Ian Slater: WW III

“So?” asked the younger agent.

“In the morning we follow him home. That’s what we want. Why grab him now if we can get the whole cell?”

“You believe he doesn’t know we’re on to him?”

“No,” answered Chin. “But it’s a possibility. Old Kim Shin Jo didn’t know those woodcutters were on to him either. Did he?”

“You have a point.”

The air raid sirens were reaching full volume and the lights were going out all over the city, huge skyscrapers that dwarfed the Secret Garden’s gnarled pines and tile fluted walls suddenly appearing twice as big and brutish in the moonlight. “You want some gum?” offered the younger agent.

“Gives me gas,” said Chin, turning toward his younger colleague but unable to see him, the moon now enveloped by cloud. Even so, the younger man sensed the other tensing.

“What is it?”

“Unless,” began Chin, his voice dropping, “the garden is the meeting place and he has a set planted.”

The younger agent heard his colleague take out the walkie-talkie, his voice in whispered tones requesting the RDF — radio direction finding — truck to move in to pick up any signals coming from the garden.

“Ah,” said the young agent. “He’d be a fool to transmit from here. In the heart of Seoul!”

“You remember Sorge?” asked Chin. “Germans’ top Communist agent in Japan — the best of them. Told Moscow Japan wouldn’t be attacking through Siberia, so the Russians were able to move a million fresh troops from Siberia to Stalingrad. Changed the war. You know where Sorge transmitted from, my young friend?”

“You’re going to tell me. Right?”

“Used to give parties for all the big shots in the Japanese military aboard his yacht in Tokyo Bay. He’d slip away from the party — transmit from the cabin right below them.”

“He had balls then.”

“You think we have a Communist with balls here?” asked the older man, snuffling the spray again. “Not what you’d expect, is it — transmitting right under our noses?”

“No,” the young man conceded. “It isn’t.” After a few seconds he spoke again. “Shouldn’t you wait longer with that stuff?”

“What?” asked the older agent.

“Nose spray. It can screw up your sinuses if you take it too often.”

“Whose nose is it?”

Soon, in the darkness, they could hear the RDF truck rolling softly down the alley toward the entrance to the Secret Garden, crushing the ginkgo leaves blown down by the summer wind.

In Washington it was morning, and the president, James R. Mayne, was about to go jogging along the Camp David trails for the TV crews to get their clips for the evening news. But there was a problem: the forest-green jogging suit, which would blend in well with the woods and was being insisted upon by the Secret Service, was objected to by the president’s press aide, Paul Trainor. Trainor was advising the president to wear the white jogging suit, which would stand out more in contrast with the woods. It was silly, and normally Jean, the first lady, would have settled it on the spot, but she was away campaigning for the president in the Northwest. In her absence the chief executive left media tactics to Trainor. The election was only eight weeks off, all polls showing the race would be a cliff-hanger. Mayne was still getting high marks for what looked like another arms reduction treaty with the Soviets, but his challenger, Sen. J. D. Leyland from Texas, was batting well, too, with his promise to trim the “federal fat” from “overused, overabused” social programs so that he could in fact “reduce taxes” without weakening national defense.

Mayne’s election platform was based on his cuts in defense spending, directly related, as his campaigners pointed out, to his much-lauded success in having kept the United States from becoming embroiled in “other people’s wars,” particularly in Central America. He had also been successful in keeping down the costs of maintaining U.S. bases throughout the world, such as the forty-two-thousand-man force in South Korea.

Senator Leyland, on the other hand, was running on a platform charging that America was becoming “gravely weakened” by her cutbacks in defense and that the president’s nonintervention in the “wildcat” fires of Central America represented not so much a saving in America’s defense budget as a “bankruptcy” of national policy, which “ignores the demands of U.S. national security and global obligations.”

“Mr. President!”

It was Trainor, handing him The New York Times and Washington Post. “Latest polls, sir.” They confirmed it was still “neck and neck,” but increasingly the president’s “age factor,” sixty-one, against that of his challenger, fifty-one, was commanding more attention from the press.

“Okay — I’ll wear the white suit,” the president told Trainor. He didn’t like playing the media game, but he knew it would be a heck of a lot easier getting things done for the country if he was reelected.

After the photo opportunity in front of Aspen Lodge’s kidney-shaped pool, the president and Trainor headed out by limousine to Andrews for the long hop to California. On the way they saw a banner: “Reelect Mayne — the peace president.”

“That,” said Trainor with conviction, “is what’s gonna beat the ass off Leyland! Seems a terrible thing to say, Mr. President, but in the long run, Vietnam may have turned out to be a blessing in disguise for this country.”

“Well, Paul,” said the president, on the lookout for more groups of supporters, “you’re going to have to explain that one to me.”

“I mean, Mr. President, that this country is going to think twice before they let the drum thumpers send our boys out to get slaughtered for a piece of real estate that means squat-all when you come right down to it.”

A group of Leyland supporters flashed by, holding an enormously long banner reading, “Vote Leyland. And make America great again!”

“That’s one hell of a drawn-out message,” said the president, glancing back. “Take you half an hour to read it.”

“Yeah,” agreed Trainor. “Look great on TV, though. They’ll have to pan wide to get it all in. More exposure.”

“By making America great again,” reflected the president,

“I suppose they mean it’s time we bombed something. Flex American muscle?”

“Something like that,” responded Trainor.

“Well, if that’s what they want from me, they’re going to be sadly disappointed.”

Before dawn, Independence Day, the pungent odor of breakfast kimchi and gasoline fumes filling their interiors, the riot buses, twenty of them, wound their way down through the early morning traffic and pollution to central Seoul, disgorging a squad here, a squad there, at various strategic positions throughout the city. Subway entrances in particular were favored by those retreating students hoping to grab a train out of the fray when the “riot ritual,” as the police call it, got too rough for them. And it would get that way soon enough in the exhausting and exhilarating business of baiting the police amid temperatures that AFKN, the U.S. Army radio network, predicted were going to climb well into the nineties with matching humidity, creating a fifty-fifty chance of late thunderstorms. But now it was still cool as the police quietly took up positions throughout an H-shaped grid running north-south through the city’s western sector down Sejong and Taepweong, and in the eastern sector running down Chang-Gyeong. Joining the two arms of the H were platoons stationed along Cheong Gye, the largest concentrations in the left half of the H around City Hall. Of the squads allocated to the protection of U.S. buildings, most were stationed outside the U.S. Chancery, as it, unlike the heavily fenced-in embassy, was immediately accessible from the street.