The Gate

CHAPTER 5

Lake watched the figure in the mirror. Muscles flowed as the legs and arms performed one of the required movements of a fourth-degree Aikido black belt.

“Kai!” Lake yelled, his fist halting a millimeter from its reverse image. He slowly pulled the fist back as he returned to the beginning stance. The windows in the one-room efficiency were open and the chill night air hit the sweat pouring off his bare chest, creating a thin layer of steam. He wore only a pair of cutoff white painters’ pants. His feet slid across the floor as he began another formalized kata. The calluses that years of working out had built up made little notice of the rough wood floor.

The room was empty except for his clothes hung and stacked in the closet. A bed sat near the window but Lake had never used it. He slept on a thin mat, moving its location on the floor every night. Sometimes he slept right under the window; sometimes just behind the door; sometimes he folded his body into the scant space in the bathroom, a gun always laying close at hand.

Lake’s leg snapped up high: front kick to the face. He froze for a second, then slowly lowered the leg, his head canted to one side. A phone was ringing down at the end of the hallway. A door slammed. Footsteps. Lake reached down and picked up the Hush Puppy, pulling the slide back and taking it off safe.

“Hey, man,” a voice outside his door yelled. “You got a call.”

“All right.”

Lake waited as the footsteps retreated and the door slammed shut. He threw on a T-shirt and tucked the gun into the waistband of his shorts, making sure the shirt covered the handle. He checked the peephole, then pulled the chain off. He quietly walked down the hall and picked up the receiver on the battered pay phone.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.” Jonas’s voice was surprisingly clear, “I asked for the room number like you said. Man, when are you going to upgrade your facilities?”

Lake didn’t feel like chatting. “What do you have?”

“They want their shit tonight.”

“I said Monday night.”

“Yeah, well, change of plans. They’re throwing in an extra five grand for early delivery. And no deal if you don’t deliver tonight.”

Lake closed his eyes briefly, then they snapped open. “When and where?”

Two and a half miles away from Lake’s hide, the computer awoke with a chime. The man had been reading a newspaper which he carefully folded before flipping open the lid. The display told him Nishin was moving. He shut the lid and gathered his equipment.

Nishin was indeed moving. He was following four North Koreans who had just left the ship. Two of the men carried duffle bags, but the ease with which they carried the folded bags told Nishin there was nothing in them.

Once they were off the pier he slithered down and followed, staying in the darker shadows, blacker than the night sky. The Koreans made little attempt to lose a tail, which Nishin had expected. They were not spies. They were soldiers.

North Korea’s idea of covert operations was to take the uniforms off some soldiers and send them to a foreign country with specific orders on the mission to be accomplished. Subtlety was not a prized trait, as the North Koreans had demonstrated time and time again in their operations. Being on the other side of the Sea of Japan from the Korean Peninsula, Nishin was familiar with their operations. On top of that, his preparations for the mission into Hungnam had required intelligence preparations that had updated him on his potential foes. He had to know their history to know what they could be capable of in the present.

History said the North Koreans were direct and to the point when it came to taking action. In 1968 thirty-one North Korean soldiers had infiltrated across the DMZ and made their way down to Seoul to raid the Blue House, the home of the South Korean president. The mission had failed, with twenty-eight men killed, two missing, and one captured.

Shortly after that attack, on 23 January 1968, North Korean Special Forces men in high-speed attack craft seized the U.S.S. Pueblo with highly-publicized results. Later that same year, a large North Korean force of almost a hundred men conducted landings on the coast of South Korea in an attempt to raise the populace against the government. It failed, but such failures didn’t daunt the North Korean government. In 1969, a U.S. electronic warfare aircraft was shot down by the North Koreans, killing all thirty-one American service members on board. To these transgressions it looked like all the outside world could do was sputter in indignation. World opinion meant nothing to Pyongyang.

The Korean DMZ was the hottest place on earth, and contrary to what most people believed, Nishin knew it was active with both sides probing the security of the other side. People died there every year, but usually they were only Koreans, and Nishin was world wise enough to know that in the West that didn’t mean much. When an American officer was beaten to death in the same place by North Korean guards with ax handles — now that was news over here.

