Sword Of God (17 page)

Chi-Gon Jung had given them a map of Seongsan Harbor, explaining where his boat was docked and how to get there. The boy and his father were scheduled to arrive at midnight, the most chaotic moment possible, when they hoped to slip aboard unnoticed. An hour later, one of Jung’s most reliable tour guides would pilot them to the open sea. By morning, they would reach one of the small ports on the southern coast of South Korea, where they hoped to disappear into the countryside. At least that’s what Jung had gathered.

Unfortunately, he had no additional information about the Parks. No hotel. No phone number. Not even a backup plan. They had stumbled into the Daeyu Hunting Lodge looking for a guide and were given Jung’s business card. They showed up at his cabin unannounced, told him what they needed, and gave him a small cash deposit. The entire time the boy never spoke. He just stood near his father, clutching his hand or holding his waist. More like an infant than an eight-year-old boy. Jung knew something was wrong, but every time he asked Mr. Park, he became angry. Aggressive. Protective. Eventually Jung got the hint and stopped asking.

That was two days ago, and he hadn’t heard from them since.

Payne, Jones, and Kia arrived in Seongsan just before dinner. The town was abuzz with tourists, the pulse of the festival just springing to life.

The trio lucked into a parking spot adjacent to the harbor, five minutes from the marina entrance. Jung’s boat was just where it was supposed to be, tied off at the end of a long wooden dock. No one on board. Nothing suspicious.

Payne glanced at his watch and noted the time. They would check back in a few hours, just in case someone showed up early.

But until then, they had plenty of time to kill.

Dozens of
pojangmachas
—street stalls on wheels that cooked and sold Korean food—lined the narrow roads. Clouds of steam rose off the metal carts, the smell of spices filling the air. Payne and Jones browsed the selections as Kia translated the menus. There was
gimbap
(rice rolls),
sundae
(Korean sausage in hot sauce),
tteokbokki
(rice cakes in red pepper sauce), and
odeng
(simmered fish cakes on a skewer). Plus an assortment of items they recognized on their own. Egg rolls, dumplings, fritters, and meat on a stick—although no one knew what kind of meat it was. Payne ordered
okdom,
a fish found only off the coast of Jeju and Japan. It was broiled in sesame seed oil and served with a side of scallion pancakes. Jones bought a combo platter, grilled pheasant and pan-fried
kimchi
(fermented vegetables), plus a seafood egg roll. Meanwhile, Kia fed her sweet tooth, getting a persimmon shake and a small bag of
yugwa
(grain cookies), treats she used to eat when she was a little child growing up near Seoul.

They took their food to a nearby table and ate in relative silence, watching people stroll by as the sunlight began to fade. Every few minutes firecrackers burst in the distance. The
pop! pop! pop!
echoed across the harbor like gunshots in the night. Kia flinched the first few times but eventually filtered out the sound, realizing it posed no threat. The whole time Payne and Jones never budged, years of experience honing their senses.

Suddenly, as if on cue, hundreds of paper lanterns were lit by villagers, who hung them in their windows and trees, while a giant bonfire was ignited at the top of the crater. Sparks and ash erupted into the night like a volcano. In an instant the entire village was bathed in firelight. Everyone’s attention soon shifted to the outdoor theater at the base of the peak. The rumble of a Korean drum, beaten with pulsating precision, heightened the drama, as if the mother ship from
Close Encounters
was about to land in Seongsan, as it did at Devil’s Tower. A rainbow of colors exploded from the bank of spotlights as a provincial dance team, dressed in white masks and ancient robes, started their performance, leaping and twirling to the sounds of a Korean orchestra hidden in the wings. Tourists surged forward, jostling for the best view possible, trying to soak in the pageantry of center stage.

Kia spoke above the clamor. “This is only the beginning. The festival goes until tomorrow morning, when we welcome the New Year. In fact, the sunrise is the most important part.”

Jones joked, “I guess that’s why they call it the Sunrise Festival.”

Kia smiled. “I guess so.”

Payne asked, “You mean nothing goes on at midnight? Jung said it was going to be crazy.”

“Don’t worry. It will be. The whole night will be crazy.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m worried about.”

