"And I'm telling you that talking to them won't do any good. He's somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan and as God is my witness, he'll snooker you."

"Then come with me. Help me."

"I can't. I told you, these people know their propaganda. They'll use grainy film, black and white, and shoot me looking like I'm sniffing horse apples, like I'm a POW. The doves in Washington will go berserk." He popped the tape from the recorder and slapped it gently in his open palm. "Greg, I was sad for you when I heard about Soonji. But what you want to do isn't going to stop anyone from dying. There are still more than a billion Communists right around the corner, and a billion other radicals, religious fruitcakes, ethnic cleansers, cult psychos, and Jesus knows who else. It's me and mine who look after the other three billion, Gregory. All a diplomat is ever good for is buying time-- sometimes for the wrong side, like Neville Chamberlain. You can't reason with sickos, Gregory."

Donald looked at his pipe. "Yes I see that."

Schneider looked at him strangely, then glanced at his watch. "You still have about six hours. I suggest you sleep, wake up with a stomachache, and call this off. In the meantime, as far as this base is concerned, your original broadcast no longer exists. We erased your message from storage, took the coordinates you used out of the log." He held up the tape recorder. "This is the first any of us heard about a meeting-- when they contacted you. If the North Koreans say you radioed first, we'll deny it. If they produce a tape, we'll say they faked it. If you contradict us, we'll tell the press you were crazy with grief. I'm sorry, Greg, but that's the way it's got to be."

He looked down at his pipe. "And if I convince Hong-koo to withdraw?"

"You won't."

"But if I do?"

"In that case," Schneider said, "the President will take full credit for having sent you, you'll be a goddamn hero, and I'll personally pin the medal on you myself."

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Wednesday, 2:00 A.M.,

Yanguu Village

Kim slid into the car, hugging the small radio to her to protect it from the light rain.

Hwan watched her carefully. A captive, his hands cuffed behind his back, had once used the spring in the seat-belt latch to pick the lock and get away. But he wasn't watching Kim because he feared an escape; she would have tried that before, when they were alone. He was watching her because she fascinated him. Patriotism and humanism rarely existed in perfect harmony, but Kim had that balance. He strove for that in his own life, and usually fell short: one couldn't dig into the darker side of people's lives without getting into the dirt- His thoughts were cut off by a sudden movement to his right, the flashlight moving crazily, followed by a crippling pain in his side. He gurgled loudly as the sharp punch emptied his lungs, followed by another that caused his right leg to shake and fall out from under him. He tried to grab the open car door to brake his fall. He missed, twisted, and fell against the side of the car seat, on his back. As he fumbled to get to the.38 in his shoulder holster, he looked out at Cho.