TEN

Monk stared back. William here? After what had just happened back in the hot tub? Monk felt a jab of uncertainty, suddenly unsure that what he was seeing was real, and it was almost a relief to hear the sound of William’s voice as he knocked again.

“Damn it, Monk, open the door!”

Monk hit the power switch to unlock the door and William Smith opened it and slid into the seat.

“What are you doing here?” Monk asked. “How did you know I was—” He didn’t bother finishing the question. If they wanted to, there wasn’t much the NSA couldn’t find out. About anybody.

“The director wants to see you,” William said. “My director, I mean.”

“Fort Meade wants to see me?”

“Trust me, it’s not my idea.”

Monk stared at him. “They sent you to get me?”

“I told them I was the wrong guy.”

“Who else is coming from the bureau?”

William ignored the question. He pointed out the window toward his dark blue Chevy Caprice, parked a few cars away. The same car he’d been using the other morning. “You can follow me.”

“To Fort Meade? We’re going out to Maryland?”

William opened the door and got out of the Saab, then looked back at Monk. “Not Fort Meade,” he said. “You already know the way to the office I’ve been using. I’m going to follow you there.” He paused. “I’ve been ordered to make damned sure you make it.”

William stayed close behind as Monk headed east on Reservoir Street, past the Ellington School of the Arts to Wisconsin Avenue, then across town to William’s sad little building on Florida Avenue. They parked out front, went through the front door together and took the tiny elevator up to the third floor, then down a corridor to a door marked POTOMAC ENGINEERING. William used a key on the door and they went through.

The small reception room featured a faux-wood secretary’s desk, a yellow vinyl couch, and two light brown vinyl armchairs. On the walls hung photographs of civil engineering projects—a couple of dams and a section of freeway—along with some framed blueprints. A plastic ficus benjamina stood beyond the desk, and a plastic philodendron leaned pitifully from a fake clay pot next to the couch.

The woman sitting at the desk smiled as they approached. A brass placard identified her as Esther Valenzuela. About forty, Monk judged, with remarkably white teeth and round brown eyes he suspected had been trained to miss nothing. What he knew for sure was that Esther was just as faux a secretary as was the imitation wood in her desk. Her only job was to get rid of anyone who might wander by in search of an actual engineer.

“He’s inside, William,” she said to her boss. “Got here about ten minutes ago.” She stopped smiling. “Be careful. He seems extra tense today.”

William stepped directly toward the door to the left of Esther’s desk, tapped on it before opening the door and moving through. Monk followed. He knew the name Philip Carter, but he didn’t recognize the NSA director standing near the small window behind the desk, and he wasn’t surprised. You’d have to ask half a million Americans to find one who knew the guy’s name, much less what he looked like. The man who ran America’s biggest corporation of spies was virtually invisible himself.

William closed the door behind them. “This is Puller Monk, Mr. Director,” he told Carter, before turning to Monk. “Director Carter,” he said.

Carter extended his hand and Monk shook it. The director was close to seventy, Monk decided, and had to be a fitness fanatic. His prominent cheekbones accentuated the leanness of his tanned face, and his head was almost completely bald. He wore a dark blue suit with a blinding white shirt and crimson tie. Monk could see his cuff links as he held on to the man’s hand for an extra beat. White enamel with tiny red birds in flight. Carter’s blue eyes radiated power, as they flicked up and down Monk’s standard SOG attire, his tan cotton Dockers and wrinkled tennis shirt. It was hard not to feel inferior to the impeccably tailored director, and Monk knew that was exactly the point.

Carter stepped around behind William’s plain wooden desk and sat. William looked at Monk, then took the closest of the two lime-green vinyl armchairs in front of the desk. Monk sat in the other one. He glanced at the desktop. Except for a black telephone it was completely bare. No blotter, no calendar, not a photograph … nothing. On a narrow table to the left of the desk sat three framed photos, one of them featuring an attractive woman, the other two showing a couple of high-school age young men. Monk didn’t know who they were and he would have bet a month’s pay that neither of the other two men did either. The NSA director leaned forward in his chair. His thin lips moved very little as he began to speak.

“Forgive me if I’m blunt, Mr. Monk,” he said, “but I don’t have time to be polite.”

“Blunt works for me, too. I’m just as busy as you are.”

Carter’s eyes indicated he wasn’t used to such a response. He glanced at William, and William was quick to speak up.

“I told you this was a mistake,” he told his boss. “There are fifteen thousand FBI agents. Why should we bother to use someone like—”

Carter glared at him and William closed his mouth and sat back in his chair. The director turned back to Monk.

