Chapter Six.

Wednesday, October 12, 1960.

Soviet Embassy Compound. Somun Street,

Pyongyang.

North Korea.

Charlotte walked purposefully down the long, echoing corridor that led to Second secretary Viktor Malinovskii's office in the sepulchral interior of the Soviet Embassy. Her uniform, denoting her rank of Colonel ensured that no questions would have been asked, and certainly, no challenges would have been made as she entered the heavily guarded compound. Quite the opposite, in fact; the guards literally fell over themselves to adhere to the correct Military etiquette.

Viktor Malinovskii rose from his desk as she entered his office; a bright, anticipatory smile on his face.

'Nadia; how good to see you. How may I be of assistance?'

She smiled.

'Viktor, I'm sorry to bother you, but I have to make a secure call to Moscow. Could you arrange for me to use the telephone room alone for ten minutes or so?'

He nodded.

'That should be no problem. I'll arrange for you to be taken down immediately.'

He picked up the telephone and instructed that the telephone operators were to leave the room when the Colonel arrived. This was Presidium business and she was not to be interrupted.

Charlotte smiled.

'Thank you, Viktor. I owe you a favour.'

His smile broadened at the thought of another night of passion with her. She smiled back, thinking; Sorry Viktor, you're going to be disappointed, this time. She, and Max would have disappeared before the opportunity presented itself.

The niceties were interrupted by a knock on the door. A guard entered to escort her down to the telephone room. She smiled again at Viktor and left the room. The telephone room was in the basement. As she entered, the guard shouted "Uydi otsyuda!"… 'Get out from here!' to the telephone operators, who scrambled for the door. He saluted, and closed the door of the soundproofed room with a hollow thud.

Charlotte walked across to the switchboard and scanned the connection sockets. One of them was the covert old landline from the Seoul telephone exchange that had been used during the war to connect between the Bureau and Kim Il Sung's intelligence headquarters in Pyongyang's former No. 2 KPA Officers School. It had been tapped by the Soviets when it was discovered by them during the post war reconstruction by Soviet engineers in the Government quarter of Pyongyang, and was hopefully, still serviceable. She carefully studied the rows of sockets to see which one appeared odd, or different to the rest. There! That one was slightly tarnished, and didn't show any traces of shiny brass caused by friction wear from frequent insertion of the mating plug. She put on a switchboard operator's headset, and plugged into the socket. She took a deep breath… here goes nothing… and dialled for an outside line. A thin, crackly voice answered.

'United States Chancery. How may I help you?'

Charlotte paused momentarily, scarcely able to believe that the line still functioned. Would they remember the old code word that the Bureau had used for extracting agents? Well here goes nothing… again.

She spoke the code word she had been issued with, almost three years previously…"Bomzj"... "Homeless."

She thought she heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Then a barely audible voice… 'Mckenna?'

She glanced around the room. The door was still closed. She spoke swiftly into the mouthpiece.

'Affirmative. I repeat "Bomzj."

There followed a long pause. Then the voice came back.

'Expedite Mike Four-eight; "Bomzj."

The line went dead. Swiftly, Charlotte unplugged the connection and walked to the door. She knocked twice, and the door opened. She nodded to the guard, who escorted her back to Viktor Malinovskii's office.

As she entered his office, Viktor looked up from the pile of folders on his desk. He smiled.

'Everything satisfactory?'

She nodded.

'Yes, thank you Viktor. The communication was successfully completed.'

He smiled again.

'Good. Shall I see you again, this evening?'

She smiled, ruefully.

'I'm afraid I can't at the moment, Viktor. There's too much going on at the Academy.'

Seeing his crestfallen expression, she quickly added,

'I'll give you a call when things settle down and I can concentrate on us.'

His face brightened considerably.

'Oh, yes. That would be nice.'

She nodded.

'Well, it's a date then. I must go. Thank you Viktor. You have been most helpful to me today.'

Outside his office in the corridor as the guard was escorting her to the Embassy staircase, her mind was working coldly and calculatingly. According to the coded message, the Bureau was sending an airplane to Mirim airfield... sited along the opposite side of the Taedong River, and about eight-kilometres east of the city, in forty-eight hours. It was the place where Charlotte had been inserted more than two-and-a-half years previously.

