Origin - Season Two

by James, Nathaniel Dean

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  Sunday 10 June 2007

  1500 KST

  General Rhee entered the cabinet chamber with the distinct mindset of an actor about to give the performance of his life. Of the twelve men seated behind the curved bench at the end of the sloping chamber, only five were committed members of the conspiracy underway. It would be up to Rhee to bring at least two more into the fold.

  Rhee approached the bench and stood to attention. The chairman, a frail, aging man, and one of the few original members of the party to survive the now deceased leader, instructed him to sit.

  Rhee duly complied.

  “Let it be known for the record,” the chairman announced, “that the man standing before us is General Seo-jun Rhee, commanding officer of the special intelligence directorate. He has been summoned before the cabinet to give evidence in the death of the supreme leader of the People’s Democratic Republic. General Rhee, are you a member of the Democratic Front for the Reunification of the Fatherland?”

  “I am.”

  “Will you pledge your loyalty to the party?”

  Rhee delivered the absurd incantation with an air of sincerity that might have brought some of the witnesses to tears had they not all been preoccupied with the political turmoil at hand.

  “Very well,” the chairman said. “You have provided a written statement testifying to your presence at the grand theater at the time of the murder.”

  “That is correct,” Rhee said.

  “In your testimony you further state that you saw the accused in the presence of the supreme leader prior to his death, and that he attempted to leave the premises immediately thereafter.”

  “Yes.”

  “You also state that you saw the accused pass something to a member of the theater staff before he left.”

  “I did.”

  “What was this object?”

  “A syringe,” Rhee said.

  “And what did you do after witnessing the incident?”

  “On hearing of the supreme leader’s death I immediately had the man arrested.”

  “And you assisted the police in this arrest?”

  “I was present when the arrest was made,” Rhee said.

  “For what purpose?”

  “I wanted to ensure the syringe was discovered.”

  “Are you aware that it was found to contain a lethal poison?” the chairman asked.

  “I was informed by the chief of police, yes.”

  “And is it your opinion, general, that based on what you witnessed, the supreme leader was in fact murdered by his own son?”

  “It is.”

  “And are you aware that providing false testimony to this cabinet is punishable by death?”

  “I am.”

  “Very well, general. You may go. Should we have need of you again you will be summoned.”

  Rhee stood to attention, saluted and left the room.

  Chapter 23

  Washington Post Editorial

  In a development that has caught literally everyone by surprise, North Korean state television announced the death of its supreme leader shortly after 0300 GMT yesterday, calling for a month of national mourning. Although few details were given, it was claimed that the “dear leader” had been ill for some time, and had passed away during an emergency operation. As he was last seen in what appeared to be good health less than a week ago, many analysts are questioning the authenticity of the claim, insisting it may be an attempt to cover up a more sinister truth.

  To confuse matters even further, his older son—widely believed to be his chosen successor—has yet to make an appearance, either in public or on TV, leading one prominent critic of the North Korean regime to go so far as to suggest both father and son may be dead. In a less surprising move, both China and South Korea have begun to build up a significant military presence on their borders, apparently fearing that a power struggle in Pyongyang could destabilize the region.

  Following an emergency session of the National People’s Congress, the Chinese president appeared on television this morning to assure everyone that the buildup is strictly a precautionary measure, and should not be interpreted to mean that China has any intention of crossing the border, or interfering with matters in the North. He also made it clear that any aggressive posturing by other nations—read the United States—would only serve to make matters worse. The South Korean government, and to a lesser extent the Russians, have made similar statements. So far neither the US nor its NATO allies have weighed in on the discussion, stating only that a quick and orderly resolution of the situation is in everyone’s interest.

  Based on what little we know of the internal workings of the North Korean regime, it is still too early to draw any conclusions as to what comes next. What we can say is that the hopes by some that this may lead to a change of direction for the rogue state are premature to say the least. So far no reports of any civil disturbances have reached the Western media. And while that may not mean much, it is far more likely to be an indication that little has changed other than the result of a desperate leadership working hard to beat down the flames of popular revolt.

  Chapter 24

  Iran

  Sunday 10 June 2007

  1030 IRST

  Francis regained consciousness for the first time that day only long enough to notice that he wasn’t dead yet. When he opened his eyes for the second time a young woman was kneeling beside him, wiping his brow with a damp cloth and murmuring what sounded like a prayer. He tried to ask her where he was, but the effort won him only a polite smile. When she was gone Francis tried to focus on what he could remember of the events that had brought him here, but with little success. The only thing his mind seemed prepared to reveal was pain, and of that there was plenty. It felt like everything from his abdomen down had been immersed in some highly corrosive acid that was now eating away the skin and slowly working its way into his very bones. He had wished for sleep then, sleep and nothing more. And, after a time, it had come. Only this was the sleep of fever, that sleep of the body in which the mind appears to have no interest.