They made their way through the crowd, casually searching for the Parks, even though it would have taken a small miracle to find them. Too many people. Too much frivolity. Everywhere they looked, Koreans were dancing and singing, their faces shielded from the cold with hats and hoods. Others wore elaborate masks, painted with festive colors, that obscured their identities.

Ironically, the two people who drew the most attention were Payne and Jones. Not because of their actions, but because of their genetics. Payne stood six-four, almost a head taller than most of the Asians he passed. Couple that with Jones—a black man in a nonblack world—and people assumed they were American athletes. Kia laughed the first few times someone asked to take their picture, even goading them on, whispering in Korean that they were
NBA
stars but didn’t like to be bothered. Payne played along at first, even signing fake autographs for his “fans,” until the crowds started to grow out of control and he realized it might have an adverse effect on their mission. After that, they excused themselves and found a table that overlooked the harbor.

It was nearly 11:00 p.m. An hour still to go.

Thirty minutes later, Payne’s phone started to vibrate. His caller ID said
Nick Dial,
his buddy from Interpol. He excused himself and answered the call.

“Hey, Nick, Happy New Year!”

“Same to you, Jon…. Sounds like you’re out partying.”

“Yeah, I wish. I’m actually on a stakeout.”

“A stakeout, huh? I didn’t know soldiers went on stakeouts.”

“Maybe that’s why I suck at it. I’ve been signing autographs all night long.”

“You
whatT

Payne explained the situation as he walked along the water’s edge, looking for somewhere private to sit. Although he doubted anyone was listening, all this open space made him vulnerable to parabolic microphones. “So, any luck with your search?”

“That depends on your definition of luck. I attribute my recent success to being so damn good.” He laughed to himself. “Anyway, I talked to multiple sources, who briefed me on the rumors that have been floating around. Over the past few months, several big fish have fallen off our radar screen. Not surprising, since they’re terrorists. Of course, we don’t know if they were killed, if they’re playing bingo in a mosque basement, or if we got sloppy and lost them.”

“That’s the problem with terrorists. They never tell us anything.”

“Actually,” Dial said, “sometimes they do. Two months ago the French government nabbed a Muslim named Abdul Al-Amin trying to sneak a firearm into an art museum in Paris. Why? I have no idea. I’m guessing it had something to do with
The Da Vinci Code.”

“Go on.”

“Anyway, Abdul’s paperwork seemed clean, so the French decided to give him a slap on the wrist and let him go. But before they could, the idiot started blabbing, claiming he was part of an active terrorist group called the Soldiers of Allah and he’d be willing to give up vital information if they would cut a deal for his release.”

Payne laughed. “What an idiot.”

“Yeah, a real Einstein. Anyhow, this is where it gets good. Once the French did some legwork, they realized the Soldiers of Allah had committed most of their acts of terror in America. So what did they do? They called Interpol and asked us to get involved. Long story short, I got access to a whole lot of info.”

“Anything useful?”

“That’s for you to decide. Abdul was exactly who he said he was: a midlevel asshole for the Soldiers of Allah. He gave us names, dates, locations—the type of intel that only an insider would have. Some of it proved quite useful. We actually busted some of the smaller cells.”

“Good.”

“But not good enough. We told Abdul that we weren’t going to let him go unless he gave us some intel on their leader, an Arab named Hakeem Salaam.”

Payne frowned. “Never heard of him.”

“Me neither. So I called one of my buddies at Homeland Security to get some background info, and he nearly popped a boner when I mentioned Salaam’s name. I honestly thought he was going to drop the phone and play with himself right there. Turns out Salaam is at the top of one of their special lists. I’m talking ex/ra-special. You ready for this? He’s what they call a Big Tit.”

“Did you say
titV

“Stands for
Towel-headed Islamic Terrorist.
And no, I’m not making that up. Half those boys at Homeland Security are racist bastards. They claim it helps them do their jobs.”

“Go on.”

“So I make a joke of it. I tell him we should trade information, you know,
tit for tat,
but for some reason he didn’t think it was funny.”

Payne stifled his urge to laugh. “He tell you anything else?”

