Chapter Seven.

Wednesday, October 12, 1960.

Kai Tak Airport.

Kowloon.

Hong Kong.

The journey from Forfar Road and along Prince Edward Road to the bridge crossing the infamous Kai Tak nullah, which was still little more than an open sewer in spite of major reconstruction; and then, into the airport took no more than ten minutes by car. Outside the terminal building, the two Yangeundongpa mob thugs dropped off the next courier… twenty-eight year-old Choi Yong-Jin, and waited patiently until he had boarded the Korean National Airlines Lockheed Constellation, and, with bursts of oil and methanol smoke, had fired up her engines in sequence..

The big airliner slowly taxied out to the long runway that thrust out into the placid blue waters of Kowloon bay, stopped, and trembled against its brakes as the Captain revved the four engines up to take-off speed and tested the wing flaps. Then the big airliner turned slowly towards the wide expanse of Kowloon Bay; the Captain released the brakes, and gathering speed, the Constellation accelerated down the one-and-a half-miles of stressed concrete and rose into the east, aiming ultimately for another little strip of concrete ribbon thirteen-hundred-miles away.

The driver started the car's engine and drove smoothly out of the airport towards Kowloon Walled City. One job successfully completed and now for the day's entertainment… a little visit into the City of Darkness to bust a pair of caps… as the Yankee gangsters said… one into the nutsack and one into the head of a 14K Brotherhood Tong kumong… asshole, who had been sniffing around the Yangeundongpa mob's girls. Then, when the job was done; perhaps a celebration by forcefully fucking a couple of the 14K-controlled whores after the killing… just to put the emphasis on who were the meanest sons of bitches in the Colony.

Choi Yong-Jin settled in his seat in the Constellation as she droned out over Joss House Bay, skirted the northern tip of Tung Lung Island, and gently banked around to the east for the thirteen-hundred miles flight to Seoul. In his briefcase, he carried the artefact supposedly destined for the Seoul Yangeundongpa mob boss, Kim Jonghyun. This would not be the case… this trip. Choi Yong-Jin was the illegitimate son of a U.S. Army Nurse Corps Major and a Japanese navy surgeon. He was also a field agent for the Seoul Bureau, and had been working under deep cover in the very heart of the Yangeundongpa mob for the past two years.

He knew exactly what he was carrying, and was aware that one of his Bureau staff officers… a certain Captain Mckenna, had been searching for an artefact… which might well be this one; since her days with the Berlin Bureau. Why?... He had no idea; but it was common knowledge in the Bureau that this had been some sort of personal quest that was fully condoned by whomever she knew back in Washington. He also knew the risk he was taking by double-crossing the Seoul mob. He would automatically become a marked man and would have to be posted elsewhere… probably with a new identity. Even then, it was quite possible that he would be tracked down and killed. The sinister reach of Kim Jonghyun spanned Continents. He shrugged. Mom had always said that he had to be true to himself and to his Country. He would just have to be extra-vigilant from the moment he set foot on Korean soil.

The flight was uneventful. There was nothing to see from the cabin windows; nothing but seemingly endless miles of Ocean interspersed with occasional glimpses of the Chinese Mainland out on the distant horizon. The closest that the airliner came to land was when the flight path left the South China Sea and followed the Taiwan Strait. Here, the Chinese mainland was only sixty miles to the left, and the Island of Taiwan was a mere thirty miles to the right. This vaguely interesting distraction only lasted for an hour or so, however; then it was on out over the East China Sea for another hour of endless Ocean to the final course-change point some two-hundred-miles east of Shanghai, where the airliner would gently turn for the final ninety-or-so miles last leg into Kimpo International Airport outside Seoul. From up here at four-and-a quarter-miles high, the Ocean appeared to be a shimmering blue carpet that touched and merged with the cloudless azure sky. Choi Yong-Jin settled more comfortably into his seat and began to doze.

He was awakened by the mild sensation of falling. His ears began to block with the long descent over the tapestry of wooded mountains and paddy fields towards the racing shadow of the airliner that grew darker and larger as she descended on her final approach. The patrolling stewardess prompted him to fasten his seat belt, and as he did so, there was a faint, abrupt hiss, and a sickly smell as the pilot fired the insecticide bomb; followed by the shrill hydraulic whine of the wing flaps and landing-wheels being lowered.

The nose of the airliner dipped, and the tearing bump of the tyres touching the concrete runway shuddered through the cabin; followed by the ugly roar of the propellers being reversed to slow the plane as it rushed down the rubber-streaked concrete ribbon. With squealing brakes, the Constellation turned off the main runway and rumbled around the taxiway to the east apron in front of the terminal building.

Having passed through Immigration and Customs without any hold-ups, Choi Yong-Jin hailed a taxicab to take him into Seoul. As the cab pulled away from the terminal building and headed out towards the road that led down to little town of Yongdungp'o; he didn't notice the nondescript black Renault Dauphine sedan that pulled out from behind the row of parked-up cabs in the cab rank and began to unobtrusively follow his cab at a discreet distance.

