Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation (24 page)

Moments later the pilot turned and pointed the plane's nose in the direction of China. The brief flight would take them to Shenyang, where they'd board a commercial airliner to Seoul.

Only once the pilot announced that they'd crossed into Chinese airspace did Janson finally lean back in his tiny vinyl seat and exhale.

Still not quite as bad as flying coach, he thought.

K
INCAID DUG THE TELEPHONE NUMBER
out of her pocket. She unfolded it and set it on the oversize executive desk in her room at the Shangri-La China World. She lifted the phone and dialed.

Nam Sei-hoon picked up on the first ring.

“Mission accomplished,” she told him.

“Good, very good.” He paused for a moment. “Have you spoken to Paul?”

“I haven't heard from him yet. I'm concerned that something might have happened up north.”

“I am sure he is fine. I will put out some feelers and let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“It is my pleasure, Ms. Kincaid.” He cleared his throat. “I assume you will be returning to Seoul with the information you obtained from the Wyckoff boy?”

“I will, immediately. Do you have a place for us to meet?”

“There is a safe house in Gangnam. Let me give you the address.”

The Westin Chosun Seoul
Jung-gu, Seoul

J
anson moved quickly through the ultramodern lobby of the Westin hotel. Standing in the elevator bank, he waited for an empty lift. When one opened, he stepped on and punched the button to close the doors. As the doors moved toward each other, an old woman hurried toward them, a look on her face begging Janson to hold them open for her. He looked away and exhaled when they left her on the other side.

She'd thank me if she knew how I smelled, he thought as the elevator ascended to the seventeenth floor.

Standing outside room 1708, he rapped on the door in the manner in which they'd agreed. When the door finally opened, Jina Jeon's expression told him all he needed to know about the sight of him. Her eyes drifted to his hairline, where he'd sustained a significant laceration following the blast from Yun Jin-ho's grenade.

His heart ached as he recalled the image of the North Korean pulling the pin high over his head, about to sacrifice his life for Janson and Mi-sook.

“How is she?” he said as he stepped past her.

“Doing better,” Jina Jeon assured him. “She's a bit overwhelmed.”

That was more than understandable. The culture shock alone no doubt landed a number of defectors in the hospital beds of Seoul. Even Janson, who'd traveled widely on every continent except Antarctica, felt as though he were standing on a different planet than the one he was on just twenty-four hours ago.

Janson glanced into the bedroom of the executive suite and saw Mi-sook sleeping sideways, fully clothed, atop the California king-size bed, the bassinet provided by the hotel right at her side. He closed the door and moved back into the sitting room, where Jina Jeon was on her knees, collecting a couple of cold bottles of water from the minibar.

She handed one to Janson, who twisted the cap and drank hungrily.

“Mi-sook's papers worked perfectly,” he said. “Thank you.”

Jina Jeon sat at the square wooden table near the sliding glass door that led out to the lanai. Though the curtains were closed the room was brighter than Janson's eyes could stand, so he dimmed the main overhead light before sitting across from her.

“I'm sorry about the house,” he said.

Jina Jeon rolled her eyes and smiled. “You say it as if you soiled my white carpet by stepping inside with mud on your boots.”

“I did,” Janson said, with a painful attempt to return the smile. “That's why I'm apologizing. The house blowing up, that was all done in order to cover up my initial faux pas.”

Jina Jeon laughed; it was the most pleasant sound Janson had heard in days.

“You and your mom will be reimbursed,” he said. “For everything and more. Just toss out a number and give me the name of your bank and I'll have the amount wired to you within forty-eight hours.”

“Who will the wire be from?”

“My business.”

“CatsPaw?” she said. “Or the Phoenix Foundation?”

Janson masked his surprise; not a difficult task since he was too exhausted to exercise his facial muscles.

“I only just found out,” she said.

Janson didn't ask how. He assumed she obtained the news from the same source who provided her the documents that allowed Mi-sook into the country. Without the false South Korean passport, Janson would have had to leave Mi-sook and her baby in Shenyang, something that would have broken his heart under the circumstances.

