“Your guest is here.”
“Let him wait a moment.” After several decades of training, Choe knew the art of power. How to wield it. It was the military cadre, and especially the old generals, which had to be watched and controlled.
As Choe waited, he looked out over the city of Pyongyang. Wide-open boulevards led to large squares with little commerce. Gray was the common color—gray walls and gray buildings.
When will this succeed? he wondered. Perhaps a century. The Western world thought in terms of years. The Asian world thought only in decades. If it takes a hundred years for the plan to work, so be it.
“You can bring him in now,” Choe said over the phone.
A few moments later, the young aide again knocked on the door.
“Vice Chairman Choe, Mr. Astef,” said the aide.
“Mr. Vice Chairman, it is an honor.” The man wore a dark European-cut suit. The white shirt and dark tie were understated. Astef, too, was a true believer. He was here to bargain—to use his finances to wield power.
“Yes, Mr. Astef. You are welcome here, as always.” They both spoke French—the old language of the world of finance. English would never be used here.
“You’ve been one of our finest customers,” Astef said, “and have helped our common causes greatly.”
“I understand the last shipment of guidance systems was received in Tehran, and is of great benefit to your people,” said Choe.
“Yes, indeed. We now have missiles that can reach Tel Aviv. It will surely give pause to the infidel Westerners.” Astef was an arms merchant for small Muslim countries in the Gulf and Northern Africa.
“So why such an early return?” Choe knew to press the point. People in power had little time to dance—one had to get right to the heart of matters.
“I’m here on a most bold endeavor, Vice Chairman.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Yes, sir.” Astef seemed hesitant. This was not like him.
“Let us have some tea,” said Choe, standing up and clutching the telephone, ringing for his assistant. Astef sold several hundred millions of dollars a year in rocket weaponry to more than a dozen small Arab countries. Yemen, for example, had become a good customer with Astef’s help, and Choe enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game that had entailed, but now Astef seemed nervous.
“How are your children, Astef?”
“Oh, very good, sir. They are in school in Cairo and doing well.” Mohammed Astef was an upper-class Egyptian by birth—trained as an engineer in the finest Egyptian universities.
“And how did you travel here?” Choe asked.
“Oh, through Moscow, Mr. Vice Chairman,” said Astef.
The doors swung open as two young women brought in silver trays with thin, ivory china cups and saucers. They quickly poured the tea, offered cream and sugar, and left, with Choe’s aide right behind them.
“Now,” said Choe, “what is this bold endeavor, my old friend?”
“Mr. Vice Chairman, I represent a group of believers who wish to make a bold purchase.”
“Yes, and…?”
“They wish to obtain one of your newest weapons,” said Astef.
“We’ve always been most generous in offering our weapons to our comrades. We’ve shared our technology with a host of nations and peoples such as yours with the common bond of opposing Yankee oppression.” The events of 9/11 had little affected the north’s willingness to sell its weapons to willing buyers. “Which system do you have in mind?”
“Mr. Vice Chairman, we are interested in obtaining the Taepodong-3.”
Choe was taken aback. Everyone knew North Korea did not sell its frontline weaponry. And why did they think they had enough money to buy it? A TD-3 would be an expensive proposition.
“I imagine you’re surprised about our interest in a program for such a long-range weapon,” said Astef, “and might be curious about the degree of our interest.”
“The Unha is something special,” said Choe. The multistage missile, called the Unha-3 or Taepodong-3, was the pillar of their future nuclear program. The rocket was being developed to carry a load of as much as 1000 kg and its range included most of North America.
“I must apologize, but we’ve heard of the missile’s projected capabilities. We know of the capabilities of Dr. Nampo from our past experiences. We know of the problems with the TD-2, but we also know that if anyone could make the TD-3 work, it would be Dr. Nampo.”
Nampo had been directly involved in several of the previous No-Dong missile programs.
“More importantly,” said Astef, “Al Qaeda has enough funding to purchase two TD-3s—at three-hundred million dollars per missile.”
Choe tried not to react, but 600 million dollars in hard currency did its own talking. Few North Korean leaders would or could refuse such an offer.
“Vice Chairman, we need a device that can be launched from within our border that can reach Europe and carry a hundred-kilo weapon.”
So Astef did not need a nuclear weapon, but did require a mobile, intercontinental missile system. One sentence said a lot.
Al Qaeda had small, portable nuclear weapons, probably dirty nuclear bombs, capable of radiation contamination that would last for decades. Such a device would cause horrific destruction to urban centers like New York, Washington, or London.
After a pause, Choe said, “Our project is only in development.”
“Yes, sir, but perhaps with a generous down payment, we could fund additional work to improve it.”
Choe leaned back in his chair and pondered the offer’s many layers of significance, including what it could, or perhaps would, lead to. An intercontinental missile fired from a remote location in Iran to the business sector of London would cause world havoc. Another thought crossed his mind, and as it did, he smiled.
