The Target (Will Robie 3)

The suit pointed to the next photo. The girl in it was about fifteen or so, gauged Chung-Cha. She did not know who this was, but had a good guess. She had dirty blonde hair and her face closely resembled the woman’s.

The suit said, “The First Lady’s daughter, Claire Cassion.”

Chung-Cha nodded. She had been correct.

He then indicated the third photo. This was of a boy, about ten, who had the woman’s hair but the girl’s soft brown eyes.

“Thomas Cassion Junior, named after his father, Thomas Cassion, the president of the United States,” said the suit.

“These are the targets,” ad

ded the general unnecessarily.

“I understand that they are to be killed simultaneously,” said Chung-Cha.

The men nodded. The suit said, “Absolutely.”

“By you, Comrade Yie,” added the general.

Chung-Cha noted the barely veiled hostility behind the man’s words. She thought that he should be more subtle.

“Is it feasible to expect one person to be able to kill all three at the same time?” she said.

“You have been presented to me as a great warrior, Chung-Cha; do you not live up to your reputation?” asked the general in a taunting tone.

She bowed humbly and said, “I am flattered by such words, sir, but I will not allow my vanity to interfere with the success of the mission. I look at it only logically as someone who has done these types of actions before.”

“Explain,” said the suit.

“There will be Secret Service agents accompanying these three people at all times. The children have their own details, as does the First Lady. When they are traveling together, these details will be merged and will therefore be more formidable than if each target is taken separately but simultaneously.”

The suit nodded thoughtfully, but the general cut the air with his hand and gave a derisive snort. “Impossible.” He glared at Chung-Cha. “To send three separate teams of agents into the United States and target three separate people?” He shook his head emphatically. “All that does is divide your forces and exponentially increase the odds that something will go awry. And if one attack fails, they all almost certainly will fail.” He collected all three photos and held them up, splayed out like playing cards.

“It will be all together. There is no question of an alternative.” He pointed his finger at her again. “And it will be you who pulls the trigger, Comrade Yie. You bring down mighty generals in North Korea with ease, it seems. This will be child’s play by comparison.”

“I only bring down generals who are traitors,” replied Chung-Cha evenly.

The general started to grin at this statement, but then his expression changed. “Are you accusing me of—”

“I accuse no one,” she said, breaking in.

The suit held up a hand. “We fight amongst ourselves without purpose. The Supreme Leader would not be pleased. And what Comrade Yie said is quite correct. She did her duty and was richly rewarded by our Supreme Leader.”

This statement instantly wiped the anger off the general’s face and he calmed. “My colleague is quite correct. And so are you, Comrade Yie. You exposed a traitor. That is as it should be.”

“But I will still go in alone?”

“You will not go in alone,” said the general, and the suit nodded. “There will be a team to accompany you. But the Americans will die by your hand alone.” The general now managed a smile. “You are a woman, Comrade Yie. The Americans have a soft spot for your gender. They will not believe that a woman can harm them.”

Chung-Cha simply stared at him until he looked away.

The suit slipped a file folder from the briefcase he had carried in and handed it to her. “This is our preliminary report about the three targets. You will read and memorize and then there will be more.”

“Have any plans been formulated as to when and where the targets will be attacked?” asked Chung-Cha.

“They are being processed and vetted now,” said the suit. “The best one will be chosen. In the meantime you will read these materials, practice your English, and return to your rigorous training. We will build the necessary background documents for you and your team to enter the United States. You must be ready to be activated for this mission at a minute’s notice.”

She rose, took the folder, and slid it into her bag.

The general scooped up the photos and handed them to her. “You will need these, Comrade Yie. You will study these faces until the very moment before you kill them.” He looked at her patronizingly.

Chung-Cha took the photos and put them in her bag. She did not look at either of the men as she left the room.

She took the metro home, walking the last few blocks. She passed a few people and looked at none of them. She did, however, note the man following her. She arrived at her apartment and walked the few flights up. She made tea and put rice in her cooker, sat by the window with her cup, and opened her bag.

She glanced up and down the street. The man was nowhere in sight. But he was down there. She could sense his presence.

She pulled out the photos and the file.

She set aside the mother’s picture and focused on the girl. Claire Cassion. She looked at the file. She was fifteen, born in March. She attended something called Sidwell Friends. As Chung-Cha read more, she learned that Sidwell was a school that both boys and girls attended. She looked at pictures of the school and thought it very handsome and peaceful. The school had been founded by Quakers. The report helpfully provided that Quakers are a religious group that pride themselves on their nonviolent beliefs. That was a stupid principle on which to found a religion, Chung-Cha thought. One could not rule out violence, because violence was often necessary. And since other religions routinely employed violence, those that did not were in constant danger of being rendered extinct.

She read on as she sipped the strong, hot tea, occasionally looking out her window as she contemplated the facts she was accumulating in her mind. But she found herself again wandering to other things.

It seemed that this Sidwell Friends was a very prestigious place and many of the students there were the children of very prominent families. They received a rigorous education. She read that many graduated and went on to other elite schools with names like Harvard, which she had heard of, and Stanford, which she had not, and some place called Notre Dame. She had visited the Middle East and ventured into countries where girls were not educated at all. Apparently they didn’t think girls were worth the trouble. Chung-Cha thought they were actually worth more than the boys.

Girls were educated in North Korea, but not if they were in the camps. At Yodok Chung-Cha had never been in class to really learn, only to fix a few numbers and letters in her head and acknowledge her sins. Then she had gone on to the mine and the factory.

She looked at the pretty buildings of Sidwell Friends with just a bit of wistfulness.

She turned to the boy, Thomas Junior. He went to a place called St. Albans. The file said it was named after the first British martyr, Saint Alban. The buildings were made of stone and they looked almost castle-like to her. Fine old buildings where boys—it was only boys who attended St. Albans—went to learn. It seemed to be as highly regarded as Sidwell Friends.

The mascot of St. Albans was a bulldog. Chung-Cha had never had a dog. There had never been an opportunity. She wouldn’t have known what to do with one anyway.

Yet there had been a hound, on the other side of the fence at Yodok. She had glimpsed it one day. She thought it rather ugly and dirty and thus just like her. That had been the bond that formed for her. When they were let outside the fence to collect wood the dog had followed her, licked her hand. She drew back and struck it because a touch to her meant an attack was imminent. The beast yipped and sat down on its haunches, its tongue out and what looked to be a smile on its snout, a smile that reached to its wide eyes.

The dog had been there when she was next let through the gate to gather wood. This time, when it approached, she held out her hand and it licked it. She had nothing to give the thing, no food. She would never give food away. Never. No one in the camp would. It would be like giving away your blood or your heart. But she let it lick her hand. And she rubbed its head, which it seemed to like.

She never heard the bolt on the rifle being slammed back. She heard the shot. She heard the yip. She tasted the beast’s blood on her. She heard the guard laugh as she cried out and fell away.

She saw the dog twitch once and then it lay still, the bloody wound on its chest widening, its tongue hanging lopsided out of its mouth. She ran away. She heard the guard laugh aga

in. If she had known how to kill a guard and live she would have.

She put the papers back into the folder, spooned the rice into a bowl, and ate it as she drank her tea. Like the burger at the American-style restaurant, she ate her rice slowly, almost a grain at a time it seemed. She looked out the window.

She finally saw the man, lurking near the corner. He was not dressed in a uniform, but he was military. He had forgotten to change his shoes. They were distinctive. And his hair was matted down where the cap would usually sit.

They were having her followed. That was clear. What was not as clear was why. Chung-Cha had a few ideas that might answer that query. None of them were good for her. Not a single one.