Critical Intelligence

“It’s Hal on line one,” he said.

“Thanks, Bear,” she answered.

She set her coffee down and picked up the handset as she sank into her chair. She put the phone to her ear and tapped a key on her computer, knocking the screen off standby mode.

“Hal, it’s Barb,” she said.

“I’m outside the Oval Office right now,” Brognola said. “Are the boys up and rolling?”

“As we speak,” Price answered. “Tell him operations are prepped to launch at his word.”

“All right. Let’s hope this one goes by the numbers,” the gruff federal agent said.

“As always,” she agreed, and hung up.

“All right, people,” she announced to the room. “Let’s get ready to roll.”

CHAPTER TWO

Bogotá, Colombia

Lieutenant Colonel Sim Sin-Bok lit his cigar.

The North Korean intelligence officer narrowed his eyes in pleasure as he inhaled the thick, strong smoke of the Corona Grande. The rich nicotine entered his bloodstream and he immediately felt the euphoric rush. He relaxed into the plush leather seats of the BMW X3 and released the tobacco smoke through his nose in a sigh.

“Nothing but the best, eh, my friend?” Jimenez Naranjo purred.

The FARC commander was seated directly across from the covert representative of North Korea. The two men rode in comfort as the sleek, black BMW SUV flew down a jungle road leading deeper into mountains.

“I must admit,” Sin-Bok said in accented Spanish, “I have come to enjoy our little liaisons.”

“Your boss, he enjoys our money, too. No?” Naranjo winked, flashing white teeth.

“As much as yours enjoys our armaments,” Sin-Bok countered.

The intelligence officer had been all over the Pacific Rim and Middle East in his years of service with the most glorious leaders. He had come to have a grudging respect for the FARC commander Naranjo in the course of their dealings, but weapons sales to violent groups always left him feeling nonplussed at best.

The SUV raced along the jungle road, cutting deeper into the mountain stronghold of the last nebulous Communist insurgency left on the planet. More than any ideological revelations, it had been the extortion of Colombian drug barons by the FARC guerrillas that had propelled them down a road toward the sort of capitalism they claimed to despise so much. They claimed their actions were about the rights of the peasant farmers to grow a crop that turned them profits and improved their lives.

For all Sin-Bok knew, the FARC leaders believed that. But he also knew that the influx of cocaine money had made things like up-armored diplomat-model BMW SUVs available to what had once been a rabble force dressed in rags. They were also able to purchase guidance systems such as the ones he carried on a flash drive in his briefcase. Guidance systems that could turn shoot-and-forget munitions such as old Soviet S-7 grail rocket launchers into weapons of pinpoint accuracy, capable of disabling a tank or knocking even American combat helicopters out of the sky.

Naranjo moved his hand down and hit a lever button on his seat rest. Behind him the vehicle’s glass partition powered smoothly up, the engine making a subdued whine as it closed.

Sin-Bok kept his face inscrutable. He had dealt with Chinese Tongs based in Hong Kong, with representatives of Hamas and the Syrian government. He had sold or bought illicit goods from them all. He did not rattle easily and best of all, his ability to eat outside of the famine pit that was North Korea had left him with a bit of a pot belly. Such a belly was an indication of power in his nation. Men noticed and feared those grown so powerful they could be fat. Women took note and were appropriately impressed.

Sin-Bok cocked an eyebrow toward Naranjo.

When the FARC leader spoke he carefully enunciated each word so that there could be no misunderstanding. And he spoke in English.

“Two plus five equals seven,” he said.

Sin-Bok felt a cold squirt of adrenaline hit his stomach. He felt his throat swell up from the reaction and he forced himself not to swallow and thus reveal his surprise and nervousness.

By the dragon’s luck, he thought wildly, this cannot be. Then he thought, Their servants truly are everywhere.

On his lap his hands tightened momentarily around his attaché case. Then relaxed. He met Naranjo’s eye and nodded once, sharply.

“Three plus four equals seven,” Sin-Bok replied, also in English, completing the code parole and establishing his rank as one higher than his contact.

The two agents of the shadowy organization stared at each other for a long moment. Naranjo opened a lid set between his rear-facing seats and pulled out two cut-crystal tumblers and a bottle of expensive rum.

He poured Sin-Bok a glass and handed it over. The North Korean espionage agent took it without a word. The enhanced suspension on the BMW made their vehicle ride like it was on rails. He sipped the sugar-cane liquor, enjoying the sharp alcohol.

He carefully set his tumbler on top of his leather attaché case and picked up his cigar from the ashtray. He drew in a lungful of smoke as the FARC narcoterrorist and field agent poured himself a drink.

After Naranjo had put the bottle away, Sin-Bok spoke again.

“I take it these guidance systems aren’t just headed for your jungle camps,” he observed.

“Ah, no,” Naranjo admitted, switching back to Spanish. “I, like you, am a link.”

With a rueful look Sin-Bok held up his glass. “Here’s to Seven,” he said, voice rueful.

White House, Washington, D.C.

HAL BROGNOLA LOOKED OUT the east door of the Oval Office and into the Rose Garden. Beside him in a comfortable chair sat the special envoy to North Korea. They faced the President of the United States in his traditional seat behind the desk made from the timbers of the HMS Resolute.

Behind them in the northeast corner a grandfather clock built by John and Thomas Seymour ticked out the passing of time. Waiting for the President to finish reading the report, Brognola looked down at the carpet on the floor, noting the presidential seal. He’d been in this office a good many times over the years, seen more than one man pass through the job, seen the job age them all.

The President sighed. He tossed the national intelligence estimate addendum down on the desk and leaned back. He folded his hands in a pensive motion and cocked an eyebrow at Brognola.

“You’re sure, then?” The question was perfunctory.

Brognola nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

The President frowned and twisted slightly in his seat. “Let’s get ’em on the line,” he told the envoy.

The special envoy leaned forward and tapped a few numbers out on the handset located on the desktop. He activated the speakerphone function and leaned back while the number dialed. After two digital ring tones a smooth feminine voice answered, Korean.

The envoy answered in Korean, then stated, “With your permission, Mr. Ambassador, I would like to switch to English.”

There was a brief pause, then a sharp, almost shrill man’s voice spoke in quick, truncated syllables. The North Korean regime did not maintain a diplomatic presence in the United States, and the men in the Oval Office were speaking to the leader of the U.N. delegation in New York.

“Yes, English is fine,” the ambassador said. “But whatever language we choose to continue wasting our time in, the fact still remains constant. The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea has no knowledge of the activities of which you speak. We consider such activities as a personal insult on the character of our most beloved leader, the eternal president, Kim Jong-il. Frankly a continuation of this so-called investigation will be construed as a hostile act.”

Brognola shifted his gaze away from the conference call toward the President’s face. It remained impassive except for the slight tightening of muscles along the jaw, indicating that he was grinding his teeth.

“Mr. Ambassador,” the envoy began, “we consider the arming and training of known terrorist groups such as FARC to be hostile acts.”