The place had been run-down, back then. By now, it was probably overgrown and deserted. The actual departure from Pyongyang would not be a problem as such. It was a straightforward drive up to the Taedong Bridge by way of Chonggo jangjon-t'ong to its junction with Soje-t'ong; then on across the bridge. The only possible problem would be the checkpoint at the Customs House on the western approach to the bridge.

Two days later, Private Maeng Ho-jung was standing guard on the western approach to the Taedong Bridge when he heard the unmistakeably ominous howl of a Soviet Military GAZ jeep approaching from the direction of Downtown Pyongyang. Quickly, he stubbed out his cigarette and pulled himself up to attention as the vehicle appeared on Soje-t'ong and approached his position. He stepped out into the middle of the road and waved down the oncoming vehicle. As it pulled up beside him with an ugly squeal of brakes, he saw that the driver was a female Soviet Colonel. He tentatively held out his hand for her papers, and then chose not to, as she locked her cold, blue eyes upon him. She spoke quietly and in perfect Korean...

'I am transporting this prisoner from P'yonysang Prison...'

She jerked her thumb at the shackled European man slumped in the back seat...

... 'to the Heijo steam power plant to complete his sentence to the benefit of the Motherland.'

Private Maeng Ho-jung nodded enthusiastically.

Thank you, Comrade Colonel. You may proceed.'

He stepped back and ordered arms smartly with his Kalashnikov AKM Assault rifle as the Soviet Colonel crashed in the gears of the jeep and drove out across the Taedong Bridge.

Once beyond the bridge and into Saesallim Street, the main thoroughfare of East Pyongyang, connecting the centre with the eastern suburbs, it was almost impossible to find any buildings which predated the Korean War. Old Pyongyang had been literally wiped off the map by the American bombing campaign of 1950-1953, and rebuilding had been invariably carried out in the Stalinist Neo-classical style. Massive, heavy, and pompous buildings reminiscent of the Soviet post-war style dominated the western part of the city; but out here, on the other side of the river, it was a very different story.

Along tree-lined streets were rows of basically similar, if somewhat more modest, apartment blocks which gave the impression of a modern city However, it was just an illusion. The modern buildings had been constructed along the streets to shield from view the slums located inside the blocks. These slums consisting of small huts filling the entire space within each block, and safely guarded from outsiders' eyes by the high-rise buildings surrounding them. In addition to the apartment complexes, there were also high concrete walls around each quarter, which also served to render the interior spaces invisible.

Farther out from the city centre, less effort had been taken to hide the slums. This eastern part of Pyongyang was particularly poor. Modern buildings formed a narrow line along several streets running parallel to the left bank of the Taedonggang, as well as along the Saesallim and Taedongwon Prospects towards the eastern edge of the city. The rest of eastern Pyongyang was a sea of small brick-and-clay huts built very close to each other. Between the houses, there were few streets - just paths… unpaved and often mud-choked after rain.

Charlotte accelerated away down towards the eastern edge of the city. There wasn't much traffic in this poorer area of Pyongyang. She headed on down towards the Songsin flyover, and then turned left out through the Sadong District towards Mirim. A little way down the road, she pulled over, removed Max's shackles, and tossed them into the ditch. If there was any presence at Mirim airfield, a Soviet Colonel accompanied by a plain-clothes companion would not raise much suspicion, whereas, a Soviet Colonel with a shackled prisoner most certainly would. She glanced at her wristwatch… two kilometres to go, and twenty minutes to wait until the arranged extraction rendezvous time.

Turning the GAZ into the airfield; as she had suspected, Mirim was not deserted. It was rumoured that the area was used as a practice parade ground to rehearse the grand military parades which were frequently held in the city. There appeared to be a battalion-strength contingent of the Worker-Peasant Red Guard and a detachment of Korean People's Army Ground Force drawn up in parade order and equipped with the latest-model tanks, and armoured cars.

Charlotte drove the GAZ across the western end of the concrete runway and stopped on the western parking pad. She and Max got out of the Jeep and leaned against the hood, as though they were idly watching the parade rehearsal. The actual airstrip appeared to be disused. There was no sign of life in either the dilapidated control tower or the rusting maintenance hangars. She glanced again at her wristwatch. Those troops had better be ready to move off the runway before too long. She scanned the skies out to the east. Was that a tiny black dot far away out there? The extraction was scheduled within the next ten minutes.