As security stiffened in South Korea over the decade of the seventies, North Korea moved its attentions overseas, not caring about the international effect. In 1983, three PKA officers planted a bomb in Rangoon in an attempt to kill the visiting South Korean president. That mission also failed, although of course there were those in the way who died. Later in 1983, four North Korean trawlers — similar to the one Nishin had been conducting surveillance on-infiltrated the Gulf of California to conduct monitoring operations against the United States mainland. One of the ships was seized by the Mexican authorities, but that didn’t prevent the North Koreans from continuing such operations.

The breakup of the Soviet Union had never been acknowledged by Pyongyang, except in cryptically worded exhortations to the people, telling them they were the last bastion of communism in the world. The North Koreans truly believed they were part of the final line in the war against Western imperialism, especially with Cuba crumbling around the edges.

Nishin had never heard of the North Koreans conducting an active covert operation on American soil, but he also had never heard of the Genzai Bakudan project or Hung nam before this month. With stakes this high, who knows what they were capable of? That wasn’t the question that concerned Nishin, though. The question was what were they here for? What evidence of Genzai Bakudan was here in San Francisco? Nishin hoped he would soon find out and leave this country of no values.

The Koreans continued up the Embarcadero, through the center of the waterfront tourist district. It wasn’t hard for Nishin to follow. He made sure he was inland of them, prepared if they turned in the only other direction they could go. After twenty minutes they passed Fisherman’s Wharf. They circled around Fort Mason, moving purposefully and ignoring all other pedestrians. As they passed the marina, there were less and less people around. Then they were into the Presidip, the former army post that had been turned over to the National Park Service.

First established in 1776 by Spanish explorers, the Presidio evolved into a military post for the area. Covering sixty-eight square miles of land at the northern point of the peninsula, the terrain that didn’t hold former military buildings was covered with pine and eucalyptus trees, making it an ideal site for covert operations at night, Nishin knew. In 1993 as part of the base-closings trend the post had transitioned from the military to become the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, which removed the gates and the military police that used to patrol the area.

Nishin looked up. The Golden Gate Bridge was close now, straddling the horizon north of the hills of the Presidio. He felt more comfortable in the park. There were very few people about and there was foliage that he could melt into. The Koreans were more at home also. They left the paths and moved cross-country, spreading out like an infantry squad approaching an objective.

Nishin followed until they reached their destination, underneath the arch of the bridge itself. He watched as they slipped into the front entrance of Fort Point, one of the men breaking open the lock that closed the large metal gates. Nishin stayed to the side of the parking lot to the south, considering the situation. He knew this area based on the study he had made of San Francisco on the flight over.

The fort was old, having first been built in 1854 and completed in 1860, just in time for the American Civil War. For over seventy years it had been the dominating manmade feature on the southern land tip of the narrowest part of the Golden Gate. The fort itself was made of brick like a cousin on the east coast: Fort Sumter, which didn’t fare very well against the advent of rifled cannons. But although the brick walls would have quickly crumbled under the cannonade of modern weapons developed shortly after the fort was constructed, in the 1930s the unique construction — for San Francisco at least, a mostly wood and concrete town-saved it, because in 1938 a more spectacular manmade feature made its appearance on the point. The fort was in the way and initial plans for the Golden Gate Bridge called for it to be torn down. Only a strong protest by locals prevented the dismantling of the fort during the building of the bridge. So now the first southern arches of the bridge swoop over the fort, leading out to the south tower.

Nishin knew there was a museum inside the fort. Were the Koreans breaking into that? Was there some document or artifact in the museum that referred to Genzai Bakudan? And what were the duffle bags for? Setting his bag and case down, he opened the latter and pulled out the AUG and made sure he had a round in the chamber, then settled in to wait uphill from the fort, with a good view of both the open courtyard inside and the parking lot in front.

A faint noise up in the hills caught Nishin’s attention. It sounded like a car engine, but the noise was gone as quickly as it had come. He focused on the fort.

The time switch from the following night to this evening was something Lake would have done himself. That set him on edge because it meant the people he was meeting weren’t stupid. The lack of time meant several things. First, he had to rush to the drop site to pick up the weapons.

Second, he would not be able to put the meet site under surveillance. Third, any backup team he might request from the Ranch would not be here until tomorrow morning. As he had been working out, he had been mulling over whether he should call the Ranch and ask for help or if he would do this alone. He had pretty much decided to run this op solo and this phone call sealed it. There was no way he could get local backup, which was one of-the disadvantages of his deep cover.

