Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation (15 page)

Unidentified Tunnel
Demilitarized Zone (DMZ), South Korea

I
've lived through worse.

That would be the best Paul Janson could say to Kincaid if he made it out of the tunnel alive. Even that would be a stretch. Hell, the smell alone was nearly enough to overwhelm him.

Since he'd returned to the United States following his eighteen-month captivity in Kabul, Janson had masked his feelings of claustrophobia. A master at disguising his fears, Janson found that hiding his panic in tight places was one of the most challenging obstacles in his everyday life. True, the Embraer 650 was convenient, maybe even necessary, for carrying out his work in connection with CatsPaw and thus the Phoenix Foundation. But the whole of it was that he couldn't board a commercial airliner for any substantial length of time even if he tried. First class was tolerable—for a time; after a few hours he'd break out in a chilled sweat and have to throw off his seat belt and pace up and down the aisles. Coach was almost a physical impossibility for even the briefest of flights; he could barely survive a jaunt from Dulles to LaGuardia these days.

As he crawled along the dirt, the ceiling appeared to be falling in on him. It wasn't a cave-in, he knew, but a symptom of his claustrophobia. He stopped, maneuvered himself as best he could to dip into his go-bag, and plucked out a canteen for a slug of water.

The Machine.
He smirked; if only that were true, life would undoubtedly be much easier.

Some people, like Kincaid, wore their hearts on their sleeves. But Janson never had. Janson dealt with his emotions internally, no matter how brightly they burned. Perhaps that was why Janson had so much trouble achieving closure. The bombing that killed Helene and his unborn child in Caligo, the betrayal of his superior Alan Demarest in Afghanistan—these events haunted Janson with such a ferocity, it felt as though time had frozen. They were wounds he knew would never heal. Paul Janson was no Machine. He'd never been one. He simply lived in his head. Shielded himself from friends and lovers every bit as much as he shielded himself from his enemies. Because, as hard and cold as people thought he was, past pains simply ran too deep.

“
There's nothing out there for me
,” Kang Jung had said. Even though he traveled the world and pushed himself into people's lives to atone for the sins in his past, Janson often felt the same way.

In the blackness, he smiled sadly. He could still hardly believe what he'd seen on his BlackBerry only an hour ago. When Kang Jung attacked the woman in her room, he was sure the fight would end with the teenager dead. Instead, Kang Jung effectively applied an air choke, though she probably didn't even know its proper name.

Using the USB cord, Kang Jung had executed the choke with rare precision. No doubt a result of her knowledge of anatomy rather than any specific training, she'd used the USB to cut off the air flowing to the woman's heart and lungs by closing off her windpipe. It took the girl a full three minutes, during which she was nearly thrown from the woman's back several times, but in the end, Kang Jung brought down her prey like a professional. Hooking her legs around the woman's waist and keeping her face out of clawing range had saved Kang Jung's life and nearly ended that of the assassin. In fact, Janson hadn't been sure the woman was still alive until Kang Jung, wiping sweat from her forehead, leaned over and checked the woman's pulse.

“Unconscious,” she'd said into the camera to her audience of one. “But her heart's still beating. What do I do now?”

Janson had immediately called Kang Jung's cell phone. When she picked up, he told her that she'd need to get to safety because there were no doubt agents who would come upstairs after a certain amount of time.

“You can't use the door downstairs,” Janson had told her, “because they'll find you. Do you have any neighbors with firearms?”

“I'm in
Seoul
, not Arlington, Texas.”

“Well, do you have any neighbors who you can completely trust?”

“Not with my life,” she'd said. “People can't be counted on for anything.” She paused. “But wait. I
do
have the perfect hiding spot.”

Janson didn't like the idea until he heard it in full, then he urged her to get there, and fast. “Bring your phone, but remove the battery, just in case they have a lock on you. Only put the battery back in the phone for sixty seconds so that you can check for a text message from either me or my partner, Kincaid, letting you know how we're going to get you out of there.”

“All right,” she'd said.

“And, Jung…” He paused. “You did one hell of a job. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” she'd said and then she was gone.

Janson had called Kincaid on Park Kwan's phone and directed her to the apartment in which Kang Jung was hiding.

“How can she be absolutely certain it's empty?” Kincaid asked.

“Jung has hidden cameras placed all over the apartment. The images go straight to her iPad Mini, which she has with her.”

“Cameras?” Kincaid said. “Why would she have hidden cameras stashed in her neighbor's apartment?”

“Because she's not just a hacker extraordinaire and world-renowned Internet villain. She's also a bit of a vigilante. She'd hacked this guy's computer and found kiddie porn. She thinks he might be an online predator, so she's keeping an eye on him. The guy went away on vacation with one of his buddies.” He hesitated as he thought about the implications. “In Thailand.”

