close-support and low-altitude attack missions as well as aerial reconnaissance. In its latter capacity, the fifty-foot- long two-seater was able to fly at speeds of up to Mach 2.2 at fifty-nine thousand feet; it could achieve both just under five minutes from brake-release. The U.S. Air Force had purchased six of the planes for use in Europe and the Far East, partly to cement military ties with France and partly because the jet was state-of-the-art.
The jet roared into the night sky from the U.S. air base in Osaka. Planes coming toward the North from the South had to fly higher and were easier to pick up on radar; planes coming from Japan could fly in low over the sea and be in and over North Korea before the military could respond.
The Mirage reached the eastern coast of North Korea fifteen minutes after takeoff; as its M53-2 turbofan engine kicked it into a nearly vertical climb, Recon Officer Margolin seated behind the pilot began snapping photographs. She was using a Leika with a 500x telephoto lens, modified for night vision.
The officer had been briefed on what to watch for: troop movements and activity around the nuclear power plants and chemical storage sites. Anything similar to what the NRO spy satellite had seen around the capital.
What she saw as the Mirage passed Pyongyang and swept southwest over the bay and toward the Yellow Sea astounded her. She told the pilot to forget the sweep back for a second look: they raced toward the thirty- eighth parallel, and as soon as they were across, Margolin broke radio silence to talk to the mission commander.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
For several minutes, Gregory Donald stood in the doorway of the small base chapel, unable to move. He looked at the plain pine coffin, unable to see inside, unwilling to do so until he was ready.
He had just gotten off the phone with her father, who admitted that he had become concerned when Soonji hadn't called him. He knew she'd been going to the celebration, and whenever there had been a problem, anyplace she went, she'd always phoned to say she was all right. She hadn't done that today. And when there was no answer at home and no record of her at any hospital, he'd feared the worst.
Kim Yong Nam took it the way he took everything that upset him: by withdrawing. Immediately after hearing about Soonji's death and Donald's plans for a funeral in America, he had hung up without uttering a word of thanks, sorrow, or condolence. Donald had never held Kim's manner against him, and he hadn't expected a word or two— welcome though they would have been. Everyone had their own way of dealing with grief, and Kim's was to shut it in, others out.
Breathing deeply, he forced himself to think back to the way he had last seen her— not as his wife, not as Soonji, but as a torn figure cradled lifelessly in his arms. He prepared himself, told himself that the mortician's art was one of suggestion, transforming the dead into the vision of peace and red-cheeked health— but not ever re- creating life as we remembered it. Yet it would be more, he knew, than death as he remembered it. More than that broken and bloodied flesh he held- His breathing was tremulous, his step unsteady as he entered the room. There were large candles burning on either side of the coffin, toward the head, and he walked around to the foot without looking in. From the corner of his eye he could see the dress they had sent a soldier to collect, the plain, white silk gown she wore when they were married. He could see the red and white of the bouquet they had placed in her hands, on her waist. Donald had asked for that: though Soonji didn't believe that red and white roses brought you to the side of God, her mother, who believed in Chondokyo, had been buried that way. She might not find God, in whose existence she had more faith than he, but perhaps Soonji would find her mother.
Facing the coffin, he raised his eyes slowly.
And smiled. They had taken care of his girl. In life she had worn only the slightest touch of rouge, and she had on only a hint of it now. Her lashes were lightly brushed with mascara, and her skin wasn't caked with powder or paint but fair-looking, as it had been in life. Someone must have brought her perfume from their apartment, for he became aware of it now that he stood so close. Donald resisted the urge to touch her, for to the senses of sight and smell she was asleep? and at peace.
He wept openly as he moved to the left side of the coffin, not to gaze more closely at her but to kiss his finger and touch it to her gold wedding band, a ring inscribed with their names and the date they were married.
After allowing himself to touch the ruff of her sleeve, and remembering how soft and young and vital she had been the day they were wed, Donald walked from the chapel stronger than when he had entered, with reason in control of the anger he had shown General Norbom.
But he still intended to go north, with or without his friend's help.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
When Kim Hwan entered the guardroom, the Desk Sergeant gave him a photo ID. Hwan read the information: Name: Lee Ki-Soo. Age: Twenty. Address: 116 Hai Way, Seoul.
'Did you check it?' he asked.
'Yes, sir. The apartment is leased to a Shin Jong U, whom we haven't been able to contact— this man says he lives in a room and that Mr. U is away on business. He works at the General Motors factory outside of town, but the personnel department is closed until tomorrow.'
Hwan nodded, and as the Desk Sergeant prepared to take notes, the Deputy Director studied the man who had come to see him. He was short but well muscled; Hwan could see that in his neck and forearms. He was dressed in a factory worker's drab grays; he played with his black beret, shifted uneasily from foot to foot, and bowed several times when Hwan first entered. But his eyes never left Hwan, and they were strangely unsettling: they had a hard but lifeless glaze, like the eyes of a shark.
Strange combination— odd man, he thought. But today affected many people, and perhaps he was one of them.
Hwan moved up to a circular metal grid in the glass. 'I'm Deputy Director Kim Hwan. You asked to see me?'
'You are in charge of this— this terrible thing?'
'I am.'
'I saw them. As I told this fellow, I saw three men. They were walking away from the truck toward the old section— carrying bags.'
'Did you see their faces?'
The man shook his head quickly. 'I was not close enough. I was standing right out there—' He sidled to the door and jabbed with his finger. 'By the benches. I was looking for— you know, sometimes they put lavatories out for the public. But not today. And while I was looking, I saw them.'
'Are you certain you couldn't identify them? Color of their hair—'
'Black. All three.'
'Facial hair? The size of their noses? Thin lips, large lips, prominent ears?'
'I'm sorry, I didn't see. As I said, I had other things on my mind.'
'Do you recall what they were wearing?'
'Clothes. I mean, ordinary street clothes. And boots. I think they had boots on.'
Hwan regarded the man for a moment. 'Is there anything else?''
The man shook his head.
'Would you be agreeable to signing a statement regarding what you saw? It will only take a few minutes to prepare.'
The man shook his head vigorously and quickly closed the small distance between himself and the door. 'No, sir. I couldn't do that. I was not on my break when I went to the ceremony, so I slipped out. I wanted to be there, you understand. If my bosses knew, I would be disciplined—'
