[Note from Steve: This novel will complete the “Clones and Mutants Series,” making it into a trilogy.  Although it’s the sequel to Full Medical and Evil Agenda, it’s a stand-alone, just like all my novels.  For those who read the first two books, though, you will also find here Kalidas Metropolis and friends, the genetically enhanced super-soldier Sirena, and others, as well as your favorite evildoer, Vladimir Kalinin aka Rupert Snyder aka Sergio Battaglia.  But the latter also battles wits with a new villain….  Look for No Amber Waves of Grain, coming soon this fall!]

Chapter Eleven

Seoul, Korea

Gerard Fuchs didn’t like the East.  He knew many languages, but not one from the region.  His least favorite country was China, although he guessed their brand of fascist capitalism would soon become the standard world model—China Inc, his colleagues called it.  Korea was bad boy number two.  It was becoming almost as bad as China.  His favorite was Japan, which now was much tamer.

“You look jet-lagged, Mr. Fuchs.”  Kim Mun-Hee seemed sympathetic.  Interpol had assigned him to Fuchs.  Although a successful Interpol agent in his own right, the man from Lyon considered the Korean to be little more than a translator.

           Fuchs wanted to tell him how he hated his country and the region.  He decided that was no way to begin a partnership, no matter how brief, so he showed instead that he appreciated the concern.

“A scramjet still takes too long.”  He smiled.  “Either that, or my age is showing.  How old are you, Kim?”

“Twenty-seven, but we’re similar.”

“How so?  I’m forty-three.”

“We both have new babies.”

Fuchs nodded.  He wondered if Kim’s kid was the monster his was.  Probably not.

            “Did you have any luck in finding out whether the Korean government knows anything about what Park Kang-Dae is doing?”

“As far as they’re concerned, the man deserves accolades.  That’s official opinion, although everyone recognizes he’s a ruthless businessperson.”  Are there any other kind in Korea, thought Fuchs.  “He’s doing R&D to make rice crops better, among many other things.  The mere fact that he provides so many jobs makes him a hero.”

Fuchs nodded again.  “Anything more to convince us Sonya Walton’s fears are justified?  Anything unusual, for example?”

“Just that Paul Sonderman indeed worked for Park.  Unusual, because Korean firms, especially R&D labs, have a paranoid fear of Western industrial espionage.”

“Works both ways, you know.”

“Of course.  But because of the Korean firms’ paranoia, they aren’t in the habit of hiring westerners.  Park is an exception.  The chief scientist of his bio research effort is German, for example.”

“We need to explore those labs,” said Fuchs.

“We can’t.  Not legally.”

“How about illegally?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that question,” said Kim with a smile, “and we’ll also pretend you didn’t hear my answer.  I have some friends at the National Security Planning Agency.”  Fuchs realized that Kim, in his caution, was waiting for a nod from Fuchs to go on.  He received it.  “Before the nations merged, our version of the CIA placed operatives in Korean companies that in turn posted them to foreign subsidiaries to gather technical and financial information overseas.  Not long ago they became a division in our National Intelligence Service.  Now they handle both internal and external security.”

“State-run industrial espionage,” said Fuchs, fascinated.  “And these guys are lethal?”

“I’d guess more so then than now.  Asia is now trouncing the U.S. and the E.U. economically.  There’s not as much need for us to spy and more need for stopping people from spying on us.”

Asians—it’s all about business.  “So, how is what I’m not supposed to hear going to help us?”

“Without mentioning details, I believe I can convince someone to sniff around a bit in the Gimcheon neighborhood.  Perhaps a night-time visit to K-D Labs?”

“That’s where Park’s house is, right?”

“He’s often not there,” said Kim, “and I’d suggest we have my friends visit when that is the case.  Mr. Park is known for his nasty temper.”

“OK, here’s an important question: What happens if some people in that organization are moonlighting for Park?”

“I don’t understand the term ‘moonlighting,’ but by context I’ll assume you mean that they’re on his payroll too.  That’s a possibility, but they probably wouldn’t be at K-D Labs.  They’d be in the U.S. or Europe.  Possibly Brazil too.”

