Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation Read online

  “Well,” he said with a condescending grin, “that information is classified, I am afraid. I can no more discuss it with you than I can with a reporter from CNN or the BBC.”

  “But you can shed some light, can’t you, on what exactly Ms. Yi herself was working on when she was killed?”

  “Surely, you understand that that would be improper, Ms. Kincaid.”

  “Haven’t you spoken to the Seoul Metropolitan Police?”

  “I spoke briefly with a detective. He told me that Ms. Yi had been the victim of a homicide. We discussed nothing else of substance.”

  “The detective wasn’t curious about the victim’s work?”

  A slight smile appeared on the ambassador’s lips. “No, of course not. I suspect he had no reason to be. Guests at the Sophia Guesthouse, where Ms. Yi was murdered, overheard an argument between her and her boyfriend just prior to the murder. From what I understand, most of the evidence speaks for itself. The fact that Mr. Wyckoff has run, I believe, is further evidence of…” He trailed off, searching for the proper words, then finally continued. “…of what, unfortunately, transpired that evening.”

  “Speaking of overhearing,” Kincaid began, “during the four-party talks, do you think it at all possible that Ms. Yi overheard something she shouldn’t have?”

  Young spoke without hesitation. “I would think not, though I am not sure what relevance you believe your question might have.” He folded his hands atop his desk. “I sincerely hope that you and Mr. Janson have not been giving Senator Wyckoff false hope by inventing wild conspiracy theories. The senator and his wife are going through quite enough right now, I am sure.”

  “I’m only following up on the senator’s suggestions,” she said with a smile of her own. “Part of our job is to rule out alternative theories of the murder.”

  “I see,” he said as he moved to rise from his seat. “Well, I wish you and Mr. Janson luck with your investigation. And, please, send Senator Wyckoff and his wife my deepest sympathies.”

  Kincaid didn’t move. “Just a couple more questions, Ambassador, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Young sighed heavily but returned to his seat. “I do have another appointment this afternoon. So, please, proceed. But your brevity will be much appreciated.”

  “These talks you are involved in, can we assume they cover many of the same issues that were discussed during the previous six-party talks, the negotiations that also involved the Russian Federation and Japan?”

  “The Korean issues are well-known around the world, Ms. Kincaid.”

  “So, North Korea’s nuclear program? Trade normalization? The lifting of sanctions?”

  “I believe all of those issues would sound familiar to anyone who reads Chosun Ilbo or the New York Times.”

  Kincaid recognized the finality in the ambassador’s answer. “One last question, Ambassador.” She rushed her words to prevent him from declining. “Was anyone in this embassy close to Ms. Yi? Anyone who might know her a little better than you did?”

  Young’s eyes darted to the doorway, where he’d acknowledged his chief aide just minutes earlier. “No one that I know of,” the ambassador said. “She was an introvert, from all accounts.”

  “Did she have any direct contact with the other parties? Contact that may have excluded the US envoy?”

  Young finally stood. “None that I am aware of,” he said curtly. “Now, if you will excuse me, Ms. Kincaid, I really must prepare for my next appointment.” He punched a button on his intercom.

  The young man who had led Kincaid into Young’s office replied, “Yes, Ambassador.”

  “Jonathan, please show Ms. Kincaid to the exit. Our meeting has come to an end.”

  FOUR

  Fifteen minutes after Jessica Kincaid left the US embassy, Ambassador Owen Young gathered his briefcase, slipped into his hunter-green overcoat and black fedora, and called downstairs to have his car warmed and ready. Young’s life had taken a decidedly difficult turn since he and the rest of the world learned the extent to which the National Security Agency was spying on its enemies and allies, even its own citizens. Given the broad scope of NSA targets, it seemed unlikely that the telephones inside the embassy in Seoul weren’t tapped. So Young had stopped using them for everything but the most innocuous of tasks. From his office, he called his dry cleaner, his wife’s interior decorator, and made appointments for haircuts and oil changes and dental checkups. He used his personal cell phone only to call his home or office. For everything else, he used telephones only he knew about.