Lake also knew that Ranch standard operating procedure required that he not make the meeting. Without backup standing by just in case he would be in a precarious situation, especially since the Ranch didn’t know he was doing the meet this evening. He had told Jonas the meet would be the following night and he should stay with that. Use his leverage as possessor of the weapons to make the buyers stay with the original agreement. But there was also the possibility the buyers might get spooked and go elsewhere. The mysterious Japanese-Patriot connection was too strong of a lure for Lake.

The drop site was in a storage unit. Lake unlocked the combination lock and pulled up the door. Two crates and one small box lay just inside, in front of other boxes containing various equipment. The Ranch was anything but inefficient. He didn’t know who had put the guns in there and he was sure that that person didn’t know he was taking them out. The storage unit was a good cutout between operatives and support personnel.

Lake uncrated the eight Ingram MAC-10s and the ammunition. The MAC-10 was American made and very popular with the drug underworld. It was made of stamped metal and very small, easily concealable under a jacket. These were longer than normal because of the requirement to have a suppressor on the end of the short barrel, which more than doubled their length to almost eighteen inches. The stock was made of metal and folded up along the body of the weapon.

The ammunition in the small box was also special, which explained why Lake had charged so much for the 9mm rounds. They were subsonic bullets, designed not to break the speed of sound; they worked in conjunction with the suppressor. The firer lost some power and range with the adapted bullets, but they made hardly any sound at all when fired, just like the ones he had loaded in his Hush Puppy. Because the weapon was automatic, though, the metal-on metal sound of the bolt working and rounds being ejected would make a sound, but very little when compared to the normal sound of a gun being fired.

Lake worked on one of the Ingrams, secreting a small transmitter underneath the small plastic piece on the back of the pistol grip; a place no one would have any reason to look. He tied the submachine guns together, then wrapped plastic bags around them, waterproofing both them and the ammo. The package was bulky, but he managed to stuff it into a large rucksack.

Lake relocked the door to the bin. He had time to make it to the designated meet site, just barely. He put the rucksack on the passenger seat of his old Bronco II and began driving through the streets of San Francisco.

As he drove, Lake put the finishing touches on the story he would have to give Feliks for breaking Ranch SOP. He considered the upcoming situation, but he knew he would have to play it by ear when he arrived since he knew nothing of the people he was to meet.

By the time he arrived in the Golden Gate National Recreation Area, he was shifting into his action mode. He continued down Marine Drive toward the fort. There was no sense trying to sneak up on the meet site since the other party held the advantage of time and place. Lake parked at the far end of the parking lot from the fort. Taking the rucksack, he left the truck.

The gates to the fort were wide open. Lake felt naked walking across the parking lot and he knew that he was being watched. He noted that there were no other vehicles about. As he entered the brick archway he sensed someone behind and spun about. Two dark figures stood there, blocking his way out.

“Come in!” a heavily accented voice echoed in the courtyard. The voice was high-pitched, which fit Jonas’s description of Asians. Lake turned and walked forward. The courtyard was surrounded by the fort’s walls, three stories high on all sides with brick arches opening to the mezzanines. Several cannon were mounted for display on the concrete floor. Lake couldn’t see who had called out. The voice could have come from one of dozens of arched openings on any side, from any floor.

Lake walked directly to the middle and put the rucksack down. He folded his arms over his chest and waited. The two men who had followed him were standing on the inside of the entrance, also waiting.

A slight shuffle caught his attention and Lake turned. Two other men were walking out of the shadows from the north wall.

“You have the guns?” the man on the right asked. As he cleared the shadows, Lake finally got a good look at his face. Korean. There was no mistaking the facial features.

“We weren’t supposed to meet until tomorrow night,” Lake replied.

“You have the guns?”

“I have them.”

The leader gestured and the man at his side came forward and opened the rucksack, checking the weapons and ammunition.

“The money?” Lake asked.

The man was breaking down one of the weapons, his hands moving expertly over the metal pieces despite the lack of light. Jonas was right; these men had the look of professional soldiers. “It is functional,” the man called out to his leader in Han Gul, the language of the Korean peninsula. Lake assumed that the Koreans didn’t know he understood their language and he wanted to keep it that way until he was forced to disclose his knowledge.

“The money?” Lake repeated.

