“But I—”
“The Supreme Leader is not going to be pleased when a Chief of Security allows a senior engineer and his lab assistant wife to leave North Korea with state secrets that involve the most sensitive aspects of our nuclear weapons.”
“Wait—”
“You yourself have heard the Supreme Leader tell us how much he depends on having small working nuclear weapons that will begin the destruction and ultimate fall of the Americans and their allies in Japan and Europe.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We? . . . This is a security problem of your making.” Ju waited for the impact of that statement to sink in.
“Regardless . . . we have to do something.”
“Let me think about it . . . let’s meet after dinner,” said Ju who immediately launched his intelligent and scheming brain on a desperate search for a brilliant solution to this devastating problem.
But first Ju had to check out his nephew’s cabin to see if it was true that the young man and wife were AWOL.
Was Col. Cha trying to entrap him into criminal behavior?
Ju also wanted to search the cabin and find out if he could save his own life.
Did my treacherous nephew leave behind any evidence that will lead to an ugly torture session followed by my public execution?
Ju doubted if Sik Yoon had stolen any plans, drawings, or documents. Col. Cha and Ju were the only persons who were exempt from searches of their person and belongings when entering or leaving the compound.
~ ~ ~
A bitter wind swept down the mountains. Darkness shrouded the compound except for the dismal yellow lights at the main gate. The two men gathered to smoke Chinese cigarettes a few yards from Ju’s cabin. The Zhongnanhai brand had been Chairman Mao’s favorite blend.
“So?”
“Take a car with your most trustworthy man to Chongjin. Pick up a man and woman who look like the two traitors. Tell them that they’re under investigation. Bring them up here. Make sure that you don’t take any shortcuts.”
“What do you mean by shortcuts?”
“I mean that you are not to pick anyone up in a village or town. That would attract attention. The city is more anonymous.”
“Then what?”
“Make sure that before you leave you go to the traitors’ cabin. Get a set of men’s and women’s underwear . . . clothes . . . and shoes from their closet. On your way back here stop and pull off the road at the small valley that’s right before ours.”
“Then what?”
“Order the man and woman to take off their clothes and shoes . . . everything. Take their identity papers and burn them here in the compound. Make sure that you bury everything else where no one can find it.”
“Then what?”
“Order the man and woman to change into the traitor’s clothing and shoes. Tell them that they need to be presentable . . . that they’re actually going to meet and be rewarded by the Supreme Leader himself. Make sure that they believe that they will not suffer or be interrogated.”
“Then what?”
“Make sure that they feel calm. Give them food . . . see if they can drink a little alcohol to soften them up. Give them cigarettes. Fatten them up with compliments.”
“Then what?”
“Come back here. Make sure you arrive late and that you have men at the gate who won’t look closely at your passengers or challenge you or ask to search the car.”
“Then what?”
“Take your guests to the traitor’s cabin. Be quiet and quick . . . gently garrote them. Put them on their bed. Then get behind your man and cut his throat. Cut the throats of the two in the bed. Then put the knife in your man’s hand. Drop cigarette butts on the floor. Set a slow burning fire on the two bodies in the bed . . . make sure that their faces are completely torched . . . unrecognizable. Hopefully most of the cabin will burn down.”
“It’s a great plan. But I see a few problems.”
“All plans have some problems. But this is what we have to do before someone else discovers that they’re missing.”
“Then what?” said Col. Cha.
“You will investigate and determine that it was a double murder followed by a suicide. Make sure that you drop some well-worded hints about how your man was obsessed and in love with Sik Yoon’s wife.”
“Then what?”
“You will ask me to identify the bodies. I will do so. You will file your report and we will bury them out there by the river with the others.”
“I hope this works,” said a sullen Col. Cha. “Otherwise. . . .”
“We will suffer the unthinkable.”
~ ~ ~
Ju Kyu Chang could not fall asleep.
Would the colonel have gone along with my plan if he had known about one little fact that I didn’t tell him about?
What would happen if someone discovered that I stupidly gave my nephew and his wife the money and permission to travel all the way to Tumangang on the border with Russia?
Who would believe me that I believed their lies . . . that they were going to visit her family?
How did these two rats ever think that they were going to cross the Tumen River into Russia or China?
Crossing the border used to be possible during the regime of Supreme Leader’s father. Guards were easily bribed. But no more. Our Supreme Leader has moved in new troops and clamped down on legal and illegal crossings.
The dragon of terror squeezed Ju’s heart and chewed at his intestines.
