Read Online Threat Level Black by Jim DeFelice - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim DeFelice
Ads: Link
the street and find a cab, then take it to the American embassy. But he didn’t know Russian, and even his English was halting. Besides, there were undoubtedly others watching him besides the mild-mannered man who had accompanied him from P’yongyang, Russians as well as Koreans.
“Trust us,” the American had said in her message.
It was his only option. Dr. Park finished dressing, then woke his minder, telling him he was going to the day room for breakfast.
Chapter
14
There was black, and there was black. And then there was the blackness of Russian coffee, a shade beyond the naked oblivion beloved of philosophers from Plato to Sartre. Plato had his cave, Nietzsche had his superman; Fisher had his coffee.
It occurred to Fisher that the great German philosopher Immanuel Kant could not have been a true coffee drinker; he was too much of an idealist. Or, rather, given his syncretistic leanings, he would have been the sort who added milk and sugar, botching the whole operation and skewing his view of the universe in the process.
Coffee like this—strong, black, so full of caffeine that the surface buzzed—this sort of coffee was the reason Russia had produced musicians and writers rather than philosophers and poets; the liquid was as thick as sandpaper, scrubbing away the ethereal coatings of your esophagus, a region much given to philosophical thoughts. And the heartburn that would surely follow tended to wipe out lyrical expression.
Fisher, never much for poetry or philosophy, decided he would have to drink more of this on a regular basis. Maybe he could get his local Dunkin’ Donuts to import it.
The FBI agent achieved these insights while sitting at the back of Assembly Room Two in Meeting Hall Pavilion A, Government Facility Conference Buildings, Moscow, listening as an engineer sang the seemingly unlimited praises of microcurrents. Fisher was sitting two rows behind Kung and Mathers, who were themselves two rows behind the Korean subject, who had come with his minder and sat in what appeared to be rapt attention, though his dossier said he spoke little English, the language of the presentation.
There were another dozen people in the room, including one Russian agent and one of the CIA backup team members. Fisher had also spotted a Chinese conferee sipping coffee with cream; this was a dead giveaway that the man was either an intelligence agent or a German philosopher trying to reform.
The speaker droned on in an English that came from somewhere between London and Düsseldorf. Apparently there was a brave new world lurking in the circuits powering modern life; Fisher didn’t understand most of what the man said, but it did give him a new respect for his cordless shaver.
He remained in his seat as the session broke up, watching Dr. Park up close for the first time. Thirties, no family to speak of, the man was a mid-level drone in the Korean scientific community. As far as that went, he had a relatively sheltered life; in that society he would even be considered privileged.
So why did he want to defect? Beyond the obvious appeal of apple pie and Chevrolets?
Fisher got up as Kung and her gnomish bodyguard passed by his seat. Mathers wagged a finger at him as if they were in junior high; Fisher set his glare on stun and fended her off.
Outside, the hallway was crowded with scientists, engineers, and spooks assigned to make sure they didn’t make off with too many doughnuts. Fisher sifted to the far end of the snack table, making like he was checking the program listing.
Fisher had emphasized the importance to Kung—and to the gnome—of letting Dr. Park come to her. So far she was sticking to the program, nibbling on cookies with Mathers at one end of the long table while Dr. Park stood almost motionless on the other. A Finnish engineer came up to the two women and started talking about alternating current, obviously some sort of codeword for threesomes involving short people.
Fisher slid through the
“Trust us,” the American had said in her message.
It was his only option. Dr. Park finished dressing, then woke his minder, telling him he was going to the day room for breakfast.
Chapter
14
There was black, and there was black. And then there was the blackness of Russian coffee, a shade beyond the naked oblivion beloved of philosophers from Plato to Sartre. Plato had his cave, Nietzsche had his superman; Fisher had his coffee.
It occurred to Fisher that the great German philosopher Immanuel Kant could not have been a true coffee drinker; he was too much of an idealist. Or, rather, given his syncretistic leanings, he would have been the sort who added milk and sugar, botching the whole operation and skewing his view of the universe in the process.
Coffee like this—strong, black, so full of caffeine that the surface buzzed—this sort of coffee was the reason Russia had produced musicians and writers rather than philosophers and poets; the liquid was as thick as sandpaper, scrubbing away the ethereal coatings of your esophagus, a region much given to philosophical thoughts. And the heartburn that would surely follow tended to wipe out lyrical expression.
Fisher, never much for poetry or philosophy, decided he would have to drink more of this on a regular basis. Maybe he could get his local Dunkin’ Donuts to import it.
The FBI agent achieved these insights while sitting at the back of Assembly Room Two in Meeting Hall Pavilion A, Government Facility Conference Buildings, Moscow, listening as an engineer sang the seemingly unlimited praises of microcurrents. Fisher was sitting two rows behind Kung and Mathers, who were themselves two rows behind the Korean subject, who had come with his minder and sat in what appeared to be rapt attention, though his dossier said he spoke little English, the language of the presentation.
There were another dozen people in the room, including one Russian agent and one of the CIA backup team members. Fisher had also spotted a Chinese conferee sipping coffee with cream; this was a dead giveaway that the man was either an intelligence agent or a German philosopher trying to reform.
The speaker droned on in an English that came from somewhere between London and Düsseldorf. Apparently there was a brave new world lurking in the circuits powering modern life; Fisher didn’t understand most of what the man said, but it did give him a new respect for his cordless shaver.
He remained in his seat as the session broke up, watching Dr. Park up close for the first time. Thirties, no family to speak of, the man was a mid-level drone in the Korean scientific community. As far as that went, he had a relatively sheltered life; in that society he would even be considered privileged.
So why did he want to defect? Beyond the obvious appeal of apple pie and Chevrolets?
Fisher got up as Kung and her gnomish bodyguard passed by his seat. Mathers wagged a finger at him as if they were in junior high; Fisher set his glare on stun and fended her off.
Outside, the hallway was crowded with scientists, engineers, and spooks assigned to make sure they didn’t make off with too many doughnuts. Fisher sifted to the far end of the snack table, making like he was checking the program listing.
Fisher had emphasized the importance to Kung—and to the gnome—of letting Dr. Park come to her. So far she was sticking to the program, nibbling on cookies with Mathers at one end of the long table while Dr. Park stood almost motionless on the other. A Finnish engineer came up to the two women and started talking about alternating current, obviously some sort of codeword for threesomes involving short people.
Fisher slid through the
Similar Books
