by Andy Harp
Will turned to the next man, who was built like a fireplug—short and darkly tanned. “Yes, sir,” said the man. “I’m Mike Punaros, but you can call me Gunny.”
“Marine Gunny?” asked Will.
“Yes, sir. USMC recon trained. Two tours in Vietnam, goddammit. Twenty-four years and out, sir.”
Punaros was an old salt. Two recon combat tours in Vietnam meant membership in a small club. Few Marines endured two insertions into the jungle, well behind the Vietcong’s lines.
“I know you’ve got a hell of a lot of experience, Gunny, but what’s your specialty?”
“Weapons, sir, particularly the Soviet type,” he said. “I’ll teach you the Tokarev TT33 pistol, Type-64, and Makarov pistol from top to bottom. Also, I’m supposed to be the Agency’s expert on Spetsnaz training and Spetsnaz forces. I’ll teach you everything I know, sir.”
“Thanks, Gunny,” said Will, glancing to the next man to his right, and unconsciously smiling briefly at him. Beside this man was the woman, her beautiful features a unique combination of Caucasian and Asian. Will guessed she was the child of some Army soldier on tour in the Philippines or South Korea, who fell in love with and married a local girl.
But Will stayed focused on the other man in front of him.
“I’m Frank Darlin,” he said. “I’m your expert on the intel you’ll need in-country. I’ll show you the topography, the escape routes, anything that’ll help you get in and out of there.” The voice was that of a New Englander, probably Harvard-trained, and just as probably the descendent of an old New England family.
Will had met the Darlins of the world before, and frankly, didn’t always understand them. Harvard, or Yale, or Columbia, and then work for the CIA? It was an odd sequence. Oftentimes, he thought their intellect just needed the challenge. And after the CIA, he wondered, wouldn’t they find a life on Wall Street boring?
“And I am Mi Yong,” the woman said.
Will tried to remain fairly formal. “And, Ms. Yong, what is your specialty?”
“I’ll teach you about North Korea and the North Korean people,” she said. “I’ll teach you Hanguk. Do you know what Hanguk is, Colonel?”
“Annyong hashimnika, Mi-Shi.” As a Marine Reservist, Will had done several language exercises in Korean.
She smiled. “And Russian. Do you know that as well, Colonel?”
“Actually, Ms. Yong, I know Russian, but have little experience in Hanguk.”
“We got you the best, Colonel.” Scott leaned forward in his seat. “She’s originally from the coast of Korea.”
“I’ll be spending every waking moment with you over the next several months, Colonel,” said Mi. “We don’t have a lot of time, and the only way to make this work is to have you talk and think in Hanguk every day. Any questions?”
“No, Ms. Yong.” He dampened the smile.
“Let’s all have a seat,” said Scott. “Colonel, I have a proposed training schedule for you. It has a physical workout each day from seven until nine, intel classes from nine until noon, weapons from one until three, scuba and SEAL training until six, and language training until ten. We’ll have other pop-up training as we go along.”
“Mr. Scott, that’s a good start-up, but—”
“But what, Colonel?”
“I’ll need two workouts and two runs daily. The first run will be ten miles starting at five. The first workout will be from seven to nine. Then another workout and run at four.” Will knew that the one thing he had going for him was the ability to do physically what the North Koreans never expected. If that meant covering a hundred miles of mountainous terrain in twenty-four hours on foot, he would be prepared.
“And Mr. Scott?” said a smiling Mi Yong.
“Yes?”
“Just a reminder that I need to accompany him to all his class work. As I said, he needs to be able to think in Hanguk, not just speak it. I need to use every class to talk to him in Hanguk.”
“I don’t know if that’s possible, Ms. Yong.”
“Make it possible, Mr. Scott,” said Will.
“Colonel, you don’t know the whole story,” said Scott.
Mi cringed. She had heard similar comments before.
“I know this much,” Will said. “For this to work, I don’t need a tourist’s knowledge of these people and their language. I need a whole lot more.”
“Okay.” Scott preferred to discuss the matter later, after the group dispersed. “Colonel, the first week is to be spent in medical and dental. Starting tomorrow, any dental work will be redone, and I have Lasik set up for Friday.”
Will had little need for glasses, but was intrigued with the idea of vision correction.
“Let’s show you around the place and get you settled in. Everyone knows the drill.” Scott took pride in his organized approach. If Will failed, it would not be because of his training. “Any questions?”
There were none.
“Colonel, tomorrow we begin.”