“Actually, he wanted me to tell him what I knew. Turns out Salaam and his top advisers disappeared a week after the incident at the museum. Poof! Just like that. No one knows why or where, but no one’s heard from them since.”

Payne winced. Three days ago Colonel Harrington had used similar terminology to describe Schmidt and his squad.-
They had disappeared, but no one knew why or where.
Now the same thing was being said about Salaam and his advisers. The major difference? The terrorists disappeared several weeks ago, back when Schmidt was running a black op for Harrington in the Persian Gulf. Something he was reluctant to talk about when Jones questioned him.

A coincidence? Probably not.

In Payne’s mind, the most likely scenario had Schmidt tracking down Salaam and his men, dragging them to the secret cave, and torturing them for information. At least until something went wrong. Now Schmidt and his crew were dead, Salaam was missing, and the only witness was an eight-year-old boy who had managed to disappear.

“Where’s Abdul now?”

“Good question,” Dial said. “Unfortunately, I don’t have access to that information.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s no longer in Interpol custody.”

“He was released?”

“Hell, no. We don’t release terrorists. Even dumb ones.”

“So what happened?”

“About a week ago, we cut a deal with some country that took possession of Abdul. I’m not sure which one because the transfer papers were sealed. But the obvious choice is America.”

Perched on a picnic table, Jones scanned the crowd for fathers and sons. The only memorable pair was across the street at one of the gambling booths. The chubby kid was no more than two years old and wore a bright orange snowsuit that made him look like a pumpkin. Gamblers, possibly confusing the child with Buddha, let him hold their bets for good luck while they wagered on cards being dealt by his father, who seemed proud that his boy was following him into the family business. Every so often the kid would get caught up in the excitement and throw all the money in the air, causing a mad scramble among the participants.

It was a comical scene on an anxious night.

Several minutes passed before Payne strolled back to the table. He briefed Jones and Kia on his phone call from Nick Dial, explaining his theory on Hakeem Salaam. From Payne’s perspective, it fit all the pieces of the puzzle. Schmidt’s black op in the Persian Gulf. Kia’s need to speak Arabic. And everything else he could think of. He still wasn’t sure what happened in the village, but he hoped Yohg-Su Park would fill in all the details.

That is, if he showed up with his father, like he was supposed to.

“May I ask a question?” Kia wondered. “You mentioned that Salaam and his advisers recently disappeared. Does that mean we knew where they were beforehand? If so, why didn’t we pick them up back then?”

“Actually,” Jones grunted, “I wish it was that easy. That’s the most frustrating thing about the war on terror. Sometimes we
know
people are terrorists—because of their associations, their business dealings, their ideologies—but can’t prove it in a court of law. And in those cases, our hands are tied, especially if they’re living outside of American jurisdiction. All we can do is track their movement and hope they screw up.”

Payne added, “It’s kind of like the Mafia. A lot of times we know who the bad guys are. We even know where they live. But we can’t arrest them until we find the smoking gun.”

Jones agreed. “That’s a great analogy, because organized crime has the same basic structure. The goal of a terrorist cell is to protect the larger organization. Team A knows nothing about Team B, and so on. The leaders know what’s going on—they’re the ones pulling the strings—but the pawns don’t know squat about long-term objectives. They keep everything compartmentalized, just in case the group is infiltrated.”

“And some terrorists are protected by so many layers that we can’t prove anything. That means they can walk the streets and we can’t arrest them. Or even threaten them. And if we do,
we ‘re
the ones who get crucified.”

“By whom?” Kia wondered.

“The UN, the media, his home country. Everyone expects us to be global peacekeepers, but no one wants us to get our hands dirty. And let’s face it: that’s
just
not practical. Sometimes, for us to do our job, we have to cross the line.”

“You mean, like the cave?”

Payne frowned. “Obviously, that’s an
extreme
example. But yes—”

“Hold up!” Jones whispered.

He nodded his head to the left, pointing out two people who had just opened the gate to the marina. One tall, one short. Both wearing winter coats and hunting caps that were clasped around their chins. They clung to each other like family. Maybe out of warmth. Maybe out of fear. Darkness prevented a positive ID, but this looked like them.