Read Online Robert Ludlum's (TM) the Janson Equation by Douglas Corleone - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Corleone
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Morton?”
“L-zero-R-D-underscore-W-one-C-K-three-D.”
Janson fixed on the letters and numbers in his head:
L0rd_W1ck3d
“Lord Wicked?”
“Lord-motherfucking-Wicked, my friend.”
SIX
Dosan Park
Sinsa-dong, Gangnam-gu, Seoul
A s the brutal cold burrowed deep into her bones, Jessica Kincaid couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed. She lowered her head against the gusting wind and stole another glance over her left shoulder but saw no one.
You’re being paranoid. You’re the one doing the following.
Across the way, Ambassador Young’s chief aide entered an upscale Korean restaurant named Jung Sikdang. Kincaid cursed under her breath. She couldn’t very well walk into the restaurant; Jonathan would recognize her right away. And she sure as hell didn’t want to wait around outside in the bitter cold for an hour while Jonathan enjoyed his evening meal. Damn. She’d been so sure he was heading straight to his apartment, where Kincaid could knock on the door and, hopefully, corner him alone. But no. An hour of surveillance, wasted.
After leaving the US embassy, Kincaid had headed north to the Sophia Guesthouse in Sogyeok-dong. It was her first time visiting a traditional hanok and she was instantly charmed. Fewer than a dozen rooms surrounded a spartan courtyard with a simple garden and young trees that stood completely bare in solidarity with the season.
Rather than poke around uninvited she went straight to the proprietors, a husband and wife of indistinguishable age. Both spoke fluent English. Although wary at first, they gradually opened up to Kincaid once she agreed to join them for afternoon tea.
Seated on low, comfortable cushions, Kincaid asked the couple whether they had ever seen Lynell Yi or Gregory Wyckoff before their recent visit. Neither of them had. Nor had they personally overheard the loud argument that was alleged to have taken place the night of the murder. The guests who had overheard the argument—a young Korean couple from Busan—had already checked out. Kincaid had seen their home addresses listed in the police file Janson had obtained on the plane, so she moved on.
After tea, Kincaid asked if she might have a look around, and the couple readily acquiesced. As they walked through the courtyard toward the room where Lynell Yi’s body was found, the husband launched into a semicomposed rant about the disappearance of the hanok in South Korean culture. The one-story homes crafted entirely of wood, he said, were victims of the South’s “obsession with modernization.” As he pointed out the craftsmanship of the clay-tiled roof, he noticed Kincaid’s chattering teeth and explained that the rooms were well insulated with mud and straw, and heated by a system called ondol that lay beneath the floor.
The wife took a key from her pocket and opened the door to number 9, the room in which Wyckoff and Yi had stayed. It was located in the newer section of the hanok. Kincaid was surprised to find that the two-day-old crime scene was already immaculate. There was no yellow police tape, no blood or footprints or any other evidence to be seen. According to the husband, a team had rushed in and cleaned the place up and down the moment the police indicated they were finished. Kincaid made a mental note to check whether this was normal procedure in the Republic of Korea.
The room itself was cozy, about half the size of a one-car garage. But it was also elegant in an understated way. There were no beds or chairs, just traditional mats, a pair of locked trunks, and a small color television set you probably couldn’t purchase in stores anymore. She’d seen the room in evidence photos, but the pictures didn’t do the place justice.
Kincaid walked to the window, which was made of a thin translucent paper that allowed in natural light. She placed her hand on one of the speckled walls and thought that if she gave it a solid punch, her fist would land in the next room. So much for
“L-zero-R-D-underscore-W-one-C-K-three-D.”
Janson fixed on the letters and numbers in his head:
L0rd_W1ck3d
“Lord Wicked?”
“Lord-motherfucking-Wicked, my friend.”
SIX
Dosan Park
Sinsa-dong, Gangnam-gu, Seoul
A s the brutal cold burrowed deep into her bones, Jessica Kincaid couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being followed. She lowered her head against the gusting wind and stole another glance over her left shoulder but saw no one.
You’re being paranoid. You’re the one doing the following.
Across the way, Ambassador Young’s chief aide entered an upscale Korean restaurant named Jung Sikdang. Kincaid cursed under her breath. She couldn’t very well walk into the restaurant; Jonathan would recognize her right away. And she sure as hell didn’t want to wait around outside in the bitter cold for an hour while Jonathan enjoyed his evening meal. Damn. She’d been so sure he was heading straight to his apartment, where Kincaid could knock on the door and, hopefully, corner him alone. But no. An hour of surveillance, wasted.
After leaving the US embassy, Kincaid had headed north to the Sophia Guesthouse in Sogyeok-dong. It was her first time visiting a traditional hanok and she was instantly charmed. Fewer than a dozen rooms surrounded a spartan courtyard with a simple garden and young trees that stood completely bare in solidarity with the season.
Rather than poke around uninvited she went straight to the proprietors, a husband and wife of indistinguishable age. Both spoke fluent English. Although wary at first, they gradually opened up to Kincaid once she agreed to join them for afternoon tea.
Seated on low, comfortable cushions, Kincaid asked the couple whether they had ever seen Lynell Yi or Gregory Wyckoff before their recent visit. Neither of them had. Nor had they personally overheard the loud argument that was alleged to have taken place the night of the murder. The guests who had overheard the argument—a young Korean couple from Busan—had already checked out. Kincaid had seen their home addresses listed in the police file Janson had obtained on the plane, so she moved on.
After tea, Kincaid asked if she might have a look around, and the couple readily acquiesced. As they walked through the courtyard toward the room where Lynell Yi’s body was found, the husband launched into a semicomposed rant about the disappearance of the hanok in South Korean culture. The one-story homes crafted entirely of wood, he said, were victims of the South’s “obsession with modernization.” As he pointed out the craftsmanship of the clay-tiled roof, he noticed Kincaid’s chattering teeth and explained that the rooms were well insulated with mud and straw, and heated by a system called ondol that lay beneath the floor.
The wife took a key from her pocket and opened the door to number 9, the room in which Wyckoff and Yi had stayed. It was located in the newer section of the hanok. Kincaid was surprised to find that the two-day-old crime scene was already immaculate. There was no yellow police tape, no blood or footprints or any other evidence to be seen. According to the husband, a team had rushed in and cleaned the place up and down the moment the police indicated they were finished. Kincaid made a mental note to check whether this was normal procedure in the Republic of Korea.
The room itself was cozy, about half the size of a one-car garage. But it was also elegant in an understated way. There were no beds or chairs, just traditional mats, a pair of locked trunks, and a small color television set you probably couldn’t purchase in stores anymore. She’d seen the room in evidence photos, but the pictures didn’t do the place justice.
Kincaid walked to the window, which was made of a thin translucent paper that allowed in natural light. She placed her hand on one of the speckled walls and thought that if she gave it a solid punch, her fist would land in the next room. So much for
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