The battered Ford Consul taxicab turned right off the Taipyung Road opposite the Museum into Euljiro Street, and stopped outside the wide, street canopy of the eight-storey Hotel Bando. The small black Renault Dauphine sedan stopped on the opposite side of the avenue, a little way back from the American Embassy housed in the old Mitsui Building which stood almost opposite the hotel. Choi Yong-Jin alighted from the cab, paid the driver, and walked across the pavement to the hotel entrance. The two men in the unobtrusive little black car watched, with cold, vigilant eyes as he entered the hotel; and then settled down for a waiting game to see what he did next.

Choi Yong-Jin walked purposefully across the marble reception area of the Hotel Bando to the reception desk. Producing his pass, he identified himself to the Marine Corps Master Sergeant at the reception desk. The master sergeant logged his arrival, and directed him to the three elevators at the far end of the reception hall. Choi Yong-Jin pressed the call button of the central elevator. Entering, he pressed to solitary floor button in the flush control panel. There were no other controls apart from an emergency button. This elevator only served the bureau floor. All the other floor accesses were sealed off.

The elevator hummed to a stop. The doors slid open to reveal a brightly lit corridor occupied by two Marine Corps corporals sitting opposite the elevator entrance. They were both armed. As Choi Yong-Jin stepped out into the long, quiet, neutral-smelling corridor, they both stood and presented arms. Choi Yong-Jin nodded, and walked along the corridor to an anonymous-looking door. He knocked, and opened the door; entering a spacious office. The room was dominated by a large desk, behind which, sat a middle-aged man wearing a elegantly tailored white cotton shirt, and a U.S. Marine Corps navy-blue silk tie embellished with the with Eagle, Globe and Anchor insignia in gold. This was Gus Hartigan... allegedly, a senior case officer… but in reality, Deputy Head of Station. Behind him, in the corner was placed the omnipresent, artistically draped Stars and Stripes flag.

Hartigan smiled thinly.

'Good afternoon, Choi Yong-Jin. To what do we owe this pleasure?'

Choi Yong-Jin placed his briefcase on the carpet, opened it, and withdrew the little velvet pouch.

'This is just a flying visit, Hartigan. I'm supposed to be on a courier run for Kim Jonghyun, the Yangeundongpa gang mob boss. This is the package. It will be of great interest to Captain Mckenna.'

Hartigan nodded.

'She's not here; and won't be for another forty-eight-hours. She's still in Pyongyang . We're running an extraction mission for her as we speak.'

Choi Yong-Jin bit his lip.

'I can't wait that long for her. That'll blow my cover. Can I leave the package with you until she arrives?'

Hartigan nodded again.

'OK I'll have them put it in the secure room. Now that you've double-crossed the Yangeundongpa gang mob boss, we'll have to relocate you. You are now a potential security risk in this Bureau. There's no telling what you might reveal if the mob catches you. Go to the safe house on Choong Moo Ro and we'll contact you when we've constructed and placed a new legend for you. Good luck and Goodbye, Choi Yong-Jin.'

Choi Yong-Jin was feeling slightly more relaxed as he walked down the web of neutral corridors of the Hotel Bando. The Bureau was going to repost him somewhere well away from the clutches of the Yangeundongpa gang. He was smiling as he came out of the hotel and turned right to walk the half-mile or so, to the safe house. He didn't notice that, as he began to walk away along Euljiro, the little black Renault Dauphine pulled out from the kerb, and began to slowly follow him; keeping pace, some fifteen-metres behind him. They followed him into Sup'yodar-gil; the first main intersection on the right, and unobtrusively closed the distance.

The little Renault paused momentarily, and one of the men got out, and began to shadow Choi Yong-Jin. Outside the Catholic Cathedral, he struck. A pillowcase was wrenched down over the head, and a hypodermic needle was stabbed into the neck of his target. Bundling the semi-conscious Choi Yong-Jin into the back of the car, he jumped back into the passenger seat, and the little black Renault Dauphine sedan sped away to be lost in the throng of traffic around Namdaemun market. The whole abduction had taken less than two minutes.

Choi Yong-Jin came to in a large, echoing, dark place. He was strapped, stark naked to some kind of metal bench or table. A disembodied voice, out of view, cut across his fearfully apprehensive thoughts.

'You are helpless, and totally in my power. You have a choice. You either tell me now, where you have secreted the package you were entrusted to deliver to me; and you will die swiftly and painlessly; or, the information will be extracted from you... in which case, you will die extremely slowly and in excruciating pain.'

A figure appeared just within his peripheral vision. A tall, middle-aged man wearing an elegantly tailored suit moved into Choi Yong-Jin's line of sight, and gazed impassively down at him. The man gave the merest hint of a smile and spoke.

'I am Kim Jonghyun. I do urge you to tell me what I want to know whilst you still have the strength and opportunity so to do.'

Choi Yong-Jin remained silent.

Kim Jonghyun's face assumed an almost sad expression. His voice had an almost resigned tone to it.

'Very well. Prepare yourself for a journey into the Abyss of unimaginable agony.'