Astef, taking the smile as a good sign, said, “Vice Chairman, should we explore this further?”
“Of course, my friend.”
“Good. I will report to my committee the prospect of a deal.” The Arab was pleased and his body language showed it. Just the positive note of this meeting would carry with it special consideration for Astef.
“Sir, this project is our most advanced effort,” said Choe. “Selling this weapon can affect us in ways I cannot presently anticipate. I must discuss this with the leadership.” Choe could only imagine how China and Russia would react.
“As a show of good faith, we’re prepared to provide one-hundred million to assist you in your…development,” said Astef.
“Well, yes, indeed, a sign of good faith.”
“And we’ve been advised that much of this may benefit other systems you may be more anxious to sell, such as the portable ones.”
“Yes,” said Choe. “That would help us both.” He stood as his aide entered the room.
Walking with Astef to the door, he said, “I will advise you of the leadership’s decision when I obtain it.”
“Thank you, Vice Chairman.”
Once Astef left, Choe went to his telephone. “This is Vice Chairman Choe,” he said to the operator. “Please ring General Sin for me.” Choe admired Sin—he was an old, ingenious, hard nut who knew how to capitalize on an event like this.
He heard Sin’s voice at the other end. “Sin,” Choe said, “I have had an interesting meeting that may have a positive effect on our plan. We need our Western friends to get wind of something.”
General Sin asked to come immediately to the NCDB.
“No, actually we’ll meet at my regular office.” Choe preferred to return to the comfort of his small, plain sanctuary.
Chapter 16
Quantico, Virginia
“Ready?” Mi spoke in Hanguk as the elevator to the top floor of the FBI’s dormitory opened. The two Agency guards looked up from their chairs at the sight of the woman in
her gray, oversized sweat suit. It was typical of one issued to new agents in training and disguised her shape well. On the campus, she appeared to be just another student out for a run before class.
Will wasn’t dressed much better. “Yeah,” he said, “let’s go.”
She noticed a limp. Will favored his right side.
“So the ten-mile run yesterday morning was too much for you?” said Mi.
“No.” He pointed to the elevator as he spoke, indicating he didn’t want to talk, especially in front of the two sentries.
“Oh, you forgot your pass,” said the younger of the two, who handed Will a blue card with a red stripe across it and a magnetic strip on the back. The guards kept the pass at night. If Mi had not held the elevator door open, Will would have had to swipe it through a magnetic reader, both to open and close the elevator door. The ninth floor was accessible only by pass.
The doors slid closed.
Will wore a white running t-shirt that hung loosely over his black running shorts. Peachtree Road Race appeared on the shirt’s front and back. Will had made the Atlanta run every Fourth of July—until this year.
Mi was looking at the shirt’s orange-pink peach logo when she first noticed the small red stain by the right side of Will’s stomach.
“What happened?”
He pulled up the shirt to reveal a bloodstained bandage near his appendix, then held his finger over his lips.
Outside, as the early-bird FBI students walked by en route to the cafeteria, Will and Mi stretched like serious joggers. Scott would be satisfied to know they did not stand out. Two more FBI agents also seemed to be heading out for an early run.
The route for Will and Mi took them out of the FBI campus toward the Basic School and back to the campus by another road. The six miles usually did not take long, and they’d already gotten into the habit of running it twice. He hadn’t pushed it very hard yet, but was already impressed with Mi. She was clearly dedicated to her own fitness—yet another thing Will liked about her.
“So what happened?” She repeated the question in Hanguk as they ran in the yellow pre-light of dawn.
A black Chevrolet Suburban followed them a hundred meters behind. Will didn’t mind the nonstop surveillance as much as the nuisance of running with the vehicle’s lights constantly shining on them.
“I was at the dentist for most of the day.” He stumbled on the Hanguk word for dentist and finally said it in English. “They said knocking me out was the least painful way to get the dental work done. After I woke up, I found this incision.” He patted his right side as they ran.
“What is it?”
“Scott says it’s a marker.” The marker was a small locator chip that allowed satellites to trace Will everywhere he went. They could already follow him visually, by photo or by heat, but the marker allowed them to trace him, even inside buildings or caves.
At that very moment, only fifty miles to the north, the Agency was already following him. Buried well within the walls of the CIA, the last of the graveyard shift of technicians watched a large, rectangular panel screen, where a blinking light showed Will over an outline of Virginia. The light had a small number, AGT4444, below and to the right. Quadruple four was Will’s designation.
“Apparently it even has Russian markings,” he said as he ran.
“Yes, I would expect that.”
“They said the microprocessor was from India,” Will said. “The Russians would likely use an Indian microchip for something like this.”
He understood how they had made the chip insertion and why. That was not what angered him. It was that the admiral would do this to him without telling him. That son of a bitch.