“The capital of sex tourism,” Kincaid said. “Wonderful.”

“It's something that can be dealt with later. Right now, I need you to collect Kang Jung and get her somewhere safe.”

I
N THE TUNNEL
Janson continued through the stench, stopping every so often to retch. In addition to feeling as though the walls were closing in on him, he'd encountered all sorts of underground creatures in the past few hours—rats, cockroaches, things he couldn't even name.

All this to get to the most inhospitable country on earth.

All this to, in all likelihood, get myself captured or killed.

Janson considered the latter preferable to the former. There was no way he could do time in a North Korean gulag. He'd spend his days and nights praying—begging—for death. Provoking his guards to the point where they would have no choice but to put a bullet in the back of his skull. He couldn't live through another period like the one he'd lived through in Kabul.

He steered his mind away from thoughts of gulags and thought instead of the history that created this hellish hole in the planet.

The demilitarized zone, a strip of land 160 miles long and 2.5 miles wide, slashed the Korean peninsula in half and served as a buffer between the North and the South. Lined on both sides with electrified fences, landmines, tank traps, and armies in full battle readiness, the DMZ was the most heavily fortified border the world had ever known. In short, it was a powder keg just waiting to explode.

Over the past sixty years, since the end of the three-year Korean War, there had been numerous incidents and incursions that could very well have erupted into another full-scale war. In the sixties skirmishes claimed the lives of nearly a thousand soldiers, the fatalities split almost evenly between the two sides. In the seventies it was discovered that the North Koreans were planning an invasion through a series of infiltration tunnels. The invasion, had the tunnels not been discovered, would have included tanks and tens of thousands of troops.

Peace talks had been consistently unsuccessful. The South demanded of the North reforms that would inevitably collapse the illusions constructed by the Kim regime in order to keep control of its people. The North, for their part, needed all kinds of assistance, and would gladly take, take, take, but give nothing in return. Even in the face of a terrible famine that took millions of lives, the North remained belligerent, continuing its quest for nuclear weapons. Missile tests moved forward even as economic sanctions led to complete isolation and near collapse. Meanwhile, the North took umbrage at US–South Korean joint military exercises and consistently attacked unpopulated areas south of the DMZ in a futile attempt to stop them.

The collapse of the North Korean regime seemed inevitable, even to its closest ally, China. Yet no one seemed to be doing much to prepare. Even South Korean politicians were reluctant to discuss reunification, relentlessly avoiding questions from the international media, wholly ignoring the issue during their campaigns, merely touching on the sacrifices that would have to be made if the Korean peninsula became whole again in their inauguration speeches.

The adrenaline from the attack at Freedom Village had finally subsided; exhaustion was setting in. At any moment now any one of his limbs could give out. Short of breath, he feared he'd run out of air. Anxiety gnawed at him from within.

Still, Janson pushed on.

Given the events of the past few days, he wasn't certain of much. Especially whom he could and couldn't trust. Yet his instincts convinced him of one thing: he could be sure that if he
did
die in this tunnel, he would be dying for a good and noble cause. That in itself was enough to drive Janson forward.

“W
HAT THE HELL
do you mean you don't know where he is?”

Edward Clarke couldn't believe what he was hearing. On the other end of the line Vik Pawar became silent, save for his heavy breathing.

“That
wasn't
a rhetorical question,” Clarke shouted. He reminded himself he'd have to be cautious with Vik Pawar. Pawar was Clarke's representative in Korea. He was the only agent who knew the details of Diophantus, the only agent who could single-handedly make or break the operation.

“I told you what I know, sir. Once Manningham entered the home, we maintained radio silence as per our orders. I was positioned in a neighboring structure watching Trotter's window through the scope of my sniper rifle. After nearly fifteen minutes I saw movement at the window, but I couldn't make out who it was so I didn't have a clean shot. Next thing I know Manningham takes a header out the window.”

“He jumped?”

“I don't know, sir. That was my first belief, because seconds later the house exploded. But the way Manningham fell, he must have been unconscious. It was just a two-story drop, but he landed as though he'd just jumped off the top of the Empire State Building.”

“You think Trotter did him?”

“He was the only one in the house, sir.”

Clarke nearly slammed the handset against his desk but held back, gritting his teeth in the kind of frustration that causes cancer. “What happened after the explosion? Where was Trotter? Are you certain he wasn't in the house?”

“I'm fairly sure he made it out, sir. A mattress was found on the ground on the east side of the house. It was in fair condition, which means it wasn't blown through the window from the force of the explosion. More likely Trotter used it to jump to safety moments before the house went up in flames.”

Son of a bitch. Sandy's right, Janson is a fucking golem.

Clarke bit down on his thumbnail, a habit he'd abandoned years ago. “And we have no intelligence on where he's headed?”

