“Good. We’ll keep him in for observation and the usual tests,” he said to the nurse. “Take his temperature, and check his blood pressure every three hours. Scan him with the Geiger counter every hour – usual thing. I want three blood samples now for urgent tests.”
He turned to Northcot.
“We need to check that the white blood cell count is normal. Any further vomiting or sickness, use this,” he produced a large bowl from beneath the bed. “How close were you to the source of the radiation? Nearer than six feet?”
“No. Further away than that.”
“Good. Check his urine, too,” he said to Soon-Bok, “and when you’ve done that, strip him down and clean him up. Check his clothes for radioactivity and put them through the laundry. Get them back here by the morning. Then arrange for him to have a good meal.”
“If you’re going to throw-up, you need something to do it with,” he said to Northcot. “I’ll come to see you again later.”
Northcot didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“By the way,” said Ramsay with a grin as he pulled back the curtain to leave, “Soon-Bok means ‘gentle and blessed’. You’re in good hands.”
***
Northcot had slept the sleep of the un-Godly until an orderly arrived with breakfast – green tea and a rice cake. Ramsay followed him into the curtained cubicle.
“I am pleased to say that all your tests have proved negative, and that you are probably not suffering from radiation sickness after all. Possibly something you have eaten.” The Professor announced. “However, if you do have radiation sickness, it is also possible for the symptoms to return after a brief period, so I shall provide you with medication in case that happens. Otherwise, you are free to leave.”
He waved a hand to dismiss the orderly.
“Dr.Choi is now very ill, and you should not visit him,” he said quietly. “We have passed word to his nephew, and arranged for your return. You will leave here shortly.”
Ramsay left before Northcot could even begin to thank him.
Almost immediately another nurse appeared, complete with white coat and stethoscope.
It was Kang Soo, frowning and with his finger to his lips.
“I have come to take you back,” he announced quietly. “Here is the medication the Professor promised to give you.”
There were two packages, with a large radioactive black and yellow symbol label on one side, and a Red Cross on the other.
A typed label gave explicit instructions – In the event of a repeat of the radiation sickness symptoms, take this medication as prescribed and report immediately to the nearest Hospital. AVOID CONTACT WITH OTHER PEOPLE AT ALL COSTS.
‘That should be enough to keep curious fingers from opening it,’ thought Maurice. ‘Well done, Ramsay.’
“Come with me,” said Soo, grabbing Northcot’s back pack.
Outside the Hospital, he bundled Northcot into a rather battered ambulance, turned on the siren and flashing blue lights, and made off at high speed.
Only then could Maurice ask, “How the hell did you get here?”
“It’s a long story – tell you later. We must get out of here, fast.”
Which is what they did – in silence.
Not far out of the village, they swerved down a side road, and came to a sudden halt.
“Out!” commanded Kang.
They scrambled out, as a motorbike arrived from the opposite direction. Kang and the driver exchanged places without a word, and Northcot climbed on to the pillion.
The old ambulance sped off.
Kang delved into his back-pack and pulled out three slim boxes, which he gave to Maurice.
“Compo-rations,” he announced. “One day packs, to keep you going. Eat the contents raw if you can’t cook them – quite good, however, especially if you’re desperate. My orders are to get you on a safe route home, and leave you. I then have to stay on to try to resurrect the fragile network MI6 had here, which has just about collapsed. The plot is to get you to Kaesong, where you will be met. You will change into military uniform, and be escorted in a dash across the Demarcation Zone where American forces will meet you and take you into South Korea. I’m glad it’s you, not me,” he said. “If the North Koreans see you go, you’re as good as dead – they don’t like defectors.”
They sped off down the rutted country road, but not for long.
As they neared a narrow muddy river crossed by a railway bridge, shots rang out.
“We’ve been followed!” shouted Kang. “We must split up – good luck!”
With that, he flung the bike into a skid which threw them both off. Northcot ran for his life into the dense undergrowth, apparently unseen by their followers, while Kang headed for the river. He dived in, surrounded by a hail of bullets. He threw his back pack into the river as he went, hoping the gunmen would think it was his passenger who had also dived in.
As Kang hit the river, he jack-knifed, and swam back underwater towards the gunmen, who concentrated their fire further across the river ahead of where they naturally thought he would be. It was an old trick, but it worked.
He made his way silently underwater into the reed bed at the river’s edge and lay beneath the surface, raising his head only briefly for breath. He could see and hear the gunmen, who eventually withdrew.
He did not see Northcot again, who had made good his escape through the woodland alongside the track, towards the railway bridge.
Maurice could hear a train approaching, fortunately slowly before crossing the river bridge, and managed to sprint after it and scramble aboard one of the freight wagons.
But now he was heading back the way he had come, and guessed that the train might be intercepted by his pursuers, so once it had crossed the river and before the train began to gather speed again, he leapt off, and hid in the scrub and bushes on the embankment just below the level of the track.
He was badly shaken, no mistake, but unhurt. He looked back at the river, but could see no sign of Kang Soo.