“You will be paid,” the leader said. “Kill him,” he called out in Han Gul to his men. Lake’s language ability had remained secret for all of ten seconds.

The man with the Ingrams near Lake was sliding a magazine into one of the weapons. Lake had always considered it a fundamentally unsound business practice in the arms trade to be killed by your own merchandise. He turn-kicked toward the man with the MAC-10 only to have the man sidestep the strike, grab his leg, and twist, dumping Lake on his back. The Korean unfolded the stock of the MAC10, put it into his shoulder and aimed down at Lake.

Sparks flew off the concrete floor near the Korean and Lake could feel the presence of bullets flying by, although he heard no sound of firing. He rolled and looked up, spotting the muzzle flash of a weapon being fired high up on the south wall. The Korean who had been about to shoot Lake rolled right, out of the way of the unexpected firing, grabbing the duffel bag with the other weapons and getting under the cover of one of the large cannons.

Lake didn’t stop to savor his reprieve. He scuttled on his back, the concrete ripping through his shirt, getting behind the cover of a large pyramid of cannonballs. At least covered from the Koreans, Lake realized as soon as he was there. Whoever the gunman on the wall was had a perfect shot at him, but whoever it was had had a perfect shot at him earlier and hadn’t taken advantage of it.

The Korean let loose a sustained burst of fire up at the wall, but the man was firing blindly, not sure where his target was. The gun battle was eerie, played out in almost total silence, only the flaming strobe of the muzzle flashes and the sparks of rounds ricocheting giving any hint as to what was happening.

Lake drew his pistol and waited, peering around the cannonballs. The Korean leader had joined the gunman. While one provided cover, the other ran with the duffel bag toward the archway where the other two waited. Lake got a perfect sight picture on the back of the running man and his finger began to bear down when he halted. He remembered what had happened on the bridge. He relieved the pressure on the trigger and watched as the man made it to the safety of the entrance arch. The three men there then provided cover as the leader joined them. Whoever was on the wall had not fired again since the initial bursts. Lake assumed that the gunman was gone.

Silence reigned and Lake did nothing to break it. He gave the Koreans plenty of time to escape, then stood. He didn’t hear any sirens. Time to be going. Lake cautiously made his way to the entryway and slipped through. He chose the quickest way across the parking lot to his truck. Throwing it in gear he got away from the fort as quickly as possible.

Nishin watched the weapons dealer leave. When Nishin had seen that the man carried Ingram MAC-lOs, he’d known that this meeting was not what he was after. He would have let the North Koreans kill the man except for the fact that it would have drawn unwanted attention from the American authorities. The Koreans were so obtuse at covert operations that they didn’t understand the consequences of such actions. Nishin knew they would just assume his firing to be part of the man’s backup, so he had not tipped his hand there.

What Nishin wanted to know was what did the Koreans need weapons for? What did they have planned next? To find that out, he would have to go back to his perch near the dock. Nishin faded away to the southeast.

Which left only one man in the area. The last watcher wasn’t worried about where the Koreans went because he knew that Nishin would stay with them and he had the computer which would tell him where Nishin was.

The weapons dealer didn’t concern him either. Guns were a part of the American culture and this man was of no concern. The last watcher had the same questions as Nishin. He packed up his night-scope and went back to his van.

“Weapons?”

“Yes, Genoysha,” Nakanga said. “That is what they Wanted.”

Kuzumi sighed. Still no idea what the Koreans were up to. “Anything else?”

“No, Genoysha.”

Kuzumi turned his wheelchair away from the desk. He heard the pad of Nakanga’s feet across the wooden floor, then the door shutting. He pressed up against the eye scanner and opened the file cabinet. Again he pulled up the wooden box. He turned back to the desk, putting the box on top. He opened the cover and took the picture out. He carefully unfolded the paper and leaned it against one of the phones, angled so he could see it.

He had looked at the picture every day for eight years in the same manner. Except then it was leaned up against the pitted concrete wall of his cell. When they came for him each day, he would fold it and put it back in the breast pocket of his prison shirt.

Other than the clothes he wore, it had been the only personal thing he had with him when he’d flown out of Hungnam on the third of August in 1945. By orders he had had to leave everything else in the assembly cave.