Mi looked at her watch. The man in the Pentagon would be expecting her daily telephone call shortly.
Chapter 15
Choe Hak-son rarely used his office. On the top floor of the Nuclear and Chemical Defense Bureau, it was too ornate and oversized for his taste. He had learned to always appreciate less.
“Decadence feeds the monster within,” Kim Jong Il had said to Choe on several occasions. And for this reason, Choe, a Kim disciple, preferred a closet-sized office in the government’s main building several blocks away.
Choe thought of himself as the protector of Kim Jong Il’s Juche. It was this art of self-reliance that caused the people to accept starvation, cold winters, and the death of their children. But the younger generation of leaders, and especially Kim’s son, were not as committed to the cause. Choe constantly had to push Kim’s son toward self-denial and self-sacrifice even as the boy, appreciating the decadence of capitalistic living, smuggled in western movies.
Choe was committed, but with age, he learned that others expected the show of influence and power. A stark, antiseptic closet of an office did not convey to important visitors the fact that this man could affect decisions within the government.
“Vice Chairman?” said a young aide as he entered.
The elderly Choe was nearly lost in thought. “Yes?”
The aide appeared through the dark, mahogany double doors well across the room. Like a president, Choe sat behind an oversized table that served as his desk. Immediately in front of the desk were two small sofas, on a large Persian rug, that faced each other. And for every vase in the room, there was another across the room in a symmetrical location. It was this subtlety of balance that suggested control, power, and influence.
“Vice Chairman, your guest is here.”
“Let him wait a moment.” After several decades of training, Choe knew the art of power. One too readily available could not be a wielder of real power.
Choe knew how to wield power. It was the military cadre, and especially the old generals, that 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, he thought.
“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 use
d here.
“You’ve been one of our finest customers,” Astef said, “and have helped our common causes greatly.”
“I understand the last shipment of No Dongs was received in Tehran, and is of great benefit to your people,” said Choe.
“Yes, indeed. The No Dong will surely give pause to the infidel westerners.” Astef was an arms merchant for small Muslim countries in both the Gulf and North African regions.
“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. Choe backed off.
“How are your children, Astef?”
“Oh, very good, sir. They are in school in Cairo and doing very well.” Mohammed Astef was an upper-class Egyptian by birth—trained as an engineer in the finest of Egyptian colleges.
“And how did you travel here?” Choe asked.
“Oh, through Moscow, Mr. Vice Chairman,” said Astef.
The doors swung open and 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, Astef,” said Choe, “what causes your hesitation, 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 in New York had little affected the North’s willingness to sell its weapons to willing buyers. “Which No Dong system do you have in mind?”
“Mr. Vice Chairman, we are interested in obtaining a Taepo Dong.”
Choe was taken aback. Everyone knew North Korea did not sell its front-line 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.”
“Yes,” said Choe.
“I must apologize, but we’ve heard of the missiles’ projected capabilities. We know 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-3’s—at three hundred million dollars per missile.”
Choe tried not to react, but six hundred 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 a mobile platform capable of carrying 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 and is not designed to be portable.”
“Yes, sir, but perhaps with a generous down payment, we could fund additional work to improve its portability.”
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 Somalia 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.”
“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, but he had been surprised before by both countries’ support of North Korean arms deals. The only conflicts that had arisen were those where China and Russia competed as sellers. Here, they would never be so bold as to have their names connected with an intercontinental missile deal.
“As a show of good faith, we’re prepared to provide one hundred million to assist you in your development of portability,” 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 later No Dong missiles.”
“Yes,” said Choe. “That would help us both.”
Astef knew he was asking a lot—even from North Korea. But he and Al Qaeda also knew how badly the DPRK needed cash. Al Qaeda would be badly hurt if a revolt within the top reaches of North Korea’s government destroyed its chief source of missile weaponry.
Choe stood up 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, Sin. Meet me at my regular office.” Choe preferred to return to the comfort of his small, plain sanctuary.
Chapter 16
Ready, Colonel?” 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 sweatsuit. 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, Colonel, 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 tee 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 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 blood-stained 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 draw attention. 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 via 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 dedicated to staying in shape—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. Every word, every conversation they had, was in Hanguk, at least initially, and Will appreciated her dedication.
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.
Mi was shocked that it had little physical effect on Will. Once they began running and he got into the pace, Will attacked the hills as fast and ferociously as before.
“What is it?” She asked the question but already had a good guess.
“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.