Sleeper

PROLOGUE

APRIL 1992

PARIS, FRANCE

Samantha Williamson wasn’t born to be an assassin.

She was never meant to be a whore either, or an art thief, or a terrorist.

And she wasn’t any of those things until the day Pyongyang decided it was time to begin her training. The occasion was American-born Samantha’s sixteenth birthday. For all but the first forty-eight hours of her life she’d been called Sung Kim, and she had no awareness of ever having been anyone else.

Paris was unusually warm that day, especially for so early in spring. Tourists jammed the Rive Gauche, the sidewalks of the Quai des Grands Augustins a crawling throng of visitors from all over the world. Sitting with her adoptive parents at a table in the Salon de Thé—one of the most popular of the outdoor cafes along the street—Sung Kim reached across and touched her mother’s hand.

How’s your tea, Mom? she asked, in the flawless English they’d taught her before she’d ever heard a word of Korean.

Fine, sweetheart, her mother answered, but her eyes stayed every bit as sad as they’d been all day. She squeezed Sung Kim’s hand hard enough to make her wince. You’re so special, my darling, she told her daughter. You will always be special to me.

Sung Kim looked more closely at her mother, puzzled by the somber tone of her voice, but she had no problem with the words themselves. Her parents had been telling her how special she was since she was old enough to understand the word, and by the time she was twelve she’d decided to believe it. Now, as a full-blown teenager, she was tall, leggy, model-slim, and utterly convinced her life would never be anything but perfect.

Like this trip to Paris, for example, and this flawless day.

Across the street the Pont Saint-Michel seemed almost alive, as the bridge bore its burden of noisy traffic across the Seine. Even the tea was somehow sweeter today, almost as satisfying as the crunch of her teeth into the Brie-slathered hard rolls brought by an overattentive waiter who didn’t bother to hide the longing in his gaze at every part of Sung Kim’s body.

She’d been to Paris before, of course. Her adoptive parents had made sure she would grow up knowing all about the world outside North Korea. It was an important part of her education, an invaluable preparation for the college years she would spend in America. And it was pretty much the same for her classmates back home, as well. All ten of the ipyanghan, the adopted children, spent their school holidays in the most glamorous cities in the world. Like Sung Kim, they’d all been told the same lie: that they’d been abandoned by Americans too obsessed with wealth to be bothered by unwanted children. Like Sung Kim, they would never know the truth about the kidnappings. She took her eyes off the crowded sidewalk and looked at her mother again. What’s the matter, Mom? Are you feeling okay?

Her mother nodded. Just tired, honey. Her smile was even smaller this time. I think the trip’s beginning to catch up to me.

Her mom’s pretty face, with her strong chin and dark brown eyes, looked so morose Sung Kim wanted to stretch out and hug her.

She turned to her father. She was lucky to have been adopted by someone so kind and generous. Sure he was strict, but all fathers were. She wasn’t the only one of the ipyanghan who hardly ever got to leave the compound in which they all lived back home, the two-square-mile walled enclosure near the palace that set the elite apart from the rest of Pyongyang. Her dad’s vigilance was just another sign of his love for her. Even here, in the safety of Paris, he couldn’t seem to relax. Across the table his strong square features were frowning, his eyes scanning back and forth, up and down the street, as though he were waiting for someone to join them. Sung Kim couldn’t see his feet but she could hear the nervous tapping of one of his shoes against the pavement.

Having a good time, Dad? she asked him.

He nodded but said nothing. Her father had a great sense of humor, but she couldn’t remember him smiling since the day they’d arrived.

Hey, she said. I’m a big girl now, and I’m perfectly safe here. She glanced over her shoulder toward the kitchen, then made a mock-serious face at her dad. The waiter’s the only one you’ve got to look out for.

This time he did manage to smile, but his eyes never left the street.

Sung Kim followed his gaze but couldn’t tell what he was looking at. The street was busy, clogged with the Mercedes taxicabs that flooded Paris. From the sidewalk she heard a number of languages. French, of course, but German, too, in addition to Italian, Japanese, and English.

It wasn’t hard to pick out the Americans.

All you had to do was listen.