“Why Brazil?”

“Weapons industries.  Brazil is now second only to the U.S. in arms exports.  Our weapons industries are still maturing and most of them belong to Mr. Park.  They not only, let us say, copy Western developments, but have an active R&D of their own.  It’s a big business.”

“Park’s a diversified fellow, I take it.”

“Maybe too much so.”

***

            The two Korean agents, one man and one woman, were over a meter and a half tall, an unusual occurrence in the Asian nation.  Thin and wiry, both were in great shape.  Their muscles bulged beneath sleek, black ninja outfits.  They had worked together before and had carried out many missions overseas.  It was unusual to work together at home, but it was also a challenge.  They expected no problems.

They had taken a side road off the Gyeongbu Expressway and parked their hydrogen-powered vehicle behind a giant, scrolling LED billboard that faced the highway.  They littered the route.  Some projected loud, percussive music to accompany ads for sexual products hawked by scantily clad actors who extolled their virtues.  Advertising agencies intended that sound penetrate a car with its windows up.

Garish light spilled onto the highway as it cycled through twenty different ads designed to attract motorists’ attention, but, behind the sign, there were only dark shadows.  The two of them dismounted from the car and ran off into darkness.

It was 3 a.m. and a good morning for a run.  The excess humidity of previous days had abated, leaving the air dry and cool.  After five klicks, the pair hit the ground behind a berm and slithered forward like snakes.  They peeked over the top at the K-D Labs facility.  Somewhere in the sprawling complex, the magnate Park lived, but they knew he was in Vietnam, trying to acquire yet another company.

They already knew from satellite photos there were two guard posts at the corners of the property on the side facing the entrance road.  By running cross-country, they had avoided all passive surveillance equipment along the entrance road.  Now the problem was to avoid the guards.

The man estimated the distance, nodded to the woman, and assembled a rifle using the pieces in his backpack.  It was a new weapon produced by one of Park’s own subsidiaries that can either kill or stun, depending on the bullets used.  Not 100% safe, the soft, blunted ceramic bullets he would use should shatter on impact, even with flesh, and create an anesthesia cloud that would put a person under for several hours.  But sometimes the bullets didn’t shatter and they became almost as lethal as conventional lead.

He wouldn’t know whether they worked as designed or not.  They weren’t going to climb the towers to see if the guards were dead or simply stunned.  They cut a hole through the chain link fence and moved toward the facility.  At a side door, the woman slapped a bit of plastic explosive onto the lock mechanism.  After a muffled bang!, the man moved aside, covering a dark area with another special stun gun.

All clear.  He disarmed the alarm and gestured for his companion to enter.  They loped through the facility, describing what they saw to their HQ via the new wi-fi devices surgically implanted behind their ears that took subvocalized words, encrypted them, and transmitted on narrow RF beams to a unit in their car.  Their controllers used the same devices to locate and steer them to greener pastures where they thought more information was available.  They also used the devices to compress and transmit data the agents gathered at workstations and other computing devices.

In one hour, they saw all they could see in the facility and had acquired more data than they had hoped for.  Unlike workers in a military facility, the ones here assumed too often that outside security was enough and left documents loose on desks and computer stands.

They also visited a section identified as Park’s residence, but spent little time there.  They saw the first light of dawn as they arrived back at the car.  The woman settled behind the wheel.  They had already transmitted much of the information gathered.  Her companion, sliding into the seat next to her, transmitted the rest.  She then started the car.

The force of the explosion, made all the more intense by the hydrogen stored in its tank, launched the car into the air.  It landed meters from where they had parked it.  The vehicle became a crematorium for two Korean agents, in uncanny synchronization with the new ad featuring an old gentleman who promoted a local funeral parlor.

***

            “I’m sorry,” said Fuchs when he heard the news.

Kim looked around the hotel room.  “Somehow I expected you Germans to live it up a bit more.  This hotel is for Korean business people—vendors, mostly, who must travel around the country taking orders for a commission.”

“I wonder why you’re changing the subject.”

