Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation (5 page)

F
ifteen minutes after Jessica Kincaid left the US embassy, Ambassador Owen Young gathered his briefcase, slipped into his hunter-green overcoat and black fedora, and called downstairs to have his car warmed and ready. Young's life had taken a decidedly difficult turn since he and the rest of the world learned the extent to which the National Security Agency was spying on its enemies and allies, even its own citizens. Given the broad scope of NSA targets, it seemed unlikely that the telephones inside the embassy in Seoul weren't tapped. So Young had stopped using them for everything but the most innocuous of tasks. From his office, he called his dry cleaner, his wife's interior decorator, and made appointments for haircuts and oil changes and dental checkups. He used his personal cell phone only to call his home or office. For everything else, he used telephones only he knew about.

One such telephone was a landline at a twenty-first-floor apartment he rented under a false name in the Gangnam district. Gangnam was a word the entire industrialized world was now familiar with, thanks to the South Korean pop artist who called himself Psy. The word actually meant “south of the river,” which was where Gangnam-gu was located—south of the Han.

As he waited in traffic on the bridge the ambassador considered what he would tell Edward Clarke, the current director of the State Department's Consular Operations. There was no question in his mind that matters had just become even more complicated. Young experienced a twinge of anxiety over how Clarke would react.

But then, the appearance of Paul Janson and Jessica Kincaid in Seoul wasn't
his
fault; what did
he
have to worry about? It was Clarke who would have to explain himself.

A few minutes later Young was cruising through the ritzy residential area he hoped to one day call his permanent home. By the end of this year, if everything remained on track with Clarke and the others, he would be able to. He'd already planted the seed with his wife, Mi-ho, and their three children. The only part of the plan that wasn't yet thought out was precisely what he'd tell his wife about the source of his financial windfall. A number of ideas were already rolling around in his head. In the end, it didn't matter so much. He'd probably resign his post as ambassador and tell his wife and children that he was taking an early retirement from public service because of a business deal that was too good to pass up. His wife didn't ask too many questions, after all; it was part of what endeared her to him.

This cozy apartment in Gangnam, for instance, had initially been rented for someone else, someone the ambassador enjoyed spending time with—a Canadian diplomat who had since moved on to another area of the globe. His wife had never questioned his need for the place, which he'd told her was an investment property he intended to rent out. Something he'd never quite gotten around to. But as he often joked with his chief aide, Jonathan:
What my wife doesn't know can't hurt me
.

In the lobby the ambassador nodded to the doorman, who returned the gesture with a respectful bow, then he headed straight for the elevator. He stepped out on the twenty-first floor and walked to the end of the hallway, now feeling slightly nostalgic for Severn, his former Canadian mistress. He wondered if she would consider a trip to Seoul in the not-too-distant future. With the money he'd have by the end of the year, he would even offer to pay her way. How could any enthusiastic traveler such as Severn turn down a first-class ticket on Korean Air and a week's stay in this stunning apartment overlooking the Han River?

Inside the apartment he shed his overcoat and set his fedora on the small but elegant dining room table. Then he picked up the phone. Although no one but Severn knew he kept this apartment, he had his line checked regularly for bugs. The last time was just a few days ago, so he felt secure as he dialed Clarke's number. Clarke's phone would be clean; the director was not a man who took chances with his privacy.

“Records Department. Winston speaking.”

Young smiled. “Just the man I was looking for.”

Their code was taken from George Orwell's
1984
, which turned out to have even more relevance now than the day they first adopted it. NSA had indeed become Big Brother on steroids, at least in the ambassador's opinion.

“It would seem that Diophantus is in jeopardy,” Young said into the receiver.

“How so?”

“Have you not been apprised of the senator's new hires?”

Clarke sighed. “I just heard from Honolulu. Believe me, Paul Janson doesn't know anything. Wyckoff sent him on a fishing expedition; he thinks the senator's paranoid. Janson only took the assignment for the payday.”

“He came all the way to Seoul just to confirm the kid's guilt? I find that hard to believe.”

“He's collecting an eight-million-dollar fee, Ambassador. Janson's going to look for the senator's boy. We just have to be sure to find the kid before he does.”

“I just met Janson's associate at the embassy. She doesn't seem to think she's on a fishing expedition. She seems suspicious. She repeatedly asked about the four-party talks and the translator's role in them.”

“Of course Jessica Kincaid's suspicious. Since the day she left Cons Ops, she's been seeing conspiracies everywhere. It's only natural for a former intelligence agent. But Janson's got a level head; he'll rein her in. The fact that he sent Kincaid to you in the first place tells us he trusts State completely.”

