only been biological warfare her parents studied, but also methods to best treat injured soldiers and civilians.
Small sacrifices were imperative for the validity of the experiments. Most
18
people appreciated the results, but preferred not to know how those results were attained. So few understood how much good had come from their work, like the discovery of how to best treat frostbite, which had saved thousands around the world from amputations.
It had taken Moon a long time to recover from her father's death eleven years ago. Staring up from his deathbed, he asked her to look into his eyes. "Do you see, there is no more fire left inside?" he said. "It must now burn within you, Daughter." Those were his last words. She held his hand until it grew cold, and promised she would avenge her parents. Moon would use the secrets her father revealed to her to punish the imperialist aggressors and their lap-dogs, bring them to their knees, and watch them scream in agony as they died a terrible death.
As Moon put away the photograph, she caught a glimpse of her tired eyes and runaway silver strands of hair in the limousine window's reflection. She smiled at how ironic it was that those whom she was about to kill already carried the manner of their death inside themselves.
***
"What did they just say?" Moon froze as she stood in the kitchen of her high-rise apartment in the official Communist Party residence section of Pyongyang. Ready for bed, she had just emptied the remaining tea from a china cup into the sink and was about to rinse it.
Her housekeeper, a tiny woman in her seventies, had stopped wiping the counter to watch a flat-screen plasma TV mounted underneath a cabinet. It was connected to only a handful of government sanctioned satellite dishes and was tuned to an American news broadcast with Korean subtitles. She turned to Moon.
"What didwho say, Dr. Chung?"
Moon motioned to the TV. "That person. What did she just say?
"Oh. She spoke of a man who died suddenly after walking into the news organization's New York offices."
Moon glared at the image of a woman with light brown hair and dark eyes filling the screen. The woman was being interviewed, and across the bottom of the frame was her title: Cotten Stone, SNN Senior Correspondent.
As she listened, Moon's hands clenched, and heat surged up her neck to her face. She felt as if an invisible fist had just struck her in the gut, and she didn't notice the cup slip from her grasp until she heard it shatter on the floor.
There was no mistake. Moon had heard the woman utter two words that cut through the air like a blast of winter wind. Two simple words.
Black Needles.
19
DEADBOLTS
Cotten started up the third flight of steps in the Bedford Stuyvesant tenement, last known residence of Jeff Calderon. The pungent smells of simmering Jamaican jerk spiced meat mixed with the faint odors of urine and mildew hung heavily in the air. A skin of dark-green paint covered the walls, giving the surroundings a feeling of anonymity—a place to hide secrets and identities, Cotten thought. Scars of a slightly darker green revealed where someone had painted over graffiti. The audio of a Saturday morning cartoon seemed out of place.
Moving along the hallway, she noticed that the cooking odors were stronger on this floor. So was the cartoon soundtrack. Cotten stopped in front of an apartment door and checked the number written on the note Ted gave to her. She knocked, wondering if Calderon had lived alone.
"You ain't gonna get an answer knocking like that, lady."
She turned to see a mountain of a black man approaching— easily three hundred pounds and over six feet tall. He wore a long-sleeved shirt under blue coveralls and a hardhat, and carried a lunch pail.
As he passed, he said, "Stoned most of the time. Won't hear you unless you pound."
"Are you referring to Mr. Calderon?" Cotten asked, feeling slightly on edge by the sheer bulk of the man.
He stopped
Small sacrifices were imperative for the validity of the experiments. Most
18
people appreciated the results, but preferred not to know how those results were attained. So few understood how much good had come from their work, like the discovery of how to best treat frostbite, which had saved thousands around the world from amputations.
It had taken Moon a long time to recover from her father's death eleven years ago. Staring up from his deathbed, he asked her to look into his eyes. "Do you see, there is no more fire left inside?" he said. "It must now burn within you, Daughter." Those were his last words. She held his hand until it grew cold, and promised she would avenge her parents. Moon would use the secrets her father revealed to her to punish the imperialist aggressors and their lap-dogs, bring them to their knees, and watch them scream in agony as they died a terrible death.
As Moon put away the photograph, she caught a glimpse of her tired eyes and runaway silver strands of hair in the limousine window's reflection. She smiled at how ironic it was that those whom she was about to kill already carried the manner of their death inside themselves.
***
"What did they just say?" Moon froze as she stood in the kitchen of her high-rise apartment in the official Communist Party residence section of Pyongyang. Ready for bed, she had just emptied the remaining tea from a china cup into the sink and was about to rinse it.
Her housekeeper, a tiny woman in her seventies, had stopped wiping the counter to watch a flat-screen plasma TV mounted underneath a cabinet. It was connected to only a handful of government sanctioned satellite dishes and was tuned to an American news broadcast with Korean subtitles. She turned to Moon.
"What didwho say, Dr. Chung?"
Moon motioned to the TV. "That person. What did she just say?
"Oh. She spoke of a man who died suddenly after walking into the news organization's New York offices."
Moon glared at the image of a woman with light brown hair and dark eyes filling the screen. The woman was being interviewed, and across the bottom of the frame was her title: Cotten Stone, SNN Senior Correspondent.
As she listened, Moon's hands clenched, and heat surged up her neck to her face. She felt as if an invisible fist had just struck her in the gut, and she didn't notice the cup slip from her grasp until she heard it shatter on the floor.
There was no mistake. Moon had heard the woman utter two words that cut through the air like a blast of winter wind. Two simple words.
Black Needles.
19
DEADBOLTS
Cotten started up the third flight of steps in the Bedford Stuyvesant tenement, last known residence of Jeff Calderon. The pungent smells of simmering Jamaican jerk spiced meat mixed with the faint odors of urine and mildew hung heavily in the air. A skin of dark-green paint covered the walls, giving the surroundings a feeling of anonymity—a place to hide secrets and identities, Cotten thought. Scars of a slightly darker green revealed where someone had painted over graffiti. The audio of a Saturday morning cartoon seemed out of place.
Moving along the hallway, she noticed that the cooking odors were stronger on this floor. So was the cartoon soundtrack. Cotten stopped in front of an apartment door and checked the number written on the note Ted gave to her. She knocked, wondering if Calderon had lived alone.
"You ain't gonna get an answer knocking like that, lady."
She turned to see a mountain of a black man approaching— easily three hundred pounds and over six feet tall. He wore a long-sleeved shirt under blue coveralls and a hardhat, and carried a lunch pail.
As he passed, he said, "Stoned most of the time. Won't hear you unless you pound."
"Are you referring to Mr. Calderon?" Cotten asked, feeling slightly on edge by the sheer bulk of the man.
He stopped
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