Critical Intelligence. Don Pendleton

toward Naranjo.

      When the FARC leader spoke he carefully enunciated each word so that there could be no misunderstanding. And he spoke in English.

      “Two plus five equals seven,” he said.

      Sin-Bok felt a cold squirt of adrenaline hit his stomach. He felt his throat swell up from the reaction and he forced himself not to swallow and thus reveal his surprise and nervousness.

      By the dragon’s luck, he thought wildly, this cannot be. Then he thought, Their servants truly are everywhere.

      On his lap his hands tightened momentarily around his attaché case. Then relaxed. He met Naranjo’s eye and nodded once, sharply.

      “Three plus four equals seven,” Sin-Bok replied, also in English, completing the code parole and establishing his rank as one higher than his contact.

      The two agents of the shadowy organization stared at each other for a long moment. Naranjo opened a lid set between his rear-facing seats and pulled out two cut-crystal tumblers and a bottle of expensive rum.

      He poured Sin-Bok a glass and handed it over. The North Korean espionage agent took it without a word. The enhanced suspension on the BMW made their vehicle ride like it was on rails. He sipped the sugar-cane liquor, enjoying the sharp alcohol.

      He carefully set his tumbler on top of his leather attaché case and picked up his cigar from the ashtray. He drew in a lungful of smoke as the FARC narcoterrorist and field agent poured himself a drink.

      After Naranjo had put the bottle away, Sin-Bok spoke again.

      “I take it these guidance systems aren’t just headed for your jungle camps,” he observed.

      “Ah, no,” Naranjo admitted, switching back to Spanish. “I, like you, am a link.”

      With a rueful look Sin-Bok held up his glass. “Here’s to Seven,” he said, voice rueful.

      White House, Washington, D.C.

      HAL BROGNOLA LOOKED OUT the east door of the Oval Office and into the Rose Garden. Beside him in a comfortable chair sat the special envoy to North Korea. They faced the President of the United States in his traditional seat behind the desk made from the timbers of the HMS Resolute.

      Behind them in the northeast corner a grandfather clock built by John and Thomas Seymour ticked out the passing of time. Waiting for the President to finish reading the report, Brognola looked down at the carpet on the floor, noting the presidential seal. He’d been in this office a good many times over the years, seen more than one man pass through the job, seen the job age them all.

      The President sighed. He tossed the national intelligence estimate addendum down on the desk and leaned back. He folded his hands in a pensive motion and cocked an eyebrow at Brognola.

      “You’re sure, then?” The question was perfunctory.

      Brognola nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

      The President frowned and twisted slightly in his seat. “Let’s get ’em on the line,” he told the envoy.

      The special envoy leaned forward and tapped a few numbers out on the handset located on the desktop. He activated the speakerphone function and leaned back while the number dialed. After two digital ring tones a smooth feminine voice answered, Korean.

      The envoy answered in Korean, then stated, “With your permission, Mr. Ambassador, I would like to switch to English.”

      There was a brief pause, then a sharp, almost shrill man’s voice spoke in quick, truncated syllables. The North Korean regime did not maintain a diplomatic presence in the United States, and the men in the Oval Office were speaking to the leader of the U.N. delegation in New York.

      “Yes, English is fine,” the ambassador said. “But whatever language we choose to continue wasting our time in, the fact still remains constant. The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea has no knowledge of the activities of which you speak. We consider such activities as a personal insult on the character of our most beloved leader, the eternal president, Kim Jong-il. Frankly a continuation of this so-called investigation will be construed as a hostile act.”

      Brognola shifted his gaze away from the conference call toward the President’s face. It remained impassive except for the slight tightening of muscles along the jaw, indicating that he was grinding his teeth.

      “Mr. Ambassador,” the envoy began, “we consider the arming and training of known terrorist groups such as FARC to be hostile acts.”

      “Fortunately for the United States, Korea has not undertaken any of these activities.”

      “Why is that ‘fortunate’ for us?” Brognola interjected.

      “Because,” the voice continued, “if such an error in perception was to occur, the United States might be tempted to do something rash in response.”

      “I trust you’ve read the dossier I sent you earlier,” the envoy prompted.

      At his desk the President made a steeple of his long, slender fingers and leaned slightly forward in his chair. He was due to a staff meeting to discuss implementation of public health care options in twelve minutes. Brognola could see the President growing more annoyed with the futile game they were now playing with the North Koreans.

      “I have seen the dossier,” the ambassador admitted. “I saw nothing compelling in those documents. The idea that a member of our security services would be working as a trainer and liaison for a FARC cell in Colombia is obviously impossible. That leaves only two explanations for your report that I can see.”

      The envoy let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “And those explanations would be…?”

      “Either your much vaunted intelligence services are mistaken or, second and more likely, you are attempt to fabricate this evidence to justify a preemptive strike on our homeland.” The ambassador paused, then began speaking in a much louder, much shriller voice. “This is inexcusable! We will not be the victim of your imperialist plots! We will defend our home by any means necessary from your Western aggression!”

      The President looked over at Brognola. He silently mouthed the word imperialist to the big federal agent. Brognola shrugged, then murmured under his breath, “They’re a little like Cuba,” he explained. “Forty or fifty years behind. They probably just got a copy of Dr. Strangelove in Pyongyang last month.”

      The President made a sour face as the ambassador continued to bark his outrage over the conference link. He made a chopping motion with one hand toward the phone, then nodded at the envoy.

      “Mr. Ambassador,” the envoy interrupted, “your protests have been noted. We will not be speaking of this matter again. Good day.” He cut the connection.

      “Okay,” the President said. “I gave it one last try. We don’t know what kind of brinksmanship they’re trying to pull off this time, but they can go to hell.” He spun around in his chair and looked out at the Rose Garden. “Your boys in position to execute our contingency plan?”

      “It seems our contingency just upgraded to primary,” Brognola said. “And yes, my crews are in place and ready to roll.”

      “Then proceed,” the President said.

      Once they left the office Brognola and the special envoy went in separate directions, each man pulling out a NSA-encrypted cell phone. The director of the Justice Department’s Sensitive Operations Group hit the number 1 on his speed dial option. Two rings later Barbara Price answered.

      “I just got out of my meeting with the Man,” he informed her. “We are ready to execute.”

      Stony Man Farm

      BARBARA PRICE STOOD in the hallway in front of the door leading to the Communications Room. She said goodbye to Brognola and cut the connection on her phone before opening the door.

      Price entered the room like a gust of wind. The attractive mission controller