A Northern Thunder

by Andy Harp

  Chapter 18

  Exempted from all the usual restrictions, Rei had been allowed to keep his apartment for several years now. It was unheard of for a single person to live in such an expansive apartment in North Korea, and initially caused his few neighbors suspicion. Rei, after all, was not a known party leader or a military commander.

  His apartment was on the edge of what was called the Forbidden Zone or Forbidden City, where a high solid wall and armed guards kept everyone out but the elite. Plump, full-faced girls in starched khaki uniforms and bright, red-starred hats, armed with machine guns, guarded the few entrances. It was here that the powerful members of the central committee, the generals, the admirals, and the many central marshals all lived—with ample food, Mercedes cars, and numerous Western amenities. It was here, out of sight of the ill-fed people of Pyongyang, that Kim Il Sung’s select few lived in homes and apartments far above the city’s crude one-room cinderblock huts, where packed-in families slept together on dirt floors. Those on the outside could never look in.

  Several years earlier, the local block commander had demanded Rei’s apartment, which was on the top floor of a small building overlooking the Taedong River. The porch faced east, so its occupant could watch the sun as it rose across the river in the mornings. The apartment request had been summarily denied by higher authority, and the commander was never able to determine who the decision-maker was. As with all dictatorships, many had license to use nondescript superiors as authority to issue orders. Often, one would hear, “The Ministry of Defense does not allow it.” However, in this case, the commander was simply told that Rei was to be left alone.

  His curiosity ignited, the commander bribed Rei’s housekeeper to gain access. One day, when Rei was gone, the commander slipped past the unlocked mahogany door into a small separate entrance room, which led to another set of dark, oversized, elaborately carved wooden doors. Rei could lock out the world with this double entrance. The commander removed his shoes as he swung open the inner door and looked inside. The expanse of the room was overwhelming and intimidating, with deep red Persian rugs, accented with crystal lamps and tufted leather chairs, representing opulence he had never before seen. On virtually every space on the walls were Western-style oil paintings. The commander quickly concluded that Rei was untouchable. He quietly closed the door, put on his shoes, and left.

  Rei knew the block commander had been there because the loyalty of his housekeeper was absolute. The commander had been allowed to look inside only after Rei had given his approval, because he knew the old man’s curiosity, unless satisfied, would only grow. It was important for the commander to know Rei was way out of his league.

  Rei’s apartment in the Forbidden City was located at the end of a short alley with no street name or street signs. The lack of street signs was another example of North Korea’s paranoia. It was intended to prevent an invading army from coordinating their maps to city streets. If a society didn’t care whether Federal Express could find an address, the lack of street signs would be a powerful tool to slow down an invading army.

  From one end of Rei’s apartment, he could see the small islet in the center of the Taedong River, where the two circular towers of the high-rise, ultra-modern Yanggakdo Hotel blocked most of the enormous Yanggakdo soccer stadium at the other end. If he looked another way, Rei could see the behemoth Juche tower. Of the many memorials to Kim Il Sung, this was, by far, the largest and most dominant. The gray structure, with a gold flame at the top, was shaped like an enormous radio tower constructed out of stone, and was designed to be visible from all of Pyongyang. The city, in fact, was filled with monuments, massive tombstones, and behemoth buildings on open boulevards. It was an opulent graveyard honoring one man. Even from the grave, Kim Il Sung commanded constant visual reminders of his stranglehold on the people.

  Rei thought of Pyongyang as special in its own, peculiar way. This place of nearly two million people was a quiet, open city that acted like a shy girl. She didn’t bother you and often seemed to avoid you. One saw few cars, little air pollution, and few bicycles. And the city was immaculately clean. Teams of small gray-haired women were constantly sweeping.