  In this particular dream a young woman is pushing a stroller across a busy intersection, her eyes darting ceaselessly in every direction, as if she suspects not one follower, but an army of them. And her paranoia is justified, for she is not pushing an innocent child through this chaotic urban jungle of impatient commuters and standstill traffic, but enough high explosive to level a city block. Her name is Louise Ortega, a recent convert to one of America’s most extreme evangelical movements. Her target: the Supreme Court justice whose recent opinion on abortion is an affront to everything she has come to believe. The questions Francis would eventually ask himself belong to a man that has yet to be born. On this day, and in this place, he represents only the other extreme in a simple equation. It would be several months before he learned that the stroller contained only baby clothes, and that the woman he had shot had no religious convictions to speak of. But in this retelling of the event he floats from his perch on the rooftop down to where her body lies, twisted and bleeding, and sees these things for himself. When he kneels beside her she opens her eyes and there is no resentment in the look she gives him, only sorrow. Not for herself, but for the illegitimate baby she is carrying. A baby whose Saudi father had deemed it politically inexpedient.

  “Francis?”

  Francis opened his eyes. For a moment the turbaned man looking down at him and the prince responsible for the murder of Louise Ortega were one and the same; then he saw Titov and the world reasserted itself.

  “How you feeling?” Titov asked.

  “Like I’d rather be dead,” Francis said.

  “You came close enough,” Titov said. “This is Zahed Rahimi. He is the local mullah. His daughter has been looking after you.”

  The mullah bowed his head, but said nothing.

  “Where are we?” Francis said.

  “Iran.”

  “How badly am I hurt?�
��

  “The local doctor had to remove a kidney. And you almost bled to death on the way here, but otherwise you’re good to go.”

  Francis let out a weak laugh and immediately grimaced at the pain. “Are we safe here?”

  “For now. We need to call Zurich and come up with a plan for getting out of here. The mullah has agreed to take me to Bandar Abbas. It’s a three-hour journey. I should be back by this evening.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Francis said.

  “Sure, why not? Perhaps you could drive.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know you are. And I’m telling you it’s out of the question.”

  When Titov was gone Francis decided to try sitting up again. This time he made it onto one elbow before the fire in his gut forced him back down.

  Chapter 25

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  Sunday 10 June 2007

  2230 KST

  By the time the debate finally ended in a nine-to-three vote in favor of elevating Kim Jong-sul to the position vacated by his late father, it had lasted for over seven hours. Rhee had watched the entire spectacle from the operations room in the basement of the intelligence directorate with growing frustration as one vulture after another made his subtle bid for power. The performance was made all the more macabre by the understanding that the victorious faction would not look kindly on those who had made too strong a case against it. Thus every plea seemed to end in a contradiction, offering both praise for the opposing view and a reason to discard it. In the end it had come down to a choice between Kim Jong-sul, the prodigal son, and Choe Yong-su, First Vice Chairman of the National Defense Commission. The outcome had of course been predetermined, as Choe, among others, would soon find out.

  Rhee left as soon as the cabinet meeting ended, stopping at the ministry of foreign affairs to report the news to Duan in Beijing before moving on to the ten-story concrete box on the outskirts of the capital known to the outside world simply as Building Five. The building was home to most of the government’s “supplementary” initiatives, such as the foreign exchange office—known as Office 39—which dreamed up ever more inventive ways of keeping the supreme leader and his family in dollars, pounds and euros, and the euphemistically titled import restriction office, a virtual mail-order catalogue service for foreign goods catering to the upper echelon of Pyongyang society through its network of contacts inside the Kaesong industrial zone.

  Rhee was there to see an old friend by the name of Song Chun. Song ran the city’s real estate black market, a position that required an extremely well-developed understanding of the intricate and often confusing relationships that formed the backbone of the North Korean social and political hierarchy. The fact that he was neither heterosexual, nor a member of the party—the latter being by far the greater crime—yet was still alive, was a testament to both his cunning and his reach. Thus Rhee was not surprised to hear that Song had been expecting him, had in fact put together a list of potential properties that might be of interest to the general.

  “Perhaps later,” Rhee said. “For now I’m more interested in what you can tell me about minister Kye-nam.”

  “General,” Song protested, “you know I don’t get involved in politics.”

  Rhee smiled and handed him an envelope. Song gave the contents a cursory inspection, then quickly placed it on top of the safe next to his desk.

  “Exactly what is it you would like to know?” Song said.

  “Can he be trusted?”

  “He voted for the right candidate, did he not?”

  Rhee looked at him in surprise. “You know the result of the meeting?”

  “Oh come, general. A man like me wouldn’t last long if I didn’t have a few birds of my own among the rafters.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “It is true that Pak would have preferred to see Choe assume power,” Song said. “They are distant cousins, after all. But he is no fool. I also suspect he’d have little to say if his friend were to fall under suspicion now that his bid has been defeated.”