“I initially thought we had lost more than just the house,” Jina Jeon said following minutes of silence. “I thought we had lost you.”

Janson saw clearly the emotion in her eyes.

She said, “When I finally learned you were alive, I became afraid that it looked as though I betrayed you.”

“The thought never once crossed my mind,” Janson lied.

Ultimately, though, he
had
rolled the dice on the chance that Jina Jeon hadn't betrayed him—even before he'd realized that it was Nam Sei-hoon who stabbed him in the back. Before Janson watched Kang Jung get attacked in her own home by a female Cons Ops agent, he had no idea whether it was Jina who had tipped off Cons Ops or not—and he'd been heading straight for the tunnel suggested to him by Jina as his best opportunity to infiltrate North Korea.

Nam Sei-hoon
. Putting Janson in danger was one thing; Janson was and always would be a soldier. Janson was in the fight. But to allow a thirteen-year-old girl to be killed, that was quite another thing. Even if Janson could push aside his own betrayal, even if he could forget Yun Jin-ho's story, even if he could erase the memory of Yun dying to saving his and Mi-sook's lives, he could never forgive the little man for putting Kang Jung's life at risk, if not directly ordering the attack himself.

Regardless of what happened in the next forty-eight hours, Janson would make certain that Nam Sei-hoon met a bad end.

One person, one mission, one redemption at a time.

Just now there were more pressing matters. He'd been in touch with Kayla. Gregory Wyckoff was alive and well and sleeping aboard the Embraer on his way back to the United States. Kayla had also heard from Kincaid, which relieved Janson as much as any news he'd received in his life. Kincaid had called Kayla from Beijing, which meant that, at least for the time being, she was safe. He'd immediately called Park Kwan, who told Janson that he was also in Beijing—along with Kang Jung. Janson's anger over the thirteen-year-old's continued involvement quickly subsided as he realized she was probably much safer with Park Kwan and Kincaid in Beijing than she would be with her mother or father back in Seoul. At least until this was over.

What bothered Janson most, however, was that they'd been separated from Kincaid in Beijing and didn't know where she was. Park Kwan told him what he knew about the excitement just outside Tiananmen Square, which was very little. But he did know there was blood. Fortunately, when Janson put the time line together in his head—when Kayla heard from Kincaid and when the incident occurred near Tiananmen Square—he knew she'd survived that particular incident. And that she'd ultimately gotten Gregory Wyckoff safely to Beijing Capital International, though she wasn't there when the Embraer lifted off to take Wyckoff to the United States.

So, where is she now? And why hasn't she called?

He made a few assumptions. One, that Kincaid didn't know Janson had made it back to Seoul. Two, that she was on her way back to Seoul anyway and didn't want to risk using an unsecure line from a plane, even if only to check in. Three, that she'd assumed her call to Kayla would be sufficient to alert Janson and anyone else who mattered that she was alive.

Still, he wished Kincaid hadn't lost her phone. His missing her aside, he felt the need to at least touch base. To keep her apprised. And to finally learn what Gregory Wyckoff knew about Diophantus.

Keep her apprised…

“Something wrong, Paul?” Jina Jeon's voice was laced with concern. But he didn't turn to look at her. His mind was grasping for something. Something important. Something vital.

He tried to conjure up a timetable for the hours between Jina Jeon's house exploding and his entering the tunnel.

He'd been cut off from Kincaid and the rest of the world since then.

He had spoken to Kincaid following the attack on Kang Jung, but only to ask her to grab the girl and haul her to safety.

Christ, he thought as his head fell into his hands. He hadn't yet warned her about Nam Sei-hoon.

If something happened to Jessica Kincaid, Janson would never be able to forgive himself. If she were hurt or killed because he'd neglected to caution her, he might as well begin digging his own grave.

He leapt out of his seat and rushed toward the phone but stopped dead.

Whom could he call?

For the time being, at least, Kincaid remained just out of his reach.

