Long Road to Mercy

Chapter 38

They took the Kia. The Mustang had been seen several times now, and Pine was worried that it stood out too much. If she hadn’t had to use her SUV as a decoy she would have brought that instead. Hindsight held a level of perfection that real-time decision-making could not provide.

The building they found was of an ornate, classical Greek design with Ionic pillars topped by elaborately carved capitals bracketing the front entrance. It was incongruously sandwiched in between two eight-story glass-and-metal-box office buildings. They parked in a nearby underground garage and came back out to street level.

Men and women in suits and carrying knapsacks and briefcases scooted to and fro. All were checking their phones and looking important as they strode along ostensibly doing the people’s business in the shadow of the halls of government.

“Quite an energetic town,” remarked Blum.

“One way of describing it,” replied Pine. “Capital of bullshit is another.”

They made their way to the headquarters of SFG. The towering double doors were solid oak and looked strong enough to withstand an RPG round.

There was a buzzer built into the wall with a voice box next to it.

A brass sign said to ring it.

So Pine did.

A voice immediately came on.

“Can I help you?”

“We’re with the FBI. We’re here to speak to someone about Benjamin Priest.”

“Can you hold up your IDs to the camera, please?”

Pine noted the lens staring down at her.

Shit.

She held up her badge, but not her ID.

“Thank you. One moment.”

Soon, they could hear footsteps approaching.

The door opened and there stood a large, goateed man in a gray suit with a blue tie.

“Follow me, please.”

They followed.

Both women looked around at the spacious rooms off the hall they were traversing. Comfortable furnishings, elegant paintings, a sculpture here and there. And enough chair rail, crown moldings, pilasters, columns, medallions, balustrades, friezes, and frescoes to satisfy any architectural junkie’s most outrageous wish list.

They were escorted into a large office, book lined and cluttered. The smell of sweet pipe smoke seemed to rise from every inch of the place.

The goateed man left, closing the door behind him without saying another word.

Pine looked around and said, “Why do I feel like I just stepped into a spy novel from the sixties? Where are you, George Smiley, when I need you?”

Blum noted a stack of books on a side table. “Is that Arabic?”

Pine looked over her shoulder. “Yes. Simon Russell had books in Arabic, too.”

“Did he indeed?”

Pine and Blum started and looked over at a high wingback chair that had been turned away from them.

It was now swiveled around, and perched in it was a small man with thick white hair. He wore a three-piece suit with a dash of color at the neck and a kerchief sprouting from the chest pocket.

When he stood it revealed that he was probably barely over five feet tall.

“Please, sit,” he said, waving them to two chairs in front of the massive desk, which was heaped with opened books. He took the seat behind the desk and studied them both, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“We didn’t know anyone was in the room,” said Pine.

“Evidently,” said the man. “By the way, I am Oscar Fabrikant.”

“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Fabrikant.”

“Oh, please, make it Oscar. Are you both FBI agents?”

Pine held out her shield. “I’m the agent. She’s my assistant.”

Pine really wanted to get through this without revealing their identities.

Fabrikant nodded. “Now, to business. You mentioned just now Simon Russell?”

“Yes.” Pine was annoyed at herself for not adequately scoping out the room before speaking. Now the man knew there was a connection between her and a dead man.

“And how do you know Simon?”

“I don’t.”

“And yet you know his reading tastes?”

“Ben Priest told me about him,” lied Pine.

“I see. And you’ve come here about something having to do with Ben?”

“Yes.” She looked around the office. “Do you run the Society?”

“I’m not sure that anyone ‘runs’ this place. It’s far more democratic, some might say chaotic, than hierarchical.” He smiled at his remark.

“And yet they brought us in to see you.”

“Well, I have been here longer than most. And it seems that many of the administrative duties fall into my lap. I don’t mind.” He settled farther back in his chair.

“I saw some of the TED talks the Society did,” said Blum. “Very interesting stuff.”

“Thank you,” replied Fabrikant.

Pine interjected, “Any idea where Ben might be?”

“Why would you think I would know that?”

“Doesn’t he work here?”

“No one really works here. We volunteer our time and skills.”

“And what sort of work do you do here?”

“We analyze. We read. We discuss. We talk. We listen. We travel. We write papers. We give lectures. We’re advocates on the policy front. We lobby those in power on important issues.” He motioned to Blum. “And we give TED Talks, which provide us with a global platform. I think our latest cumulative view count is north of a billion on various social media sites. Truly remarkable. What would we do without social media?”

“Well, it certainly has its pros and cons,” noted Pine.

Fabrikant leaned back in his chair and studied them for a few moments. “So how can I help you?”

“What can you tell us about Ben Priest?”

