Concrete Evidence (50 page)

B
ODY OF
E
VIDENCE

Read on for a sneak peek at

ONE

Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK)

October

“
R
ISE,
M
ARA
G
ARRETT.”

Mara understood only a handful of Korean words, but she’d learned that phrase early in this farce of a trial and was on her feet before the interpreter finished speaking. Tremors radiated from her belly.
This is just a formality. I’m one step closer to getting home.
Her token lawyer had warned her she would probably be sentenced to ten years’ hard labor; then the real negotiation for her release would begin. With her conviction and harsh sentence, North Korea would be in a stronger bargaining position.

Of course, North Korea, the most secretive and unpredictable regime on earth, wasn’t known for negotiating. They would make demands, and the US would either meet them or not.

She’d traveled the world for her job with the Joint POW-MIA Accounting Command, conducting excavations to retrieve the remains of American servicemen who’d died in wars fought by the United States in the last century. Her work for JPAC was hazardous. She’d faced down poisonous insects, dug up unexploded ordnance, and suffered third-world diseases. But never, not even in her wildest imagination, did she think her work could lead to being arrested in North Korea.

But that was what happened when she ended up alone on the edge of the Demilitarized Zone.

She looked to her lawyer for some sort of reassurance and caught the glint of a camera lens. Cameras hadn’t been permitted in the courtroom during the trial; the presence of one now filled Mara with a foreboding chill. It seemed the North Koreans expected a dramatic, newsworthy reaction.

She stood straight with her head high so the camera wouldn’t see her clenched hands behind the table. She refused to give them the spectacle they wanted.

The judge spoke. She forgot to breathe while waiting for the translator. Finally, the man said, “Mara Garrett, you have been convicted of spying. The penalty is death by firing squad. The sentence will be carried out in twenty-four hours.”

The room tilted. A shriek built in her throat, while her bones turned to jelly. Sheer will kept her face blank while she battled dizziness. She’d been alone when she was arrested but had spent the last two months worrying her coworkers had been detained as well. For their sake, she needed to take the blame. If they were being tried in another courtroom, her admission of guilt could prevent them from receiving the same sentence. She pressed her nails into her skin and fixed her gaze on the lens. “This is my fault. My JPAC team is blameless.”

The judge spoke again, yelling now, and the translator matched his tone. “You are guilty and have been sentenced!”

“It was a mistake,” she said, desperation building in her voice. “I was separated from my team by accident.” But that wasn’t true, and she feared they saw through the lie.

Panic threatened as a guard grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the door. He wasn’t taking her to the firing squad. He couldn’t be. Hadn’t they given her twenty-four hours?

They’d almost reached the exit when the door swung open and slammed against the wall. The guard jerked to a stop. Framed in the opening was a portly, highly decorated military man.

A rapid-fire exchange between the judge and the newcomer ensued. Mara twisted in the guard’s grip and watched in horror as the judge angrily ejected the cameraman from the room.

Panic morphed into bone-melting fear. What the hell was happening?

The military official waved a magazine in the air. In a haze, she recognized the Asian edition of
TIME
magazine from the bold font and familiar red border.

At last the man looked away from the judge and addressed her, causing the translator to jump to his feet and race to her side to voice his words. “Our leader, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to grant you amnesty on one condition.”

Hope flared but was soon tempered with the fear that this interruption was a stress-induced fantasy, like the ones Mara had suffered years ago after her father’s death. Each time the fantasy faded, hope went with it, and she was slapped with grief as fresh and intense as the day he’d died.

Hope would break her, making it her captors’ ally. She knew that better than anyone.

“Our beloved Dear Leader once got your President Clinton to come groveling.”

No.
Not again.
This wasn’t a pathetic fantasy. It was an all too real nightmare. Cold sweat dripped from her brow. The idea of a rescue mission headed by a former president terrified her. She wasn’t a reporter dipping her toes in the Tumen River. She was the niece of a former vice president of the United States, and as such could be seen as a valuable bargaining chip.

The North Koreans knew exactly who she was. Because of her family connections, it was especially important she downplay her significance. A presidential envoy would open the door to other outrageous demands, and she was horrified by the thought that the unpredictable dictator could gain the upper hand with the US because of her.

Her situation wasn’t helped by the fact that her uncle was facing trial on ridiculous corruption charges. She could only assume her arrest had added to the ongoing media frenzy in the United States, further convincing her captors of her importance. She’d repeatedly begged her interrogators to tap a low-level politician as envoy, but each time her pleas were met with disdain.

“Our leader wants to meet the man on the cover.” The translator pointed to the magazine. “If he comes to P’yŏngyang before your execution, we will allow him to take you home.”

The man stood too far away; she couldn’t see the face on the cover. She had no idea who had been selected. But even more important, was twenty-four hours enough time for an envoy to fly to North Korea?

The official waved the magazine as if it offered hope, but there was no such thing as hope. She was going to die.

* * *

M
ETAL CLANGED AGAINST METAL
as Mara’s cell door crashed open. She pushed to her feet with shaking arms. Her twenty-four hours must be up. She looked from one guard’s face to another. “Did the envoy arrive? Am I being released?”