A
t the little man's “safe house” in Gangnam, an austere two-bedroom apartment in a modest building set away from the flashy clubs and designer boutiques of Apgujeong, Sin Bae circled the chair he'd placed in the center of the living room. As he did, his hatred for the woman swelled. He wasn't quite sure why, since it had been
his
mistakes and failures over the past few days that put him in this precarious situation. This woman had only been acting in accordance with the nature of all living things. She'd simply been trying to survive.

Yet he was incensed by her mere presence. Never before had he taken his work so personally. But then, never before had he failed so egregiously in his tasks. These emotions, not only this rage but his reluctance to terminate the young girl, were unquestionably to blame. Whatever he experienced while strangling the translator at the Sophia Guesthouse, whatever had jumped at him like a plastic ghost in a haunted house, had incited this precipitous downfall.

Sin Bae wanted to slit Kincaid's throat and get it over with. But he'd been instructed by Ping to wait for a call. The little man was not pleased that Kincaid had come alone. It meant that there were many loose ends left to be snipped. The police officer Park Kwan, the teenager Kang Jung. The senator's son. And Paul Janson. Maybe even the former Cons Ops agent Jina Jeon.

As he circled Kincaid's chair, his message indicator blinked on. He retrieved his phone from the folding table and read it:

Find out location of the others.

Sin Bae ran a hand through his damp black hair. The pain in his upper back was growing worse, radiating into his shoulders. The opiates Ping had passed to him following the incident in Beijing were causing him to itch; they were making him sweat. Irritably, he tossed the phone to the hardwood floor, where it landed with a splat. If the little man did not know how to locate the others, Sin Bae should have received this message an hour ago, when the woman first stepped into the apartment.

He grinned as he recalled the look on her face when he closed the door behind her. She moved quickly but Sin Bae raised the stun gun and incapacitated her before she could attack. Then he tied her up.

He hated how she now fixed her gaze on his face, inspecting with glee the cuts and bruises she'd caused him back in Beijing. She had probably thought him dead. Probably thought when she first saw him behind the door that she was beholding a ghost.

Perhaps she still did. He wondered whether she believed in such things. Pondered on whether an apparition could make this woman scream.

K
INCAID WAS MORE TERRIFIED
than she'd ever been in her life. But she'd be damned if she was going to give this son of a bitch the satisfaction of knowing it.

No matter what happened, she would remain strong.

She would die the way she'd been taught to die. With her dignity intact.

She would die the way Janson would die.

Kincaid watched her captor's face as he circled her. Why hadn't he killed her yet? Sin Bae was a professional. He was Cons Ops. What was he doing wasting time with theatrics? It could only mean that he'd been instructed not to kill her—yet. Clearly he'd been ordered to wait.

But why?

With so much fear running rampant in her mind it felt impossible to uncoil the logic.

Janson, she thought. He's still alive. He made it back from the North and now they need to use me as bait.

But, no, there were other loose ends as well. Park Kwan and Kang Jung, whom she'd left in Tiananmen Square. She'd had no choice. And now both the cop and the girl were better off for being deserted in Beijing. Sin Bae could torture her all he wanted, she didn't know where they were. Didn't know where the hell Janson was.

What about the boy?

By now everyone must know that Gregory Wyckoff had been put on Janson's private jet and sent back to the States.

She watched her captor curl his fingers into a fist and felt an entirely fresh wave of terror.

“Where is the cop?” Sin Bae demanded.

Kincaid could hear the slur in his voice. He'd lost some teeth or bitten through his tongue; he sounded as though his tongue were swollen to ten times its normal size. She almost smiled as she recalled steering the pilfered bicycle into him, launching him in front of that speeding black Audi.

Sin Bae suddenly struck her with a closed fist.

The blow fractured her left cheekbone. Her head swung so hard to the right that she thought he'd broken her neck.

S
IN
B
AE WATCHED
as blood poured from between her lips. She was so dazed from the strike that he thought he might have knocked her unconscious. If he had, there would be consequences. There would be repercussions if he wasn't able to extract the information they wanted from her.