But why was Will telling Mi? Her answers to his questions all seemed hesitant, as if she were holding something back, possibly against her will. As a foreign national, she would be at the U.S. government’s mercy. Will had to assume that Krowl was pulling her strings and that she reported everything back to Krowl. But Will had to trust someone. Time was running out and he needed someone on the other side. He had to risk it. He felt a chemistry of sorts with Mi and he trusted his judgment of people.
They picked up the pace as they neared the Marine Basic School. Platoons of faces with boot camp haircuts ran by in tight formations, chanting cadence. Each was dressed in the same gray sweats with a black USMC embroidered on the jerseys. Only their running shoes were different.
Will smiled as he noticed the widely varied running shoes. When he had gone through the Basic School, everyone ran in black boots and utilities. Later, as the running craze took hold, the military hierarchy relented and permitted individual running shoes.
Individuality was not prized at the Basic School. For six months, Will had been taught infantry tactics for the individual rifleman and up through the squad and platoon levels, and he excelled. All the instructors had wanted to recruit Will to their specialty, including the most prestigious: infantry. Finishing at the top of his class, based on graded tests and leadership, Will had the option of selecting whatever military occupational specialty, or MOS, he wanted. Everyone expected that he would select infantry, the most direct route to the rank of general.
But Will surprised them on the last day, when he chose another MOS.
“0802.”
“Artillery?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But why, Lieutenant Parker?” The company commander had been pitching for infantry. A couple of years in an infantry battalion, and Will could easily move up to Forces Reconnaissance.
“I think it ultimately gives me more options. It won’t hurt to know more.” He was referring to the ability to call artillery fire. Artillery was the high math of the military. Gravity, winds, weather, and a host of other influences could cause an artillery shell to leave the cannon’s tube and land downrange, far away from the intended target.
Will liked the mental challenge involved. An individualist, he also liked surprising management. Ironically, he had used the Marine Corps as a means of expressing his individuality.
“One more lap?” Mi said in Hanguk.
Will didn’t understand the Hanguk word for lap. “What?”
“Go around again?” she said in Hanguk.
“Oh, yes.”
They ran the second lap at a faster pace. He would let her lead, but as they came to a hill, Will would surge past her. The lead danced back and forth between them.
As she ran, Mi started to slow. Will’s pace had become too much. He knew little of her background.
“Where were you raised?” he asked her in Hanguk as he slowed the pace some.
“Near the Taebaek Mountains along the coast.”
“I know those mountains.” Will had studied them with op plan 5015. It was the master plan for a strike back against North Korea after a North Korean attack. The Taebaeks jutted out from the shoreline, directly facing the brunt of the ocean.
“Do you like this country?” He was blunt.
“Yes, I do.”
He thought of whom she might be reporting to. “And Krowl?”
She stopped running and Will stopped with her.
“He told me once,” she said, “that if I did anything he didn’t like, it would be easy to tell someone where I was.”
Chapter 17
The Pentagon
After passing through uncountable security measures and checkpoints, Scott arrived at Admiral Krowl’s office in the Pentagon. Scott’s security pass, after much use, had become entangled with the collar of his overcoat. The weather was beginning to change as fall settled into Washington. This day was rainy, damp, and cold. Scott’s raincoat, tailored for him by a London shop, fit perfectly over his charcoal pinstriped suit and dark blue tie. He felt more like a finely dressed funeral home attendant than a professional spook.
Pulling off his raincoat, Scott straightened his tie and
announced himself to Krowl’s gatekeeper.
The Navy lieutenant looked up from her desk, which seemed almost ceremonial—it lacked papers, notes, and all other evidence of work.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “you’re expected. Coffee or something to drink, sir?”
“No, thanks.”
She nodded. “I’ll tell them you’re here.”
Scott didn’t expect the “them.” Instead of taking a seat, he continued to stand, taking in his surroundings. A royal blue couch with gold tridents served as the centerpiece of this outer office. On each end of the couch were dark wood end tables and tall brass lamps.
Scott was more interested, though, in the photographs hung in groups on the walls. A series showed Krowl as a young officer in jungle fatigues. The man was far more impressive then—much thinner, with a smile more devious than happy. Another group of photos showed Krowl in the desert camouflage of the Gulf, a few years and many pounds later. Again, that same smile. All of the photographs showed him alone.
“Mr. Scott.” The inner door swung open and a bald Navy commander stuck out his hand.
“Yes.”
“I’m Commander Sawyer, the admiral’s assistant,” he said. “Please come in.”
Sawyer was Krowl’s handyman. He often did the admiral’s unpleasant work, Scott had learned, and gave Krowl protection. All flag officers, for better or worse, had a Sawyer to deliver their messages or to snoop out the status of certain sensitive matters. If a general were caught in an affair, the Sawyers of the military always found out first.
The inner office was a cavernous, wood-paneled chamber with two picture windows looking out on a boat harbor that led into the Potomac River. Any Pentagon office on the outer, or E, ring was valuable real estate in the world of military power. This remained true even after the attacks of September 11 and the destruction of certain E ring offices. It might entail greater risk, but most power-seekers would happily accept it.
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