Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 25

Luckily for us, fatty added, he was an all-around nice guy, a rare member of the master race who actually liked Americans. Or didn't despise them as much as they probably should be despised. He believed in knowing the devil, and to that end had not only learned English but had made a devoted study of anything American that he could find. He had an Internet hookup-very rare in North Korea-and had unblocked access to American Web sites-even rarer. He knew that his English needed a little work, and was confident that in the future he would find the time to take some lessons from Trace. In the meantime, she would be his cook, making all Western dishes. She'd have her own room upstairs. If she behaved, she'd be granted special privileges.

"Life here can be very easy," he told her. "You, too, can have horse meat. Not every night, but once in a while."

"Oh, boy."

"Tomorrow, you will make tacos. Then pizza."

"The Great Leader is going to make you a prisoner in your own camp when he finds out that you're keeping us prisoner," Trace told him.

Fatty waved his hand dismissively.

"You better call General Sun," Trace said.

Fatty said something in Korean and the guard who'd showed her in poked a gun in her ribs.

"You will go upstairs now," said fatty. "Good night."

I know what you're thinking: here's the part where fatty follows her and tries to rip off her clothes. We'll have a nice cheesy s.e.x scene, just enough T and A to tease the teenagers-and we're all teenagers when it comes to cheesy s.e.x scenes. Then we'll move on to the real action. Trace will deliver a series of sharp kicks to his intelligence, dispatch the soldier and the other guards one by one, then escape.

But fatty didn't rip off her clothes or make a pa.s.s at her. He didn't even go upstairs.

Maybe he was a eunuch.

[ III ].

WHILE TRACE WAS auditioning as a chef, I was sitting in my cell trying to come up with a way of getting out before midnight. The locks were simple, but I had nothing to pick them with. The only solution was to get the guards to open the door for me.

A few strategic groans, a little foam at the mouth-I'd use one of the oldest tricks in the book, pretending to be sick to get them inside with me. Depending on the circ.u.mstances, I'd take them in the cell or on the way to the infirmary. These guys weren't exactly large, and knocking them around would release some tension.

Long years of habit have given me an internal clock that's generally accurate to within ten minutes. I reckoned it was closing in on 1800. But given the stakes I wanted as much confirmation as possible. When dinner came, I asked the guard who pushed it through the slot what time it was. The man didn't answer, or even seem to hear. I took the rice and went back to my spot against the wall. It was brown rather than the usual black-almost good enough to eat. As I scooped up the rice, my fingers sc.r.a.ped against something hard. I took it out, and found a key.

And then another. Someone thought I had an iron deficiency.

I tried to strike up a conversation with the attendant when he reappeared, using my limited Korean to ask what time it was. The blank expression on his face simply became blanker.

"Myeot soyeyo?" I repeated.

No answer.

"Time," I told him in English, tapping my wrist.

He shook his head, then grabbed for the bowl. As I gazed at the hall after he walked away, I realized I could see flickers of his shadow. I sat down and began deciphering the gray splotches at the base of the wall. I was seeing the shadows of the two guards out in the corridor. The shadows were extremely faint, reflections of light bouncing off two walls, but I could detect movement as the man who had brought me food walked by them, his narrow gray shadow flickering, then growing steadily fainter. Meanwhile, the other two shadows raised themselves slightly-the guards s.h.i.+fted in their positions, relaxing as the man left.

I now had an early warning system, which I tested a half hour later. I saw the faint gray spots separate, then watched one move toward me. I slid over to the back of the cell and, sure enough, one of my guards appeared, making the rounds.

Seven P.M.

I went back to shadow watching. In another hour, I saw movement again, but this time no one came to my cell. The guards moved on the hours-on the odd hours one checked my cell, on the even hours one walked up somewhere, either to the head of the hallway or a bathroom. Otherwise, they were disciplined enough to remain at their posts with almost no movement and absolutely no chatter. They were as professional as they come.

