Threat Level Black by Jim DeFelice Page A

quickly cleaned his plate, then sat while the others laughed and talked.
     
    “What the hell is she trying to do, pick up the security agent?” Madison asked Fisher. “She’s all giggly.”
    Fisher shrugged. “Probably she gets that way when she’s nervous.”
    “Why would she be nervous?”
    Not only could they hear the entire exchange via Mathers’s bug, but two of Madison’s team members had slipped in with a small video spy cam and were sitting at the next table. The cam was embedded in a brooch on the female op’s blouse and provided a fish-eyed view of the room, fed onto a laptop in Madison’s Toyota.
    The Koreans’own trail team sat in a Russian car half a block away, just barely in view of the entrance. A scan had shown that they were not using any bugging devices—probably, said Madison, because they couldn’t afford them. There didn’t appear to be any other minders or Russian agents nearby.
    Mathers suggested vodka. Fisher rued his decision not to object to her joining the operation.
    The four of them drank and ate for more than an hour. Dr. Park was clearly uncomfortable at the start; he became more so as the time went on. He looked the part of a defector: nervous and antsy. But he also looked like a typical North Korean scientist anxious because his minder was clearly breaking the rules. Paranoia was the one behavior in Korea that didn’t attract attention.
    Finally, Chin Yop got up to go to the restroom. Dr. Park said something to him as he pushed away the chair.
    “Don’t leave me alone with these women,” whispered the CIA translator from the team van, two blocks away.
    Chin Yop said something in return; Fisher assumed it was a lewd suggestion, because the translator, a woman, didn’t immediately supply the line.
    “All right,” said Madison, pointing to the screen. “Let’s do it.”
    “No. I think we ought to wait,” said Fisher.
    “What?”
    “I think we ought to wait.”
    “Screw that,” said Madison. He brought his arm to his mouth and spoke into his mike. “Go,” he told his people.
    Fisher shook his head.
    The CIA officer with the brooch said “Good evening” in Russian—the words sounded a bit like “Duh breeze there”—giving the signal to exit. Mathers jumped to her feet and grabbed Dr. Park. He pushed her away but got up, starting to walk toward the back. The other CIA agent inside the restaurant loomed at the left, corralling him. One of the patrons yelled something.
    Then both the audio and visual feeds died.
    “Shit,” said Fisher, jumping from the car.

    Dr. Park felt his head spin as the man pushed him toward the door.
    The Americans were trying to help him escape—surely they were trying to help him escape. But the woman and the man who had approached him had spoken Russian. Where were they taking him?
    Dr. Park took a step toward the back when the man from the other table grabbed him. He whispered something that Dr. Park didn’t understand.
    He thought it was Russian, yet it seemed almost Korean.
    Dr. Park was being pushed toward the front. He tried to grab Ms. Kung, but she was sliding away, running toward the exit.
    What was going on?
    The door flew open. Dr. Park tried to push against the large man but it was no use; he felt himself thrown out into the street.
    “Nyet,” he said, the only Russian he knew. “No! Help!” he shouted in Korean.
    Where were the Americans?
    “Come with us,” said the short woman, Mathers.
    She was speaking English.
    Suddenly, Dr. Park understood: They were all Americans. He started to run.
    A police car sped around the corner. Two men got out and began shouting, reaching for their weapons. Dr. Park threw himself to the ground.
     
    Fisher got to the corner just as a pair of Russian police cars, one marked, one unmarked, arrived. Two policemen were in the street, guns drawn.
    The American FBI agent pulled out the Beretta that Madison had supplied. As the Russian police grabbed at Kung, Fisher fired, making sure he