In the last few months, Park had begun opening up to Chernin and the two had come to place a good deal of trust in each other. Each loved his respective country, if not his leaders, deeply. Each had an immediate superior who was a vainglorious tyrant. Each despaired that the project was a monument to miscalculation at best and to lunacy at worst.
Other than Mansur, Park was the only person in Iran whose company Chernin didn’t merely tolerate, but actually enjoyed. Although Park had a reserved demeanor, Chernin found that his coworker could become quite animated when talking about matters other than missiles. Chernin learned that Park was an avid boxing fan who seemed to know more about Joe Louis, Muhammad Ali, and Manny Pacquiao than most biographers. He was also, of all things, an amateur poet, albeit a rather horrid one. And he was something of a vodka snob, claiming, impossibly, that soju was superior to anything Russian.
Once, over a presumably inferior bottle of Smirnoff, Chernin asked Park about his family. It was the first time Chernin had ever seen Park’s expression anything other than placid. Even though they were alone and, Chernin believed, outside the range of any monitoring devices, Park lowered his voice to a whisper. Chernin realized the whisper wasn’t to avoid being overheard, but rather to suppress rage. The members of Park’s immediate family—his mother, father, and two older sisters—were all dead. Park declined to talk about their deaths other than to say that it had something to do with their having provoked the displeasure of the North Korean regime, an offense that didn’t actually require an overt act. Park had lived with a cousin since the age of fourteen.
Chernin had heard Park’s story many times before in Russia. It preceded the knock on the door. The arbitrary arrests of loved ones. Disappearances without explanation. Angry recriminations. Then resignation, powerlessness.
Like Chernin, Park had no interest in annihilating Israel or anyone else. He took great pride in his work and understood that his life depended, literally, on the successful completion of that work. But Park had gone through some of the same historical comparisons as Chernin and concluded that he, too, bore uncomfortable similarities to the efficient ciphers at Nuremberg.
Chernin was sitting at his empty desk in his drab office, comforting himself with the thought that he would be in Iran only a few more days, when Park entered. His face, for only the second time that Chernin had known him, expressed agitation.
“Good morning, Dmitri,” Park said in unaccented English.
“Good morning, Park. You look displeased. What troubles you?”
Park sat in a metal chair on the opposite side of the desk and scooted closer. He asked in a low voice, “Your friends are not satisfied with my work?”
Park was referring to the two dour Russian engineers and a guidance expert who had arrived unannounced overnight and had begun inspecting the missiles and tracking systems without asking Chernin’s permission. Furious, Chernin confronted them but backed off upon being told that Stetchkin had sent them to make a final inspection, and if Chernin had any questions, he should direct them to the tyrant.
“They’re here only to give us the final seal of approval. It has nothing to do with the quality of your work,” Chernin said.
“I am not so sure. They will not permit me to follow them or watch what they are doing. They are very secretive. I do not like it.”
“You worry excessively. They will send a good report back to Moscow and Pyongyang. You have done a splendid job. We have all done a splendid job. You’ll go home and be justly rewarded.”
Park sat silently for several seconds studying the ugly green walls. He looked up and said, “Then, if I may be presumptuous, let us mark the occasion with two of your cigars.”
Chernin didn’t need to be prodded. He opened the upper left-hand drawer of his desk, pulled out a metal carrying case, and opened it, revealing an array of cigars. He held up two. “Macanudos,” Chernin announced.
Park nodded his approval. The pair left Chernin’s office and turned right, walking along the catwalk suspended more than forty feet above the workplace floor. The giant facility was eerily quiet, save for the sound of a couple of Towmotors and a distant hissing noise. There were only a few technicians in the facility—mostly North Koreans with a smattering of Russians—compared to the hundreds that had populated the facility during the height of operations.
Chernin and Park walked approximately a hundred feet to a freight elevator that ascended two hundred feet to a pillbox-like structure that sat on the southern slope of the mountain housing the project. They held their proximity badges up to a sensor near the sliding metal exit. The doors opened and the pair walked outside into a parking lot and past several more guards, two of whom were sitting in a jeep to the right of the doors. The guards acknowledged Chernin with a curt nod.
Chernin handed Park one of the Macanudos as the men strolled toward the fence-enclosed perimeter of the parking lot, a good fifty yards from the guards’ position. Chernin removed a cigar clipper and lighter from his pocket, snipped the ends of both cigars, and lit Park’s before lighting his own.
Park faced away from the surveillance cameras located at regular intervals atop the fence and looked at the brown mountains in the distance.
“Dmitri, I’m not going home,” Park said bluntly.
Chernin wasn’t surprised. He had sensed in the cavern that a troubled Park wanted to talk and that the cigars were a mere pretext. “What are you going to do?”
Park answered the question with a question. “You do not want to go home either, do you?”
“I want to go home very much. Truthfully, I cannot wait to leave this place,” Chernin said.
“You cannot wait to leave this place,” Park agreed. “And neither can I. But you do not want to go home.”
Chernin didn’t respond. He puffed slowly on his cigar and waited for Park to continue.
“You are not a crazy man. You are a smart man,” Park said.
