As she put the radio on the floor, Hwan tried to raise himself on an elbow.

"W-wait-- body."

She eased him back and tried to secure him with the seatbelt. "I don't know where Cho is!"

"No! Finger prints."

Kim understood. She shut the door, opened the passenger's side in front, and pulled the dead man in. Then she hurried to the driver's side, started to get in, and stopped.

"I've got to find Cho!" she said as she backed out.

Snatching up the flashlight, she turned it toward the ground and followed the killer's footsteps. Though there was urgency in her movements, outwardly she was calm, focused. The prints led to a thickly wooded ravine some forty yards from the side of the hut, where she found a motor scooter and, beyond it, the driver. Cho was lying head down on a slope, on his back, the middle of his chest dark with blood.

Skidding down the muck to Cho's side, Kim frantically searched his pockets until she found the keys he'd taken with him, then ran back to the car.

Hwan was lying still, holding his side. His eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting. When he heard the engine rumble, he opened his eyes.

"Car radio."

Kim eased the car into gear, then sped up quickly. "You want me to tell them what happened?"

"Yes " The belt dug into his flesh and he tried not to move. "Need ID fast."

"Of the killer. From his fingerprints."

Hwan didn't have the strength to speak. He nodded, wasn't sure Kim saw, then heard her speak into the radio. He tried to remember exactly what he was thinking about her, but every little breath, each bump of the car, sent shocks through him now. He tried not to move, jabbing his right elbow into the crease behind the seat and putting his left hand against the front seatback in an effort to brace himself. He felt as though there were a strap inside of him, tightening, bending him to the right. Thoughts and images swirled through his mind as he fought the pain and tried to stay awake.

Not North Korean she wouldn't have shot him but who in the South why ?

And then the fire spread to his brain, the pain hammering him mercifully into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Tuesday, 12:30 P.M., Op-Center

Dr. Orlito Trias was there when Hood phoned Alexander's room. He had the bedside manner of Dr. Frankenstein, but he was a good doctor and a devoted scientist.

"Paul," he said in his thick Philippine accent, "I'm glad you called. Your son has a virus."

Hood felt a chill. There was a time, before AIDS, when the word suggested a problem easily treated with antibiotics.

"What kind of virus? In laymanese, Orly."

"The boy had an acute bronchial infection two weeks ago. The infection appeared to be cured, but the adenovirus hid in his lungs. All it took to trigger the attack were allergens in the air, which is why the steroid drugs and bronchodilator medication failed to work. This isn't a typical asthma attack. It's a form of obstructive lung disease."