Slowly, the dot grew in size, and the distant deep drone of engines became more distinct. Yes! It was the Seoul Bureau's covert Li-2; the Soviet, license-built version of the Douglas DC-3 Skytrain in which she had originally been flown into North Korea. It was getting much lower and approaching rather more quickly than anyone out on the runway might have anticipated. The troops out on the runway broke ranks and doubled back to the relative safety of the centre taxiway as the Li-2 made a low pass down the centre-line of the runway, with the Red Stars on her wings and tail shining balefully in the bright afternoon sunlight, then banked around to join what, had the airstrip been active, would have been the landing circuit. As they watched her progress out towards the east, a solitary figure left the ranks of parade troops and began marching officiously across the airfield in their direction. The silver Li-2 turned in again, on finals; the wheels came down, and she began to sink towards the eastern end of the runway with her wing landing lights blazing; so that there could be no mistaking the pilot's intention to land. The figure quickened its pace.

The Li-2 touched down with a squeal and puffs of blue tire smoke, and rumbled down the concrete with flaps fully extended and propellers windmilling. The pilot began braking, and a teeth-gritting shriek of brakes echoed across the grass. At the end of the runway, the pilot turned onto the western taxiway and brought the big airplane to a standstill. The fuselage door banged open and a set of metal steps were shoved out.

The KPA Major, who had been pompously approaching Charlotte and Max, stopped dead in his tracks. Six tough-looking troopers piled out of the airplane fuselage door and doubled across the singed brown grass to form two flanking ranks either side of the path between the Russian Colonel and her companion, and the airplane. Even from this distance, he saw that the troopers were wearing the distinctive light-blue-and-white-striped "Spetsnaz" "telnyashka" undershirts beneath their camo uniforms and were carrying Kalashnikov AKMS assault rifles... the folding-stock variants. Even more alarming was the fact that the weapons appeared to be fitted with the ominous Russian PBS1 silencers. He suppressed a shiver. They could only be Russian Special Forces! They were going to be either VDV… the Soviet Airborne Troops or, more ominously, GRU... the Soviet Main Intelligence Directorate troops... neither of whom was in the business of being fucked about with by a lowly KPA Major. Deciding that prudence was most definitely the better part of valour concerning these dangerous bastards; he stopped dead, turned on his heel, and hurried back to his parade.

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As Charlotte and Max moved away from the jeep towards the airplane, the Spetsnaz troopers ordered arms and snapped to attention. They then formed up around Charlotte and Max in what was effectively a protection squad; and the group moved to the airplane. Charlotte climbed the ladder into the fuselage, followed by Max, to be met by a man in the uniform of a VDV Captain. He grinned; and said, in a broad, New England accent…

'Hi! I'm Scott Ferrell; Osan Station co-ordinator... Welcome home, Captain Mckenna. Now let's get the fuck outta here.'

Turning, he yelled back along the fuselage to the pilot, who raised a thumb and began to run up the idling engines as one of the troopers hauled up the ladder and banged the fuselage door shut. The pilot released the brakes with a slight jolt; the airplane began turning and taxied out to the runway. At the threshold, the pilot held on the brakes while the pressures and temperatures built up on his instruments, then eased the throttles forward, turned into the wind and released the brakes.

The engine noise rose to a crescendo, and the airplane began to move. Charlotte watched the scorched grass at the edge of the runway begin to flatten as it sped past below the wing; the tail lifted, and the shadow of the wing began falling away as the airplane rose into the sky. The troopers were relaxing and talking quietly. She recognised several distinct accents... a Texas drawl here... a Midwestern accent there... a couple of Southern boys... Scott Ferrell grinned.

'Good guys. Our paramilitary operatives. They all volunteered to come and pull you, and the Colonel out.'

Max was studying the troopers with suspicion. Their uniforms were familiar. Somewhere far away… somewhere long ago. He recognised the style - but where?... And when? A place name seemed to have some significance with those uniforms. What was it? And where was it? Charlotte noticed his puzzled frown. She squeezed his hand.

'What is it, Milaya Moya?'

She deliberately used the Russian endearment they had always used for each other.

He shook his head.

'I don't know. I can't remember. Those uniforms; I know them from somewhere.'