“Please forgive Mr. Smith. I share some of his misgivings, but the time for arguing about you is over.” He paused. “You’re here because you have a … let’s just call it a dark side. An extraordinary aversion to letting go long after it’s time to quit, and an alternative approach—to use the kindest description—to getting the job done.” Again he paused. “Ordinarily, fatal flaws for an FBI agent, but your results somehow manage to overcome your methods. Either you’re the luckiest man alive, or you …”

Director Carter’s voice died as Monk rose from his chair and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” the director snapped. “You will not leave until I finish.”

Monk turned back, but stayed on his feet. “Look. You people told me to back off the Madonna case, and that’s exactly what I did. You don’t have to haul me in here and—”

“You did not back off, Mr. Monk. You followed Mr. Smith to this office. You were ordered to leave this case alone, but you did exactly the opposite.”

“I wasn’t about to quit, not without a better explanation. The case I’ve been working isn’t simply about the Madonna. There’s a major art-theft ring operating in this country and around the world. My job is to recover the loot and prosecute the thieves.” Monk took a step toward the director. “The Madonna may be connected to the same ring, and I needed to make that clear to William. To make damned sure he understood that I had to be cut in at the finish of whatever you’ve got going.”

“That’s bullshit,” William said. “He talked about a lot more than—”

Again Carter’s chilly blue eyes swung to William. Again William’s mouth closed.

“You mentioned the FISA wire to Mr. Smith,” the director told Monk. “You indicated you weren’t about to leave this case alone. Your history of persistence presents a problem.”

“I have no damned idea what you’re talking about.” He took another step closer to the desk. “Let me say it again. You don’t have to threaten me. You don’t have to worry about me intruding. I’m not about to throw away my career like that.”

Carter leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding, Mr. Monk. I’m not here to threaten you. I’m here to ask for your help.”

Monk stared at him. “My help?”

Carter pointed at the vacant chair. Monk sat.

“What do you know about North Korea’s Division 39 program?” the director asked.

Monk sat up straighten North Korea. Division 39. He felt a tickle in the back of his mind. “Jog my memory.”

“They operate out of a building near the Russian embassy in Pyongyang. The division has two arms, one of them allegedly legal, but both have the same purpose.”

Monk nodded. Now he remembered the piece in the Wall Street Journal. Division 39 was a slush fund, a holding company of businesses set up to funnel money directly to Kim Jong Il. Enough money to fund his intelligence activities around the world.

“I’ve read something,” he said. “But I didn’t get the sense that Division 39 is a secret.”

“The commercial side isn’t. It’s the other end of the house we’re concerned with here.” Carter turned to William, who took over.

“The secret arm of Thirty-nine—the illegal activities directorate—is modeled on the Russian mafiya,” he said. “Illegal arms smuggling, robbery and extortion, currency counterfeiting. But the biggest moneymaker is drug smuggling. Kim Jong Il orders every farming collective in North Korea to plant twenty-five acres in poppies. The annual yield in opium, morphine, and heroin is fifty tons, with a return of close to fifteen billion dollars a year, roughly equal to the country’s reportable GDP.” William paused. “Every cent is used to keep their spies in place around the world, including right here in Washington.”

Monk glanced at Carter before returning to William. “You’re saying Division 39 stole the Madonna, but how can that be? The thief—she used the name Sarah Freed—was an American. From Boston, according to what she told the victim.”

“Not even close. She was born an American, but she hasn’t been one for a long time.”

“An American working for Pyongyang?”

“For the illegal activities directorate of Division 39. She’s one of what the division calls the ipyanghan. A Korean word for adopted children.”

Monk frowned, but William continued before he could say anything.

“But they weren’t adopted, of course. They were kidnapped. As an offshoot of Pyongyang’s program to kidnap Japanese nationals in the 1970s.”

Monk nodded. He’d read the stories.

“In the same decade,” William continued, “Division 39 began to steal American infants as well.”

William looked at his boss, and Carter nodded for him to continue.

“We have a source in Pyongyang who’s identified ten kidnapped American girls who were sent to North Korea for training. Schooled together. Taught perfect English. Kept abreast of everything current in the United States. Raised to think and act as Americans, then conditioned to hate us. Trained to come back here, one or more at a time, to live with us. To carry out missions ranging from robbery to extortion to assassination.”

Monk found himself sitting up straighter. “Sleepers. You found a sleeper.” He paused. “And you’ve got a mole.”

“Took me ten years. Money wouldn’t do it—we offered millions—but two months ago I found a man working inside Thirty-nine who’s convinced Kim Jong Il is destroying the country, so convinced that he’s willing to risk his life to help us. So now we have a mole … I should say we think we have a mole. Until we can corroborate what he tells us, evaluate his reliability, we can’t be sure who he’s really working for. Can’t be sure he’s not a double agent.”

“And your mole knows who stole the Madonna.”