He needed to calm himself. This rage would only cause him to make yet another critical error. He rubbed his knuckles and committed himself to not hitting her so hard next time. Had he aimed for the temple, a slug like that would have killed her instantly.

His eyes fell on the phone he'd thrown to the floor. The light was blinking. There were so many flashing lights in South Chosun. What would Su-ra have thought if she'd seen Seoul?

Su-ra, he thought. Why continue to haunt me?

“Because you left me, big brother. Because you left me to die.”

I was just a child then. Just a child, like you.

By the time Sin Bae escaped from Yodok, he'd seen so many bodies that death no longer affected him. One year earlier, a young man he'd grown up with in Pyongyang became a prisoner at the camp. Like so many new prisoners, the guards quickly recruited him to be a snitch. By then, Sin Bae had no tolerance for snitches. So he'd invited his old friend for a walk near the foot of the mountains one late afternoon. They spoke for hours like old friends. Once darkness fell, however, Sin Bae casually lifted a rock and struck the young man in the back of the head. He buried the body where he'd buried so many before.

But nothing could have prepared him, could have deadened him enough for what was to come.

Several months after he murdered his old friend he was sentenced to the sweatbox for stealing corn. While he was inside, the guards taunted him like never before, tossing lit matches atop his box, pissing through the slats, defecating just feet from his locked door.

Then one gray and rainy morning, the guards grabbed little Su-ra as she passed by his box on her way to the factory.

Although he could not remember what they did to her, where they touched her, how she'd screamed, he still saw clear as day the moment their father tried to come to her rescue.

Father had picked a handful of dirt up off the ground and smashed it into the face of one of the offending guards.

Immediately another of the guards knocked Father to the earth with the butt of his gun. Then he and his humiliated colleague dragged Father through the dirt, threw him up against Sin Bae's sweatbox. Father, emaciated and dazed, turned and looked through the slats at his son.

Father managed to say only the boy's name before the guard placed the muzzle of his gun to the back of his head and pulled the trigger.

Before Sin Bae could fully register what was happening, he was drenched in his father's blood.

Days later when Sin Bae was finally released from the box, he stood on his own two feet and walked home.

As he washed the blood and bits of skull and brain from his body with contaminated water from the prison well, he resolved to leave Yodok one way or the other.

Soon.

S
TANDING IN FRONT
of a barely conscious Kincaid, Sin Bae's eyes were drawn to the still-blinking phone.

He ignored an incoming call. Instead he leaned into Kincaid's battered face and in a near whisper said, “Tell me. Where is the girl?”

Kincaid said nothing.

Sin Bae suppressed the urge to strike her again. He swiftly moved across the room and retrieved his phone from the floor. The missed call was from Ping. No message, of course. Sin Bae would be expected to return Ping's call immediately. But Sin Bae was tired of hearing the little man's whims. His last order was to learn the location of the others, and that was just what he'd do. He'd take matters into his own hands. He'd begin with Janson. Instead of running around Seoul, trying to hunt him down, Sin Bae would make it so that the bastard came to him.

He dialed the number Ping had given him earlier.

The phone rang four times before a woman answered.

“CatsPaw Associates,” she said.

Q
UINTISHA
U
PCHURCH
felt her skin crawl the moment she heard the slurred voice on the other end of the line. Quintisha had been the general operations manager for both CatsPaw and the Phoenix Foundation since their inception. She was known around both organizations as the only person in the world who could find Paul Janson, day or night. In the time she'd worked for Janson, she'd pretty much heard it all. Often with her heart in her throat. But the tone of this call was different somehow. She experienced a level of dread she'd never felt before. As though all calls leading up to this one were merely rehearsals.

“Tell him that I have her,” the voice said. “If he wants for her to leave this place alive, have him call the little man within the next half hour. No later. Because in thirty-one minutes, she dies.”

That was the entire conversation. Roughly three dozen words in all. Not a single name was mentioned during the call. But Quintisha Upchurch understood the message perfectly, and she wasted no time. She touched her finger to the flash button and speed-​d
ialed
Paul.

“Mr. Janson,” she said as soon as he answered, “we have a situation.”