The two men looked at her blankly and said nothing. None of her guards ever spoke English. Too bad she hadn’t learned the Korean words for execution or firing squad.
On my next trip to North Korea, I’ll be more prepared.

Or at least bring a better linguist.

The guard held up a blindfold and handcuffs and gestured for her to step forward, answering her in the universal language of executions. Her vision dimmed in the already dark cell, and she rocked back on her heels. With a hand on the cold concrete wall to steady herself, she closed her eyes. She took a slow, shallow breath. In a matter of minutes, this nightmare would be over.

She should welcome the restraints. She didn’t want to see the guns or look into the eyes of the men who had been ordered to kill her. She didn’t want to instinctively raise her hands, as if she could ward off bullets. Handcuffed and blindfolded, at least she could die with dignity.

Ironic that after years of devoting her life to bringing lost US servicemen and women home, it was unlikely her body would return to American soil. As a convicted spy, she would receive no such gesture of respect.

The guard wrapped the cloth around her head. His vacant eyes and hollow cheekbones would be the last thing she’d ever see. She recalled the unseen face on the cover of
TIME
. But he represented hope, and hope was a treacherous bitch.

A guard pushed her toward the door, and she left her cell for the last time.

If footage of yesterday’s sentencing had been aired in the US, her mother had to be out of her mind right now. Her mother had been through so much already, and the last year had been especially hard after a US attorney seeking to make a name for himself had filed charges against Uncle Andrew. Now her mother would lose her only child.

A thousand regrets hit her as she was guided down corridor after corridor. She’d allowed her work to consume her life. She had been too busy to visit her family on the mainland. Several times her uncle had flown out to JPAC deployments, just so he could see her. The last time she’d seen him, they’d been in Egypt, nearly a year and a half ago.

And she never should have agreed to the North Korean deployment, not with the trial drawing near. If she were a better niece, she’d have taken a leave of absence and gone to DC to stand by him.

Had her actions hurt the others as well? Were the members of her JPAC team also facing execution? She’d been alone when she was arrested, but the Korean People’s Army was just as likely to have arrested everyone at the site, holding her team accountable because she’d fled. Panic caused her steps to falter. A guard pressed her shoulder and barked at her in Korean.
This is really happening.

She crossed a threshold, and for the first time in weeks felt the cold bite of outside air on her skin. Taking a deep breath, she caught the acrid scent of burning leaves, a smell she hadn’t experienced since childhood.

She realized fall had started while she was in captivity. Living in Hawaii, she often longed for seasons—yet another sacrifice she’d made for a job that meant everything to her. But the work she’d loved had gone to hell when she’d trusted the team linguist, Roddy Brogan, at a critical moment.

Roddy had led her off the site and into the North Korean wilderness. Scared to death, she’d fled him, and because of that, she would die. But why had he done it, and what had happened to him?

Her boots met pavement with a soft thud. She knew she passed in front of a line of people. The firing squad. She heard their breathing and with eerie perception sensed soldiers aligned with the renowned North Korean military precision.

The wind carried a man’s voice. His tone held the feeling, the inflections of English, but she was unable to make out his words. Could it be the envoy? No. She couldn’t allow hope. The sounds were nothing but the feverish imaginings of a desperate mind.

Don’t think. Don’t hope. Just walk.

The guard jerked her to a halt. Hands on her shoulders positioned her. A cold brick wall pressed against her spine.

Don’t think. Just breathe.

This was it. The hands fell away, and footsteps retreated. Tears burned her eyes.

Don’t cry. Just breathe.

A shout echoed in the air. The clicks of rifles being raised met her ears. Her legs shook.

Breathe.

“Stop!” The distant voice rose over the sound of pounding, rapid footfalls. The accent was unmistakably American. “Tell them—you’ve been ordered to stop!”

More Korean shouts followed.

Her throat seized.

Voices exploded in Korean.

“Lower the guns, dammit!” The American now stood so close, she felt the vibration of his words as much as heard them. In a rush, she realized he must be standing between her and the firing squad, shielding her.

Another Korean shouted. A tap followed. Had the guns been lowered?

Her whole body shook as hands worked the blindfold knot behind her head. The cloth fell away, but she was afraid to open her eyes.

“Mara, it’s okay,” the American said, his voice gentle this time. “I’m taking you home.”

Slowly, afraid to believe his words, she opened her eyes. She squinted in the light until the man before her came into focus. The handsome face was vaguely familiar.

Seconds ticked by in silence as she searched her memory. Then recognition hit her.

Of all the people he could have asked for, the North Korean dictator had demanded Curt Dominick, the ambitious US attorney who was prosecuting her uncle.

Her knees gave out.

* * *

For more information on
Body of Evidence
and my other books, please visit my website at
www.Rachel-Grant.net
.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

Four-time Golden Heart® finalist Rachel Grant worked for over a decade as a professional archaeologist and mines her experiences for storylines and settings, which are as diverse as excavating a cemetery underneath an historic art museum in San Francisco, survey and excavation of many prehistoric Native American sites in the Pacific Northwest, researching an historic concrete house in Virginia, and mapping a seventeenth century Spanish and Dutch fort on the island of Sint Maarten in the Netherlands Antilles.

She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and children and can be found on the web at
Rachel-Grant.net
.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two