  It also seemed a city forever operating at a Sunday pace. Most of its residents quietly stayed away from the downtown. Old Soviet ZIS-150 cars and packed trolleys were common. The ZIS-150s, built like clumsy brutes, were run for hundreds of thousands of miles. Crude red stars painted on the doors indicated that an ZIS-150 had survived another fifty thousand kilometers. Many cars were covered with rows of red stars.

  Here, Rei did not need to look over his shoulder. His one pass, a badge from the security police, gave him unlimited license. He could have anyone arrested without question, demand anything without payment, even commit murder without consequences.

  Rei would plan each of his missions in the apartment. Many years ago, it would take several months, but Rei had his small study wired for broadband internet service. The internet was unavailable to most North Koreans—access to the unlimited flood of information was forbidden. Less than a few dozen in the city of Pyongyang had access, and Rei was one of them. He had found the internet a bottomless well of information that helped him plot each mission in detail.

  When he was ready to leave for a mission, a government driver would meet Rei at the end of the alley, always before dawn. Rei made it a point, as much as possible, to leave well before the city awoke. Even in Pyongyang, Rei did not want to give anyone the opportunity to track his activities. He and the driver would rarely talk in the car.

  The driver, much shorter than Rei, wore a gray-blue, zippered jacket, the common uniform of the Stalinistic state. Years of smoking had left him with large stained teeth that he often showed with a broad smile. An employee of the state police, he had a reputation for trustworthiness. They would drive the twenty-four kilometers out of the city to the Sunam airport, with no traffic during the entire ride. Pyongyang was largely without traffic on its busiest day, let alone before dawn.

  Rei altered his air routes as much as possible. Pyongyang was mostly limited to three main portals. He would fly North Korea’s Air Koryo to Beijing, Moscow, or Berlin. Occasionally, to break up his pattern, Rei would take the train to Wonsan, several hours to the east on the Sea of Japan, where he would board the cruiser SamJiyan and cross over to Japan. The SamJiyan, a small passenger vessel, traveled to Nagasaki, giving him the cover of a Japanese tourist returning home. Once in Tokyo, he could take flights to anywhere in the world. But this nautical route into Japan was available only once a month, and added substantial time to his journey.

  The third route, by very far the least preferred, was via the border. Every square inch had been mined, booby-trapped, or barb-wired. But the North maintained several tunnels—some much smaller than others—that permeated the line. Rei rarely used this portal and chose it, only when necessary, as the emergency escape route when coming back from the South.

  At Sunam Airport, Rei checked in, this time using the surname Nakada and a Japanese passport. The clerks at Air Koryo all worked for the state police and had a sense of who Rei was, but questions were never asked. When he passed through customs, his passport was never stamped with a North Korean marker. Only a sharp eye would notice that Rei always arrived but never left. Paid agents on the other end would pass him through the portal without question, and then he entered the international travel flow.

  The aftermath of September 11th actually caused little change for Rei. Security continued to focus on Muslims, not Asians. He often smiled as he saw Security detain an innocent Arab businessman, never knowing the Asian danger passing right through.

  With their red and gold collars and shoulder boards, the uniformed security guards were his last reminder of North Korea before boarding the airplane. Several guards, stiff as cardboard puppets while holding their AK-47s, looked over the passengers as they passed through several gates. Once through security, Rei crossed over the terminal’s spotless linoleum floor to several vendo
rs selling cold noodle dishes. Like birds waiting for crumbs, several old women stood in the corner, waiting with small brooms and dustpans to sweep anything that fell to the floor.

  Rei enjoyed using the same vendor each trip. He always bought a cup of red noodles with rice cakes, cucumbers, and salad. He sat in the corner, eating the dish while waiting for his flight. This was his final homeland treat before re-entering the world on another mission.

  It didn’t start this way, he thought.

  During all his intelligence schooling in North Korea, China, and even Russia, Rei was taught that the spy game was more about subtle intelligence-gathering than assassination. To gain information, one was to recruit disenchanted secretaries or lonely wives, or hack e-mail or internet sites by stealing access passwords. Assassinating targets was the stuff of James Bond, not reality.