  One such telephone was a landline at a twenty-first-floor apartment he rented under a false name in the Gangnam district. Gangnam was a word the entire industrialized world was now familiar with, thanks to the South Korean pop artist who called himself Psy. The word actually meant “south of the river,” which was where Gangnam-gu was located—south of the Han.

  As he waited in traffic on the bridge the ambassador considered what he would tell Edward Clarke, the current director of the State Department’s Consular Operations. There was no question in his mind that matters had just become even more complicated. Young experienced a twinge of anxiety over how Clarke would react.

  But then, the appearance of Paul Janson and Jessica Kincaid in Seoul wasn’t his fault; what did he have to worry about? It was Clarke who would have to explain himself.

  A few minutes later Young was cruising through the ritzy residential area he hoped to one day call his permanent home. By the end of this year, if everything remained on track with Clarke and the others, he would be able to. He’d already planted the seed with his wife, Mi-ho, and their three children. The only part of the plan that wasn’t yet thought out was precisely what he’d tell his wife about the source of his financial windfall. A number of ideas were already rolling around in his head. In the end, it didn’t matter so much. He’d probably resign his post as ambassador and tell his wife and children that he was taking an early retirement from public service because of a business deal that was too good to pass up. His wife didn’t ask too many questions, after all; it was part of what endeared her to him.

  This cozy apartment in Gangnam, for instance, had initially been rented for someone else, someone the ambassador enjoyed spending time with—a Canadian diplomat who had since moved on to another area of the globe. His wife had never questioned his need for the place, which he’d told her was an investment property he intended to rent out. Something he’d never quite gotten around to. But as he often joked with his chief aide, Jonathan: What my wife doesn’t know can’t hurt me.

  In the lobby the ambassador nodded to the doorman, who returned the gesture with a respectful bow, then he headed straight for the elevator. He stepped out on the twenty-first floor and walked to the end of the hallway, now feeling slightly nostalgic for Severn, his former Canadian mistress. He wondered if she would consider a trip to Seoul in the not-too-distant future. With the money he’d have by the end of the year, he would even offer to pay her way. How could any enthusiastic traveler such as Severn turn down a first-class ticket on Korean Air and a week’s stay in this stunning apartment overlooking the Han River?

  Inside the apartment he shed his overcoat and set his fedora on the small but elegant dining room table. Then he picked up the phone. Although no one but Severn knew he kept this apartment, he had his line checked regularly for bugs. The last time was just a few days ago, so he felt secure as he dialed Clarke’s number. Clarke’s phone would be clean; the director was not a man who took chances with his privacy.

  “Records Department. Winston speaking.”

  Young smiled. “Just the man I was looking for.”

  Their code was taken from George Orwell’s 1984, which turned out to have even more relevance now than the day they first adopted it. NSA had indeed become Big Brother on steroids, at least in the ambassador’s opinion.

  “It would seem that Diophantus is in jeopardy,” Young said into the receiver.

  “How so?”

  “Have you not been apprised of the senator’s new hires?”

  Clarke sighed. “I just heard from Honolulu. Believe me, Paul Janson doesn’t know anything. Wyckoff sent him on a fishing expedition; he thinks the senator’s paranoid. Janson only took the assignment for the payday.”

  “He came all the way to Seoul just to confirm the kid’s guilt? I find that hard to believe.”

  “He’s collecting an eight-million-dollar fee, Ambassador. Janson’s going to look for the senator’s boy. We just have to be sure to find the kid before he does.”

  “I just met Janson’s associate at the embassy. She doesn’t seem to think she’s on a fishing expedition. She seems suspicious. She repeatedly asked about the four-party talks and the translator’s role in them.”