It wasn’t only their distinctive English—the same English Sung Kim spoke—it was the way they talked. Overly loud, aggressive, obnoxious. We own the world, their manner shouted, and we’ll act any damned way we want to.

Sung Kim turned back to her mom, but a sudden commotion over her right shoulder brought her eyes back around to the sidewalk. Two men had pushed their way right up to their table and stood staring at the three of them. Short men in American clothing, tan slacks, and flowered shirts not tucked in. The heavier of the two was carrying a newspaper.

No! Sung Kim’s dad shouted as the man raised the hand carrying the newspaper. She heard what sounded like a sharp cough. Her father’s hands flew toward his throat as he fell back into his chair.

"Dad!" she screamed, as she started for him.

Before she got there Sung Kim heard a second cough. She swung back toward her mother just in time to see her mom’s body slump sideways.

Now the man with the newspaper turned to Sung Kim.

Please, she heard herself saying, her voice distant in her ears. Dear God, please.

He lifted the paper. God? This hasn’t got anything to do with God.

Sung Kim stared at him, frozen as she waited to die.

But suddenly a third man darted from the crowd and crashed headlong into the shooter, knocking him sideways, slamming the newspaper and gun out of his hand. Sung Kim saw the black steel pistol clatter along the sidewalk. The shooter’s partner pulled the gunman to his feet and they raced off into the mob.

Sung Kim couldn’t make herself move. Or look at her parents. She tried to form a thought, but it was impossible. A moment later, the man who’d saved her life grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the street.

Quickly, he said in Korean. We cannot stay here.

But … Sung Kim said. I can’t … She tried to pull the man’s hand away. My parents, she said. I can’t leave my mom and—

Now! He jerked harder on her arm. The Americans are monsters. They murdered your parents. They won’t quit until they kill you, too.

Sung Kim pried at his fingers but he was too strong.

No! she hollered, as he dragged her toward a waiting taxi. You can’t make me …

Her voice died as he pulled the taxi door open and shoved her inside. The Mercedes accelerated hard. Sung Kim swung around in the seat, desperate to see her parents. The crowd had finally realized what happened. A tall woman was the first to reach her mom, to extend her hand and close Sung Kim’s mother’s eyes. Sung Kim stared at the tall woman until the Mercedes turned the next corner. Her shoulders slumped as she began to cry.

Back at the Salon de Thé, the tall woman stepped into the street to make sure the Mercedes was out of sight before she turned back to Sung Kim’s parents.

Okay, she said in English. They’re gone.

Sung Kim’s mother rose from the chair first, followed by her husband. They came around and stood facing the crowd, which had grown even larger as word of the shooting raced up and down the street. The tall woman smiled at the astonished faces around them.

Sorry if we startled you, she said in French. But your reaction will make the movie all the better.

She turned toward Sung Kim’s parents and began to applaud. A teenager in the crowd started to clap, as well, and suddenly everyone was doing so. Sung Kim’s parents bowed, but her mother couldn’t help looking up the street, at the corner where the Mercedes had disappeared.

SEPTEMBER 1997

BUENOS AIRES, ARGENTINA

Tonight Sung Kim was a whore.

And eager to get on with her mission.

At twenty-one she was well aware of her position in the spotlight. As the first of the ipyanghan considered ready by Division 39 of the Central Workers Party to be relocated in America, the success of the Division’s sleeper program would be judged by her performance here. For five years she’d been studying fine art, psychology, and a number of languages from the finest English-speaking tutors Pyongyang had managed to recruit. Away from the classroom her training had been every bit as good. She’d learned her tradecraft from world-class murderers and saboteurs, from cat burglars and prostitutes, all of them disaffected Americans from every level of criminality in the United States, and now it was time to see how it worked in the real world.

By ten o’clock that night, Buenos Aires was ready to party. The street called Macacha Guemes was bursting into life. A stream of diminutive Fiat Uno taxicabs arrived and departed from the wide sidewalk in front of the Hilton Hotel toward which Sung Kim strolled. Groups of expensively clothed young Argentinians strolled toward the hotel as well. With their slicked-back hair, silk turtleneck shirts, and linen jackets, the men looked like movie stars, but it was the women who made Sung Kim shake her head. It was hard to disguise yourself as a prostitute these days. Despite her micro-mini leather skirt, the four-inch spikes on her come-fuck-me pumps, her big hair curly brown wig, and the huge shoulder bag swinging against her hip, she didn’t look all that different from the women around her.