Kuzumi rubbed his left temple as he remembered the crowded cargo airplane. There were no seats and all the senior scientists who had worked on Genzai Bakudan were seated on the bare metal floor of the converted bomber. They were heading back to Japan, but not directly. They knew the Russians would be waiting in the Sea of Japan and there wasn’t enough fuel anyway to make the hop directly. So they flew north, along the coast of the Korean peninsula. They would refuel at an air force base in Manchuria, then make the shorter hop across the sea there to the northern island of Hokkaido and the home of the Black Ocean.

They were excited, staring out the windows, back toward Hungnam. The flash of the bomb going off had come on the horizon less than twenty minutes after they’d departed. They’d celebrated, slapping each other on the back. It worked! There was hope that all could be changed!

An hour later the pilots climbed over land again, crossing the mountains on the shore and then quickly dipping down toward the airfield. They were just about on the ground before anyone realized something was wrong. The large white pieces of cloth scattered around were parachutes. A machine gun at the end of the runway opened fire. Planes with the red star descended out of the clouds like wolves after a rabbit.

Kuzumi could see Russian paratroopers firing their rifles at the plane as the pilot desperately tried to pull up. A stream of bullets tore through the fuselage and men screamed as the large-caliber bullets found flesh. The plane tipped over and slammed into the ground.

Kuzumi woke up in agony, pain spiking through his back. He was in the back half of the plane, he could tell that, but there was no front half. Daylight streamed in. He could hear voices yelling in Russian. He reached down his side and with difficulty flipped open the holster holding his Model 94 pistol. For some reason he was having great trouble moving his arms. He pulled the pistol up and put the muzzle to the side of his head as he saw a Russian officer climb into the wreckage. Kuzumi pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

He pulled again, then remembered he had not pulled back the slide to chamber a round. He reached to do it but a jackboot slammed down on his right hand, pinning it to the floor of the plane. Kuzumi could feel bones crack in his hand.

The Russian officer stooped over and took the pistol. The man laughed and shook his head as he tucked the souvenir into his belt. Then he spit in Kuzumi’s face as other soldiers clambered into the wreckage. They dragged Kuzumi out of the remains of the plane. He spent a few days trussed there at the airfield, lying in his own excrement and in agony before a senior officer arrived. They cleaned Kuzumi up and took him on a Russian plane to a camp in the middle of Siberia. Kuzumi had only a glimpse at it as they dragged him off the plane to the prison building. He didn’t see the world outside that building for eight years.

Kuzumi looked down at his right hand. The fingers had never healed properly. Nothing had. The Russians had used every injury he suffered in the crash for their torture and then made new ones.

Eight years. Eight years of needles directly into his spine where the bone had been broken. The nerves manipulated to bring forth pain. Eight years of the fingers being bent back again and again and again. The drugs, the lack of sleep and food. The water dripping through his cell. The illnesses. The total lack of communication with any human being other than his torturers. Then the brief moments where they reversed the process and lavished food and rest upon him for a day or two to make the lack even more noticeable. Then they would kick the door open and take it all away and begin the torture anew.

But they let him keep the picture. He now knew why. To remind him of another life and to quicken his breaking under then-control. But it had worked the opposite way. The picture gave him strength. There was life out there. Or so he had thought. So he had thought for those eight long years.

Kuzumi leaned back in his wheelchair. The Russians had wanted information. They had seen the blast from Genzai Bakudan. They had known of the program from their own spies. They wanted the secret of the atom. But Kuzumi had never spoken. Never said a word. No matter what they did. For eight years. The Russians got their secrets to develop a bomb elsewhere and when they finally exploded their first one, Kuzumi was no longer valuable in that capacity.

The Society saved him. The Russians no longer needed the secrets in Kuzumi’s head. A bullet in the brain would have been par for the KGB men who controlled his fate. But the Society made Kuzumi valuable to the Russians through a discreet Red Chinese agent. They offered money, minerals, and other valuables for the wreck of a body that Kuzumi was. There was a discreet exchange of man for treasure on one of the small Kuril Islands that were in dispute between Russia and Japan.

Kuzumi never walked again. He was returned to Hokkaido. And found out the strength he had drawn from the picture was long gone. So he had embraced the Society that had saved him with all his heart and soul, knowing that never again would he open a space in there for another human being.

Kuzumi took the picture and refolded it. He put it back in the box. The Russians had gone through great lengths for eight years trying to unlock the secret of Genzai Bakudan. Now, what were the North Koreans after and how much of a price were they willing to pay?