Op-Center

CHAPTER FIFTY

The cottage was made of stone, with a thatched roof and small wooden deck in the front. The door was held in place by a hook latch, no lock, and there were two windows with four-pane glass on either side. The structure seemed relatively new, neither the thatching nor stone looking like they'd been exposed to more than two rainy winters.

Cho looked back at Hwan, who nodded. The driver cut the lights, took a flashlight from the glove compartment, and stepped into what was once more a light drizzle. When he opened Kim's door, Hwan got out.

"I promise not to run," Kim said to Hwan with a hint of indignation. "There's nowhere to run to."

"But people run there all the time, Ms. Chong. Besides, it's policy. I've already bent the rules by taking you here without handcuffs."

She slid out, Cho standing close beside her. "I deserve the rebuke, Mr. Hwan, and I'm sorry." With that, she started ahead and was quickly swallowed by the dark, Cho snatching the keys from the ignition and hurrying after her with the light, Hwan coming close behind.

Kim lifted the latch and entered. She pulled a long wooden match from a glass bowl on a table beside the door, and lit several glass-domed candles scattered around the single room. While she wasn't looking, Hwan motioned for Cho to go outside and keep watch. He departed silently.

As an orange glow filled the small room, Hwan saw the piano, a twin bed neatly made, a small round table with one chair, and a desk covered with framed photographs. He followed her with his eyes as she moved about the room— gracefully, seemingly at peace with what the day had dealt her. He wondered if it was because her heart was never truly in the work, or because she had a pragmatic, Confucian nature.

Or if she was setting him up for the biggest fall of his life.

He walked closer. There were no pictures of Kim, but he wasn't surprised. If she'd ever had to flee unexpectedly, Pyongyang wouldn't want photographs of a spy lying around where the KCIA could find them. He picked up one of the photographs.

"Your brother and mother?"

Kim nodded.

"Very handsome. And that's your home?"

"It was."

He put the picture down. "What about this cottage. Was it built for you?"

"Please, Mr. Hwan— no more questions."

Now it was Hwan who felt rebuked. "Excuse me?"

"We have an agreement… a truce."

Hwan walked over. "Ms. Chong, there's no such deal. Perhaps you misunderstand our relationship."

"There's no misunderstanding. I'm your prisoner. But I will not betray my country by cooperating with the KCIA, and I resent your trying to charm your way into my confidence with questions about my home and family. I fear I may have already compromised myself by bringing you here."

Hwan felt stung. Not because he'd asked and been refused: it was his job to try to learn whether this cottage was built by locals or by infiltrators of whom the KCIA might not be aware, and it was her job to prevent him from finding out. That was the game. What made him angry was that she was dead right. Kim Chong might not be a spy at heart, but she was a patriot. He wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating her again.

As Hwan stood directly behind her, Kim sat on the green-velvet bench in front of the upright and played several treble measures of a jazzy piece Hwan did not recognize. When she was finished, she lifted the lid and reached inside with both hands. He watched her closely; if she noticed, she made no sign. With both hands, she carefully unscrewed the wingnut on a metal brace, swung it back, and lifted a small radio from the compartment. On the opposite side was a bracket with what appeared to be an explosive device wired to the lid.

Hwan recognized the radio as a state-of-the-art Israeli-made Kol 38. The KCIA was negotiating to buy them as well; with them, the user could reach distances of over 750 miles without using a satellite. One part was for listening, another for receiving, which made it possible for agents in the field to "conference call" with headquarters. The unit ran on lightweight cadmium batteries, which made it ideal for remote locations like this. Even the U.S. models weren't as reliable.

She went to the window, opened it, and set the radio on the sill. Before switching it on, she casually rested her hand on the LED readout on top so Hwan couldn't see the frequency to which it was set.

"If you say anything, it will be picked up. They must not know I've been compromised."

Hwan nodded.

Kim pushed a button and a red light came on beside the condenser microphone built into the top of the unit.

"Seoul Oh-Miyo to home, Seoul Oh-Miyo to home, over."

An operatic code name, Hwan thought. It was somehow appropriate to the Wagnerian events that swirled around them.

After a moment a voice came in so rich and clear that Hwan was startled.

"Home to Seoul Oh-Miyo. Ready. Over."

"Home, need to know if army boots, explosives, and other items have been stolen. KCIA found evidence of same at Palace today. Over."

"How recent was theft? Over."

Kim looked at Hwan. He flashed ten fingers and mouthed month.

"Ten months," she said. "Over."

"Will call with any information. Over and out."

Kim punched off the switch.

Hwan wanted to ask her if these things were computerized in the North as they were in the South. Instead, he asked, "How long might this take?"

"An hour… possibly longer."

He held his watch near a candle, then looked out at Cho's dark figure standing beside the car. "We'll take the radio and go back."

She didn't move. "I can't do that."

"You don't have a choice, Ms. Chong." He came closer. "I've tried to show you courtesy—"

"We both gain—"

"No! That keeps us from becoming animals. But I must stay on top of the investigation, and I can't do that from here. I promise that no one will look at your radio display. Will you give me what I need?"

Kim hesitated, then put the radio under her arm and shut the window. "All right. To keep from becoming animals."

They went outside. The flashlight snapped on to light the way, and the dark figure beside the car opened the door so that Kim could enter.