She studied him. Fragments of his lost memory were beginning to surface. She smiled.

'Perhaps it was in Berlin, when you were at Karlshorst.'

Scott Ferrell's ears pricked up. The term "Karlshorst" had long since become synonymous with the KGB Rezidentura on Zwieseler Strasse in Berlin; the Soviet intelligence's largest Cold War foreign post. So the intelligence he had been given on Max Segal; formerly Lieutenant-Colonel Maksim Siegel of the Berlin-Karlshorst Headquarters, Soviet Military Administration was accurate. Segal had been given full clearance from Washington. He had been granted permanent residence under the "PL-110" clause of the CIA Act and was a fully accredited deep cover operative carrying Diplomatic Status. How in the hell he had managed to remain undiscovered inside the very heart of the Military in this Commie shithole for ten years was astonishing. He studied Max with a newly-found deference. This guy; even in his slightly debilitated state; was a goddamned Hero… as was this still-attractive blonde Captain.

Up in the cockpit, Captain Ricardo Flores hit the landing gear lever and began to milk up the flaps as the Li-2 clambered away into the eastern skies, painfully aware of the thousands of Commie eyes watching from the ground. He nodded to his copilot, Brody Callahan.

'OK set a course on Zero-Four-Five, point-Eight. Let's sucker the little bastards into thinking we're heading home to Vladivostok.'

Callahan nodded and set the radio compass.'

'That's a Rog, Boss. Let's hope they don't decide to send up any bogies to eyeball us.'

Flores grinned and eased back on the throttle levers.

'Just keep 'em crossed for the next five hundred klicks to our turning point out over the Ocean!'

Friday, October 14, 1960.

Osan Air Force Base, Songtan District.

Forty miles south of Seoul,

South Korea.

As the Li-2 transport airplane began to descend; gazing out of the cabin window, Charlotte could plainly see the workers in the paddy fields below, pause and peer up from under the floppy brims of their wide straw hats as the big airplane thundered overhead. Almost all the scattered villages on the flight path were the same... closely-packed dwellings with earthen walls and thatched roofs; the dwellings bisected by narrow lanes leading out to the surrounding paddy fields and vegetable patches.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the familiar hiss and whine of the landing flaps and undercarriage actuators operating as the pilot committed the Li-2 to her final approach. The racing shadow on the paddy fields grew darker and larger as the airplane descended, until with a bump and squeal of tortured rubber, the main wheels made contact with the concrete of Osan runway. Curiously, as the Li-2 rolled down the runway, there were few aircraft to be seen, other than a couple of C-47s parked up by the scattering of buildings on the northern edge of the airfield. Other than what looked like a major reconstruction of the runway, the base still retained most of its Korean War-vintage facilities and infrastructure... just as Charlotte remembered.

The Li-2 turned and came back along the runway, turning off onto the eastern taxiway, and stopped on the edge of the concrete in front of the buildings. The young airman-steward opened the passenger door and invited Charlotte and Max to leave their seats. A rudimentary set of loading stairs had been brought up, down which he helped Charlotte and Max.

They were met by a tall, crew-cut civilian wearing casual tropical clothing, who had appeared from an anonymous looking black Mercury sedan parked at the edge of the parking apron. He introduced himself as Jerrod Carbone, Assistant Case Officer of the Seoul Bureau. He settled Charlotte and Max in the rear seat of the Mercury; instructed the young airman load their luggage, then, without another word, drove quickly away out to Highway One that led from the Air Base up to Seoul, and accelerated the Mercury sedan up to sixty. Charlotte glanced at Max. This crew-cut American, Jerrod Carbone, gave the impression of being something considerably more ominous than an "Assistant Case Officer." Max gave her a puzzled glance and squeezed her hand. With luck, they wouldn't have to spend too much time in his company. He smelled of Secret Service... or something even scarier.