  Yet Rei had grown proud of his work’s violent nature. The generals respected him. They knew that if Rei was given a target’s name, the person had received an irreversible death sentence.

  Other nations and organizations used assassination to achieve their goals. Hamas in Palestine and Al Qaeda had ruthlessly murdered for years. Rei, however, participated in a bigger plan. He murdered to help his country gain a clear advantage. He killed for a specific purpose. Peter Nampo and his team would have few challenges when Rei was finished. And it’s so easy, he thought. A random killing by someone lacking repeated contact with the victim. Unprotected scientists who have no suspicion of their fate.

  How remarkable, he thought. These men and women have the ability to affect our world ten times more than any nation’s politician, yet they are as vulnerable as an ordinary street sweeper.

  Today, he would fly to Beijing on Flight 151, and then on to Hong Kong. There, he would change passports and catch a flight to London. His target taught at Oxford University, a brief drive from Gatwick Airport. He would rent a car and be at Oxford an hour or two later.

  Rei had researched his target well. The old professor taught a class on Mondays and spent the remainder of the week at an engineering laboratory just outside London. Using the internet alone, he knew the professor’s class schedule and location. The facility’s parking lots were easy to find on the posted campus map. He even knew where the professor usually parked his car and what route he would take to the lab. As in the past, his planned intersect point would be in a crowded area.

  Once I’m done, he thought, I’ll be back in the car within fifteen minutes. Using a different passport, Rei would leave Heathrow Airport on a short flight to Paris. The passport he would now use would be pre-stamped with a less recent entrance visa to England, and thus cause less suspicion.

  Before the initial autopsy is even begun, I’ll be gone, he thought.

  From Paris, he would fly to Moscow, using yet another identity. In Moscow, his delay would again be very short. His Air Koryo flight left only an hour later, taking him home to Pyongyang.

  The North Korean airplane was simple, with drab brown seats. The Soviet-built airplanes had few amenities. But once on the DPRK’s aircraft, he could show his security badge and feel as if he were on North Korean soil.

  And if he ever sensed the dogs on his trail, Rei would divert to Hong Kong and then to Seoul. Through Seoul, he had access to an underground network of people, and if needed, he could cross the border at an access tunnel. He knew of one tunnel that had not broken through the surface. With a shovel and the right location, a quick dig would open the entrance and allow him to escape. Rei was among a handful who knew where the entrance was.

  And then back home to sleep, he thought as he swallowed the last of the noodles. Even cold-blooded murderers had their havens.

  As for the future, after this set of Peter Nampo missions, they had promised him an instructor’s position at the Academy. Just a few more names, and Rei, at last, would be home free.

  Chapter 19

  The wind had changed direction since the morning, causing a drop in temperature, but Will would make the afternoon run no matter how cold. Over the past several months, the training had hardened his body more than ever. When the Virginia forest turned to bright oranges and reds, Will extended his runs. He would often run with a backpack, carrying some weight and a camelback pouch that provided water without stop. His physical strength was constantly increasing.

  Hamilton had pushed Will the hardest. It wasn’t the weeks of swimming in the pool, or the laps underwater holding his breath. He had pushed Will through all of the SEAL training, with the constant threat that one failure, one letdown, would lead to his recommendation to kill the mission.

  “Yeah, Colonel, just drop it once,” he threatened.

  It was the final week that pushed Will to the limit.

  “Come with me, sir,” Hamilton said, almost with glee. He led him out of the FBI building one morning to a helicopter landing pad behind the main center.

  “What’s up?” Will asked, unsure what to expect.

  Hamilton only looked at his watch. They stood there in silence for a short while until they heard the whoomp, whoomp of a low-flying helicopter. The Blackhawk cut over the tree line, just above the top branches, churning up the leaves in its wake. As it landed, Hamilton pointed to the rear.

  “Get on board, boss,” he said.