  Rhee found his respect for Song rising in roughly equal measure to his fear of him.

  “That’s good to know,” Rhee said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to see the properties I have selected?” Song said. “There’s one here I think you’ll particularly like.”

  “It will have to wait,” Rhee said. “I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

  “Indeed you do, general,” Song said. “There is one more thing, if you have a moment to spare.”

  Rhee looked at him with unguarded suspicion, but made no move to go. Song walked to the filing cabinet at the back of the room and returned holding a black and white photograph. He handed it to Rhee.

  Rhee could only stare at the picture, the hand holding it no longer quite steady. In the sepia tone exposure a woman was sitting on the earthen bank of a rice paddy with a young girl on her knee. When Rhee looked up what Song saw on his face made him take a step back.

  “Where did you find this?” Rhee demanded.

  Song seemed to consider the question, as if it might have more than one true answer, then said, “I had it recovered from the war archive at Chongjin. The man who took it was a friend of your father’s.”

  For a long, awkward moment it was unclear whether Rhee would thank Song for his efforts or shoot him. Song, clearly fearing the latter, took another step back and cast a glance at the door. Then Rhee carefully folded the picture and tucked it into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket.

  “I meant no disrespect,” Song said. “I thought you would want it.”

  “I take it you know what happened to them?” Rhee asked.

  Song nodded, but said nothing.

  “Then you also know that my current position would be compromised should anyone find out.”

  “No one will hear it from me,” Song said, his voice both sincere and pleading. “You have my word, general.”

  “And your silence, does it have a price?”

  “I’ll not insult you by claiming that the practice is beneath me,” Song said. “But I consider this a question of my own honor, general. I’d like to think we might be friends as well as associates.”

  Rhee’s features softened at this, and he offered a Song a guarded smile. “Then friends we shall be. And if I can reward your kindness, you need only ask.”

  “I’ll not hesitate,” Song said.

  “Good.”

  Rhee left the building and ordered his driver to take him back to his office. The announcement of Kim Jong-sul’s appointment would be broadcast that afternoon. For the people of North Korea the occasion would mark a resumption of the status-quo. For Rhee, however, it would change everything.

  Chapter 26

  The Pandora

  Sunday 10 June 2007

  2200 EEST

  Richelle had retired to one of the empty guest cabins for a few hours of much-needed sleep when Titov’s call arrived. She dressed quickly and rushed down to the hangar where Almila was waiting.

  “How is he?” Richelle asked Titov as soon as Almila handed her the phone.

  “He’ll be okay,” Titov said.

  “We have someone in Tehran who’s going to get you out of the country. I’m going to give you a number to call. Tell him where you are and he’ll pick you up.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Is it someone we know?”

  “Not exactly. Caroline found him through one of her contacts in Zurich who does a lot of business over there. He can be trusted.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Titov asked.

  “Because we’re paying him half a million dollars to get the job done.”

  “Richelle, you—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. The deal’s been made.”

  “And where is he supposed to be taking us?”

  “India. We have a security consultant who does work for our office in Mumbai. His name is Mohindar Bhatti. He’ll pick you up and make sure you get
back here. No one gets paid until he’s confirmed your arrival.”

  “Sounds like you have it all worked out,” Titov said. “I’ll make the call.”

  “Good. You better get going.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “How did you know there was a plane on the island?”

  Richelle considered telling him the whole truth, then settled for half of it. “You know Mitch and his computers. I don’t know exactly how he did it, but thank God he did.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you go,” Richelle said. When Titov didn’t reply she added, “Alright, out with it.”

  “After we took off something very strange happened,” Titov said. “I was intercepted by two UAE fighters. I’m pretty sure they were there to escort us back.”

  “And?”

  “And they both dropped out of the sky.”

  “Well, that was a stroke of luck,” Richelle said.

  “So you don’t know anything about it?”

  “Nope. Now I suggest you get going. I don’t know what kind of contacts this guy has, but I doubt he’ll be much good if you end up in jail.”

  “I guess we’ll speak soon then.”

  “I’ll call Mohindar as soon as you’re there.”

  When Richelle hung up Almila was looking at her with a smirk.

  “What?” Richelle said.

  “That was a bit sly.”

  “What would you suggest I do? Tell him we have fucking alien vision now? That we can shoot down planes and spy on anyone we like? Hell, I don’t even believe it, and I’m here.”

  “Easy,” Almila said. “I was only kidding.”

  “Well your timing’s a little off, Captain.”

  But when Almila smiled at her, she returned it. “Oh piss off. Don’t you have anything to do?”

  “Not really,” Almila said, still smiling.

  “Well maybe you can go scrape some barnacles off the rudder, or practice your knots.”

  Almila laughed. “Now that you mention it my monkey paw is a little rusty.”