Turning off Highway One; Carbone drove into the Yongdungp'o district of the city. The streets were fairly quiet...this area was one of the better known red-light districts of Seoul and didn't really come alive until after dark. Cordone slowed the black Mercury at the intersection at the end of the main street of the Itaewono, and turned left on to the approach road which led down to the six, Iron-truss arch, Han River Bridge. Once across the bridge, it was a lengthy drive north, past Seoul station with its Byzantine-style central dome and adjacent goods yards, and on along Taipyung Road, then turning right, opposite the Museum, into Euljiro Street in the Kyongsong District. Cordone stopped outside the wide street canopy of the eight-storey Hotel Bando, which vaguely resembled the architectural style of The Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong... although its "U" shaped frontage was much shallower, and there was no forecourt to speak of. It did have a quasi-Colonial-Era style, but was much starker than its Hong Kong counterpart.

Leaving the car engine idling, he guided Charlotte and Max to the hotel entrance where another crew-cut man wearing sunglasses met them. Cordone then returned to the car; cut out into the traffic, and drove away towards the centre of the city.

The marble reception area of the Hotel Bando was deserted except for the Marine Corps Staff Sergeant at the reception desk. The young, crew-cut American escorted Charlotte and Max across the checkerboard marble floor to the desk and introduced them. The Marine Corps Sergeant logged their arrival, saluted, and directed them to the three elevators at the far end of the reception hall. The crew-cut young man pressed the call button of the central elevator. Entering, Charlotte noticed it was still the one-floor-only button and an emergency button in the flush control panel. Nothing much had changed here!

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 the party stepped out into the long, quiet, neutral-smelling corridor, they both stood and presented arms. Their escort nodded, and led Charlotte and Max along the corridor to the familiar anonymous-looking solid teak door. The young man knocked, and opened the door; stepped back, and invited them to enter. They entered a spacious office which appeared to be exactly the same as the last time Charlotte had stood here. The room was dominated by a large desk, behind which, sat an unfamiliar man in an expensive linen suit. Behind him, the corner was still occupied by an artistically draped Stars and Stripes flag.

The man studied them for a few moments, and then gave them a thin smile.

'Pleased to see you again, Mckenna. This must be Segal.

She nodded.

'Yes, I found him in a rural village. He sustained a head injury at some point in his mission and has lost most of his previous memory. I have been trying to get him to remember people and places; incidents and experiences. We have made some progress, but it will take more skill than I possess to completely unlock his memories.'

The man nodded.

'So I understand. You'll be with us for a few days while we arrange for you to be extracted for de-briefing. We still use the hotel for our staff quarters; it's a damn sight more secure than out there in Seoul. I'll have Hilburn show you your quarters.'

He pressed a bell-push under the edge of the desk which summoned the young, crew-cut man who had brought them up from the lobby. Hilburn led them through the main lateral corridor to the right wing of the building, and along the corridor to the end door on the left. Opening the door, he said that their few possessions had already been brought up, and they should settle themselves in. He smiled, and handed Charlotte the key.

The room had originally been one of the hotel's luxury suites. It was divided into two separate main areas; the main living accommodation which contained four comfortable-looking armchairs placed around a small occasional table; lamp standards, potted plants and all the other accoutrements one would expect in a top hotel suite. The sleeping area was divided from the main room by sliding full-width doors, and contained a substantial Colonial-style double bed, bedside cabinets, wardrobes and a dressing table. Another door led to a small, but well-appointed bathroom and toilet.

Charlotte smiled at Max.

'Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable.'

Max sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her blankly.

De-briefing us? How can they de-brief me when I can't remember anything?... And where will they take us?'

She came and sat beside him. Taking his hand in hers, she looked at him.

'I don't know where we will go, Max… but wherever it is, I'm sure there will be people there who will help you to remember.'

He gave a sad, apprehensive smile.

'Oh, I do hope so. I really want to remember what it was like sharing my life with you. All the rest really doesn't matter.'

Wednesday, October 12, 1960.

Hong Kong Island.

Sheren Chung walked nervously along the Gloucester Road heading for the Chater Road pier where she would take the Star ferry across the harbour to Kowloon. She had good reason to be nervous; she carried in her purse an item which she was to deliver to one of the most dangerous factions in the entire Colony.

Twenty-two year-old Sheren Chung; daughter of an English Ex-pat mother, and a Chinese Tai-pan… businessman; was a courier for the Seoul Yangeundongpa mob boss, Kim Jonghyun. The previous evening, she had been summoned by telephone to an innocuous-looking house in the Wan Chi District of Hong Kong Island, and given a package which she was instructed to deliver to an address on the corner of Forfar Road and Argyll Street in the Ho Man Tin area of Kowloon.

