Op-Center

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The boat was pre-World War II vintage, a ferry that had been turned into a troop transport and then back into a ferry again.

As night fell over the sea, the two North Koreans sat on the foredeck benches, playing checkers with metal pieces on a magnetic board. The cases of money were laid flat between them, serving as a makeshift table.

A strong wind had begun to blow across the deck, misting them with seawater and rattling the heavy board. It drove most of the passengers into the cabin, where it was warm, dry, and light; one of the two men looked around.

"We should go in, Im," he said. It wasn't good to be alone: crowds dissuaded thievery.

Without finishing the game, one of the men began packing it up while the other stood, his hands on the handles of the cases.

"Make sure you don't jostle the board, Yun, and cost me my—"

A spray of red fell across the suitcases. Yun looked up and saw a dark figure standing behind his partner; the gleaming tip of a stiletto was protruding from the front of Im's throat.

Yun opened his mouth to scream, but he was cut short as a blade tore through his windpipe from behind. He scratched at his throat as his blood poured over his fingers, mingling with that of his companion. Both pools were softened by falling drops of sea and stirred by the wind.

The two assassins withdrew their blades and one of them bent over the dying men while the other walked aft, to the railing. He began shining his flashlight on and off in ten-second cycles while his associate severed the pinkie finger of each man. Only Yun managed a gurgled scream as the blade cut through his flesh.

His dark gray greatcoat flapping in the wind, the killer threw the fingers over the side; the signature of the Yakuza was upon the victims, and the authorities would spend weeks looking for the killers. By the time they realized they were chasing shadows, it would be too late.

Going back to retrieve the suitcases, the assassin made sure they were secure and then glanced toward the cabin. There were no faces in the circular windows, and the darkness and sea spray would have made identification impossible in any event; the bridge was set well back, atop the cabin, leaving the crew without a clear view of the deck. With luck, no one would come outside and no one else would have to die.

His companion was still flashing his light. By the time he rejoined him, the hum of the distant engine was already audible, and they could see the dim outline of the amphibious plane, all but the running lights turned off. The LA-4-200 Buccaneer came up beside the rear transom door, pacing the ferry, prop-wash turning the sea spray into thousands of tiny darts. The killer shined his flashlight on the cockpit, and the pilot threw open the gull-wing hatch and tossed out an inflatable raft, the bow ring attached to several yards of steel cable. It landed heavily in the water, bucking against the wind.

By now, there was activity on the bridge as the crew saw the plane.

"Hurry," the man with the flashlight told his companion.

Setting the cases down, the man jumped toward the raft. Landing in the water beside the inflatable, he grabbed the safety line, pulled himself in, then turned to face the ferry. Picking up one of the suitcases, his associate swung it toward the raft and released it. The other man caught it, then held out his arms for the second. He caught that too, then pulled his companion aboard when he jumped from the ferry.

Even as crew members reached the deck and found the bodies, the pilot was reeling the raft into the seaplane. Within moments, the men were on board, the aircraft's lights had flared on, and the plane and money were airborne, headed north. Only when it was out of view from the ship would it turn west— not to Japan and the Yakuza but to North Korea.