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  PRAISE FOR GENE RIEHL AND THE PULLER MONK NOVELS

  “Gene Riehl has brought a fresh new voice to the world of crime fiction.” —Harlan Coben

  Quantico Rules

  “Convincing and often chilling … [A] riveting thriller.” —The San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Full of high tension, intrigue, and the details of life as an FBI agent that could have only come from a career agent himself. Gene Riehl has taken his experiences and turned them into a thriller that is good till the last page.” —Michael Connelly

  “Sharply written, expertly plotted … Fascinating.” —Chicago Tribune

  “A combination political novel, thriller and spy story, complete with engaging characters, a racing plot and the kind of inside knowledge about the FBI that only a veteran could display.” —Houston Chronicle

  Sleeper

  “Riehl knows the territory.… To his insider knowledge he adds the talent of a first-rate storyteller.” —The San Diego Union-Tribune

  “A crackerjack opening … Sleeper doesn’t lack for action.” —Orlando Sentinel

  “Puller is no standard-issue flawed hero; he is a fresh, exciting, and dramatic creation.… We eagerly await further entries in what has quickly become an excellent series.” —Booklist

  “A terrific surprise twist.” —Publishers Weekly

  Sleeper

  A Puller Monk Novel

  Gene Riehl

  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 th
e 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 amazin
g 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.