  As they strapped into the bird, it tilted up and then nose down as it transitioned to forward movement.

  “Colonel, here is a wet suit, mask, and snorkel. You better go ahead and change quickly,” said Hamilton.

  The helicopter flew across the base and then well out over the Chesapeake Bay. Far beyond the sight of land, it stopped, leveled down low, and hovered.

  “Colonel, we are twenty miles out. I’ll see you when you get back.” Hamilton pointed with his hand to the open door.

  Damn, Will thought as he stepped out of the helicopter and plunged fifty feet into the cold water. The helicopter soon disappeared over the horizon.

  All right, get a direction, feel the current, he thought as he began to move to the west. Conserve energy. He knew the wetsuit would give him the buoyancy not to have to strain as he began to swim.

  It took most of the day and well into the night for Will to make it to shore. He stopped at a farmhouse, where he called a taxi that took him the final thirty miles.

  “Mr. Hamilton,” he said on his return to Quantico, “you owe me fifty dollars for the taxi.”

  Hamilton smiled as he reached into his wallet.

  In fact, the whole team had trained him well. Will was in that rarified air of Ironman endurance, and he knew that, after training, each member of the team would be moved by Krowl to some distant post. Punaros would be retired. Darlin would be reassigned to Afganistan or Pakistan. Underwood, who’d overseen Will’s twice-daily workouts, would be sent to the ends of the Earth. And Hamilton would be assigned to a SEAL team on a submarine, kept out of contact with the world for months at a time. All would be far from one another so as to leave as little trail as possible. Mi’s fate was the most precarious.

  Of all the training, running was especially critical, particularly to this mission. If Will engaged the North Koreans, he would fail. If he could move and flee, he might succeed. His physical training had given him the ability to run twenty to thirty miles at a pace pursuers would not expect. Adrenaline would push him faster and farther. And he had not yet reached his limit.

  “Hey, I’m gone,” said Will, who seemed to startle the agent at the elevator. He was leaning his chair back against the wall.

  “Oh, yeah? Okay.”

  After several months, even the best security would relax.

  Will saw the agent radio the crew on the main floor. “He’s coming down.” Two agents would be waiting downstairs, the black Suburban running. They rarely delayed him. After several months of the same routine, Will remained impressed with their professionalism.

  He also knew Mi would be on the ground floor, ready to go. She was always ready and had never missed a step. Even on the longest runs, she had remai
ned just one pace behind.

  Will had spent all morning with Frank Darlin and several analysts from the Agency. A three-dimensional computer had been set up in a small classroom in the rear of the FBI facility. With multiple holograph projectors, Will could now walk through a landscape of the coastline of North Korea without ever leaving Quantico. For weeks now, he had explored the hillsides, rice paddies, and valleys of the Wonsan coastline, and become more relaxed with his sense of location.

  In Georgia, he was always close to the land. He could feel his direction. On a pitch-black night with low clouds sealing out the stars and moon, he knew exactly where he was. Now he was developing that same sense of direction for a portion of the world he had never visited.

  “What have you got this afternoon?” Will asked as soon as he arrived downstairs.

  Mi stood, as always, in front of the elevator—this time talking to the two Agency men. Will glanced around, making sure they were alone in the lobby. It was just after midday, and virtually all the Academy’s students were in classes and out of sight.

  Mi, too, glanced around, wary as always. “We were just talking about the schedule. You have your final class today with Gunny Punaros.” She had gotten into the habit of calling Punaros by the affectionate Marine Corps title of “Gunny.”

  She and Will had worked together for several months now. The leap of trust had not yet been made, but he had gained respect for her, despite knowing she called in daily or weekly or monthly to report his every move. Long ago, he had recognized her bright mind and curiosity, and knew she was more than a linguist teaching him a foreign language. But because their relationship was building, he imagined it was getting tougher and tougher for her to call in those reports.

  “After that, another run,” Will said. This would be the second ten-mile of the day.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”