Kim sat in a faded and threadbare chair.  The table next to it bore the scars of time—old cigarette burns, rings from drink glasses, and initials cut into the wood.  Fuchs guessed it was much older than Kim was.  Maybe older than me.

Fuchs truly was sorry.  The attack on Walton and the deaths of the Korean agents saddened him but also hardened his resolve.  Park must be stopped.

“I’m mad at myself, Gerard,” said Kim.  “I underestimated Park.  The facility must have had different sets of alarm systems.  We only knew of one.”

“And they must have been silent.  I’m mad at myself too.  I put those agents at risk.  Clearly, Mr. Park doesn’t want intruders to remain among the living.  What will your agency do?”

“What can they do?  This was an unauthorized breaking and entering.  On our own soil, no less.  What would the American CIA do?”

“I can’t guess.  They’d never admit it, of course.  The CIA, like MI6 and similar agencies, is not supposed to be active in the homeland.  Your Intelligence Service has a different role.  Or, they bend the rules more.”

“It would be a scandal if it were made public,” said Kim.  He shrugged.  “There is one consolation.  We’ve protected by the secret nature of this operation.  No one wants to expose us, especially the Korean government.”

Fuchs studied his Korean sidekick.  Over the last two weeks, Fuchs had climbed a steep learning curve.  First, he had learned to distinguish Koreans as persons.  The ubiquitous Western tourist’s attitude who visited the country was gone—now not all Koreans looked alike to him and they were as varied a population, if not more so, than any he might encounter in Europe.  Second, he had grown to appreciate Kim and his skills as an Interpol cop.  They had become partners, albeit temporary ones.  Fuchs admired the moral strength of the man.

“I need a drink,” Fuchs said after a long silence.

“That won’t help my attitude much,” said Kim with a slight smile.

“It won’t hurt either,” Fuchs countered.  “We’ll toast the agents.  That’s the least we can do.”

They took the stairs instead of the elevator because there were only two flights, wound through a crowded lobby full of salespeople using cell phones and wi-fi devices, some plugged into the head, and cycled out revolving doors to a street full of bright sunshine and traffic.

Fuchs followed Kim, who stopped in front of a building with a knotty pine front.  He pointed to the establishment’s sign that said “Beer House of the Golden West.”

“Not a German bierhaus, I suppose,” said Fuchs, hesitating.

“On the contrary, mein freund, this wonderful place specializes in beers from all over Europe.  I have developed a taste for a particular Belgian brew, in fact.  Shall we?”

Kim held one of the saloon doors open.  Fuchs felt like he stepped through a time portal.  The place looked like a saloon from the American West.  Complete with honky-tonk piano no one played at this hour of the day, the contradiction between what looked like a movie set for a western and brew names from at least two dozen languages plastered on the wall improved his humor.

“So, I’ll try your Belgian brew too,” he said.

They found a booth.  A robot waiter rolled up, took their orders, and left to fill them.  When it returned, it also brought a munchy mix that looked more American than European, but Fuchs didn’t care.

He touched glasses with Kim.  “Thank you for this.  It’s what the doctor ordered.”

Kim took a long pull and wiped suds from his upper lip.  “Maybe so, but where do we go from here?”

Fuchs shrugged.  “Wait for your people to process all that data, I guess.  It must take time.”

“It will,” said Kim, “but I would like to be more proactive.  It’s clear Park is up to no good.  I think your three women were right, although it might be different from what they’ve imagined.  Maybe worse.  But tell me about them.”

“Some of this is still classified,” said Fuchs, “but it’s also old news.”

He began the story of Metropolis, Holiday, and the clones.  He explained some of the events from his last caper with the two women, but he left out the part about the clone RP1 and the mutant Sirena.  All four of them were friends he wanted to protect.  He also had to leave out many parts of the story because he wasn’t privy to them.

“Fascinating,” said Kim.  “You think this is still going on?  Is Snyder still making mischief?” Snyder was their foe when their international task force tried to bring him to justice.

“I’m sure of it.  Interpol is still trying to track him down.”