Armed with the keys, I simplified my plan for escape. I'd let myself out just before the hour and sneak up the corridor, waiting until they split up. As the second man went for his rounds, I'd take out the first and grab his weapon. But whoever had supplied the keys had considered the guard problem as well. Shortly after 2350, the shadows flickered. They grew darker, then disappeared. I waited another minute, unsure whether I was seeing a s.h.i.+ft change, then let myself out.

TRACE, MEANWHILE, WENT up to her room. The two guards she'd seen downstairs came up and took posts outside, standing on either side of the door. She checked her room for bugs and found two listening devices, one in the light and the other beneath the bureau. Both were relatively large; the technology probably dated from the 1970s, which meant they wouldn't be particularly sensitive. Besides the bureau, she had a mat bed and a little table the size of a stool; the only light was an overhead bulb covered by a paper shade. A small windup clock sat on the three-drawer dresser, tick-tocking away like a metronome. The drawers were empty, but an extra set of sandals sat next to them.

There was a window on the east wall of the room. It had been nailed shut, but whoever had had the room before her had loosened the nails. Trace bundled her blankets around the two bugs to m.u.f.fle any sound, then slid the window open, checking around outside. She couldn't see any guards. Getting down from the second story wouldn't be too difficult-the joints between the stone block were wide enough to provide toe as well as fingerholds-but it was too light to risk it; she decided she'd rest and then go out around midnight. She curled up on the mat and told herself she would sleep for four hours, an amount her Apache forebears had declared proper for a warrior while on the warpath.29 But she woke up less than three hours later, disturbed by a noise in the hall.

Footsteps.

Trace s.h.i.+fted slightly on the bed, listening as someone opened the door to her room and came in. She knew what was coming, and got ready to spring.

She leaped up as the hand touched her mouth. Her a.s.sailant was caught by surprise and tumbled over as she shot her fist into his head. Trace rolled on top of him, kneeing him in the process.

It wasn't fatty. It was the soldier who had shown her to the room. The man's eyes opened wide with surprise-then closed as Trace slammed her fist against his skull several times in rapid succession, smas.h.i.+ng the back of his head against the floor as if it were a basketball.

He was toast, but Trace wasn't quite through. She got up, then dropped her body knee-first into his ribs. The coup de grace was a heel kick strategically administered to a.s.sure that he wouldn't be feeling amorous for at least a decade.

She left the soldier on the floor and went over to the door. The soldier had apparently dismissed the other guards, and if the sounds of their a.s.signation had carried through the house, no one seemed particularly worried. She went back and pulled the laces out of his boots, tying his hands behind his back and then putting his feet together. She pulled his s.h.i.+rt off and stuffed it into his mouth as a gag.

All the soldier had on him was a small pocketknife. Trace took it and slipped out of the room, moving down the hall cautiously, checking the other rooms as she went. They were all empty.

Downstairs, fatty had retired for the night. She could hear him wheezing in his bed as she came down the steps. His room was on the west side of the hall, across from where he'd been smoking the pipe. The door was open a crack; she peeked in and saw him sprawled on a Western-style mattress, sleeping completely naked.

Fortunately, she hadn't had anything to eat, or she'd have lost it there.

A pair of guards were posted at the front of the building, standing like guard dogs about ten feet from the entrance, their backs to the front windows. She retreated to the kitchen, and after opening the window and looking outside, saw that the rear of the house was unguarded. She slipped outside.

The perimeter of the grounds was lit by floodlights, but the lights were underpowered and barely illuminated the fence line. Only some of the buildings had lights around their exteriors, and even these were relatively small, so that most of the camp was in deep shadow. While this made it easy for Trace to creep around without being seen, it also meant that she had a hard time seeing some of the guards who were outside-including the two in front of my building whom she didn't realize were there until they were only five feet away.

And training their rifles on her.

[ IV ].

I LEFT MY CELL door slightly ajar to make it easier to get back in, then hustled down the hallway. I slipped to the floor, checked to make sure the coast was clear-it's harder for someone to spot you if you're not at eye level-then walked down the corridor, retracing the path I'd taken earlier when I had been let out for exercise.