She had become involved, much to her regret, in this shadowy world as a result of the malign influence of an ex-boyfriend. In this world, once you were in… you were in; and there was no easy way of getting out. There were benefits… protection; the money financed a very comfortable life-style; but, any deviation from the rigid protocols; and the penalty that the miscreant invariably paid was becoming part of the foundations for the new Kai Tak airport passenger terminal, or, failing that; part of the foundations for any one of the multitude of new buildings being erected in downtown Kowloon.

The package that she was carrying contained the large Garnet gemstone that the two fake gas company men had recovered from the wreckage of the Colonial-style mansion out on The Peak district of Hong Kong Island that had belonged to the recently assassinated Heung Wah-yim; Master of the Sun Yee On Triad of Hong Kong. She had been chosen for this assignment because the Hong Kong Police Force were pulling in anyone who had the slightest known-connection to the Yangeundongpa mob's offshoot based in the Colony. They were zealously enforcing a Stop and Search policy on the flimsy premise of slightest suspicion.

The official reason for this was that the assassination of the Triad Boss, Heung Wah-yim, out on the side of Severn road up on The Peak could be the precursor of an all-out Triad War… the manner of Heung Wah-yim's execution… two bullets in the back of the Triad boss's head was a typical signature killing. Another scurrilous rumour suggested that the Triad boss had powerful friends in the Colony's Executive Council, who were, themselves, clandestine Triad members. Whatever the truth of it; the Yangeundongpa mob boss, Kim Jonghyun had commanded that the artefact that Sheren Chung now carried be returned to him in Seoul at the earliest opportunity.

Number 157, Argyle Street, on the corner of Forfar Road and Argyll Street was a shabby, three-storey, Art-Deco-style house that had certainly seen better days. Apprehensively, she opened the eight-feet-high; double gates decorated in the fashion of a stylised peacock with an open tail fan, and walked up the asphalt drive to the front door, which was set back from the front wall in a large alcoved area beneath an open, second-floor balcony supported by a single tapering concrete pillar. Ringing the doorbell, she stepped back and waited.

After a few moments, the door opened, and a young man appeared. He scrutinised her suspiciously; saying nothing. His features suggested that he was Korean... flat face; higher, and squarer cheek bones. She smiled timidly and uttered the secret word that they had given her; holding out the parcel to him. He accepted it with a slight bow and spoke a single word: "Kamsahamnida" … 'Thank You'… in Korean.

He then stepped back and closed the door on her. Sheren Chung breathed a sigh of relief. So that was all there was to it? They had warned her that the foot soldiers of the Yangeundongpa mob were unpredictable and dangerous. Under no circumstances was she to accept an invitation to enter the house. If she did, it was more than likely that she would be drugged and eventually find herself incarcerated in some squalid brothel in Seoul's red light district. Many affluent Koreans had a taste for pretty Eurasian girls; and the best she could ever hope for in such a circumstance would be being taken as a sex-slave concubine by some paunchy Korean businessman. Rebuttal would result in severe and methodical beatings; perhaps, even death. Her Triad handler had pulled no punches in his warning. He despised all Korean mobsters as being uncultured barbarians.

Nervously, Sheren Chung walked back to the gate and stepped out into Forfar Road. She walked along the short length of the pavement to the corner, and checking for traffic, began to cross Argyll Street hastening her pace as one of the Kowloon Motor Bus Company's red and cream Daimler double-decker buses came rumbling up Argyll Street from the direction of the city centre. Passers-by saw her stumble and fall directly in front of the oncoming bus, whose driver slammed on the brakes but could not avoid running over her. They did not, however hear the single, sharp "Phft!" which was no louder than a bubble of air escaping from a tube of toothpaste; or witness the barrel of the silenced sniper's rifle being stealthily withdrawn from the parapet of the third-storey flat roof of Number 157, Argyle Street.

When they reversed the bus from the girl there was no possible way that they could establish that she had indeed been shot. The front wheel had crushed her head; and that was where the sniper had aimed, and where his single round had struck. The Police wrote it off as another sad, but unfortunate traffic accident; and one more loose end to the Yangeundongpa mob boss, Kim Jonghyun's carefully planned strategy to regain the gemstone had been neatly tied up.