He snapped his fingers at someone out of Choi Yong-Jin's line of sight, and stepped back; lighting a cigarette as he did so. Another figure appeared beside Choi Yong-Jin. He strained his head around and looked straight into the cold, black eyes of one of the most beautiful Asian women he had ever seen. She was tall and slender. Her bell of blue-black hair framed her flawless, porcelain complexion; and the curve of her perfect lips held a tiny hint of a smile... just enough to turn up the corners of her exquisitely kissable mouth slightly. His skin tensed and fluttered as she laid the long, scarlet fingernails of her left hand on his chest, and then slowly and delicately dragged them down his body... across his stomach...

He felt her slip something cold and smooth into his urethra and shivered with the disturbingly pleasurable sensation of her gently easing it up the length of his rapidly stiffening member; followed by a negligible movement deep inside as she did something to the instrument... or whatever it was that she was holding. Then she pulled it very slightly, but somewhat sharply.

A terrible, shrieking, burning pain tore through his genitals, building to an excruciating crescendo of stabbing agony deep into his belly as she jerked the device out a few millimetres. Kim Jonghyun's face swam into view. He smiled benignly.

'That was the effect of Miss Soo-Yun moving the device a mere two millimetres. There are one-hundred-and-forty millimetres still embedded in your joystick. She is a virtuoso with these toys. She can make this infliction of intense pain last for at least two hours before she moves on to more sophisticated devices. It really would be in your best interest to tell me what I want to know now; or the last few hours of your miserable and dishonourable existence will be spent in indescribable, shrieking agony.'

He waited patiently. The only sound was the stilted, gasping breath of Choi Yong-Ji.

Kim Jonghyun's expression was inscrutable. He shrugged and shook his head sadly.

'Your decision. So now, I'm afraid Miss Soo-Yun is going to get very medieval in her choice of tongue-loosening initiatives.'

He turned, and walked quietly away; his footsteps receding in the gloom of the deserted slaughterhouse. As he reached the door, the first of many terrible, squealing shrieks ripped through the shadowy gloom of the sprawling, abandoned building.

Choi Yong-Jin's tenuous reality had existed as a world of screaming, shrieking agony at the slender hands of the beautiful Soo-Yun Kaneko for three hours before he finally cracked, and whimpered to her the information that Kim Jonghyun required. The corners of her perfectly formed lips turned upwards in a tiny, gentle smile as she brushed his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes with her immaculately manicured fingers. She murmured huskily...

'Good boy. Now you can sleep.'

She gently flicked the slender metal object that was still inserted some twenty-millimetres into his urethra with the tip of one of her long, slender fingers. He flinched; his stomach muscles spasmed and he gave a small whimper. Smiling serenely, she delicately grasped the end of the instrument... then suddenly yanked it fully out. He didn't even have a chance to form the scream in his throat. His eyes bulged, and then he went limp. The shrieking, burning agony of her last action instantly caused him to lose consciousness.

Laying aside the little instrument... which now revealed that, as she had initially twisted its end when it had been fully inserted; tiny barbs had been extended along its circumference and length; and, as she had manipulated the device, these had torn and shredded the internal walls of his urethra. She glanced down. The only sign on his entire body of the previous three hours of unendurably excruciating pain was a tiny, bright dribble of blood welling up through the urethral orifice of his internally lacerated penis. She smiled softly. He had been a tough one. She had used more than her normal selection of agony-inducing devices on this one. It had been difficult not to leave any tell-tale marks. She could easily have employed her father's methods that she had learned from the dog-eared Kempeitai interrogator’s handbook that had belonged to him.

These methods included burning and electric shocks with 'Live' electric wires, candles, lighted cigarettes, boiling oil or water which were applied to sensitive parts of the victim’s body; Sticks placed between the victim’s fingers and squeezed, fracturing the bones; the tearing out of fingernails and toenails; with slivers of bamboo or toothpicks inserted under the nails before they were torn out by pliers.

All of these; no matter how carefully applied, would have left traces. Kim Jonghyun mob boss of the Yangeundongpa gang had specified that she could employ any means at her disposal to loosen the tongue of this Imperialist lackey, Choi Yong-Jin. He deserved nothing less than an agonising departure from his miserable existence... but she must not leave any marks on the body. He was to be found face-down in the Han River with all the indications that it had been an accidental death... or suicide. Kim Jonghyun didn't want the American Secret Service community in Seoul sniffing around his business concerns. Consequently, she had employed invasive techniques on all his bodily orifices. Choi Yong-Jin had resisted the urethral torture for quite some time, and also, the sharp ends of pencils being inserted into his ears until they slowly pierced his eardrums. He had finally cracked when she applied the flame of her cigarette lighter to the end of the slender metal instrument embedded in his penis.

Soo-Yun Kaneko gazed down at the almost peaceful expression on Choi Yong-Jin's face. She smiled and spoke softly to the unconscious figure.

'Time to take the final trip, darling. "Annyonghi kasayo"... Goodbye.'

She raised her slender right hand; straightened and locked her fingers, and brought its rigid edge sharply down in a swooping chop into his throat just above his prominent "Adam's apple." She heard a distinct crunch as the blow broke the hyoid bone at the top of his larynx. She then leaned over and positioned her forearm across his throat; resting her full upper-body weight on that arm. His face slowly contused; his breathing became laboured and stilted, and imperceptibly lessened; becoming shallower and shallower until it had stopped completely.

