Intercontinental Hotel, Seoul
One hour to the minute after the initial call to Bayer at Langley, Sam Jackson emerged from the bedroom and handed the secure phone back to Shake Davis. He eyed the ice bucket containing six bottles of OB Lager and pried the caps off two of them. “Your man Bayer is a hard-ass.”
“He is that.” Shake crushed out the fifth cigarette he’d chain-smoked since Sam disappeared into his bedroom with the phone. “I could tell you some stories about the s**t sandwiches he’s made with me in the middle.”
“Fortunately, he’s also a reasonable guy and a thorough professional.” Sam handed Shake one of the sweating beer bottles and dropped into a chair. “I think we’ve got a deal.”
“What’s that mean—or do I need to know?”
Sam sipped beer and shrugged. “It’s fairly simple and
