Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation (12 page)

Uiam Lake
Chuncheon, Gangwon-do, South Korea

T
he cabin of Cal Auster's Weekender was cramped but at least it was warm. Janson sat next to Jina Jeon on one side of the long, narrow table while the owner sat cross-legged opposite them, deftly working his Samsung Galaxy with well-​ca
lluse
d thumbs.

“I'll be just another minute or two,” Auster assured them without looking up. He'd used the same words twice before, twenty-five minutes and fifteen minutes ago, respectively.

The hell with warmth, Janson thought, rising from the plush booth. I need some air. He excused himself and went topside, acknowledging Auster's captain/bodyguard, who sat soundlessly in the cockpit smoking a cigarette.

Janson stuffed his hands in his pockets and savored one of nature's many panoramic masterpieces. The crisp air served to sharpen his view of the mountains in the distance. The limbs of the shoreline's trees, many of which barely clung to life this time of year, seemed to be reaching out over the lake as though to rescue a drowning soul. Only in nature, Janson thought, could so little look like so much.

Chuncheon, known as the City of Lakes, was the capital of Gangwon Province and a popular destination among East Asian tourists. Janson was sure the tranquility of the area appealed to the arms dealer's generous sense of irony. He was also certain that Cal Auster took refuge here only after mapping out several different routes of escape. He wondered for a moment whether any of those routes involved crossing into North Korea. Knowing what he knew of Cal Auster, the weapons dealer might already have a deal in place with Pyongyang, perhaps brokered by one of Auster's numerous contacts in Moscow.

When he returned to the cabin, Janson found Cal Auster on Jina Jeon's side of the table, he leaning in with whispers, she scooting away. Janson considered whether she might have pulled away from Auster because she'd heard Janson's footsteps. Surely her hearing was better than that of Auster, who'd spent all of his adult life demonstrating the capabilities of increasingly loud and powerful firearms.

“There he is,” Auster rang out gregariously. He made no effort to stand but did tuck his smartphone into the breast pocket of his sports jacket. “Paul, Paul, Paul, how long's it been?”

“Not nearly long enough,” Janson deadpanned.

Auster cackled and slapped at the table like a raucous drunk, though Janson knew the weapons dealer's primary vice came in the form of a powder. More than a few times Janson had heard Auster boast that he hadn't touched a drop of alcohol since he was a teenager. “
Why dim your senses when you can
enhance
them?
” he'd say. “
Why use rabbit ears when you can watch life happen in
HD
?
”

“Have a seat, Paul,” Auster boomed, pointing across from him. “Tell Uncle Cal what you need today. How can I make you happy?”

Janson sat, doubting his decision not to return to the Embraer 650 in Seoul in order to recover what he needed. But with Cons Ops keeping watch, he knew he couldn't have risked it. He reached into his pocket and produced a wrinkled index card, slid it across the table toward Auster's tapping fingers.

Cal Auster lifted the index card and held it at arm's length from his deep-green eyes.

Farsighted, of course, Janson thought. Spent most his life staring down distant targets. Now he's too vain to put on a pair of reading glasses.

As he went over the list, Cal Auster stroked his goatee, then ran his hand over his shaven head, brows lifted in theatrical disbelief. “
Wow
,” he said, “that's quite a Christmas list. Sure hope Santa hasn't seen you doing anything naughty in the past twelve months.” He laughed at his own remark then slowly settled himself. “It's none of my business, of course, but are you planning on storming Taiwan? I've equipped sub-Saharan despots on the eve of war with less than this.”

Janson sat expressionless. “Best to be prepared, I figure.”

“Be prepared.” Auster bared his teeth in a grin. “That's right, I'd almost forgotten. Paul Janson's a Boy Scout now. Or so I've heard.”

A long silence followed, as Janson pondered how much Auster might have heard, whether the weapons dealer might know about the Phoenix Foundation.

“Whatever you've heard,” Janson said, eager to fill the quiet, “I'm sure it's half-true and ninety percent false. Can we get down to business now?”

Cal Auster set the index card facedown on the table. “Of course, of course, of course.” He stared up at the low ceiling in thought. “How soon do you need this stuff?”

“How soon can you get it to me?”

“How much are you willing to pay above retail?” When Janson didn't reply, Auster added: “See, Paul, I'm like Amazon. I can offer you standard shipping for free. But that's going to take a while. If you want me to expedite…”

“I need it today.”