She stepped back. Damn! She'd chipped the scarlet polish on one of her fingernails. She shrugged. Well, Kim Jonghyun could just treat her to another expensive manicure. She left the corpse where it was; tidied away her devices; turned and walked quickly towards the exit door; her high heels tap-tapping echoing hollowly through the deserted slaughterhouse.

Soo-Yun Kaneko had attained a notorious reputation in the Seoul criminal underworld as a contract assassin-cum-enforcer. Only eighteen years old, she was already feared throughout the city. If Soo-Yun Kaneko came after you; you were as good as dead... and invariably, you begged her to put you out of your misery, so that her elegantly depraved, and fastidious torture techniques would cease.

Soo-Yun Kaneko was a beautiful, psychopathic killer; a sadomasochist's wet dream. Even by the standards of the east with regard to the cheapness of life, she really was something else. Her Korean mother had been kidnapped, aged sixteen, by Japanese soldiers in Seoul to serve as a "Comfort woman" in the Home Islands military brothels. Her father was a "Jotohei "...a Superior Private in the Kempeitai... the feared Japanese Military Secret Police, attending the Koho Kimmu Yoin Yoseijo... the Rear Service Personal Training Centre at Kudan, in Tokyo. Unusually, he had committed to a permanent relationship with her mother... which was virtually unheard of with regard to the usual fate of a mere "Comfort woman" of the Japanese troops. Their normal fate was to be forced into so-called comfort houses to please their captors sexually, sometimes several at a time, up to several times a day. To resist, invited beatings, torture and even death. Three-quarters of all comfort women died, and most survivors were left infertile due to sexual trauma or sexually transmitted disease. The girls were raped and beaten day and night, with those who became pregnant being forced to have abortions. Soo-Yun Kaneko and her mother were amongst the fortunate few. They survived, under the protection of the Kempeitai in Tokyo.

Her father had been tried by the Americans during the Tokyo War Crimes Trials and had been executed in 1946; when Soo-Yun Kaneko was just four years old. Her mother had returned to Seoul with her daughter and had attempted to rebuild her life there.

Soo-Yun Kaneko grew up with a healthy loathing of all things Caucasian and all Americans in particular, because of her father's fate. One day, she found his Kempeitai interrogator’s handbook. It made fascinating reading to the psychopathically-disturbed child.

Later, she became involved with the Seoul gangs, and was taken under the wing of Kim Jonghyun and the Yangeundongpa gang. She learned her trade in the backstreets of Seoul, and developed a particularly inventive imagination for devising techniques with which to inflict unbearable pain upon her victims.

Kim Jonghyun recognised her potential, and installed her in her own apartment in a classy district of Seoul. Here, he could pay her frequent visits, and eventually, she became his favourite among his many mistresses. Her position in the mob hierarchy was now assured. She rarely accepted contracts for less than one thousand American Dollars. Sometimes, depending on the level of her virtuosity for loosening tongues that would be required, and the status of the subject of the contract; her fee would be considerably more. Consequently, she had become an extremely affluent young lady by the age of eighteen.

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Stepping through the rusty door into the darkened street lined with grimy warehouses; she nodded to the two men in the shabby, parked-up Peugeot estate car and walked quickly to the sleek, pearl-grey Jaguar XK150 drop-head coupé parked a little further down the street. Slipping into the driving seat, she started the engine and drove away; the deep boom of the Jaguar's exhaust echoing back from the shadowy brick canyon as she headed back towards Seoul to make her report to Kim Jonghyun.

As her exhaust note diminished, the two men disappeared into the building, and reappeared a little later, carrying the corpse of Choi Yong-Jin wrapped in a soiled dust sheet. They dumped it unceremoniously into the back of the Peugeot, climbed in, and drove away; heading north towards the Gwangjin Bridge where they would heave the body over the bridge parapet into the river.

In Kim Jonghyun's luxurious apartment, Soo-Yun Kaneko relaxed in one of the deep leather club chairs and sipped her crystal flute of imported champagne. She crossed her long shapely legs, allowing her skirt to ride a little higher for the benefit of Kim Jonghyun who was sitting opposite her. He smiled benignly.

'So, the little swine talked?'

She nodded.

'Yes; Kim-sshi The artefact is at present in the Americans' possession at the Bando Hotel; but it has been left there for a woman Captain who is supposed to be arriving in a few days.'

He raised an eyebrow.

'Why should she seek possession?

She shrugged.

'I have absolutely no idea, Kim-sshi… but her name is Charlotte Mckenna. She's blonde, in her late forties… and she works for the CIA.'

Monday, October 17, 1960.

Euljiro Street.

Seoul.

South Korea.

Kim Jin Ho... 'ahob songalag' Gim... "Nine fingers" Kim; so called because of his lack of a right index finger... a memento of an old altercation with a rival mob; sat in the passenger seat of the decrepit old split-screen Chevrolet panel van parked up outside City Hall, keeping watch on the Hotel Bando. A little further along from the hotel, a scruffy road sweeper was lethargically leaning on his broom... or rather that was what the passers-by were meant to think. In reality, he was Kang Dong Hoon; one of the Seoul Yangeundongpa mob's lieutenants, who went by the nickname: Gang "deo keullo".... Kang "The Claw."