“Even after Mobius?”

Owen Young had only been let in on the Mobius Program well after the fact. But ever since he learned of the breadth and sophistication of the operation, he'd been in awe of the possibilities of clandestine operations. If the invisible hand of Consular Operations could create (and for years control) a visionary billionaire like Peter Novak to carry out their global agenda, then they could accomplish just about anything. It was why he had trusted that Diophantus would be an unmitigated success. This incident with the translator and the senator's son was the first error he'd seen made. But it was a significant one. And it had to be corrected without delay.

“Ambassador, we've worked with Janson since then. He got what he wanted: the Mobius Program was shut down. And we've been keeping tabs on him ever since. As far as Janson's concerned, Mobius was an isolated incident.”

“We are in agreement, Director, that the stakes involved in Diophantus are even greater.” He paused for a breath. “I believe we should err on the side of caution.”

“As we have been, Ambassador.”

“I do not need to remind you that the only reason we are having this conversation in the first place is because your man allowed the kid to escape.”

Edward Clarke hesitated. “You want me to eighty-six Janson, is that what you're saying? Because my predecessor attempted just that in order to salvage Mobius. That directive very nearly blew him and everyone else involved out of the water.”

Young considered this. “You say that Janson is just fishing, that it is the woman who is suspicious, correct? In that case, you need not eliminate Janson.”

“You want me to take out Kincaid.” Clarke's words didn't take the form of a question. “If I set my people on Kincaid, that's the one certain way we can expect to involve Paul Janson. There's more going on between him and Kincaid than just a working relationship, Ambassador.”

“Then I anticipate he will be too distraught to continue the job for the senator.”

Clarke smirked. “You don't understand. If Kincaid is taken out, Paul Janson will find out who's behind it even if it kills him.”

“Perhaps it
will
kill him. You have faith in your current asset, do you not?”

The director exhaled audibly. “Ambassador, you're asking me to kick a fucking hornet's nest. You do realize that, don't you?”

“I'm not asking you to kick it, Director. I'm asking you to dispose of it. There is a significant difference.”

E
XASPERATED,
E
DWARD
C
LARKE
slammed down the receiver. The sensation felt strangely unfamiliar. He'd slammed down plenty of phones in his time, but he hadn't had the pleasure in maybe ten or fifteen years. Technology had gotten in the way. Hanging up on someone no longer gave you the same satisfaction as marching out of a room and slamming the door behind you. Hell, it probably wouldn't be long before slammable doors were taken away too, replaced by those sliding contraptions on
Star Trek
.

Clarke stood from behind his desk and paced the length of his office in silence. He'd spent his entire adult life in the shadows of power, first at Langley then with Consular Operations. He'd taken plenty of shit over the span of his career, but none of it had become public and none of it had been personal. As deputy director of Consular Operations he'd taken the most, but he also had the opportunity to witness firsthand the incredible reach of genuine power. His predecessor, Director Derek Collins, had altered the course of history on several fronts, and to this day no one outside the Beltway even knew his name. He'd never had a website or even a Wikipedia page. Everything he did, every masterful stroke he took in his years as director of Cons Ops, had been performed behind a virtually impenetrable curtain.
That
was true power.

Now that power belonged to Edward Clarke. And like his predecessor, he wasn't afraid to wield it.

Unfortunately, even the most powerful men in the most powerful nation on earth had to rely on other human beings. In this case, Clarke had to rely on several. The ambassador was turning out to be more of a pain in the ass than he ever expected. Clarke was all but certain that it was because Owen Young had a much different, a much
lesser
, motivation. All the US ambassador to Seoul was interested in was the money.

Edward Clarke's motivation, on the other hand, was noble and pure. He was doing what he was doing for the good of the country. Like Collins before him, Clarke had vision. He saw threats others refused to see, acted on dangers others chose to completely ignore. Maintaining the status quo in Asia would be a monumental mistake for the United States of America. Most US politicians were too busy banking their votes and lining their pockets to see past the next election cycle. Clarke, however, suffered no such nearsightedness. If those who dwelled aboveground in Washington insisted on sitting on their hands while the world moved in a direction contrary to American interests, it was up to those who lived in the shadows to take swift and powerful action.

Clarke stopped pacing and lifted the receiver from his desk. The current trouble had started with a simple leak, but Clarke had moved without hesitation to contain it. It was a simple task, yet somehow his most reliable asset in Asia had fucked it up, royally. The Wyckoff kid should have been buried with the translator, but now they couldn't even locate him. The Seoul Metropolitan Police were having no more luck than Clarke's people. If they could at least get the kid into custody, Clarke would have options.