“The two qualities are not mutually exclusive.”
“You can see what is about to happen here,” Park continued. “What is happening is sheer idiocy. It is incomprehensible. Our governments are vastly underestimating the consequences of this action. They think there will be retaliation only against Iran. They are tragically mistaken.”
“Our governments have not mistaken the lack of resolve in the West, however,” Chernin noted. “America and Europe are dissolute. Weak. Yes, they may not confine their retaliation to Iran, but only Iran will be struck militarily.”
Park nodded. “That may be so. But many will die here and in Israel. The world economy will be in shambles, in chaos. Our countries will not be insulated from the effects.”
“My bosses believe that after the dust has settled, we will be positioned to pick up the pieces and to profit. We have resources—oil, gas, minerals—that the West must have. They must deal with us,” Chernin said.
“The only reason anyone must deal with my country is to buy stability. We produce nothing. We cannot even feed ourselves. The only thing of consequence that we have is our military—our nuclear capability.”
“That is a very big reason.”
“But the people will remain destitute, probably more so when our role in the project is revealed, as it eventually will be.” Park shook his head. “There is nothing for me to return to except misery. I will not go back.”
“What do you plan to do? Your security people are everywhere. You cannot just refuse to go back. And even if you could, where would you go?”
“Anywhere but North Korea. Perhaps I will eventually find my way to the South. But first, I must get out of here.”
“You cannot get out of Iran without considerable assistance. Who do you know who can help you?”
“You can help me, Dmitri.”
Chernin appeared incredulous. “Me? What can I do? My security people watch me as closely as yours watch you. Besides, I ha
ve no means to get out of this country.”
“But your friend Mansur,” Park said. “He is a man of some means. As you describe him, he is a resourceful fellow. He might be able to get us out of here and to a safe place.”
“Us? Whatever gives you the idea I am going with you? My country has compensated me very well. I plan to have a very comfortable retirement and forget all of this—as you put it—idiocy.”
“I will not be able to forgive my role in this matter,” Park said. “It is an impossibility. I will have partial responsibility for one of the great atrocities in history. And you will as well, Dmitri. There’s nothing we can do about that now. The project is complete. The Iranians will get their wish; they will destroy Israel. It is not my wish. I have no animosity toward the Jews.” He gave Chernin a sidelong glance. “And neither do you.”
Park’s intensity was somewhat surprising to Chernin. “And what will you do when you escape North Korea? Spend the rest of your life in a monastery atoning for your sins?” the Russian asked derisively.
“Nothing we do for the rest of our lives can atone for this, Dmitri. You know that. You know that very well. We will live with what we have done. That is our punishment. Our lives will be hell. But we need not live in hell.”
“Spoken with all of the flourish of bad poetry.”
“You fool no one with that cynical façade, Dmitri. Especially me. If I can get out of here, I will go to Central or South America. Maybe, after a time, to South Korea. I will disappear. I will, as you say, atone—as much as anyone can atone for something like this.”
The two men stood silently for several moments smoking their cigars and gazing at the barren landscape beyond the security fence. Chernin was momentarily tempted by the thought of disappearing somewhere in South America. He could buy a villa on the ocean, read, and sail. He would drink vodka, eat well, maybe find a woman. Above all, it would be warm; he would be warm. And then, one day, a soulless young assassin from Moscow, or perhaps Saint Petersburg, would put a bullet in the back of his skull while he was sitting in a local cantina. The North Koreans might not find Park. But the Russians would surely find Chernin. It’s what they did. It’s what they’d always done.
He turned to Park, a note of fatalism in his voice. “I will contact Mansur. If he is available, we will meet with him at his home this evening. You can discuss your plans with him. But you must be careful. There are eyes and ears everywhere.”
“Thank you. But what about you, Dmitri? What will you do?”
“You are a young man. You have most of your life still ahead and reason to seek something better. I, on the other hand, have lived most of my allotted time already. I have little to look forward to other than a measure of personal comfort and safety.” Chernin dropped his cigar, barely smoked, to the ground. “So, I will live on the Black Sea and, like a good Russian, contemplate all of my regrets,” he said matter-of-factly. “And then, after considering each one in turn, I will die.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 16 • 10:10 A.M. EDT
Garin parked his car in the underground garage beneath the National Labor Relations Board building, on Fourteenth and L. Before getting out of the vehicle he put on a ball cap and replaced his sunglasses with black-framed spectacles. He’d already donned the contacts and nose and lip molds. Garin emerged from the parking garage carrying a shoe box–size, gift-wrapped package. He turned left onto L, made another left onto Fourteenth Street, passed the NLRB entrance, and went into the Hamilton Crowne Plaza, where he checked in. Having done that, he returned to the National Labor Relations Board building, where he presented himself to the Homeland Security guards at the security desk in the atrium.
“I’m here to see Member Halliday,” Garin announced.
A female guard pushed a pen across the desk and pointed to the registry. “Sign here. ID, please.”
Garin handed the Virginia license bearing the name Mark Webster to the woman, who placed it in a small metal box. “You can pick this up when you return,” she said.
