Fallout

“Earlier, when I mentioned PuH-19, you said, ‘I was afraid of that.’ What did you mean?”

“That guy — the Korean, I guess — he’s been asking me about PuH-19… about its properties… how much experience I’ve had working with it — that kind of thing.”

“And?”

Stewart hesitated. “I don’t know if I can… you know. Classified stuff. Sorry.”

“Okay. I’ll find out.” Grimsdottir will find out. Fisher assumed it was weapons research. “But, suffice it to say, you’re an expert on PuH-19?”

“Yeah. I wish I wasn’t, but yeah.”

An odd couple, Fisher thought. A hydrogeologist and a particle physicist who specializes in what was probably PuH-19-related weapons research. What did the two have in common? At first glance, the hydro part of Carmen Hayes’s specialty, combined with Stewart’s knowledge of PuH-19, suggested someone had plans to introduce PuH-19 into a water supply, but you didn’t need a hydrogeologist for that. One of New York City’s primary sources of drinking water was the wide-open and largely unguarded Ashokan Reservoir in the Catskills, and the story was the same for most cities in the United States, large and small. The trick was finding a toxin deadly enough to survive dilution; PuH-19 would certainly do that.

So, again, why these two scientists? What was the overlap in their specialties that had made them targets for kidnapping?

Either way, it sounded like Stewart’s Korean interrogator was simply probing Stewart’s knowledge level. Stewart showed no signs of physical abuse, which told Fisher that whoever had snagged Stewart needed more than just his knowledge; they needed him alive. They needed his hands-on expertise for something tangible.

Fisher didn’t want to think about what that might be.

16

THIRD ECHELON SITUATION ROOM

“Got a match,” Grimsdottir announced, pushing through the situation room’s door. She strode to the conference table where Fisher, Lambert, and William Redding, Fisher’s occasional advance man and field handler, were sitting. As of late, however, Redding’s role had become that of free safety: research, weapons and gear, brainstormer at large. His de facto uniform of the day was a sweater vest, pocket protector, and horn-rimmed glasses that looked as old as Fisher. Though Fisher had never seen it personally, Redding’s personal library of books — both contemporary and arcane — was rumored to exceed twenty thousand.

It was eight o’clock at night, and the space was lit only by a cluster of blue-shaded pendant lamps hanging over the table; the monitors and status boards were dark.

Grimsdottir sat down opposite Fisher and triumphantly plopped a manila folder on the table before Lambert. Fisher could see the Take that! gleam in her eyes. Nothing pleased Grim more than besting a technical challenge. Evidently, finding a name to match the Korean face Fisher had captured aboard the Gosselin had given Grim a run for her money.

Lambert opened the folder and scanned its contents. “Chin-Hwa Pak,” he announced. “Ostensibly a North Korean salary man, but the CIA had him pegged as an operative for the RDEI.”

The Research Department for External Intelligence was North Korea’s primary foreign intelligence collection agency. Along with the Liaison Department, which was tasked with conducting intelligence operations against South Korea and Japan, the RDEI was overseen by the Cabinet General Intelligence Bureau of the Korean Workers’ Party Central Committee.

Internal security in North Korea was handled by the Ministry of Public Security (MPS) and the State Security Department (SSD). The latter, which was managed directly by Kim Jong-il himself, specialized in political espionage; the surveillance of citizens, government officials, and visitors alike; and the monitoring of communication systems, including television, radio, and newspapers.

Fisher had been in North Korea five times, and five times he counted himself lucky to get back out.

“So, if North Korea’s behind the kidnapping of Hayes and Stewart,” Redding said, “we have to assume she’s already there and that’s where Stewart is headed.”

“It would be best if that didn’t happen,” Fisher said. “If you’re right and Carmen is there, reaching her — let alone getting her out — is going to be tough. Grim, where’s the Gosselin right now?”

Grimsdottir used a remote control to power up one of the forty-two-inch LCD screens, then tapped a key. The screen resolved into a satellite image of Canada’s east coast: Quebec, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland, including the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the Gaspe Passage, where Fisher had boarded the Gosselin. A pulsing red triangle with the annotation GOSSELIN beside it sat in the channel between the Gaspe Peninsula and Anticosti Island.

“Still headed for Halifax, it looks like,” Fisher said.

Grimsdottir nodded. “If she stays on course and speed, she should tie up at Legard’s warehouse there in twenty-nine hours.”

“The beacon Fisher planted on him — still active?” Lambert asked.

Before leaving Stewart, Fisher had planted a long-range beacon on him: a fake, adhesive thumbnail with an embedded chip. The Voodoo Dust had neither the range nor the durability for their purposes.

“Strong and clear. He’s still aboard,” Grimsdottir answered.

Brave man, Fisher thought, recalling the transformation he’d seen Stewart undergo at the mention of PuH-19. He’d gone from a whimpering mess of a man to a determined mole in the space of ten seconds. Nor had Fisher forgotten his promise to go back for Stewart. What was in doubt was whether he could do that before Chin-Hwa Pak managed to spirit him away to North Korea.

Lambert turned to Fisher. “Sam, go home, get some sleep, then come back for prep and briefing. We’ll want you at Legard’s warehouse long before Gosselin docks.”

Fisher nodded and started to rise. The phone at Lambert’s elbow trilled. Lambert picked up, listened for a few moments, then grunted a “Thanks,” and hung up. To Grimsdottir, he said, “Give me MSNBC, Grim.”

She worked the remote again. The LCD screen beside the satellite image came to life.

“… now, reports are sketchy,” the MSNBC anchor was saying, “but it appears there is military activity taking place in Kyrgyzstan’s capital city of Bishkek. According to a BBC correspondent on scene, about an hour ago the city came under what appeared to be mortar bombardment. Do we have video…? Yes, I’m told we have video, courtesy of BBC news…”

The screen changed to a daylight scene of what Fisher assumed was Bishkek. The BBC cameraman was on a rooftop, panning across the cityscape, as the correspondent spoke. In dozens of places throughout the city columns of black smoke were visible. Sirens warbled in the distance, and car horns, both from anxious drivers and alarms, blared.

“These are very concentrated strikes,” the correspondent was saying. “Not your typical mortar barrage, I would say. I’ve been in both Afghanistan and Iraq during these types of attacks, so I’m certain what we’re seeing is in fact a mortar attack, but the precision is astounding…”

The camera continued to pan, then paused and moved back, focusing a half mile down an adjoining street where what looked like an armored personnel carrier sat burning, a geyser of black smoke jetting from its top.

“There… there’s an APC that’s been hit. Johnny, can you zoom in…” The camera zoomed in. “See there, no visible crater near the vehicle. That appears to be a direct hit.”

On the screen, a cluster of people, mostly women and children, dashed across the street in front of the APC and disappeared down an adjacent alley. Closer in, an open truck full of soldiers wheeled around the corner, swerved around the burning APC, then turned again out of camera range.

“Government troops are clearly scrambling at this point,” the correspondent continued, “but so far we’ve heard no sounds of small-arms fire, nor seen any close-quarters fighting. However…”

“Mute it,” Lambert said. Grimsdottir did so. “Here we go again.”

Since March 2005, when President Askar Akayev had been forced out of office, Kyrgyzstan had been a political powder keg as various factions, extreme and moderate, religious and secular, had fought for control of the country. As one of the Central Asian “stans” that sat atop what was likely one of the world’s greatest untapped oil