First of all, regardless of what his girlfriend might have told him (and it was possible she'd told him nothing), no one would believe a word the kid said. He was a nineteen-year-old stoner accused of murder. If Gregory Wyckoff had been promptly apprehended, Clarke could have simply let the South Korean criminal justice system run its course. Now, however, he had to play his hand much more cautiously. He continued to hope for an immediate arrest—after all, someone could get to the kid as easily
inside
prison as out—but he needed to take additional steps.

Unfortunately, the ambassador was right when he asserted that the senator from North Carolina had thrown a monkey wrench into the works. He'd hired the one man who knew precisely how Consular Operations worked. That move turned this entire contingency into a footrace. Arrest or no arrest, they
had
to get to the kid before Paul Janson did. And Clarke was sure they could. But the ambassador, understandably, didn't want to take that chance. The only way to be 100 percent positive that Janson and his partner, Jessica Kincaid, didn't find the kid before they did was to take them out of the picture. So Edward Clarke was now forced to issue the same directive his predecessor once had.

After several rings a voice finally answered. “This is Ping.”

“Our asset in Seoul has a new directive.”

“I see.”

“The kid is still a go, but there are two individuals in Seoul who need to be tended to first.”

“Understood.”

“You may be familiar with them. They're both former Cons Ops.”

“Their names in the order you'd like this task accomplished?”

Clarke sighed heavily but didn't hesitate. “Jessica Kincaid,” he said. “And Paul Elie Janson.”

War Memorial of Korea
Itaewon, Yongsan-gu, Seoul

O
ne of the most powerful men in South Korea stood just four feet eleven inches.

As he entered the second-floor exhibit, Paul Janson spotted Nam Sei-hoon standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing wistfully into a massive display case housing life-size wax figures depicting a particularly brutal battle from the Korean War. The small man shifted his eyes up and to the left as he caught a glimpse of Janson's approach in the reflective glass. As Janson sidled up beside him, Nam Sei-hoon said softly without looking at him, “I never tire of this place, Paul.”

Janson bowed his head and remained silent as his old friend cleared his throat and ran a finger beneath his left eye to catch a falling tear. As far as Janson knew, the three-floor museum was the largest of its kind, a marvel of modern architecture that housed centuries of national memories, capturing both the jubilance and the misery associated with war, the latter of which Janson himself knew all too well.

The Korean War exhibit in which they stood was one of eight main exhibits on the grounds. Two of the pieces Janson observed outside had already stuck in his mind like a pushpin. One, the
Statue of Brothers
, which portrayed a South Korean officer embracing his younger brother, a North Korean soldier. The other, the
Peace Clock Tower
, a sculpture consisting of two clocks, the first reflecting the current time, the second memorializing the date of the invasion from the North. The second clock was to be replaced when the two Koreas were one again. Both pieces represented the South's passionate desire for Korean reunification.

“I am grateful that you contacted me,” Nam said, finally turning his weathered face to Janson.

Nam Sei-hoon suffered from a rare genetic disorder known as Fairbanks disease, which had stunted his growth around the time he reached puberty. Janson knew of only two other people with the disease, the actor Danny DeVito and former Clinton labor secretary Robert Reich. But while both DeVito and Reich handled their condition with comic self-deprecation, Nam Sei-hoon took the opposite approach. Despite his meteoric rise to power within South Korea's National Intelligence Service, Nam remained ultrasensitive about his height and was notorious for destroying the reputation and career of any man or woman who dared make light of his diminutive stature.

“I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice,” Janson said, immediately regretting his phrasing. He bit down hard on his lip and quickly turned to the business at hand. “I'm trying to locate someone who may be on the run in the city. As the eyes and ears of Seoul, I thought you might be able to help.”

Nam spoke slowly and deliberately. “I assume you are referring to the senator's son, the murder suspect who has thus far managed to elude police?”

“That's right,” Janson said quietly. “I was hired by the boy's father to find him.”

Nam Sei-hoon raised an eyebrow. “An exfiltration?”

Although there was no hint of accusation in Nam's voice, Janson quickly shook his head. “No, I have no intention of aiding in an escape. Senator Wyckoff believes his son is innocent.”

“Innocent men do not flee.”

“They do when they're frightened teenagers.”

Nam Sei-hoon, whose once dark crown had matured into a blinding white, turned back toward the display case, leaving Janson to stare down at his profile.