“None whatsoever, sir.”

Without another word, Edward Clarke clicked over to the line holding Max Kolovos. “Where were we?” he said.

“Sir, I had just told you that I found Nika in the girl's bedroom. It appeared that she had been strangled. I felt for a pulse and determined she was alive, so I removed her to an empty stairwell, where I performed CPR. She eventually came to, but she's still out of it.”

“Is she with you?”

“No, she's with the agent supplied by the little man.”

Nam Sei-hoon, the little prick. If he hadn't helped Janson lose his tail after Seoul Station, Janson would already be dead. But no, Nam had to “keep up appearances.”

Now Nam Sei-hoon had led his agent to an apartment in Itaewon to get her ass kicked by a pint-size ninja with Mark Zuckerberg's computer skills.

“And the girl?” Clarke said. “You have no idea where she is?”

“We've combed the entire area, sir. There's no sign of her. It's as though she's a ghost.”

A ghost. This is the kind of shit I have to deal with.

“Well, Max, I'll let you in on a little secret. She's not a fucking ghost, she's a little girl. Now
find
her.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clarke was about to hang up when he recalled something Max had told him before he'd taken the call from Vik Pawar. “Wait a minute. You mentioned something earlier. About the girl's laptop. You said it was powered on and there was a web address still in the browser?”

“That's right, sir. The page was for a place called Everland Resort. It's apparently a water park roughly forty klicks north of Seoul.”

“North?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That may be just the break we've been looking for. Keep searching for the girl. I'll contact the little man and see if Nika's come around. If so, maybe she can tell us why she was surfing the net, exploring water parks when she was supposed to be interrogating a goddamn grade schooler.”

National Intelligence Service Headquarters
Naegok-dong, Seocho-gu, Seoul

N
am Sei-hoon arrived at his office before dawn, which wasn't entirely unusual. To his colleagues, he seemed to be in a dark mood, which wasn't entirely unusual either. From all outward appearances, in fact, there was nothing particularly unusual about Nam Sei-hoon this morning. Inside, however, he stood on the brink of fury like never before.

How could the Americans have been so stupid?

Even if no one else in Washington did, Edward Clarke knew the stakes of this operation. Yet over the past seventy-two hours, there had been one colossal mistake after another. First, the US envoy inadvertently allows the translator Lynell Yi to overhear a sensitive discussion concerning Diophantus. Once Clarke assured Nam that the translator would be taken care of, Nam had been ready to put the matter aside. But, no, it turns out that the translator's live-in boyfriend is not only the son of a sitting US senator but an activist whose primary mission is to capture and disseminate state secrets. Fine, Nam had thought then, it could still be cleaned up. But then the assassin Clarke sends manages to eliminate the translator but allows the boyfriend—the true danger in all of this—to escape. And Nam
still
had not received a plausible explanation for this. A Cons Ops agent who can't handle two adolescents in a tiny hanok? Nam wished he could know what transpired in that room, but he'd probably never be given the full story.

No matter, Clarke had pledged, the boy would be found and filleted before he could do any damage. But then the boy vanishes into the ether, and who but Paul Janson is called upon by the senator to locate his son. Still, Nam Sei-hoon had figured, because of his long relationship with Janson, he could maintain some control of the situation. And sure enough, Janson contacted Nam and arranged a face-to-face meeting immediately upon his arrival in Seoul.

All Clarke had to do was find the boy, and Janson's visit would have been for naught. In the meantime, of course, Nam had to keep up appearances. He couldn't simply refuse Janson's request for assistance, and he couldn't botch things to a degree that would give his participation away. Paul Janson was a brilliant spy; he'd know instantly if Nam Sei-hoon attempted to sabotage his mission right from the start.

Then Nam bore witness to another flurry of Clarke's missteps. A botched attempt on Janson's partner, the female sniper, Jessica Kincaid. And
still
Clarke's people couldn't find the boy.
What incompetency.
Yet on whom does Edward Clarke place the blame? Squarely on the shoulders of Nam Sei-hoon. And for what? For assisting Janson with a Cold War maneuver to escape his shadow. When Janson requested this simple favor, what was Nam Sei-hoon expected to say?
Sorry, Paul, but I'm short-staffed; all my men have come down with the flu
. Preposterous.

But, no, Clarke had something more sinister in mind. Clarke thought Nam should have ordered one of his men to kill Janson. To put a bullet in him in the rear of one of the taxis. Even more preposterous. This chaos wasn't of Nam's creation; it belonged fully to the Americans. Why should Nam order the execution of his old friend, a man he'd broken bread with more times than he could count? If Clarke wanted Janson dead, let him do the deed himself, the coward.