But different enough, she discovered a few moments later, as she approached the tall glass entrance to the hotel.

"!Dios mío! a slouching man in a cheap suit said as he blocked her way on the sidewalk. ¿Tienes algo para mí?"

Sung Kim laughed. Did she have something for him? "Lo siento, chico. she told him. Sorry, pal. Puede ser la próxima." Maybe next time.

He stepped aside as she pushed past him and continued into the entrance to the hotel. The doorman in his blue blazer and gray slacks looked her up and down, but only for a moment. This was Buenos Aires, after all, and the Hilton was a popular hotel for businessmen from all over the world. Sung Kim wasn’t the only hooker expected here tonight. He held the door open. She tossed her head as she passed, and caught him grinning.

She crossed the enormous lobby, glancing up at the underside of the hotel’s glass roof, seven stories above. The place was really quite elegant. Had to be costing Kwon Jong a fortune to stay here. Money he’d stolen from his own government, her government. Money that could have bought food for the starving children who lay dying all over Pyongyang. The thought darkened her mood and made her even more eager to get to him.

Kwon was in suite 491, she’d been told, along with his bodyguards, and they were staying in tonight. Her contact in Buenos Aires had checked only ten minutes ago. At the bank of elevators on the left side of the lobby, she pushed the button and a door to her right slid open almost immediately. There were two men in the elevator as she stepped in and pushed the button for the fourth floor. On the way up she could feel them staring at her legs, until one of them broke the silence.

Christ, he said in semislurred English to his companion. I wouldn’t mind having those legs wrapped around my neck.

In your dreams, Sung Kim thought, although she knew better than to say it out loud. Later, when the cops talked to these two fools, she didn’t want them remembering the Argentinian whore who spoke idiomatic English.

The elevator arrived at the fourth floor and she got out. She could hear the two men talking about her ass as the doors slid shut. In the hallway, her eyes turned hard. Suddenly she could hear the words of her trainer as clearly as if he were standing next to her.

In fast, Sung Kim. Out fast. No mercy.

She read the sign opposite the elevator. Suite 491 was to her left and would be near the end of the corridor. She kicked her ridiculous high heels off and headed in that direction. As she passed the rooms on both sides she could hear the muted sounds of television but nothing else, until the soft scrape of a door opening behind her brought her to a dead stop. Sung Kim whirled, one hand reaching for the weapon in her shoulder bag, but stopped when she saw a little girl with huge brown eyes staring at her. A moment later an adult arm reached out and snatched the child back into the room. Sung Kim’s heartbeat took a moment to steady again as she turned and continued toward the end of the hallway.

Suite 491 was coming up, Sung Kim saw as she passed 481. The fifth door on her left. She stopped for a moment to reach into her shoulder bag and withdraw the Beretta 92FS nine-millimeter pistol with three-inch silencer she’d chosen for tonight. She held the brutish black weapon close to her body, out of sight of anyone who might step out into the hall, then advanced toward the door.

At the door she tapped softly. "La camarera, she said. The maid. Está listo su traje." Your suit is pressed and ready.

There was no answer. Sung Kim knocked again, but as she did so she heard a door opening behind her, then a rush of footsteps. She pivoted toward the sound but wasn’t able to completely face the bear of a man hurtling toward her before he kicked her in the back, a blow that sent her flying into the wall to the left of the door. The Beretta spun from her hand and arched through the air before tumbling to the floor a dozen feet away. Her shoulder bag slid off as she crashed to the carpet, but she jumped instantly to her feet to face the man shuffling toward her.

She stepped back against the wall to give herself room and an instant to assess the danger. The man was half a head taller and at least a hundred pounds heavier. He wasn’t Korean. Her contact had been wrong about something else as well. There wasn’t supposed to be another hotel room involved. The two bodyguards were never supposed to leave Kwon Jong alone. Which meant the other one had to be close by.