“He knows it was one of the ipyanghan. He knows her Korean name—Sung Kim—but that’s all he knows. He works in the illegal activities directorate, but he has no access to the ipyanghan files. He can’t get into them without risking discovery and I don’t want him to do that. Not yet, for sure. Not until we’ve determined his usefulness. Dead, he’s no good at all. If he’s legit, we can use him forever.”

“So you haven’t really identified her, this Sung Kim.”

“We know she’s in the States, but that’s about it. We don’t know her cover name or names, her legend, or where she lives.”

“Or where she is at the moment.”

“She was in Paris immediately after the robbery, we do know that.… We think we know that. And we’ve been told she’s back now.”

“You didn’t follow her in Paris? Follow her from the airport when she got back?”

William shook his head. “Our information comes from the mole. We didn’t see the meeting … didn’t have anyone on the ground.” Again William glanced at his boss, again Carter nodded. “Our man says Sung Kim is here, somewhere in this country, preparing for her next assignment.” He hesitated. “A job we have to …”

William stopped. Monk waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Seconds passed in silence. Monk turned to Director Carter.

“That’s it?” he said. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“We did get a name from our man,” Carter said. “The name of an American supposedly involved with Sung Kim. But there’s a problem. A bunch of problems.” He paused. “That’s why you’re here.”

Monk grunted. “I assume you’re prepared to be a bit more specific.”

“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid. Not until you agree to come on board.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, on board?”

“We need you to work with us to catch the sleeper. To catch Sung Kim before she can complete her next mission.”

Monk stared at him. “That’s what this is all about? I’m already on board … I’m already working the art thefts. Surely Burt Malone made it clear that whatever you need from the bureau is a done deal.”

“I’m not talking about Burt Malone, or the bureau. I’m talking about you, Mr. Monk. Just you.”

“Just me?” He shook his head. “I have no damned idea what you’re …”

“Basically this, Mr. Monk. Our asset doesn’t trust the FBI, not after that bureau supervisor got caught spying for the Russians a couple of years ago. He’s terrified about being exposed and killed before we can get him out of North Korea. Frankly, I have the same concerns about the Hoover Building, but we need an FBI agent who’s familiar with the string of art thefts.” Carter paused. “Bottom line, we need you but we don’t want your bureau.”

“To work for NSA.” Monk knew his tone was sarcastic, but he continued anyway. “Without telling my bosses.”

“Worse than that, I’m afraid. We want you to work for us without telling anybody. Not the bureau, not your girlfriend, not your buddies at the SOG. Nobody. Even NSA will be off-limits. Outside of Mr. Smith and me, nobody from Fort Meade will know about this.” Again he paused. “If you get caught, the two of us will abandon you as well.”

Monk looked out the small window to the right of the desk. The sky was clouding up, but the tops of the trees were dead still. From the outer office he could hear the secretary typing at her computer. He turned back to Philip Carter.

“You said I have a dark side, that I take too many risks, and that I won’t quit when they tell me to stop.” He glanced at William. “Mr. Smith doesn’t want me … neither one of us wants to work together. So why me?”

“Because you have the skills, for one. Because you function best outside the box. Because we can be certain you’re not a spy. No double agent in his right mind would work the way you do.” Carter’s smile wasn’t all that friendly. “But most of all because you’re a winner. Because somehow you always manage to come out on top.”

Monk stared at the director. A winner? Wouldn’t it be great to believe that? But even if the director were right, there were table limits with every game. What Carter was asking was off-the-charts stupid. A real gambler knows when to throw in his cards and walk away. Monk started to get up, then heard himself asking one last question.

“Who’s the target?”

“I can’t tell you that until you agree to help.”

“Has to be a big player, though,” Monk said. “Somebody too powerful to risk alienating.”

Carter did not respond.

“And you’re not sure of your mole,” Monk said. “Not sure enough to risk a disaster by going all out on the word of an untested asset.”

“Let’s just say we can’t take the chance. Not with the kind of man he’s telling us about.”

Monk chewed the inside of his cheek. He could still hear the clicking of the keyboard from the other room, but now he could hear the faint groan of the air-conditioning system as well. He checked William’s face, but the NSA spook turned away. Monk slid forward in his chair and faced Carter.

“I have a good job, Mr. Director. A job I like, and one I need to keep. You’re asking me to work as a double agent inside my own bureau, but I won’t do that. I won’t even consider doing that.”

“I understand exactly what you’re saying. You need time to make your decision.”

“That’s not what I said at all. I’ve made my decision. I don’t need another minute to think about it.”

Philip Carter smiled again, and this time it appeared genuine. “Of course you don’t, Mr. Monk. But just in case, I’ll keep the offer open till noon tomorrow.”