Nam Sei-hoon had already been forced into a number of shameful undertakings. The one he regretted most was giving up the young girl Kang Jung. He'd made Clarke guarantee that no harm would come to her, but Clarke's word was good for nothing, even when it came to matters of life and death. From the beginning Nam had known that he could only trust Clarke insofar as their countries' interests coincided.

Nam sighed. At this point he knew Paul Janson—a man he often thought of as a surrogate son—would have to die. And Nam would deeply regret the loss, to be sure. But the fact was, the future of the Korean peninsula was at stake. So, if Paul and a thirteen-year-old girl had to be sacrificed, so be it. Many, many more lives would be lost before all this was over. None, however, would die in vain. Nam would make damn sure of that.

He opened a secure line and dialed Edward Clarke in Washington.

“Have you located Janson?” Nam said.

“Not yet. After the explosion, my people scoured Daeseong-dong. We're now watching our former operative Jina Jeon in the unlikely case that Janson makes contact.”

“Unlikely case? You had said they were lovers?”

“Right. But Janson may believe that Jina Jeon betrayed him.” Clarke told Nam about the mother's medical appointment in Seoul.

Good, Nam thought, with no small measure of relief. Better Janson believe he's been betrayed by Jina Jeon than believe he's been betrayed by me.

He shuddered to think of what Janson would do to him if he discovered Nam's treachery.

“What of the Korean girl in Itaewon?” Nam said.

Clarke hesitated. “We haven't found her either.”

Again, Nam felt relieved.

As he waited for Clarke to continue, the director coughed loudly in his ear.

You are vile, Nam thought.

When Clarke spoke again, his voice was tired, resigned. “I'm afraid I have some more bad news. But first some good news. As you know, we recovered the girl's laptop computer.”

“Go on,” Nam prodded.

“The last page opened was a website for Everland Resort, a water—”

“I know the place.”

“Right. Well, the female operative we sent in to extract information says the girl gave up the location of Gregory Wyckoff. She claims that a facility at the water park is being used as a headquarters for the Hivemind, and the Hivemind is hiding Wyckoff there.”

“That may be the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

“Well, I sent two of my peop—”

“Then bring them
back
. It's a waste of precious resources. It is simply not true. The girl lied to your operative. This thirteen-year-old not only defeated your agent in combat. She
outsmarted
her, too. And you as well, evidently.”

Nam could hear Clarke breathing heavily, reining in his famous temper.

“Fine,” Clarke finally said. “Anyway, the other bad news is that this young lady visited a Wikipedia page recently as well.”

“So?”

“The Wikipedia entry was for Diophantus.”

A full minute of silence passed.

Nam was the first to speak. “If Janson and his…
researchers
…are using Wikipedia to discover the meaning behind Diophantus, then they don't have any hard information. At least not yet.”

“Unfortunately, that's not so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently, the Wyckoff kid is even cleverer than we thought. He left a message behind on the Wikipedia entry. Not in full view; it was hidden. But apparently the young girl figured it out.”

Nam felt as though a spider were crawling up his esophagus. “What is this message, Clarke?”

“We don't really know what it means,” he said. “But it reads, ‘Contact Yun Jin-ho, DPRK.'”

The spider reached the back of Nam's tongue and he nearly gagged.

“Are you all right?”

Nam didn't respond. His spy Yun Jin-ho was in no way connected to Diophantus, at least in no way that Nam was aware of. But then, why had the boy sent such a message?

Nam stared at the phone on his desk. He was helpless to contact Yun Jin-ho; the spy wasn't scheduled to make another dead drop for ninety days.

Suddenly he was struck by a bolt of panic.

Is Yun Jin-ho still under my control?

“Does that name mean anything to you?” Clarke pressed.

“I will have to look into it and get back to you.”

Nam was about to hang up the handset when he heard Clarke call out: “There's one more thing you need to know about.”

More?
Nam just wanted to get off this damn phone and clear his throat with a drink of ice water. “What is it, Clarke?”

“We discovered one last thing on the girl's computer.”

“Let me guess,” Nam said. “Is it a photo of you and me fishing on the Potomac in a boat named
Diophantus
?”

“It may as well be.”

Nam suddenly felt light-headed.

“The girl sent a link to a live feed capturing what was happening in her bedroom when our agent entered and interrogated her. We presume the link was sent to Janson.”

Nam thought about it.
Janson knows they discovered Kang Jung?
There was only one way that Cons Ops could have discovered that the girl was helping Janson—through Nam Sei-hoon himself, who received the information from his cyber-intelligence unit, which was monitoring Cy's Internet Relay Chats.

Something I boasted about to Janson.

Nam's light-headedness gave way to raw ire.

“
Find Janson
,” he yelled into the phone. “Find him
now
, Clarke. Find the Machine before he comes for
me
!”