The big man bent his knees for an instant, then sprang at her with amazing speed, his hands up, an eager smile on his face. His right fist shot toward her head, all his body weight behind the punch, but Sung Kim deflected the blow. As his fist passed her head, she used both hands to grab his shirt, to pull him toward her in a classic akido response. Off balance now, he had no strength to resist as she pivoted and moved her shoulder under his body, used the momentum of his superior weight to throw him over her and onto the floor. He fell hard, but was up in a flash and facing her again. His smile got bigger now, as he appeared to relish the idea of her worthiness as an opponent.

She took a fighting stance, feet shoulder-width apart, her body turned until her right shoulder was facing him, blading herself to present a smaller target. He did the same, then advanced toward her more slowly this time. She waited for him to attack, to give her an idea of how he’d been trained, to reveal a vulnerability she might use. He approached to within kicking distance and raised his knee, preparing for a snap kick. Sung Kim waited for the twitch of movement that would send his foot flicking toward her head. He kicked but she danced out of range. He shuffled forward and tried again—like a boxer using his jab to measure the distance—but again she moved away. His smile seemed a little more forced now.

He was using a mixture of hapkido and akido, Sung Kim decided. A combination of fists and feet. But he had a problem with his arms. Both times he’d kicked at her, his arms had gone wide in an attempt to maintain balance. Not as wide as an amateur, but a dangerous flaw anyway.

Now he was as bladed as she was. She slid toward him, inviting another kick, her eyes locked on his midsection, waiting for him to telegraph which leg he’d use. He rocked back, unweighting his front leg, but the instant his foot swung toward her, his arms went wide. Now his fists were useless. She slipped into his body, inside the effective arc of his kick, then used both hands to parry his thigh and throw his leg past her. The movement served to cock her right arm for her own strike. She crouched slightly and felt the energy gathering in her legs. All power comes from the ground. She fired her elbow up and out, directly into the base of the giant’s nose. In the quiet of the hallway, she could hear the cartilage tearing away as it slid upward into the sinus cavity above his eyes. He staggered back, his hands on his face, trying to stop the blood that was pouring through his fingers, and Sung Kim slid her foot behind his ankle. He tripped over her foot, twisted as he fell, and crashed on his stomach. Before he could turn over and continue fighting, she leaped on him, all her weight on her knees as she drove them into his back. He grunted as the air rushed from his lungs. She reached for his head, one hand grabbing his greasy brown hair, the other gripping his chin. She pulled his head back, then wrenched his chin around and back toward her. The sound of the bones in his neck breaking echoed in the corridor. His body seemed to deflate as she let go of his head and watched it bounce against the floor.

She was up in an instant, her eyes searching for the Beretta, but she heard the knob turning on Kwon Jong’s door before she had a chance to start for the pistol. She grabbed for her shoulder bag on the floor instead, managed to pull out her knife just as the door swung open and the second bodyguard stepped into the doorway. Sung Kim brought the stiletto up hard. The point of the blade struck just below his sternum and traveled from there directly into his heart. He frowned for an instant before falling. Sung Kim stepped up close, left the knife in him as she caught his body and pushed it back into the room.

She had to hurry now. She hadn’t made enough noise to bring anyone out into the hall, but that didn’t mean one of the guests hadn’t called hotel security. Or that Kwon himself hadn’t loaded up a shotgun and was now lying in wait for her inside the suite.

She darted back into the hallway and scooped up the Beretta before returning to the doorway. Holding the weapon with two hands, she stepped through. The living room of the suite was deserted. She glanced at the couch and chairs, at the computer work station near the glass doors out to the balcony, then to her right. Through the open door she saw a bedroom. She crept through the door and swept the room with the Beretta. It was empty. She retreated through the door and stepped across the living room to the closed door on the left side of the suite. She paused outside the door for an instant, then turned the knob and burst through.

Kwon Jong sat upright on the king-size bed. He was wearing a white hotel bathrobe and holding a small revolver. His hands trembled as he tried to train the weapon on her. Sung Kim swung the Beretta into place and fired. The silenced pistol coughed quietly. Kwon’s round face was expressionless, as a crimson-black hole appeared in the center of his forehead.

ONE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THE PRESENT

In her rented Lincoln Navigator, the massive black SUV that allowed her to see over traffic, it wasn’t difficult for Sung Kim to follow Lyman Davidson from his three-story house in Kalorama Heights to the O’Bannon Gallery on Thomas Jefferson Street in Georgetown.

