Op-Center

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

General Schneider forgot his dream the instant his orderly entered. All he remembered was that he was on skis somewhere and liking it very much. Reality, and the dry night air, always brought him back with an unpleasant jolt.

"Sir, there's a phone call from Washington."

"The President?" he said.

"No, sir. Not that Washington. A Mr. Bob Herbert from Op-Center."

Schneider muttered an oath. "They probably want me to straitjacket poor Donald." Sliding into his slippers, the General went to his desk. With an air of relief, he inserted himself in the swivel chair and picked up the phone. "General Schneider."

"General, this is Bob Herbert, Intelligence Officer at Op-Center."

"I've heard of you. Lebanon?"

"Yes. That's quite a memory you have."

"Bob, I never forget when we do something stupid. Goddamn Embassy had a 'kick me' sign on it for terrorists. No heavy barricades out front, nothing to stop a bomber bent on driving a truck to Allah's doorstep." He leaned back in the chair and raised his eyelids to stretch the sleep from them. "But enough about old mistakes. You're calling to stop a new one from being made."

"I hope so," said Herbert.

"Yeah, I don't know what the hell got into the man. Well, that's not true. He lost his wife yesterday. Donald's a good man. He's just not thinking clearly."

"Clear enough to go over there with official instructions, I hope."

Schneider shot forward in the seat. "Hold on! You're telling me you're sanctioning this idiotic little conference of his?"

"Director Hood has asked him to relay a message. That we believe a team of South Koreans masquerading as North Koreans are behind the blast… and that it may be the first of several terrorist acts designed to throw us into war."

"Our own side?" Schneider sat still as an oak. "Dammit, you're sure?"

"The pieces are coming together," Herbert said. "We think a Major Kim Lee is behind it."

"Lee? I've met him. Stony-faced bastard, superpatriot. I liked him."

"He seems to have put together a small team," Herbert said, "and he appears to be in your area now— with four quarter-drums of poison gas."

"I'll contact General Norbom, send out a search and destroy squad to find him."

"That's not all. Some of his men may be trying to gain control of a mobile Nodong site in the east."

"Ambitious," said Schneider. "You sure you want Donald to tell Hong-koo all this? They'll have it on all the wire services before the last word's out of his mouth."

"We know."

"They'll also shoot Lee's people on sight," Schneider said. "Have you thought about what'll happen when word gets out that the U.S. was responsible for the death of South Koreans? Seoul will explode. It'll be like goddamn Saigon."

"Hood knows about that too," Herbert said. "He's preparing something with our Press Officer."

"A double funeral would be my recommendation. You guys may actually be creating some kind of constitutional crisis by effectively obstructing the powers of the Oval Office to make war."

"Like I said," Herbert replied, "the boss knows."

"Well, Bob, I'll relay the message. And here's one for Mr. Hood. His tank may not be full in the brains department, but I haven't seen stones like his since Ollie North."

"Thanks," Herbert said. "I'm sure he'll understand that was a compliment."

Gregory awoke from his short sleep feeling remarkably refreshed and clearheaded.

Sitting up on the scrubby flats, he looked over at the brightly lighted border. How fitting it was that hate and suspicion should cause both sides to burn their fires. Distrust always leaves people in the dark.

He took out his pipe and filled it with the last of his Balkan Sobranie tobacco. After lighting it, he held the match to look at his watch.

It was nearly time.

He puffed slowly and reflected about the smoke, about the Balkans and how a single incident there, the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand, triggered the First World War. Would a single event here trigger a Third World War? It was conceivable. There was more than tension in the air; there was rampant insanity. Preserving ego with lives, painting images in blood. What is wrong with us?

From behind, headlights found the former diplomat. Donald turned and shielded his eyes as a jeep approached.

"Communing with the stars?" General Schneider said, climbing from the passenger's side. He walked over, an imposing silhouette.

"No, General. With my muse."

"You should have told me where you were going. If you didn't light up, we'd be searching till daylight."

"I haven't changed my mind, if that's what you've come about."

"No. I've got a message for you from your boss."

Donald felt his insides constrict. He hoped that the General hadn't gone to the White House.

General Schneider told him what Herbert had said, and Donald felt an enormous weight lift from his shoulders. Not only was there the satisfaction of his and Kim Hwan's initial hunch having been correct, but there was every chance that now this brushfire could be stamped out.

Strangely enough, he thought, he wasn't surprised about Major Lee. When they had met earlier, there was something in his eye, in the last glance he gave, that wasn't quite right. There was intelligence, but also an edge— suspicion, perhaps, or maybe contempt.

"I won't pretend that I'm happy with this," Schneider concluded, "but I won't stand in your way now."

"Were you going to before?"

"I was leaning strongly in that direction, yes. I still plan to go on record as being opposed to conciliation, but it takes all kinds to make a world." Schneider headed back to the car. "Get in. I'll give you a ride back."

"I think I'll walk. Clear the head a bit."

Schneider didn't look back as he climbed into the jeep. His orderly swung it around and drove off, dust and diesel fumes hanging in their wake.

Donald walked after them, puffing with contentment, knowing that Soonji would be surprised and proud of how things had gone.

As he walked, he felt a prick at the back of his neck. He reached back to scratch it, touched steel, and froze.

"Ambassador Donald," said a familiar voice as the knife traced a sharp path from his nape to just beneath his chin.

Donald felt a trickle of blood slip down his neck and under the knot of his tie as he saw Major Lee's face burning a dull red in the glow of the pipe.