Anytime something goes this easy, you have to be suspicious. It made sense that anyone who could set up a meeting would bribe the guards as well. But it was also possible-very possible-that whoever had arranged for me to get out of my cell had done so simply to create a pretense for shooting me. While it seemed likely to me that the camp's masters didn't need a pretense, I couldn't be sure. So I tried to check out the situation as much as possible before keeping the appointment. Rather than taking the door at the end of the corridor that led to the exercise yard, I continued up the hallway, looking for another exit.

I found a set of steps to the second story of the building. I crept upward, hugging the side of the wall. The stairs opened onto an empty, unlit hall. Instead of prison cells, the rooms along the corridor were cla.s.srooms, complete with blackboards and old wooden desks. The ones on my left had windows; a small amount of gray twilight spilled out of them and into the hallway. I went to one and looked out the window, and found myself looking down at the front of the building. Two men with guns were moving slowly across the lawn.

I didn't see Trace until after I'd decided one of those weapons would be handy. By then I'd already slipped the window open, climbing up so I could jump once they were past.

One of the men shouted to her in Korean, telling her to halt or be shot.

I sprang into action-or more accurately, I dropped into action, landing on the back of the nearest sentry. He crumpled immediately, hardly providing any cus.h.i.+on at all as I, too, hit the ground. Jumping up, I grabbed for the rifle, which lay under his now crushed chest. Trace, meanwhile, threw herself at the other man's midsection, ducking beneath the barrel of his gun. Unfortunately, she did it just as he squeezed the trigger. The bullets missed her. She rolled into his stomach and bowled him over, knocking him down like a flap in a pinball game. But the sound of gunfire was loud and unmistakable, and by the time she caught her breath, sirens were sounding.

"What are you doing out here?" I asked her.

"Looking for you. Come on. The fence is this way."

"No, this way. I have to meet someone."

"Meet someone? Christ, d.i.c.k, this isn't The Dating Game."

I ran around the back of the building, flanking the yard where I'd exercised. There were several fenced-off sections next to each other, separated by narrow alleys. I followed the alley two yards from where I'd been, intending to come up from behind whoever was waiting for me. Before I could reach it, a pair of floodlights attached to the roof of one of the buildings came on, illuminating the yard where my rendezvous was supposed to take place.

The light didn't quite reach us, but we dove to the ground anyway, unsure whether our area would be illuminated next. A half-dozen North Korean guards ran through the yard to my left. They reached the fence and spread out, taking positions to cover anyone coming out of the back of the building.

"Who are you meeting?" Trace whispered.

"I'm not sure."

"Where?"

"Over there."

"Over there is full of soldiers."

"Yeah."

"They set you up."

"Maybe. Or maybe you screwed everything up."

It seemed more likely the latter. The soldiers had their guns ready, but the detachment didn't look as if it was taking part in a planned ambush. For one thing, they were too easy to see, and clogging the path I would have taken. If I were killing me, I'd have put a sniper in the darkness beyond the lights. He'd have fired when I reached the fence, bull's-eye right through the head.

a.s.suming I went through the trouble. Most unwanted guests of North Korea commit suicide by shooting themselves fifty times in the back of the head.

As I stared at the rendezvous point, it occurred to me that the spot he'd chosen was easily seen from several vantage points. There was no cover, and even if the guards hadn't been alerted, you wouldn't be able to count on not being seen.

But what if "NE fenc" meant the northeast corner of the entire complex, not the little yard where I'd been during the day? The perimeter was only spa.r.s.ely lit.

Duh.

"I may have the wrong spot," I told Trace. "Come on."

We backed out of the yard we were in, then moved quickly through the chain-link alley to the open area behind the cottage where Trace had been taken. A small garden ended at another fence; beyond the fence were a dozen or more prisoner barracks, watched over by a guard tower to our extreme right. The northeast corner of the camp lay on the other side of the tower.