She watched him leave his silver Mercedes coupe with the gallery’s parking valet, before she tailed the valet half a block down the street to the pay lot the O’Bannon was using for the opening of the Bourney exhibit. Satisfied the Mercedes would be there when she returned, Sung Kim drove up to M Street, turned right, and parked in the first lot she came to. She switched off the engine and sat for a moment, uneasy with the nagging sensation that something wasn’t right.

The steady beat of her pulse was too slow, for one thing, and her breathing was far too regular. Had she been doing this too long? After eight years, had her work become too routine? She forced herself to picture what Pyongyang would do if she botched this job. The images made her shudder, but they did the trick. Now her palms were moist, her breathing quicker and shallower, as she slipped out of the SUV, grabbed her canvas book bag, and started back toward the Mercedes.

The overcast sky had brought some serious humidity, and she was sweating by the time she got to the rear of the valet lot. She stood for a moment on the narrow sidewalk, under the canopy of a dogwood still heavy with summer foliage, waiting for her chance. In her sleeveless gray Georgetown University sweatshirt, blue jeans, and Reeboks—with her shoulder-length blond wig tied back in a ponytail—she looked exactly like the all-American girl she’d been trained to become. Like Gidget, Sung Kim couldn’t help thinking. Like the girl in the old movies she and her parents used to watch in Pyongyang. The thought of her dead parents still brought an ache to the back of her throat and made her even more anxious to get to the work that would continue to avenge them.

As she watched the parking lot, the same dark-haired valet who’d delivered Davidson’s car pulled in with a white Mazda sedan. When he sprinted back toward the gallery, she hurried to the Mercedes. She dropped to the ground behind the right front tire and pulled her book bag with her as she slid underneath and went to work. Three minutes later she was finished. She listened as one of the valets brought another car, and waited until the running footsteps receded before zipping out from under the Mercedes and hustling back toward M Street.

At her Navigator, Sung Kim opened the heavy rear door, climbed in, and closed it behind her. The black tint on the windows made it impossible for anyone to see in. She sat on the carpeted floor and wriggled out of her jeans before pulling the sweatshirt over her head. In her black panties and bra, she reached for her makeup kit, a leather-covered carryall that opened like a fisherman’s tackle box. Now she had to risk turning on a light. She toggled a switch in the lid to illuminate the built-in mirror. Tugging at her blond wig, Sung Kim pulled it away from the custom-made skullcap covering her real hair. She blinked at her image in the mirror. No matter how often she did this, the sight of herself completely bald never failed to startle her.

Next she grabbed a new applicator pad and a round container of L’Oréal True Match No. 6, the darkest shade she could risk without calling attention to herself. She used the makeup on her face and neck, then lightly on her arms. For her eyes she applied black mascara on the lashes, black eyebrow pencil to darken her brows, and a thin streak of liner to make her eyes look bigger. She used a crimson shade of volumizing lipstick with an added collagen complex that thickened her lips and changed the entire look of her face.

From the bottom of the makeup kit, she brought out a single strand of pearls and fastened it around her neck. Back into the kit, she retrieved her panty hose and a pair of open-toed Isaac Mizrahi pumps with three-inch heels, half price at Nordie’s the same day she’d bought the dress.

Sung Kim had to work a little harder as she slithered into the panty hose, before slipping her shoes on and rising into a kneeling position. She reached for the garment bag hanging on the hook over the window to her right, withdrew the dress she’d bought for the mission: a killer black sheath that accentuated the length and shape of her legs. She pulled the dress over her skullcapped head, tugged it down until the hem settled into place a few inches above her knees.

Careful not to damage her panty hose, she knee-walked to the front passenger seat and picked up the jet-black wig she’d chosen for tonight. She slid into the seat, where she used the mirror in the back of the sun visor to put on the wig, making sure the double-sided tape on her skullcap kept it in place. From a midsize white leather purse lying on the console between the seats she pulled a brush, then used it to smooth the short straight black hair that extended to her jaw line, as well as the razor-edged bangs that extended down her forehead.