“So you too believe this boy is innocent?” Nam said.

Janson detected an unexpected reticence in Nam's voice; his expression remained inscrutable. “I'm reserving judgment until I have all the facts. Including the kid's side of the story. When I find him, I'm going to encourage the boy to turn himself in to police. I trust the South Korean criminal justice system to decide his guilt or innocence.”

“That's quite noble of you.” When Nam next turned his body to face his old friend, his features had softened considerably. “Of course, I would offer you my assistance either way,” he added, smiling. “Our friendship is such that the parameters of your mission are irrelevant to me, Paul.”

Janson felt a wave of relief wash over him. In the past he'd often relied on Nam Sei-hoon's numerous contacts in the global intelligence community to obtain information and grease the wheels that needed greasing. Janson would have been confounded had his longtime friend denied him assistance now that Janson came to him personally. Such an unexpected setback would have been devastating to his search. Especially since Janson's own contacts on the Korean peninsula were limited—and the clock continued ticking.

Janson treasured Nam Sei-hoon's friendship partly because of how unlikely it was. Years ago Nam had singled him out during joint US-ROK live-fire training exercises. By then Janson was already part of the most elite platoon within SEAL Team Four, so Nam had measured him against not only the best, but the best of the best. Of all the US Navy SEALs whom Nam had observed over the years, he had chosen only Paul Janson to join him for dinner at his home in Seoul. Little did Janson know at the time that the dinner would become the first of many the two men shared.

Because of his position in the National Intelligence Service, Nam Sei-hoon traveled the world, liaising with his counterparts on every continent. Whenever Nam was about to leave the Korean peninsula, Janson received a call. If he happened to be within a couple thousand miles of one of the cities Nam was visiting, Nam would insist they get together for a meal. And it was at those meals that their friendship flourished.

Despite the difference in their ages and stations, Nam had always treated Janson like an equal. When they engaged in worldly discussions, Nam listened to Janson in a way that made Janson feel as if they were the last two men on earth. For Janson, a man who had never been close with his father, it was a remarkable experience that imbued him with an extraordinary level of confidence. And that confidence later provided Janson the fortitude to make some of his most crucial decisions, including his decision to leave Consular Operations in pursuit of a more virtuous life.

Glancing furtively over his shoulder to identify potential eavesdroppers, Nam said, “So, how can I help you, Paul?”

“Senator Wyckoff informs me that his son spends an inordinate amount of time in cyberspace. I was hoping we might be able to track him down that way.”

“Quite possibly,” Nam said. “Is the boy a professional?”

“‘He knows his way around a computer' is how the senator phrased it. From my conversation with them, I don't think Senator and Mrs. Wyckoff are very close to their son. And I'm fairly certain they have no clue what he's been up to these past few years.”

“A shame,” Nam said. “But in these times, not as uncommon as we would like to believe.”

“The police seized the kid's computers—one desktop and one laptop. As far as I know they haven't yet extracted any information, so I thought that might be a good place for us to start.”

Nam seemed to consider this. “I am sure I can gain access to the boy's computers,” he said, “
if
I declare it a matter of national security. Of course, since I head the Department of North Korean Affairs, it would be helpful if you possessed information linking either the senator or his son to the Kim regime, no matter how tenuous the connection.”

In his head Janson ran rapidly through the senator's votes on North Korean sanctions. He knew there was nothing there, and if there was, Nam Sei-hoon and the National Intelligence Service would already know about it. Like any good spy, Nam was fishing. Which was particularly understandable under the circumstances. The South lived under a constant threat from the North, and the situation had recently worsened considerably. Kim Jong-il's death and his son Kim Jong-un's impromptu rise to power had made an unpredictable situation even more uncertain and extremely volatile.

Janson finally shook his head. “So far I've found nothing to suggest that the Wyckoff family has any ties to Pyongyang, political or otherwise.”

“Very well,” Nam said. “Then we will merely have to invent a narrative.”

“T
ELL ME WHY
I shouldn't hang up.”

“CatsPaw. What have you got for me?”

Janson tucked his chin into the upturned collar of his overcoat as he waited for Morton's response. His exposed ears were frozen, his eyes tearing from the cold, hard wind. As he moved briskly along the sidewalk, he flashed on the tarmac at Hickam Field on Oahu, on the gentle caress of the Hawaiian sun on his cheeks. Just then it was hard to believe that Honolulu and Seoul were on the same planet, let alone in the same hemisphere.

