Believed to be a DPRK employee.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Working at the United Nations?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?” said the director.

“Why what, sir?” said Tom.

“Why is she helping us?”

“I don’t know, sir, but she’s been reliable.”

“Okay, I don’t see a down side yet. Keep going.”

“Yes,” said Tom. “She knew of the death of a Dr. Harbinger at Berkeley and a Dr. Walter at MIT. Since then, we’ve been tracking similar deaths with Interpol in Europe and with the Russians.”

“The Russians?” The director slid forward in his chair.

“Yes, sir. We found out about the deaths of a Dr. Wiretrack at Oxford and a Dr. Boriskof at Russia’s Ioffe Physico-Technico Institute in St. Petersburg.”

“My God,” the director said. All of his assistants rolled forward in their chairs and began taking notes.

Tom flashed another Powerpoint display showing pictures of the victims. “Each worked in advanced engineering.”

“Sorry, that’s too broad,” said the director.

“Yes, sir.”

“What else?”

“Each had worked, or was working, on advanced satellite engineering projects, including reduced payloads,” said Tom. “All were trying to apply developments in nanotechnology to reduce weight.”

“Better.”

At least this guy tosses out an occasional compliment.
Tom felt a small uplift of pride.

“So, who’s the culprit?”

The next slide flashed up on the central flat screen television. It showed not a picture, but a blank central box surrounded by lines of characteristics.

“We are narrowing it down, but. . .”

“You don’t know?”

“I do not, sir.”

“What’s your best guess as to where the assassin is from, and why?” said the director.

“The people with the greatest interest in this over the last several years are from the DPRK,” said Tom.

“Dave, have we had any discussions with CIA or DOD on this?”

Creighton leaned forward sheepishly. “No, sir. We’re getting information from them, but to date we’ve only made very generic requests.”

“Goddammit. When I got here, I told everyone I wanted to break down these walls.”

Tom knew the comment hit a nerve in the room. The FBI inherited much from its father, J. Edgar Hoover, including the habit of keeping information internal. September 11th had showed the risk of that philosophy.

“Okay, let’s get both CIA and Defense involved, and assuming it’s DPRK, what’s wrong with plugging in the KGB?”

“Sir, KGB leaks like a sieve.” On this subject, Creighton was well informed by experience. Others agreed. “Given their past relationship with the DPRK,” Creighton continued, “it’s unlikely that any information won’t immediately leak to North Korea. Virtually every DPRK agent is KGB-trained.”

“But won’t they be running their own investigation into the death of Boriskof?” the director asked.

“Not necessarily, sir.” Tom inserted this comment and immediately regretted it. Such briefings were not the place to get brave. In this thin, high-altitude air, it was beyond daring to take too much of a leap.

“Why?” the director said.

“We didn’t start tracking the relationship between the three scientists until Joan of Arc connected the dots for us. With only one of their scientists killed, it’s unlikely the KGB will also have connected the dots.”

“Okay.”

“And, sir, this guy is using a very potent, advanced poison that acts very, very quickly and simulates a heart attack. That’s how Boriskof ’s death was initially reported. The Russians still may not know it was an assassination.”

“I see,” said the director, “but if they don’t know more, and thus suspect nothing, he’ll be able to travel through Moscow and St. Petersburg without risk.”