The Arctic Event

“Hello, Mr. Danforth. This is Tanya Stewart. I’m on my way out to meet Mr. Bellerman at the airport.”

“Very good, Tanya,” Robert Danforth, the manager of the Beijing office of the California Pacific Consortium, replied. “He should be coming in on the Cathay Pacific flight nineteen, or at least that’s the last word we had. No guarantees. You know how the Los Angeles office is.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll keep you posted.” Randi snapped her phone shut, having completed her carefully scripted verbal dance.

Robert Danforth was actually the senior agent in charge of the CIA’s Beijing station, and the California Pacific Consortium was a front company used to provide cover for transient agents operating in northern mainland China. As for Mr. Bellerman, he existed only as a justification name inserted into routine Consortium business traffic over the past few days.

The cellular call had served two purposes. For one, it would explain Randi’s actions to PRC State Security, should their curiosity be aroused. For the other, it would advise her superiors that two years of carefully crafted counterintelligence work was about to reach fruition.

When Franklin Sun Chok first appeared as a blip on the CIA’s screens, he had been a graduate student of physics at Berkeley, employed at the huge Lawrence Livermore Laboratory complex in the Bay Area. A studious and intensely earnest young man, his after-hours interests and concerns included international disarmament and his ethnic heritage.

Neither of which was particularly out of place for a young American academic, but given the highly secretive nature of much of Lawrence Livermore’s work, it had rated him a spot check by laboratory security. Alarm bells rang.

Sun Chok was found to be associating closely with a small Korean nationalist group on the Berkeley campus, a group promoting, loudly, the national unification of Korea and the withdrawal of the United States military from the peninsula. It was also an identified front organization for North Korean espionage in the United States.

Randi’s cab drew up in the long line of vehicles feeding through the tollbooth access to the airport expressway. Perhaps a dozen cars ahead, she spotted the taxi carrying Sun Chok and his security escort. All was still on track.

Sun Chok had been placed under intensive covert surveillance. He was tailed, his apartment was searched and bugged, and his telephone and Internet traffic was closely monitored. In short order it was confirmed that he was indeed spying for the North Korean government.

The evidence was adequate for an arrest warrant, but an alternative had been decided upon. Franklin Sun Chok’s betrayal would be put to good use.

Randi glanced at her wristwatch and frowned. If this traffic didn’t break soon, both she and the Koreans would be in trouble. Then she told herself not to be silly. The next flight to Pyongyang wouldn’t be going anywhere until its VIP passengers were aboard.

No doubt to the delight of his North Korean controllers, Franklin Sun Chok was given a promotion at the Lawrence Livermore facility, complete with a handsome pay raise, a private office, an executive assistant, and a deeper access to the laboratories’ secrets. In reality, he was being encapsulated in a technological fantasyland of the Central Intelligence Agency’s creation.

For over a year, Sun Chok was fed a carefully metered diet of solid, valid, low-grade information: research breakthroughs that were destined to be openly published in science journals in months to come, and minor military secrets that would be secret only until the next round of congressional budgetary hearings.

As eager and as i

When U.S. intelligence assets monitoring North Korea’s internal R amp; D programs began to see this fed information being put to use, they knew that the Sun Chok line was being trusted. It was time to drive home the dagger.

Beijing Capital Airport looked little different from any other modernistic airline terminal anywhere else in the world. Drawing up at the departure entries, Randi caught only a glimpse of the Koreans as they entered the terminal, but that was as she wished it. If she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her.

Barring the usual large number of assault rifle-carrying People’s Armed Police, airport security was actually lighter than at an American airport. Randi was permitted access to the concourses after only a single pass of her shoulder bag through an X-ray machine. She had nothing to be concerned about here. She carried neither weapons nor any James Bondian gadgetry. None were needed for this tasking.

With the hook solidly set in the North Korean jaw, Franklin Sun Chok was “cleared” to an even higher security level and assigned work on a major new project involving the national antiballistic missile defense network. Information began to cross Sun Chok’s desk that hinted tantalizingly at possible countermeasures to the system.

On the evening before Sun Chok left on his a

Unknown to him, each of his illicit computer accesses was diverted to a carefully doctored alternate file set, prepared just for this moment. Then, instead of heading for Las Vegas as he had told his coworkers, Sun Chok had driven north, for the Canadian border.

Clearing security, Randi strode through the luggage-burdened crowds. She was less apparent here, for Capital Airport handled all the international traffic for Beijing, and many of the tourists and business travelers bustling around her now were American or European.

Cathay Pacific had been chosen as the preferred carrier for the mythical Mr. Bellerman because its boarding gates were located immediately adjacent to those of Air Koryo. Crossing to the Cathay Pacific waiting area, she took a seat that gave her a peripheral view of the North Korean gate. Once more she removed the false file from her shoulder bag and focused her false attention upon it.

Sun Chok’s flight across the Pacific had been a long and tortuous one: from Vancouver to the Philippines, from the Philippines to Singapore, from Singapore to Hong Kong, and from Hong Kong to Beijing. Pyongyang was not an easy place to get to from anywhere. Twice during the journey, Franklin Sun Chok had been contacted by North Korean agents, who had passed him falsified passports, visas, and identification, and in Hong Kong he’d picked up his escort from the People’s Security Force.

At each stop Sun Chok had also acquired a CIA shadow. A network of American agents had been deployed to cover the primary Pacific travel nodes, monitoring the traitor’s transit. In Singapore, the local station chief had even been forced to hastily intervene with the local authorities when a sloppily forged document had almost led to Sun Chok’s arrest.

Randi Russell would be the last link in this chain. She would oversee Franklin Sun Chok’s final passage into darkness.

Covertly she studied the youthful traitor. He kept glancing back down the concourse. Did he still fear some last-minute pursuit? Or could he be thinking back to San Francisco Bay and the apartment, life, and family he would never see again? Emoting to some idealized political principal was all well and good, but it was quite another thing to live out its reality.

Randi Russell knew full well what this reality was. She had been on the ground inside the last “workers’ paradise.” The experience still occasionally made her wake up bathed in a chill sweat.

She wondered if the young man was having second thoughts about his decision. Could it be that his fashionable intellectualist’s disdain for the United States was starting to wear thin? Could he now be sensing a ghost of what had made his parents flee to the Western world?