Morton said, “A reverse dox can be every bit as complicated and time-consuming as a straight dox, ya know. And the name you fed me, he's no script kiddie.”

Janson's brows dipped in frustration. “Speak English, Morton.”

“Hold on. I'm on the New Jersey Turnpike and it's backed up worse than
I
was during month two of my OxyContin addiction.”

Janson continued walking. He loathed speaking to Morton. He usually delegated the job to Jessie or someone else at CatsPaw, but today he had no choice but to call the hacker himself. As much as he detested hearing about Morton's traffic and constipation issues, he needed the information he'd requested earlier from the plane, and he needed it fast. The longer it took to find Gregory Wyckoff, the worse it would be for the kid. And the senator didn't seem like a guy who was keen on excuses.

“Did you find him or not?” Janson finally demanded.

“Easy, easy. Of course I found him. I was just trying to explain that it wasn't a cakewalk. Doxing someone who's good with a keyboard and wants to remain anonymous is a tough task. But if I have enough information about his online activity I can usually find him within an hour. Reverse doxes, on the other hand, can be a real bitch.”

“But you found Gregory Wyckoff's handle in cyberspace,” Janson pushed.

“I found him, sure. But he'd buried himself well, which is what I was trying to tell you. Your guy's no script kiddie—he knows his shit.”

Janson said nothing as he passed the Seoul Central Mosque. If only he'd used his Muslim legend to meet with Nam Sei-hoon; then he could duck into the warm mosque and mutter a few prayers while his face thawed.

“All right,” Janson said. “I don't have much time. Tell me what you learned about the kid's online life.”

“He goes by the screen name Draco-underscore-Malfoy-nine-five.”

“What the hell's a Draco Malfoy?”

“He's a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wiz­ardry.”

“
English
, Morton.”

“This
is
English, man. He's a character in
Harry Potter
. Draco Malfoy's a bad seed, lives in the Slytherin dorm. Voldemort commands him to kill Dumbledore, but he doesn't have the balls to go through with it. In the end I think Draco switches sides and becomes Harry's friend.”

“Thanks for the
Harry Potter
history lesson. But right now I don't give a damn about fictional characters. Tell me about Gregory W
yckof
f. What have you learned?”

“Well, I actually think his screen name is telling. This kid's nineteen. He's been active online using various identities since he was twelve. Started out as a black hat.”

“A black hat?”

“In tech lingo it's someone who uses their knowledge of software programming to do mischief.”

“What kind of mischief are we talking about?”

“Well, in Gregory's case, minor shit. At least to start with. He defaced a few websites, trolled some forums. But within a couple of years he'd moved up to DDoS'ing—knocking sites offline by swamping them with junk traffic—and stealing databases of personal information, which he then sold to various crooks and thieves in Eastern Europe, mainly Ukraine.”

“What's he been up to recently?”

“That's the thing. Roughly three years ago he seems to have turned a corner. Maybe he got pinched, maybe he grew a conscience, I don't know.”

“We know he didn't get pinched,” Janson said. “The kid doesn't have a criminal record. Nothing on his juvenile sheet either.”

“If he got pinched, there wouldn't be a rap sheet if he cooperated and went to work for the feds. Happens all the time these days. No more honor among thieves, ya know.”

“So he started ratting out other hackers?”

“Not necessarily. But at that point his online career takes an odd turn. He starts working with Anon and other groups who claim to be hacktivists.”

“By Anon, you mean
Anonymous
? The organization that attacked the Church of Scientology?”

“Right. Scientology, PayPal, MasterCard, Visa, Sony, and a whole bunch of other sites, including some Middle Eastern governments during the Arab Spring. But they're not really an organization. Anonymous is more like an online subculture.”

“Great job, Morton. Now, how is all this going to help me find the kid in Seoul?”

Nam Sei-hoon had parted company with the promise to contact Janson when the NIS spy gained access to the computers being held as evidence by the Seoul Metropolitan Police. If history was any indicator, Janson expected to hear from Nam before nightfall, but he couldn't count on it. And if Gregory Wyckoff was half as savvy with computers as Morton was telling him, there was a good chance the kid had wiped his hard drives before going on the lam. It was also possible that the computers the police seized were never used in Wyckoff's covert activities. For all anyone knew, Wyckoff's personal computer could still be in the kid's possession.

“Hey,” Morton said, “I've never been to Seoul. Hell, I've never even been to Philadelphia, which is practically in my backyard. If it weren't for the annual Black Hat convention in Vegas, I'd never leave Jersey at all.”