  “Of course Jessica Kincaid’s suspicious. Since the day she left Cons Ops, she’s been seeing conspiracies everywhere. It’s only natural for a former intelligence agent. But Janson’s got a level head; he’ll rein her in. The fact that he sent Kincaid to you in the first place tells us he trusts State completely.”

  “Even after Mobius?”

  Owen Young had only been let in on the Mobius Program well after the fact. But ever since he learned of the breadth and sophistication of the operation, he’d been in awe of the possibilities of clandestine operations. If the invisible hand of Consular Operations could create (and for years control) a visionary billionaire like Peter Novak to carry out their global agenda, then they could accomplish just about anything. It was why he had trusted that Diophantus would be an unmitigated success. This incident with the translator and the senator’s son was the first error he’d seen made. But it was a significant one. And it had to be corrected without delay.

  “Ambassador, we’ve worked with Jan
son since then. He got what he wanted: the Mobius Program was shut down. And we’ve been keeping tabs on him ever since. As far as Janson’s concerned, Mobius was an isolated incident.”

  “We are in agreement, Director, that the stakes involved in Diophantus are even greater.” He paused for a breath. “I believe we should err on the side of caution.”

  “As we have been, Ambassador.”

  “I do not need to remind you that the only reason we are having this conversation in the first place is because your man allowed the kid to escape.”

  Edward Clarke hesitated. “You want me to eighty-six Janson, is that what you’re saying? Because my predecessor attempted just that in order to salvage Mobius. That directive very nearly blew him and everyone else involved out of the water.”

  Young considered this. “You say that Janson is just fishing, that it is the woman who is suspicious, correct? In that case, you need not eliminate Janson.”

  “You want me to take out Kincaid.” Clarke’s words didn’t take the form of a question. “If I set my people on Kincaid, that’s the one certain way we can expect to involve Paul Janson. There’s more going on between him and Kincaid than just a working relationship, Ambassador.”

  “Then I anticipate he will be too distraught to continue the job for the senator.”

  Clarke smirked. “You don’t understand. If Kincaid is taken out, Paul Janson will find out who’s behind it even if it kills him.”

  “Perhaps it will kill him. You have faith in your current asset, do you not?”

  The director exhaled audibly. “Ambassador, you’re asking me to kick a fucking hornet’s nest. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  “I’m not asking you to kick it, Director. I’m asking you to dispose of it. There is a significant difference.”

  * * *

  EXASPERATED, EDWARD CLARKE slammed down the receiver. The sensation felt strangely unfamiliar. He’d slammed down plenty of phones in his time, but he hadn’t had the pleasure in maybe ten or fifteen years. Technology had gotten in the way. Hanging up on someone no longer gave you the same satisfaction as marching out of a room and slamming the door behind you. Hell, it probably wouldn’t be long before slammable doors were taken away too, replaced by those sliding contraptions on Star Trek.

  Clarke stood from behind his desk and paced the length of his office in silence. He’d spent his entire adult life in the shadows of power, first at Langley then with Consular Operations. He’d taken plenty of shit over the span of his career, but none of it had become public and none of it had been personal. As deputy director of Consular Operations he’d taken the most, but he also had the opportunity to witness firsthand the incredible reach of genuine power. His predecessor, Director Derek Collins, had altered the course of history on several fronts, and to this day no one outside the Beltway even knew his name. He’d never had a website or even a Wikipedia page. Everything he did, every masterful stroke he took in his years as director of Cons Ops, had been performed behind a virtually impenetrable curtain. That was true power.

  Now that power belonged to Edward Clarke. And like his predecessor, he wasn’t afraid to wield it.

  Unfortunately, even the most powerful men in the most powerful nation on earth had to rely on other human beings. In this case, Clarke had to rely on several. The ambassador was turning out to be more of a pain in the ass than he ever expected. Clarke was all but certain that it was because Owen Young had a much different, a much lesser, motivation. All the US ambassador to Seoul was interested in was the money.