He had no clear idea of what to do next, but he knew he had to make his way in the other direction, if he was ever to reach Kaesong. But once again, the plans carefully made for him had fallen apart, and, once again, he was very much on his own.
He decided to wait where he was until dusk. He could now send the ‘Collected’ message, although he doubted on present form if he would ever ‘deliver’. As he lay hidden, he opened the packages given to him by Ramsay. The contents appeared identical. He kept one intact, but secreted the contents of the other in his clothing, back-pack, shoes – wherever he could.
It now seemed as if he was very much on his own, with nobody to help him and no escape route.
On the distant road, he heard a convoy of military vehicles. They were certainly after him.
But there was nobody he could turn to for help now, between him and home. For the first time in his long career ‘travelling’, he doubted if he would ever get there. He was half way round the world in a hostile country and being hunted down.
He heard a train approaching from the opposite direction, heading the way he needed to go. It slowed to cross the bridge. He made no attempt to scramble aboard, but decided to wait for another, after dark perhaps, when those chasing after him may, with any luck, have started searching somewhere else. They were almost bound to stop this train in their efforts to hunt him down, but he reasoned that they may let the next one pass unhindered.
He could only hope, and hide, and gather his thoughts.
If only there was someone between here and London he could turn to for help. He had no clear idea where he was, or how he was going to get out of this wretched country, never mind get home. There was certainly no point in trying to get through the DMZ without help, although he would try to get to Kaesong. At least he had been there before.
But then where would he go? Into China, perhaps, or Japan? He thought South Korea would be too risky, even if he could get there.
Someone
, somewhere, knew about the vital information he had with him, and desperately wanted to stop him getting away with it.
They were bound to assume that he would head south.
It was nearly dark when the next train approached – another freight train. Like the others, it slowed to cross the bridge, but it was still going at a fair pace when Maurice left his cover and gave chase. There was one freight car with the side door open, and that’s the one he wanted.
He quickly formed the view that the train had not slowed down as much as it should. He had trouble keeping up with it, but eventually threw his backpack and then himself onto the passing wagon. He could barely grasp the truck as he desperately tried to haul himself aboard.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed him by the waist band of his trousers and tried to help haul him aboard. It went through his mind that it must be a friendly hand – otherwise a boot would have stamped on his grasping fingers instead.
As he was dragged inside, he lost a good deal of skin from one of his shins, but was eventually thrown into a corner on top of a pile of sacks of rice.
He was gasping for breath and in some pain.
“Welcome aboard,” said Kang Soo.
“Not you again!” exclaimed Northcot.
“I thought you might catch this train,” said Soo.
“I missed the last one,” responded a breathless Northcot.
“I really hate commuting, don’t you? Let me look at that leg.”
He was obviously well trained in first aid, and had basic kit in his bag, with which he quickly cleaned and dressed the wound.
“Keep it clean,” he said with a grin.
“Are you going far?” asked Northcot.
“Kaesong.”
“How do you know this is going there?”
“I asked the conductor chappie. He let me on without a ticket! Some people will do anything for a decent bribe.”
“And then snitch – report you. Never trust anyone in this country. We shall be met when we get there, you watch.”
“He has no means of telling anyone we’re on board – I ‘fixed’ his radio for him when he wasn’t looking. I suggest now we crack open one of these delicious packets of compo rations.”
“Yours or mine,” asked Northcot.
They laughed.
“What happens after Kaesong,” asked Maurice.
“I have to leave you there, and get on with trying to patch up the network. But what will you do? I don’t know anyone there who can help you, and if you try to cross the DMZ, you’ll fry.”
“There’s nobody there who can help me,” admitted Northcot. “Or anywhere else for that matter, except that it has occurred to me that there is one bloke who just might get me back to UK if I can track him down. But only one.”
“And where’s he?”
“China.”
“China? With what you’ve got in your hip pocket? You’re probably going to fry anyway.”
“I haven’t worked out my route by any means, but I hoped to remember enough of our briefing at Bourleywood to get me back to the coast where you and Park Yon got ashore, and perhaps get out by sea – fishing boat, or something.”
Soo thought for a moment.
“Where do you need to head for?”
“Anywhere on the east coast of China, then I’ll need to make my way south.”
Soo looked hard at Maurice.
“Towards Shanghai?”
Maurice nodded. “That sort of way, I suppose. It might be easier and safer heading down the coast than going inland.”
“Tell you what I’ll do then, since you’re an old mate. I’ll take you to where we got ashore, near the estuary of the Chiongchon River, west of Mundok. There’s a decent sized fishing fleet there – ocean going by the look of some of them. We could do with a few contacts there anyway, so perhaps I can talk you aboard one of them for a cruise, even if only part of the way.”
“What are the chances?”
“Since I’m Korean and you’re not, I probably have a better chance than you would on your own. But if I get you aboard one of these stinking old vessels, you really will be on your own from then on.”
“Anywhere on that coast of China would be good. I guess I can make my own way after that.”
“Once you’ve left North Korea, I can get word to London.”