Their mob-boss, Kim Jonghyun had ordered them to keep watch on the Bando for any sign of this CIA woman, Mckenna. Kang had been scrutinising the occupants of every vehicle that left the compound next to the hotel for half the morning. As yet, there had been no sign of any female occupant who might feasibly be his target. This was the third day of their surveillance. Was the woman actually in the hotel? There was no way of knowing... it wasn't as if they could just march into the place and ask.

Hilburn knocked on the door of Charlotte's and Max's room at eight-o'clock, Monday morning. He informed them that it had been arranged to fly them out that morning from Osan air base to the Naval Hospital at Pearl Harbor with a stop-over at Wake Island. It was hoped that the neurologists at Pearl could properly assess the extent of Max's memory loss. He escorted them to Hartigan's office ushered them in and left the room. Hartigan invited them to sit and reached into the drawer of his desk. Taking out a small velvet pouch, he placed it in front of Charlotte.

'Captain Mckenna; one of our field-agents brought this to me five days ago. He said that you would be interested in it.'

He pushed the little pouch across to her. She picked it up and loosened the drawstring as she looked into its depths, her face froze, and she almost dropped the pouch. The two men stared at her; startled by her reaction. Hartigan studied her for a few moments, and then spoke.

'I guess what's in there has some meaning to you?'

'She stared at him. Her eyes were cold, and her lips tightly pressed together in an expression of trepidation. She nodded; her voice tight and controlled.

'You could say that, Hartigan. I am almost certain that this is what is known as "The Red Horseman." I've been chasing this evil relic since the last days of the war in Berlin. This Garnet gemstone was once set into the hilt of a broken sword that was grasped by a severed, skeletal hand, and was encased in a block of metal. It was retrieved from the site of the huge explosion at Tunguska, in Central Siberia. I was chosen... because of my gift for deciphering ancient languages... for the expedition arranged by Himmler with the Russians, to establish if the explosion had any significance of Military value. The metal block was inscribed with the words...'

"Behold. Herein, is trammelled The Evil of all time.

Seek not its deliverance, for there is none.

Meddle not with this Abomination,

For it is The Destroyer of Worlds."

As far as I was able to establish; it was presented to Göring as a trinket. When I went to his villa in Leipziger Platz, his old butler told me that Göring had departed to his estate at Karinhalle, and had taken the stone... which he had decided to name "The Red Horseman," with him. Max and I checked out the site of Karinhalle, but there was nothing to be found there. We picked up a lead in the area and traced the stone to Hamburg where we discovered that it had been sold on to a Chinese seaman whose ship had sailed for Hong Kong. To cut a long story short, it has been moving around in this part of the world ever since. It seems to bring catastrophe wherever it goes. I want no further part of it. It is far too dangerous. You should send it to Washington so that they can bury it away in some secure vault somewhere where it will never be able to wreak its havoc ever again.'

Hartigan studied her silently for a while.

'It's really that bad? OK, Mckenna; I'll have it shipped out. Now, it's time to get you moving. Have a safe flight.'

Kang saw the anonymous dark blue Ford sedan pulling out of the parking slot in the gated compound beside the hotel and casually wandered across the entrance sweeping the roadway, causing the sedan to slow. He glanced, with seeming disinterest at the occupants; observing that a blonde woman and a man were sitting in the rear passenger seats, and then slowly moved on out of the sedan's path. As the Ford accelerated away up towards the Taipyung Road, Kang signalled to "Nine fingers" Kim, who pulled out from the kerb and accelerated towards him. The old Chevrolet panel van made a rapid "U"-turn in the midst of the traffic and Kang jumped in. They then set off in hot pursuit of the disappearing Ford.

The Ford sedan driver, Jack Stauffer was half-a-kilometre or so along Taipyung Road heading towards the station, when the old Chevrolet panel van appeared in his mirror. At first, he didn't take too much notice of it; there was no reason to do so. He began to get suspicious when it held pace with him all the way down through the Okazakicho district. There was little traffic as he slid neatly in and out of the stray cars and lorries. The Chevrolet panel van held back, but even at speed, he could not throw it off his tail. He glanced at his passengers.

I think we're being tailed, Ma'am.'

Charlotte turned and glanced out of the rear window. The old Chevrolet panel van was about two hundred yards behind. It had two occupants. She turned back and drew her Colt automatic from her purse; chambered a round, and flicked off the safety.

'Ok, Jack; let's see if we can shake them.'