Back into the purse, she grabbed her contact lens case. Using the mirror, she put the lenses on her eyes, then stared in the mirror to check on how she’d done. She saw that Gidget had disappeared. In her place was Sarah Freed, a dark-eyed woman as beautiful as an Egyptian princess. As beautiful as a princess on her way to meet the pharoah.

A few minutes later—her Navigator safely in the hands of a parking valet—Sung Kim stepped through the double doors of the O’Bannon Gallery and looked around the narrow room until she saw Lyman Davidson. According to Thomas Franklin, the lean and immaculately suited multimillionaire with shaggy dark hair and suggestive brown eyes was a leg man. In her high heels and above-the-knee sheath, she would give him exactly what he wanted to see.

She ignored him to stroll among the thirty or so people in the room, pausing to pluck a glass of Chardonnay from the tray of a passing waiter before moving to the wall farthest from where she saw Davidson inspecting one of the larger of the Bourneys. She pretended to study the painting in front of her, shifting her weight from hip to hip, sensing his eyes on her. She turned suddenly and saw that she’d been right. He started to smile, but she swung back to the painting. Davidson was a sophisticated man. To be blatant with him would be a mistake.

Half a minute later she crossed the room. Those movie-star eyes were still watching her, Sung Kim noticed, so she tossed her hair just enough to make it swirl, and caught him staring again. This time she was the one who smiled as she made her way toward the painting he was examining. A moment later she was standing next to him, giving him a chance to smell the woodsy fragrance of her Paloma Picasso perfume before she leaned in to take a closer look at the small white card next to the picture.

Museum, the painting was titled. Under the title was the name Hanson Bourney, and the year 2001. The picture—about two feet by three feet—showed a young woman sitting on a bench in the center of a room, the walls of which were covered with paintings. Beyond the woman were shadowy figures of people staring into the room in which she sat. Sung Kim shifted her weight until one bare shoulder was touching Davidson’s arm. He turned to her.

So what do you think? he said. Does Bourney have a future?

Not with this one. It’s too derivative. She looked at him. He should have spent less time studying Hopper and more learning how to do his own work.

Ouch. Davidson paused. But couldn’t you say the same thing about Hopper himself? He was hardly original either … Few painters are. Last time I checked, he didn’t have a patent on urban realism.

I’m not talking about the realism. I’m talking about what Hopper called the ‘decay,’ the destruction of perception by painting a picture of it.

Suddenly Davidson was looking at her differently. His heavy-lidded eyes stopped glancing at her boobs and stayed fixed on her face.

Hopper’s way of dealing with the decay, she continued, was to add story elements to make up for it. She turned to the picture. "At first glance the woman seems to be enjoying the museum. Then we notice the figures behind her, staring in at her, and we see that to them she’s just another part of the exhibit. Hopper did the same thing in 1927 with Automat. A woman at a table drinking a cup of coffee, a window in the background. It becomes clear that she’s just as packaged at her table in front of the window as the food behind the little windows of the automat. But the decay of first-hand perception is neutralized by our interest in Hopper’s story … the woman’s story. Sung Kim glanced at Davidson. It’s a good technique to emulate, but it’s still a rip-off."

Davidson looked at the painting again, then at Sung Kim. I know the Hopper you’re talking about. I think you may be right. He smiled. You talk like a teacher, or a collector.

Close. I was married to a collector.

He smiled again, his brown eyes on her brown contacts. I’m a collector myself.

That’s a shame. She added just a trace of teasing in her voice. One art collector per lifetime is my motto.

But we can still be friends, I hope.

I don’t know about that. She shook her head playfully. I already have quite a few.

He grinned. You’re not making this easy for me.

You don’t look like the kind of man who needs much help.

I didn’t think so either, but I have the feeling I could use some now. He looked toward the door, then back at her. Tell you what. Let me buy you a drink. We can walk down the street and still make it back here to catch the rest of the exhibit.

Ordinarily, I’d love to do that … but not tonight.

He frowned. I caught you looking in my direction. A couple of times. Did I read that the wrong way?

Not at all. It’s just that I came here straight from the office, and I’m exhausted. The only thing I want to do is look around and go home.

He nodded. "I can certainly relate to that … but if you change your mind, I’ll be