“They’ll be pleased.”
“Not if I tell them you’ve gone to China with their nuclear secrets in your pocket.”
“Don’t tell them then.”
***
There was excitement and relief in the MI6 HQ, when the ops room reported that it had received the ‘collected’ message from Northcot. It meant that he had managed to rendezvous with Professor Ramsay as planned, and get away again.
But the relief was short lived when they then received a brief message from Kang Soo, who was equipped with communications equipment, to say that they had been betrayed and were on the run having escaped an armed ambush.
Since then, however – silence. They had no idea where either of the men were or even whether they were still alive and operating together.
There were fears, too, that Ramsay had been compromised by the operation, which would have made matters ten times worse. As it was, the already shaky network in North Korea had taken a battering, and they had taken a huge risk sending Kang Soo back there, not only to help Northcot, but also to try to rebuild the network of agents and informers. But their worse fears were eventually proved to be unfounded, when Ramsay managed to get word through that Dr.Choi Shin had died. So he at least was still there and operating on their behalf.
As Head of MI6, Sir Geoffrey Sefton had been in almost hourly contact with Jack Salisbury to keep him updated. For a change, the Head of the Joint Intelligence Organisation was sitting in Sefton’s office.
“This has all been nail-biting stuff, has it not,” he said to ‘C’.
“And it’s by no means over yet,” Sefton reminded him.
“Quite so.”
“But at least Ramsay seems to have avoided detection.”
“So far. But he is a vital link for us, and we all knew the risks in getting him directly involved.”
“To sum up,” said ‘C’, “Maurice Northcot has collected the information, via Professor Ramsay, from the now-deceased Dr. Choi. But where the information now is, which we so desperately need, nobody knows.”
“Neither do we know where Northcot and Kang are, or even whether they are still alive.”
“And if they are still alive, where they are going.”
Jack Salisbury strode over to the window.
“I almost believe you have a better view than I do,” he said.
He turned as a tray of tea was delivered.
“Ah; tea! I think better with a cuppa.”
“Better still with Scotch, as I do, but it is a bit early, even for us.”
Salisbury grinned.
“Are you taking bets on where Northcot will go, if he has been spared?”
“None at all,” replied Sefton.
“If he’s any sense – and he has plenty – he will keep well away from China, bearing in mind the information he has collected.”
Salisbury ambled over to the map on the wall.
“Which only leaves Russia or Japan, and he can only get to Japan by sea.”
“Either way, he needs to head North or East.”
“Our SAS man won’t be of much help.”
“His orders were to get Northcot to Panmunjom, for a dash across the DMZ, but that option was obviously blown out of the water when the pick-up at the museum failed.”
“Northcot is no longer a priority for Kang, anyway. He has work to do patching up our network while there is still something of it left to patch up.”
There was a knock at the door, and James Piper burst in.
“Sorry to interrupt, but we’ve just had a patchy signal from Northcot – nothing strong, but not a straight line, either.”
“Thank the Lord he
’s still alive,” said Salisbury.
“Yes, but he’s heading South and West.”
“Towards China? I can’t believe it,”
“Looks like it. Where the hell does he think he’s going?”
***
He was going to find the one man in the world now who could help him.
17.
THE TUNNEL
Major Peter Northcot’s phone rang. His mobile.
He looked at the clock on his digital radio.
This was his second tour in Hong Kong, but nobody ever rang him at home on his mobile at 04.37 in the morning. On a Sunday. Not even his secure phone rang at that time. Not even in Hong Kong. Well, not often, anyway.
He switched on the bedside light, thumbed the button to answer the phone and said ‘hello’.
“Who’s that?” said a voice he didn’t recognise.
“Who wants to know?”
It was plainly somebody he didn’t know. All his contacts were in the mobile’s address book, and one would have shown up on the screen if the caller had been listed.
“What number is that?”
“The number you dialled, probably.”
“I want to know who I’m talking to,” said the voice, irritably.
“You mean who you were talking to,” he replied, and rang off.
The phone rang again. It was the same number as before, now automatically logged on his phone and displayed on the small screen. He jotted the number down – a quick check in the morning would find the owner of the mobile.
“Was I talking to you just now?” said the same voice.
“How would I know who you were talking to just now?”
“I dialled the same number as before, and you sound the same as the chap who answered it last time.”
“Do you have the slightest idea what the time is?”
“Half past four – I’m sorry, but it’s urgent.”
“What is?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Ring my office later, then, and my PA will arrange a meeting. But only when I know who you are and what you want and if I agree that it is urgent.”
He rang off again.
He didn’t really have an office as such. His wasn’t that kind of job. But he hired an agency to take care of things like this. They provided him with his own ‘office’ phone number, which they monitored. Nobody much rang it, but when somebody did, they told him.
The phone rang for a third time.
“I’m going to gamble that I’ve got the right number,” said the voice. “I’m in Singapore, and arriving at Chek Lap Kok on UA 896. Meet me. It’s urgent and important. You’ll recognise me.”