Stauffer nodded and floored the accelerator pedal. The car surged forward, gathering pace, the speedometer rising to sixty, then eighty-miles-per-hour as they sped down through the military warehouses and barracks area and turned onto the long, three-kilometre straight of the Han'gang-tong that led down to the Han river bridge. The Chevrolet panel van stayed with them through the narrow twisting streets of Yongdungp'o; but as they left the outskirts and approached Highway One, it seemed to have disappeared. Maybe they'd gotten tangled up in the traffic. Stauffer breathed a sigh of relief as he settled down for the drive down to Osan. Highway One was relatively empty… just a few heavy lorries trundling south. He glanced into the rear-view mirror… nothing. All seemed normal. He passed a Mercedes-Benz sedan at the side of the highway with its hood up and the driver rummaging about in the engine compartment. He grinned. So much for German engineering. He'd stick with good 'ole Detroit Iron! The next time he looked in the rear-view mirror the Mercedes had hooked itself on to his tail, and the Chevrolet panel van had appeared again; about two-hundred-metres further back. Stauffer accelerated again; the Mercedes dropped back. The road was beginning to develop curves. As he rounded the next bend, Stauffer caught a flash of the Mercedes-Benz's headlights blinking on and off. He drew his point-forty-five Colt and laid it on the seat beside him. Keeping his eyes on the road, he spoke over his shoulder, asking Charlotte to cock the weapon for him. She reached over, picked up the big automatic and chambered a round; then placed it back on the front passenger seat beside him.

Charlotte spoke. Her voice was cold and assertive.

'What's wrong, Jack?'

Flicking his eyes from the road to the rearview mirror and back again, he answered her.

'There's a Mercedes tailing us, Ma'am. He's just blinked his headlights. That damn Chevy panel van is there as well. I think we've got an ambush somewhere up ahead.'

Max; who up to now, had said nothing; suddenly spoke. His voice was terse. The tone reminded Charlotte of the old Max she had known in Berlin.

'Have you any other weapons in the car?'

Stauffer nodded again.

'Yes, Sir. If you pull down the centre armrest of the rear seats, there's a compartment holding a shotgun.'

Max turned in his seat, and pulled out the armrest. From a narrow, deep recess in the car's trunk, he withdrew an Ithaca 37, pump-action shotgun. He smiled… the old, familiar Max smile that she hadn't seen for years… and cycled the slide with a mean, ominous "Ka-chack" sound.

'What's the load, Jack?'

Stauffer gave a thin smile.

'Double-zero Buckshot, Sir.'

Max smiled.

'Good!'

The road was straightening out again. About half-a-mile ahead, was a small, wooded area. The Mercedes began closing up behind them; the Chevy panel van dropped back to block the road to the rear. Suddenly, two other cars emerged from the trees, and pulled across the road ahead, completely blocking the Ford's path. Stauffer hit the brakes and slewed the car off the road in a vain attempt to try to go around them. The Ford was still doing fifty as it left the road, zigzagging wildly as he fought to avoid hitting any trees. It tore through the undergrowth among the trees with Stauffer fighting to control it, and Charlotte and Max braced against the backs of the front seats with their weapons ready. The first burst of gunfire stitched along the left side of the Ford. Stauffer grunted and lurched sideways across the front seats. With no-one at the wheel, the Ford slammed sideways on into one of the trees, and Charlotte was thrown out into a tangle of bushes. Lying there, half-stunned, she vaguely heard the deep boom of the shotgun again and again; then blackness smothered everything.

It seemed like half-a-lifetime later, that she felt a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her. Go away!... let her sleep! The hand became more compelling. A muffled, repetitious voice…

"Ma'am, are you OK?"

Painfully, she forced her eyes open. An earnest, and worried young face beneath a white helmet swam into view; the face of a young, Air Police lieutenant. He carefully helped her to her feet and she leaned unsteadily against him. Out on the road an Air Police jeep and a Dodge ambulance were parked up. A military Dodge tow truck was dragging one of the roadblock cars to the side of the road. She found her voice.

'What about the two guys with me?'

The young lieutenant shook his head.

'The driver was killed at the wheel of your car. The other guy didn't make it either. Looks like he made a last stand where we found him; surrounded by spent shotgun shell casings, and shot through the chest. He took eight of those dinks who jumped you, with him.'

She nodded dumbly. Yes; that was the Max she had longed for him to be… not the one that she had found in the little rural village just a few weeks ago.

The young lieutenant helped her to the jeep. She was in shock, and the fact that Max was dead hadn't really sunk in. The only lucid thought that she could hold was that Stacey would now never be able to meet her father. The young lieutenant was at a loss as to how to best handle this situation. The first course of action was to get her back to the medical facility at Osan Air Base. Making sure she was safely seated in the jeep, he started the engine, banged it into gear, and, making a tight turn in the road, headed back towards Suwon as quickly as it was safe to do, with the condition that his passenger was in.

Charlotte knew she was about to wake from a dream filled with ghostly images of violent deaths; but she was dreaming that she was dreaming about waking up. No! It was safer in the darkness, despite the ghosts; and she wrapped the velvet nothingness tighter around herself. She was lying in a soft, warm place that occasionally faded to a sort of twilight in which she thought she could hear people and movement around her. She wanted to stay in this place and made no effort to open her eyes and come back to the real world.

A man's voice was speaking; it was indistinct and seemed to be far away, but the words gradually became clearer. It seemed to be a kind voice… a friendly voice; but she wished it would go away; so she ignored it and sank back into her dreams which gradually became a bloody nightmare of gunshots, tearing metal, and pain that inexorably dragged her back to a trembling reality.