The easiest way to get there was by crossing through the barracks area. It was dark and there was plenty of cover, and we wouldn't have to worry about minefields, which were sure to be placed outside the perimeter fence. But just as we started to go, we spotted a man running to one of the buildings, rousting the prisoners for a head count. Figures began spilling from the buildings.

North Korea's shortage of electricity meant that the main barracks area lacked any lights at all. Even though they were now under full alert, the prisoners a.s.sembled in the dark. But they must have been used to it, for they moved out silently, forming lines in front of the buildings without speaking. Even the guards and trustees were silent; all we could hear were footsteps against the hard ground.

A set of headlights swung around to our right. An old Soviet-era jeep pa.s.sed, driving around a perimeter road that ran just outside the fence.

"That's our ride. Come on," I told Trace, jumping to my feet.

"You're nuts," she hissed, following.

The inner perimeter fence was about fifty yards away, and within sight of the watchtower. While it was dimly lit, there was enough light to make anything climbing it obvious. Sixteen feet high and topped by barbed wire, getting over it would take more than a few seconds, which would give even a lazy guard ample time to spot us. So rather than going over it, we wanted to go under it. We moved south along the fence line, staying in the shadows, looking for a drainpipe or some other obstruction where getting under would be easy. We found a culvert a minute or two later. A lot of people had found it before us-the ground on either side was well trod.

Very likely, the guards knew about it, too. The area on the other side of the fence was lit by a spotlight, and would be in full view of the watchtower to our north.

"We'll wait for the jeep," I told Trace. "Just after it pa.s.ses, we go through. Whoever is watching in the tower will be focused on the jeep."

"How do you know?"

"Human nature."

"I'd be watching the culvert if I knew it was a good spot to cross, especially when a truck pa.s.sed by."

"You're not in the tower."

The jeep came back about five minutes later, bouncing along on ancient shocks. I've called it a jeep but it was really a UAZ 469B, the Russians' attempt at reengineering a Land Rover. Probably a good forty years old if not fifty, the vehicle was typical of the era it was built in, boxy and tough, p.r.o.ne to rusting and cranky when starting.

But aren't we all?

"Go," I told Trace, pus.h.i.+ng her toward the opening in the fence.

She raced to the culvert, slid down the shallow hill with her rifle next to her chest, then pushed through the hole and ran into the darkness beyond. I followed, slipping rather than sliding, and threw myself through the hole under the metal fence.

Which, it turned out, wasn't quite big enough for me to get through. My shoulders caught against the metal p.r.o.ngs of the fence, and no matter how I wiggled, I couldn't squeeze underneath. I couldn't back out either.

I pressed my chest against the ground and pushed to the side, edging the rifle I'd taken earlier out from under my body. I was in the light, easy to see. A fish hooked on a line only makes it worse for itself by panicking, jerking its mouth one way and the other to get free. Right now I knew I was a fish, and had to stay calm and work myself out.

Great in theory, hard in practice. Sweat soaked through the thin prison clothes I was wearing. s.h.i.+fting my mental focus to my shoulders, I relaxed and lowered them as I pushed the gun off to the side. I could see myself in my mind's eye, spotted where I was snagged. I pushed back slightly, then wriggled left, freeing all but one of the metal p.r.o.ngs.

The last one refused to let go. I felt it sc.r.a.pe along my skin. I pushed harder. It dug in.

Sometimes calm doesn't work. I pushed hard, angry. The metal ripped into my flesh-and then I was moving easier, not free entirely but not jammed either. I pulled forward, heard my s.h.i.+rt tear, then felt myself released. I grabbed the gun and scrambled into the shadows. It had seemed like an eternity, but it was only a few seconds; the jeep was just nearing the tower.

"What happened, your head was too big to fit under the fence?" joked Trace.

I growled at her.

"You're bleeding," she added sympathetically. "Your s.h.i.+rt's all ripped. You sc.r.a.ped the h.e.l.l out of your back."