“Ben is a friend. A first-rate mind. Traveled the world. Very interesting person.”

“Okay, but what does he do?”

“He does many things. He worked in government for a time.”

“What part of government?”

“The State Department, I believe.”

“Isn’t that what everyone says when they don’t want to tell you what they really do?”

“You take me out of my depth there,” said Fabrikant.

“Okay, we understand that Priest helps people who need it. And that he was helping someone specifically at the moment.”

“Who?”

“I don’t have a name, but I have a picture.”

Pine showed him the digital sketch on her phone. She watched him closely for any hint that Fabrikant recognized the person.

“Can’t say that I know him,” said Fabrikant tersely.

Either he was an exceptional poker player, or he genuinely did not know the man, concluded Pine.

“Were you aware of anything that Priest was working on recently?”

“Not really, no.”

Pine looked around. “This is quite a place.”

“I think it’s a bit gaudy, actually. It used to be a robber baron’s mansion. He wasn’t from here, but he built it when he realized having a place close to the people in government he was bribing was smart.”

“Some things never change,” noted Blum.

Fabrikant nodded his head. “So I believe.”

Pine said, “All this talking and traveling and analyzing. It must cost a lot.”

“As I mentioned, our members work without compensation. We pay for their travel and other related expenses of course, but no salaries.”

“But you still have some form of funding,” persisted Pine.

“We have benefactors.”

“And who are they?”

“They are private. And will remain so. Are you concerned about Ben’s safety?”

“Probably.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“It certainly is for him.” She studied him. “May I be blunt?”

“I thought you were being blunt.”

“I haven’t reached my personal DefCon One yet.”

Fabrikant spread his hands. “Please.”

“I have come to understand that there may be international implications with this case.”

“Such as?”

“Look, I’m going to take a chance that you actually are a society for good and tell you something that ordinarily I wouldn’t at this stage, because, frankly, I don’t know you. But I sense I’m running out of time and I have to get some traction on this sucker.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m talking about a clusterfuck of epic proportion that will strike right at the heart of this country and perhaps destroy it.”

Fabrikant’s amused look faded. “I hope that is your DefCon One. I would not like to think there is another level to be reached.” He paused. “What exactly are you talking about?”

Pine glanced at Blum and said, “Maybe a coup directed at our government.”

Fabrikant’s jaw dropped slightly. “A coup? This is America, not some banana republic.”

“This country began with a revolution.”

“Yes, well, that was a long time ago.”

“So history never repeats itself?”

“Actually, it does, all the time.”

“Okay, then.”

“You’re serious about this?”

“People who know about these things are serious about it.”

“You mean like Ben Priest and Simon Russell?”

“And perhaps the Chinese are involved as well.”

“Why do you say that?”

Pine took out her phone and held it up.

Fabrikant leaned forward and stared at the photo there. “And who is this?”

“This is a man who has now tried to kill me twice. I would like to know his name and background.”

“Let me call someone in who might be of assistance.”

He lifted his phone, spoke into it, and replaced the receiver.

After Pine counted off ten clicks in her head, there came a knock at the door.

“Enter,” said Fabrikant.

The door opened, and a man dressed in a suit, and nearly as small as Fabrikant, walked in.

“Show Phillip the photo,” directed Fabrikant.

Phillip looked at the picture for only a second and then glanced at Fabrikant and nodded.

“You can tell her,” said Fabrikant.

“His name is Sung Nam Chung.”

“And who is he?”

“Your worst nightmare.”

“As bad as he is, he will never be my worst nightmare,” replied Pine brusquely.

“Is he Chinese?” asked Blum.

Phillip looked at her. “No.”

“What is he then?” said Pine.

“Korean.”

“Korean? North or South?” asked Pine.

“From what I have learned, he was born in the South. He traveled to the North as a child and was detained there. In a camp. He came out of it alive and now works for whoever pays him. He is quite an accomplished operative. And very lethal when he has to be.”

“So Sung is his surname, then?” said Pine.

The man shook his head. “Chung is. He has been in this country for a while now and has Westernized his name. He is very careful, and the authorities can prove nothing against him.”

“How does a person like that get into the U.S. in the first place?” said Blum.

“If you have the resources there are ways,” said Phillip.

Pine looked at Fabrikant. “The peace talks with North Korea have just gone off the rails. And this guy shows up on American soil. Do you think there’s a connection?”

“I can’t say definitively that there isn’t a connection.” He turned to Phillip. “Thank you, that will be all.”

After the man left, Pine said, “Does Priest have an office here?”

“Yes.”

“Can we see it?”

Fabrikant studied her for a long moment.

She said, “I would really appreciate it.”

“I can see how you would. Come with me.”