Auster sighed dramatically, as though he were being put-upon by yet another unrealistic customer. “Ah, well, that would require our Super-Duper Special Priority price. Hell, even Amazon doesn't do
same day
.”

“Sure, but Amazon's not using their drones yet.”

Cal Auster's face went blank, his skin paling instantaneously. The fifty-one-year-old weapons dealer never did exhibit much of a poker face.

Janson shrugged while holding Auster's gaze. “You're not the only one who has his ear to the ground, Cal. I'm sure you know that.” Janson reached across the table, lifted the index card. He plucked a pen from his pocket and wrote a percentage on the back of the card, then slid the card back across the table. “
That's
how much I'm willing to pay, Uncle Cal.”

Auster glanced at the number and nodded languorously, as if he'd just stepped down from a lifelong high.

Janson studied Auster's eyes in order to gauge the threat. Would Auster suddenly fly off his meds and put a knife to Jina Jeon's throat? Janson didn't think so. In a way, Cal Auster was like the regime in Pyongyang. Belligerent, yes. Bat-shit crazy at times? No doubt. But in the end, both Auster and the leadership in North Korea proved themselves to be rational actors, hell-bent not on creating infinite chaos but on self-preservation.

After several tense minutes that passed like hours, Cal Auster finally conjured a smile and rattled off the terms of the sale like one of his cherished automatic weapons. “Give me four and a half hours. Cash up front—sorry, no CODs. I don't take personal checks and I don't accept American Express. And as any good pimp will tell you, Visa is not quite
everywhere
you want to be. Exchanges can be made within twenty-four hours but only for defective products and only for identical merchandise. Our return policy, which you'll find listed on my middle finger, is: fuck you. No exceptions.” He pushed himself out of the booth. “So, Mr. Janson. May I assume you won't be needing a gift receipt?”

Meridian International Center
Crescent Place NW, Washington, DC

E
dward Clarke, undersecretary of state and director of Consular Operations, looked around the table at the faces of his four colleagues and thought, This looks like a scene taken straight from Mobius: The Next Generation.

Actually, Clarke didn't mind making the comparison in his head; the Mobius program had been an unmitigated success for a long time before it became an unmitigated failure. And he didn't mind that many of the people involved in the Diophantus program had worked underneath the players connected with Mobius; indeed, he was one of them. What caused no end of apprehension, however, was the fact that he was facing the very same antagonist as his predecessor had.

But then, no one but a rogue Cons Ops agent with a severely misguided sense of morality could have created a crisis of the kind they now faced. So the fact that Diophantus was now in jeopardy because of the actions of Paul Janson was no coincidence. No coincidence at all. His past betrayal of Consular Operations was, in fact, the very reason Senator James Wyckoff of North Carolina had sought Janson's assistance in the first place.

Clarke made a mental note to contact Lawrence Hammond, the senator's chief of staff, immediately after the meeting to ask whether Wyckoff and his wife had received word of any further developments from Janson in South Korea. Hammond had last called Clarke from Honolulu to say there had been radio silence. Clarke found it odd that Janson wasn't keeping the senator in the loop—unless of course, there
had
been communications, and it was Larry Hammond who'd been taken out of the loop. After all, the distinguished gentleman from North Carolina trusted no one these days. Even the press was speculating about Senator Wyckoff's mental health in the wake of his son's disappearance. Another twenty-four-hour news cycle like the last one and the majority leader would no doubt ask Wyckoff to resign his seat for the sake of the party. Presidential primaries were around the corner and politics
always
took precedence over loyalty.

Clarke took a sip of ice water then topped himself off from the crystal carafe. He sat at the head of the table. To his left were Douglas Albright, director of the Defense Intelligence Agency, and Sanford Hildreth, director of the National Security Agency.

On Clarke's right sat Ella Quon, deputy director of the CIA's National Clandestine Service, and her chief systems engineer, Eric Matsumura.

“Let me start,” Clarke began, “by briefing you on the latest. We've pinpointed Paul Janson.”

Albright of the DIA barely let Clarke finish his second sentence before cutting in. “Then I assume you won't be discussing Janson in the present tense during this meeting.”

Clarke held up a hand. “Let's not start things this way, OK?”