She felt a hand on her forehead that had nothing to do with her dream. She slowly opened her eyes. Sun was streaming into the bright, white room. As she moved her head on the pillow she heard a rustle, and an Air Force Medical Service nurse wearing First-lieutenant bars on the collar of her pristine white duty uniform, who had been sitting beside the bed, rose and moved into her line of vision. She smiled as she put her hand on Charlotte's wrist to check her pulse, and spoke softly.

'Just lie quiet Ma'am, and don't try to move. I'll go and tell the doctor you're awake. You've been unconscious since they brought you in and we've been real worried about you.'

Charlotte closed her eyes and mentally checked out her body. She ached all over, but the worst pain was in her right side. She tried to move and the sudden, sharp, stabbing pain almost took her breath away. She gingerly lay back and decided to wait for the doctor.

The door opened and the doctor came in followed by the nurse. He looked very young. He walked across the room and stood beside the bed. Reaching down, he put a cool hand on Charlotte's forehead and studied the temperature chart behind the bed. He nodded and looked back at her.

'Your injuries are not serious, but you have lost a quite a lot of blood due to internal bleeding caused by one, of your three broken ribs lacerating the lower pleura on your right side. This was most probably caused by blunt abdominal trauma from being thrown violently from the vehicle. We have now successfully arrested the haemorrhaging, and if all goes well, you will recover completely, but I fear that you will continue to be in pain for several days and we will endeavour to keep you as comfortable as possible.

You must not move your body excessively or suddenly, and it is most important that you rest and regain your strength. At the moment you are suffering from a serious condition of mental and physical shock and I would prefer a natural, rather than an induced recovery which would be dependent upon intravenous use of amphetamines.'

Charlotte remained confined to bed for another three days. Her ribs hurt, but the First lieutenant Nurse carefully re-strapped her ribcage with fresh bandages each morning as the existing ones became sweaty and uncomfortable. On the fourth day, the young doctor appeared. He smiled.

'Good morning, Captain Mckenna. Today, we can discharge you. They have arranged to fly you out this afternoon. I'll have a nurse bring you your clothes, and I'll prescribe you some Demerol tablets in case the rib fracture causes you some trouble.'

His face became serious.

'You must not take Demerol in larger amounts than I shall prescribe, or for longer than I recommend. Do not stop using Demerol suddenly or you could have unpleasant withdrawal symptoms. It is a powerful analgesic, and you must be careful in its usage.'

She nodded.

'Thank you, doctor; I understand.'

She paused.

'Could you tell me what has happened to my colleagues?'

His face became solemn.

They have already been flown back to The Zone of Interior…'

He glanced at his wristwatch.

'They should be arriving at Andrews in about three hours.'

She nodded.

'Thank you, doctor.'

He smiled grimly.

'You were lucky, this time, Captain; try to stay out of trouble until those ribs are mended.'

As she dressed, she wondered where Max would be buried. They were flying him into Andrews Air Force Base, so it was obvious that Foggy Bottom… the familiar name for CIA Headquarters in Washington, would be dealing with his interment. She smiled sadly. His name would never appear in any memorial book in the Headquarters building, although they might well bury him in Arlington if there was Presidential agreement. He was, after all, a naturalised American citizen… albeit, one arranged under the old "PL-110" clause of the CIA Act; and had been killed whilst serving as an active CIA officer on deployment for the Firm.

The Duty Medical Officer handed Charlotte her itinerary as he carried her meagre hand luggage to the waiting airplane. The roster listed her route back to the Zone of Interior... the American Mainland. The first leg of her journey would be aboard the C-117A Skytrooper waiting on the parking ramp. This was a conversion of the faithful old C-47 Skytrain, but was fitted out with a twenty-four seat, airline-type interior, and was used for Staff transport purposes. The first stop would be Yokoto Air Force Base in Japan; a flight lasting about four-and-a-half hours. Boarding the airplane, she was surprised to find that she was the only passenger. A young WAF Staff Sergeant came down the cabin aisle and welcomed her aboard. She smiled, and moved her arm in an elegant gesture to the empty cabin.

'It's all yours, Ma'am. Take your choice of seats. I'll bring coffee when we're airborne.'

Charlotte thanked her and chose a seat on the port side just aft of the wing.

As she fastened her seat belt the whistle of the engine starter penetrated the cabin, and the starboard prop began turning. With a belch of smoke, the engine fired and clattered roughly until it settled down to a steady rhythm. The port prop began to turn slowly, until again, with a belch of blue smoke it also fired up. The pilot ran the engines up carefully, until his gauges were reading correctly, then, with a gentle jolt, he released the brakes and the Skytrooper began to move.

The pilot taxied to the threshold of the runway and held on the brakes as he ran up the engines. When he was satisfied with the instrument readings, he released the brakes, and pushed the throttles to full power. With a rising roar, the airplane began to accelerate down the runway; the tail lifted, and the concrete dropped away as she lifted off and set her nose for another strip of concrete six-hundred-miles to the south-east.

