If so, such considerations were coming too late. Another delegation of black-suited North Koreans had been standing by at the Air Koryo Jetway, a security team from North Korea's Beijing embassy. They closed around Sun Chok, a few curt words were exchanged, and the American was hustled down the extendable Jetway to the waiting airliner, past the Chinese People's Police officer, who was careful to not see him or his escorts.
Randi caught his eyes as he looked back one last time, and then he was gone.
She closed her eyes and sat unmoving for a long moment. Mission accomplished.
She knew what would happen next. The information contained within Franklin Sun Chok's laptop computer and within Sun Chok himself would be poured into the North Korean ballistic missile program. The information would promise leads in the direction of a foolproof countermeasures system that could defeat the U.S. antimissiles and leave the cities of the American West Coast open to attack.
But one after another, each promising lead would reach a technological dead end after devouring a precious percentage of the North Korean military budget and thousands of equally precious research and development man hours.
Eventually it would become apparent to the North Koreans that they had been duped, that their intelligence coup had, in fact, been a time bomb planted within their armaments program by the United States.
North Korea's "Dear Leaders" would be displeased. Specifically, they would be displeased with Franklin Sun Chok. The displeasure of the "Dear Leaders" would not be trifling.
Randi snapped her eyes open. If she were not careful with her memories, the cold-sweat nights would return.
From the concourse windows, she watched as the elderly Ilyushin jetliner climbed away from the airport on the final leg of Sun Chok's last journey. Returning to her seat, she waited for the next Cathay Pacific flight to come in and unload before making her call.
"Mr. Danforth. This is Tanya Stewart out at Capital. Mr. Bellerman wasn't on his flight. What should I do now, sir?"
Translation from agent doublespeak: the package has been successfully delivered.
Danforth sighed theatrically. "Los Angeles strikes again! I'll look into it, Tanya. In the meantime you'd best get back here. Something's come up."
"What is it, sir?"
"They need you back in the States as soon as possible. At the Seattle office."
Randi frowned. The States as soon as possible? This was a deviation, and a radical one. Upon completion of this assignment she was supposed to ease out of China over a period of days, maintaining her businesswoman's cover. And what the hell was in Seattle?
"I'm already setting up your travel arrangements," Danforth continued. "You'll be flying out this evening on Asiana to Seoul, and from there by JAL. There will be a reservation waiting for you at the SeaTac Doubletree."
"I see, Mr. Danforth. Should I swing by the office?"
"Yes. I'll have your tickets, and we can go over the outlines of this new project. You'll be met by a Mr. Smith in Seattle. He's with one of our associate firms, and you'll be working with him on a joint venture."
Randi frowned. Mr. Smith? The Agency would never use a cover name like that. It must be the real thing.
Her frown deepened. It couldn't be. Not again.
Chapter Six
San Francisco Bay
The diseased mind known in the Bay Area as the "BART rapist" settled back in his seat and luxuriated in the contemplation of the next woman he would destroy. The big Bay Transit Authority SuperCat passenger ferry was just backing away from the Market Street terminal, and he would have a full fifty minutes for his contemplation before their arrival in Vallejo. It pleased him that she was already his possession but still totally unaware of it.
The Bay Area's public transport systems were his private stalking ground, and as with all his previous half-dozen assaults, this one would be a work of art, in its inception and execution and in his evasion of the police, a thing of great beauty. The actual debasement of his prey would merely be the delicious frosting applied to a master baker's cake.
He never used the same persona twice. For this act he would be a cross-bay business commuter, recently moved from the city to the wine country north of the bay. His falsified identification would support the cover story, as would his assumed appropriate appearance: graying temples and wire-framed glasses, sweater and slacks and an expensive tweed jacket with suede elbow patches, Birkenstocks and dark socks. It would all match the image conjured in the mind of