“Sounds like a slippery fellow,” said Kim.

“Like an eel—a psychotic eel.”

“We eat many of the normal ones here in Korea.”

They talked a bit more about their wives and kids.  Fuchs then suggested they visit Seoul’s Interpol HQ to check up on the agency’s progress deciphering all the data sent by the two deceased agents.

Fuchs blinked in the bright sunshine as they left the bar.  He didn’t see the small Hyundai hybrid that turned the corner into the busy street.  Kim did.  The Korean pushed the German down to the sidewalk and landed on top, gun drawn.  He managed to fire twice before the hybrid’s passenger unleashed a stream of bullets from his automatic weapon.  Half a block up the street, the hybrid mounted the sidewalk, taking out an elderly Korean couple heading for the same bar, before it recovered, turned the next corner, and was gone.

Fuchs was thinking of Elena and his child when blackness engulfed him.

***

            “I need to make a phone call,” Fuchs told the nurse.  He was in a terrible mood.  She had told him Kim didn’t make it.  I’m responsible for another agent’s death.

            The nurse, a busty old Korean with her hair in a bun, was also an Interpol agent.  She restrained him.  Although he was weak, he wouldn’t have been able to move even if he were healthy.

“Not recommended,” she said.  Although she was Korean, she spoke in German.

“Patty?”  Fuchs had looked at her nametag.  The nurse smiled and nodded.  “Well, Patty, you must know I’m here on special assignment.  I need to report in to Philippe Cauchon in Lyons.”

“Monsieur Cauchon called earlier.  He said you might want to call.  He also said you shouldn’t, that everything is taken care of.”  Patty had shifted to French.

“I want to hear that personally,” said Fuchs.  He struggled to rise and she restrained him again.

“I will ask the agent outside to approve it,” said Patty with a frown.

Fuchs nodded.  “How bad off am I, by the way?”

“One bullet just missed your carotid artery.  Number two ended the useful life of your spleen.  Number three shattered your ankle.  But you’ll survive.  We rebuilt the ankle and associated tendons the best we could, but you will have a permanent limp.  You might want to invest in a cane.  We can lend you one until you find one that matches your obstinate personality.”

“Oh, you have a sense of humor, do you?  Get me that fucking agent!”

Patty shrugged and left the room.

The agent who was supposed to protect him in the hospital was named Ralph.  After some diddling, he managed to hook up one of the hospital’s old telephone units to an encrypted line that allowed Fuchs to speak with Cauchon.

“You need to give those three women protection 24/7,” Fuchs told his boss.

“Way ahead of you, Gerard.  When I heard what happened, I assumed the worst.  Park’s trying to cover his ass.  My guess is that he assumes we don’t have enough on him to bring him in, and we don’t, but he’ll try to clean house all the same.”

“It won’t do him any good,” said Fuchs.  “We collected tons of data at his research facility.”

“You’re assuming there’s something that incriminates him.  I’d be surprised.  Anyway, Metropolis and her buddies are safe.  I talked to Holiday.  Nice woman.  They’re expecting three of our agents to be rotating security for the near future.  She’ll cancel her next few concert appearances and all three will hang out in Holiday’s hotel room.  They’ll take an adjoining connected room for Walton.  I’m waiting to hear the security detail has arrived.”

“Let me know,” said Fuchs.  He ended the call.

Weariness overcame him.  After Patty gave him a sponge bath, which he might have enjoyed in other circumstances, he slept.

Two hours later, Ralph woke him.

“Call from Cauchon,” said the agent, handing him the telephone again.

“All set?” asked Fuchs.

The phone had no screen, but Fuchs knew from the man’s quick intake of breath that the news wasn’t good.

“When the security detail arrived, they were gone.  No signs of struggle.”

“Shit!”  Fuchs tried to sit in bed and grimaced.  “You think Park has them?”

“I think we would’ve found bodies in that case.  No, they’re probably on the run.  I wonder if they distrust authority?”

Fuchs relived in a mind-flash a bit of the Holiday-Metropolis history he had shared with Kim.  Yes, they might very well distrust authority!

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