  Edward Clarke’s motivation, on the other hand, was noble and pure. He was doing what he was doing for the good of the country. Like Collins before him, Clarke had vision. He saw threats others refused to see, acted on dangers others chose to completely ignore. Maintaining the status quo in Asia would be a monumental mistake for the United States of America. Most US politicians were too busy banking their votes and lining their pockets to see past the next election cycle. Clarke, however, suffered no such nearsightedness. If those who dwelled aboveground in Washington insisted on sitting on their hands while the world moved in a direction contrary to American interests, it was up to those who lived in the shadows to take swift and powerful action.

  Clarke stopped pacing and lifted the receiver from his desk. The current trouble had started with a simple leak, but Clarke had moved without hesitation to contain it. It was a simple task, yet somehow his most reliable asset in Asia had fucked it up, royally. The Wyckoff kid should have been buried with the translator, but now they couldn’t even locate him. The Seoul Metropolitan Police were having no more luck than Clarke’s people. If they could at least get the kid into custody, Clarke would have options.

  First of all, regardless of what his girlfriend might have told him (and it was possible she’d told him nothing), no one would believe a word the kid said. He was a nineteen-year-old stoner accused of murder. If Gregory Wyckoff had been promptly apprehended, Clarke could have simply let the South Korean criminal justice system run its course. Now, however, he had to play his hand much more cautiously. He continued to hope for an immediate arrest—after all, someone could get to the kid as easily inside prison as out—but he needed to take additional steps.

  Unfortunately, the ambassador was right when he asserted that the senator from North Carolina had thrown a monkey wrench into the works. He’d hired the one man who knew precisely how Consular Operations worked. That move turned this entire contingency into a footrace. Arrest or no arrest, they had to get to the kid before Paul Janson did. And Clarke was sure they could. But the ambassador, understandably, didn’t want to take that chance. The only way to be 100 percent positive that Janson and his partner, Jessica Kincaid, didn’t find the kid before they did was to take them out of the picture. So Edward Clarke was now forced to issue the same directive his predecessor once had.

  After several rings a voice finally answered. “This is Ping.”

  “Our asset in Seoul has a new directive.”

  “I see.”

  “The kid is still a go, but there are two individuals in Seoul who need to be tended to first.”

  “Understood.”

  “You may be familiar with them. They’re both former Cons Ops.”

  “Their names in the order you’d like this task accomplished?”

  Clarke sighed heavily but didn’t hesitate. “Jessica Kincaid,” he said. “And Paul Elie Janson.”

  FIVE

  War Memorial of Korea

  Itaewon, Yongsan-gu, Seoul

  One of the most powerful men in South Korea stood just four feet eleven inches.

  As he entered the second-floor exhibit, Paul Janson spotted Nam Sei-hoon standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing wistfully into a massive display case housing life-size wax figures depicting a particularly brutal battle from the Korean War. The small man shifted his eyes up and to the left as he caught a glimpse of Janson’s approach in the reflective glass. As Janson sidled up beside him, Nam Sei-hoon said softly without looking at him, “I never tire of this place, Paul.”

  Janson bowed his head and remained silent as his old friend cleared his throat and ran a finger beneath his left eye to catch a falling tear. As far as Janson knew, the three-floor museum was the largest of its kind, a marvel of modern architecture that housed centuries of national memories, capturing both the jubilance and the misery associated with war, the latter of which Janson himself knew all too well.

  The Korean War exhibit in which they stood was one of eight main exhibits on the grounds. Two of the pieces Janson observed outside had already stuck in his mind like a pushpin. One, the Statue of Brothers, which portrayed a South Korean officer embracing his younger brother, a North Korean soldier. The other, the Peace Clock Tower, a sculpture consisting of two clocks, the first reflecting the current time, the second memorializing the date of the invasion from the North. The second clock was to be replaced when the two Koreas were one again. Both pieces represented the South’s passionate desire for Korean reunification.

  “I am grateful that you contacted me,” Nam said, finally turning his weathered face to Janson.