“We shouldn't be
starting
anything at this point,” Albright barked. “You should have waited and called us in at the end, once Janson was eliminated.”

“Douglas, please—”

“Please,
my ass
.” Albright pounded his fist against the mahogany. “I was sitting in this goddamn seat at this goddamn table in this goddamn room when your
predecessor
agreed to take Janson out. I don't need to remind anyone here about the outcome of Derek Collins's directive. If he'd succeeded we wouldn't be sitting here right now, and I wouldn't have suffered my first goddamn heart attack a few years ago. So don't ‘please' me, Eddie. Tell me that Janson is history and that this crisis is over and done with.”

Ella Quon spoke as if the previous interaction hadn't just taken place in front of her. “Where is he?” she said calmly.

Clarke turned to her, grateful for the interruption. “The DMZ,” he said.

“The demilitarized zone? This sounds serious. Do we know why he's there?”

“Because he's a fucking golem,” Albright cut in. “I've said it before and I'll say it again.”

“What's a golem?” Quon inquired.

The NSA director, Sanford Hildreth, sighed deeply. “Ella, think: Victor Frankenstein's monster.”

Albright smirked. “Derek Collins's monster is more like it.”

“Look,” Clarke said, trying to regain control of the room, “there's no question we've created some monsters in our day. Look at the
Jason Bourne
incident, for Christ's sake. But the fact of the matter is—like it or not—we
need
monsters. It'll be one of those very monsters who's going to clean up this mess for us tonight.”

“
Your
mess,” Albright shouted. “Let's not forget it was another of your monsters that created this mess to begin with. If Gregory Wyckoff had been elimin—”

“You want to talk about
messes
, Doug? Let's talk about messes.” Clarke rose from his chair and leaned forward with palms pressed down on the table. “The DIA is
still
under investigation for things you've done at Guantanamo. Forcing detainees to watch gay pornography, draping them in the Israeli flag, humiliating them using female interrogators,
drugging
them like lab rats.”

Albright cocked his head. “So now you're a bleeding heart, concerned with our treatment of terrorists. Let me tell you something, Eddie, enhanced interro—”

“I don't give a
fuck
about the terrorists, Doug, and you damn well know it. My point is that you got caught, that you turned
good policy
into an international debate that's irreparably damaged the moral standing of this country.”

Quon shook her head. “Edward, there's really no need for this.”

“No
need
for this? This coming from a company woman? While we're on the subject of messes, let's chat about the scorching heat
your
agency has come under. Spying on
Congress
? Not just on Congress but on the
Senate Intelligence Committee
? The very legislative body that's charged with overseeing and regulating
all of us
?”

Quietly, Sanford Hildreth said, “Let's get back to the matter at hand, shall we?”

“Sure, we
shall
,” Clarke said to the NSA director. “But first, let's take a gander at NSA. You may well be sitting in the greatest mess in the
history of intelligence
. Just about every fucking American citizen thinks he's being listened in on, thanks to you. Little Sally's afraid to make a ten-minute call to Aunt Suzy about Uncle Harry's prostate cancer,
thanks to you
. And why? Because some pimple-faced
schmuck
—some goddamn twenty-nine-year-old
civilian
—skipped out of Honolulu and went straight to Hong Kong and Moscow with the entirety of our nation's secrets. Talk about
messes
. At least our operation is at risk from Paul Janson. He may well be a monster of our own creation, but he
is
a monster. Janson's a black ops superman. Your entire agency ate shit from a ninety-pound computer geek named Edward-fucking-Snowden.”

Clarke gazed at his colleagues' forlorn faces, satisfied that he'd finally gotten that rant out of his system. Holding in your temper, as he had been doing for the past few days, wasn't healthy.

Now let Albright scoff all he wants. At least the dirty laundry at Cons Ops doesn't get aired in public.

Clarke sat, brushed some imaginary lint from his suit jacket. He needed sleep, that's what he needed.
Real
sleep, four or five hours of
continuous
sleep,
in a bed
. And he could use a decent meal. Not pub food. And certainly not takeout. He needed a home-cooked meal, the kind his
first
wife used to make. Hell, even his second wife could whip up a batch of spaghetti and meatballs. But this one, fuck. He was lucky if she could find the number to call and order a pizza delivery.