At Yokota; after a meal in the Officer's Club and a chance to have a shower and freshen up; Charlotte was escorted to the airplane in which she would make the next leg of the flight home. She hadn't quite known what to expect; perhaps, another long-range MATS transport… noisy and uncomfortable. What she saw waiting on the ramp was a complete surprise. It was a big, four-engined Boeing Stratocruiser airliner painted in Pan American Airways livery that had been one of Pan Am's signature craft... the last word in airborne opulence during the luxury era of the fifties. Her escort said that it had been impressed by the military after it had force-landed in Northern Japan with engine failure. The military had rectified and re-engined her, and then made Pan Am an offer they couldn't refuse… settle the bill for four brand-new Pratt and Whitney Wasp major engines… or strike her off their books and let the military have her. Now, she was being flown back to America to be converted into a C-97 Stratofreighter at the Boeing Field plant in Seattle.

If truth be told, Pan Am was not particularly dismayed at this little exercise in arm-twisting. Piston-engined airliners were coming to the end of the road and were being superseded by the first jets. There would be a measure of compensation from the Government, and there would be no corporate aggravation involved in disposing of the old lady on the commercial market. The new Boeing 707 jetliners were the rising stars, and the earlier Stratocruisers' niche as glamorous and luxurious, post-war long-range airliners was being pre-empted by the newcomers as far as Pan Am was concerned.

Out on the ramp at the airplane the Flight Engineer was performing his walk around inspection before entering the flight deck and getting ready for the prestart checklist, after which he would give the "Ready to Start Engines" report. At the same time, such passengers as there were, stood in a group at the foot of the two-flight airstair ready to board. A young airman wearing Staff Sergeant's insignia appeared at the top of the airstair and motioned them to board the airplane. Charlotte's escort handed her a thick manila envelope and bid her farewell. She climbed the stairs and paused at the top for one last look at Japan; then she stepped inside the fuselage and the Staff Sergeant closed the door behind her.

The Stratocruiser was unusual in that it had two decks. Its "double-bubble" fuselage... shaped in cross-section like an upside-down figure eight, enabled a downstairs bar and lounge to be fitted. This was reached by a circular stairway just aft of the main passenger-loading door in the centre left side of the fuselage. The main, upper passenger cabin was divided into six sections - a forward passenger section seating eight, the two dressing rooms, the forward main cabin, the galley, the rear main cabin and the stateroom.

The young Staff Sergeant invited her to go forward and take one of the seats in what would, in airline service, have been the first-class luxury compartment. He said that the advantage was that the exclusive, First-class reclining seats allotted enough space to allow a six-foot man to lie out completely without disturbing anyone around him. The two facing pairs could be converted to a lounge bed by means of a simple adjustment whereby the foam rubber seat backs lowered to a nearly horizontal position, whilst the comfortable leg rests pulled out full length; and the movable centre arm-rests adjusted to seat level. With this arrangement, all she had to do was call him, using the call button mounted in the seat armrest and he could convert the seat for her to sleep. Alternatively, she could use one of the bunks on the opposite side of the compartment. Either choice would ensure her comfort and privacy. The Ladies' dressing room was in the compartment immediately aft. She thanked him and went forward. Why the VIP treatment? The Bureau had made the arrangements for her flight itinerary… but Company officers normally travelled on a "need to know" basis. Perhaps the young Staff Sergeant was not just a "Staff Sergeant."

Her thoughts were interrupted by the whine of the engine starter. She glanced out of the compartment window. The big propellers on the two left engines were stationary. The procedure must be to start up the engines on the right wing first. Sure enough; faint engine noises and vibration were beginning to penetrate the compartment… not much; the soundproofing was impressive. The starter motor on another engine whined. The noise and vibration increased slightly. Charlotte chose the almost club-like, luxurious seat by the window and fastened her lap belt. The starter whine came again, and the inner left engine propeller began to turn, increasing speed as the engine exhaust belched a cloud of bluish-white smoke. The engine fired up and the propeller blades became a blur. As the smoke cleared; the starter whine came again for the last time, and the outer left engine propeller blade began to turn lazily. With another cloud of smoke, the last engine fired up and the vibration settled. She glanced at the wall at the front of the compartment. Beyond that was the flight deck with the crew busying themselves with their final checks.

After starting, the engines would be run until the oil temperature warmed. Then they would open up the engines and check the propeller controls. Then would come the magneto checks, and the crew would go over the printed check-list before taking off. After getting tower clearance and taxiing to the runway, the pilot would hold the airplane on the brakes and open the throttles. Once he released the brakes, the take-off run would commence, and Japan, Korea, and all the danger and subterfuge would become just a memory.

The Stratocruiser lifted off from Yokota Air Base at 11.26am precisely, for the seventeen-hundred-and-fifty-mile leg to Wake Atoll airfield, just under half-way across the Pacific Ocean, and on to her destination at Hickam Field on Oahu in the Hawaiian Islands; a flying time for the Stratocruiser at cruise speed of six-and-three-quarter hours. As she settled more comfortably in her luxurious seat and watched the Japanese coastline disappear beneath the port wing, Charlotte wondered if indeed, with the removal of the malignant artefact they called "The Red Horseman" to some covert, and impenetrable U.S. government warehouse; that this was the end of the trail of death and destruction that it had wrought across the span of the last twenty years. Even so, the very thought of the blood-red monstrosity suddenly gave her a fleeting shiver of the sort they say you feel when a grey goose flies over your grave.