Garin signed the registry while a male guard picked up the phone, pressed four keys, waited a few seconds, and said, “Mr. Webster to see Member Halliday.” The guard listened for a few seconds and then looked at Garin. “What’s the purpose of your visit?”
“I’m here to deliver a gift from an old friend of Mr. Halliday. Looks like it’s supposed to be a surprise.”
The guard repeated the information to the person on the other end of the line and then nodded. “His assistant will be down momentarily,” the guard informed Garin.
A few minutes later the elevator doors at the far end of the atrium opened and a stern-looking blond woman in her fifties walked briskly toward the desk. “You have something for Member Halliday?”
Garin held up the package. “The sender says I’m supposed to deliver it personally. I was told it’s some type of surprise or gag gift from a college friend of his by the name of McLain. He insists that I bring it to Member Halliday and then call Mr. McLain to confirm delivery.” Garin waved a piece of scrap paper with the fictional telephone number of the fictional sender.
“Member Halliday isn’t in right now,” the woman said, a fact of which Garin was already aware, having called each of the board members’ offices just a short time ago. “I can make sure he receives the package.”
Garin affected the pose of a diligent deliveryman. “Ma’am, Mr. McLain insists I deliver it and then call him, you know? He gave me a pretty good tip to make sure. Look, you can walk me up to his office so I can put it on his desk. Then I can call McLain and tell him ‘mission accomplished.’ Okay?”
Halliday’s assistant tilted her head to one side and shrugged. “Sure. Follow me.”
“Sir, step over here, please.” The male guard held up a metal-detector wand and motioned for Garin to step forward. Garin complied, raising his arms perpendicular to his sides as the guard waved the wand over Garin, the gym bag, and the gift box. The guard then opened the gym bag and gave the contents a cursory inspection before motioning for Garin to proceed.
Garin followed the assistant to the bank of elevators, where she pressed the button for the top floor, which housed the suites of the five members of the NLRB. She guided him to Member Halliday’s suite to the far right of the elevator bank. They entered the wood-paneled reception area and walked into Halliday’s expansive office with a view of Thomas Circle. Garin placed the gift box on the desk, then pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, and said, “Mr. McLain, this is Mark from SpeedEx delivery. Just want to confirm that the package has been delivered to Mr. Halliday as you instructed.”
Garin disconnected and turned to the assistant. “Ma’am, thanks so much. I’ll get out of your way now. I can find my way back downstairs.” The assistant smiled and returned to her desk in the reception area. Garin walked out of the suite, the door closing automatically behind him. The eleventh floor was quiet. No one was in the hallways as Garin strode to the door next to the elevator bank. He glanced around briefly before opening the door and ascending the stairwell one flight to the rooftop of the building.
Garin took off the black-framed spectacles and put on his sunglasses as he emerged into the bright sunshine. The rooftop was flat, enclosed by a chest-high brick wall. He walked to the southern side of the building and stooped under the metal overhang of an air-conditioning unit. He leaned forward against the brick wall and looked across the alleyway that separated the NLRB building from the Hamilton Crowne Plaza.
The sidewalk in front of the hotel had the usual level of pedestrian traffic for late morning. There was no unusual activity on either Fourteenth or K Streets, or Franklin Square on the opposite side of the hotel. Garin estimated it would be no more than another five minutes before that changed.
He used the time to remove the contacts and facial molds and put on a dark blue cap and shirt retrieved from the gym
bag. To anyone viewing him from a distance, he would resemble a member of a SWAT team. Garin then scanned the surrounding buildings for the location most favorable for a sniper covering the exits to the hotel, quickly concluding that the two best spots were the PNC Bank across from Franklin Square and the roof of the Tower Building on the northwest corner of Fourteenth and K. He would keep an eye on those locations.
The first sign of activity occurred a few minutes later. That didn’t take long, thought Garin. Several dark-colored vans appeared along both Fourteenth and K Streets. Two parked across the street from the hotel entrance along the northwest curb of K Street. Another parked along the southwest side of the hotel. The last one that Garin could see parked directly below him in the alley separating the NLRB building and the hotel.
Almost simultaneously, more than a dozen DC police cruisers formed a perimeter extending approximately two blocks from the hotel. Garin presumed there was also a van behind the hotel, although he couldn’t see it from his location.
The vans remained parked for a couple of minutes without anyone getting out of them. Then a nondescript dark-colored sedan pulled up behind the van parked in front of the hotel. Two men in business suits who looked to Garin as if they had just auditioned for Hollywood roles as FBI agents got out and entered the hotel. Contemporaneously, six FBI agents in SWAT gear and armed with what appeared to be MP5s followed the suits into the hotel. They would conduct the search for Garin.
The SWAT teams from the other vans Garin could see fanned out along the sidewalk to surround the hotel at equidistant intervals. D.C. police appeared and placed roadblocks at the intersections of Fourteenth and K, and Fourteenth and L, to direct traffic to two detours at Fourteenth and I and Thomas Circle. Alarmed pedestrians didn’t have to be told to get out of the way as they scrambled as far as they could from the FBI perimeter.
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