Who am I kidding? It's all a matter of trade-offs. And not just with women, with everything. Life's just one big series of trade-offs.

“All right,” he said. “Now we can return to our
mutual
problem. From here on out, however, there will be no pointing fingers. I'm the one who took the bull by the horns to make Diophantus a reality—no one else—so if there happens to be a pile of bull
shit
in the pen, I'll clean it up. But until then, I don't want to hear about how badly it stinks. Are we understood?”

All four of them nodded, even Albright.

“Good,” Clarke said. “Now I'll tell you what I know about Paul Janson and what I intend to do about him.” He took a swallow of water. “As I was saying before, we've pinpointed his location to the DMZ. Specifically to Daeseong-dong, otherwise known as Freedom Village.” He turned to Quon. “Ella, earlier you asked
why
he's there and insinuated that Janson's presence at the DMZ means that he knows exactly what we're doing. That's a reckless jump we needn't make just yet.”

Quon frowned. “You're suggesting Janson's in the Korean Demilitarized Zone to sightsee?”

“I have a former operative living in Daeseong-dong. Her name is Jina Jeon. Janson knew her and knew her well. He may well be in the DMZ seeking her help.”

“Then whatever information Janson
does
have at this point is spreading,” Quon said. “As is our exposure.”

“Not necessarily. When I say Janson knew her well, I mean it in the biblical sense. Forgive me, Ella, for my crudeness, but for all we know Janson may have headed to Daeseong-dong just to get his dick wet.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“With all due respect, Ella, I don't expect you to understand. Because you don't
have
a dick.”

“I won't dignify that with a response.”

“One way or the other,” Albright chirped in, “we don't know. So I think it's smart to assume the worst.”

Clarke nodded. “I fully agree. Which is why no one who has had substantial contact with Paul Janson over the past forty-eight hours will be around after the next forty-eight.”

Sanford Hildreth leaned forward. “And this is something we can be assured of?”

Clarke turned to the NSA director. “Sandy, I'm sure that regardless of who I decide to call first with the news, you and your agency will be the first to learn the outcome of tonight's operation.”

Albright said, “What about Kincaid? And the Wyckoff kid?”

“Both as good as gone.”

“Perhaps then,” Quon said, “we should move on to the business of reunification.” She turned to her chief systems engineer, who placed an open folder in front of her. “As designed, I've been briefing the White House about ‘the situation' for the past several weeks.”

Clarke nodded. “What's been the president's reaction?”

“Disbelief, at first. Followed by reluctant acceptance.” She flipped a page in her folder but didn't look down. “The president is concerned about the potential costs of reunification. He wants the South to avoid escalation, no matter what political price the Blue House has to pay. The president prefers that the
next
administration deal with reunification rather than his.”

Of course, Clarke thought. That's all US politicians are good for these days—kicking the can down the road.

Albright spoke up. “The White House understands that we're looking at a hard landing?”

The so-called hard landing referred to the chain of events that could potentially result from a
sudden
, rather than gradual, collapse of the North Korean regime, a scenario that could conceivably create an unprecedented humanitarian crisis in which the South and the United States would face massive rebellion and unrest, not to mention mass migration.

“I've pressed the possibility upon them,” Quon said, “but I've had to be subtle. There are some smart people in the Oval Office these days. If someone suspected we were so much as trifling with the situation, let alone directing it, it would lead to an investigation.”

“I assume we're all right with the legislative branch?” Albright said.

Quon came as close as she ever did to smiling. “Congress has its head up its own ass, as usual. They're far more concerned with whether they are being spied upon than they are about foreign intelligence.” She turned to Clarke. “The scandal you mentioned is a blessing in disguise for Diophantus. The intelligence committee is preoccupied with what's going on in Langley, and we all know the current Congress can't walk and chew gum at the same time.”

Clarke turned to Albright. “And the Defense Department?”

Albright smirked. “Most of the department is excited about the possibility of a hard landing. No one's happy with the slash in defense spending. Half of them would rather remain in Afghanistan and return to Iraq. Korean reunification will give them ammunition to call for new spending. Most of the department's champing at the bit.”

Clarke looked to Sanford Hildreth. “Sandy?”

The NSA director shrugged. “Anything to move us away from the fucking surveillance debate will make us happy at NSA. Hell, we'd take another Cuban Missile Crisis just now if we could get our hands on one.”