He figured it out. Sik Yoon and his wife had been recruited by Russian or Chinese intelligence. Only a spy agency from the neighboring countries had the resources to pull the two traitors out of North Korea.
Ju Kyu Chang wept. He should never have hired Sik Yoon or taken him on overseas trips. An ungrateful idiot weakling like Sik Yoon would easily get ensnared by foreign spies.
“Ingrates!” he screamed into his pillow.
The tears dried up. But not his rage. Ju wished that he had caught the two traitors in time. He would have enjoyed torturing and executing Sik Yoon and his pretty wife.
Death did not scare him.
Last month he began to suspect that one of the kidnaped Japanese engineers was engaged in sabotage. He asked Col. Cha to execute four of them as a lesson to everyone who worked in the compound. The mutilated and bullet-riddled bodies were now buried down by the river with so many others.
Ju’s stomach gurgled. Hunger and stress twisted his innards. He had to calm down. After all the Supreme Leader needed him.
Who could be against him when the Supreme Leader was with him?
The dragon of terror retreated as soon as Ju thought about the generous gift of ox bone soup from the Supreme Leader. Ju dreamed that he was savoring the exquisite soup once more. A short while later he saw himself gorging on an endless banquet of delicacies piled up high.
My cup and my bowl shall run over when I am rewarded for my work with nuclear weapons.
Ju’s heart and mind felt at peace with the sure knowledge that it was better for many to die and be sacrificed so that one could live.
It was better this way. This is the way of man and the world.
BOOK TWO: THE TRAP
There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself.
— Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye
Chapter 7/Syv
MOSCOW, RUSSIA: MORNING OF TUESDAY
JULY 12, OR THREE MONTHS AFTER THE DAY
Ivan Navalny’s boss was known as “The Cloud”. Cigarette smoke always shrouded his head with a nicotine halo.
“Report to a meeting with Colonel Timur Samirovich Valiulin. He expects you at his office promptly at noon.”
Moscow Police Lt. Col. Ivan Navalny reread the order. His morning cup of coffee acquired the flavor of day-old bile. He thought about the strange wording of the last sentence.
Does The Cloud expect me to be late to a meeting?
Why does he expect me to be a no-show?
Who decided that I have to meet with scum like Valiulin?
Lt. Col. Navalny took another sip of the bitter gall and headed straight to his boss’s office. “What business do we have with Valiulin? . . . Why do I have to go meet him?”
His boss struck a match. The flame kissed a cigarette in his mouth. Thin strips of smoke rose from two other lit Sobranies on the ashtray. “That’s what you’re going to find out.”
~ ~ ~
Navalny left his office at 38 Petrovka. Criminals know the police headquarters building as The Old Lady. The edifice had started out as the elegant mansion of Prince Shcherbatov more than 200 years ago. But like many a portly and aging matron she had aged into a depressing and imposing structure that was at odds with the attractive, sleek, and modern buildings in the affluent Tverskoy District in central Moscow. Older Russians still looked at the building with fear and loathing because it had once served—along with Lubyanka—as the nerve center of Stalin’s reign of communist terror.
“Here we go,” said Navalny as he squeezed his lanky 6-foot frame inside the tiny and hideous Zaporozhet.
The car from the Soviet era was an embarrassment if not an insult. But at least it got him around town when it worked or when he was given a gasoline allowance. Navalny found it outrageous that a senior policeman like himself had to drive such a heap around Moscow—the city with the most billionaires in the world. And yet the grotesque and outdated vehicle was the only transportation that he could muster from the Moscow Police, which is better known as GUVD or Main Department of Internal Affairs of Moscow.
Navalny had plenty of time to think in the infernal traffic jam about Col. Timur Samirovich Valiulin.
He’s a snake . . . a hatchet man who does the dirty work for the powers that be. . . .
The colonel had made his reputation early on when he became the deputy chief of the 16th Division of the Moscow GUVD’s Directorate for Combating Economic Crime (UBEP). Valiulin caught the eye of President Putin who then promoted Valiulin from fighting organized crime to fighting terrorists and extremists as the head of the Moscow Police’s “E-Center” or Center for Combating Extremism.
Valiulin is dangerous. I must be careful.
The colonel had amassed incredible power because Russia’s President and his henchmen define all political opposition as extremists and terrorists. Valiulin’s expertise in organized crime was soon employed to destroy so-called “enemies of the state” by examining, auditing, and criminalizing the legitimate bank accounts and business activities of anyone who dissented or criticized the people at the very top of government and business.
Valiulin is not just dangerous . . . he’s beyond dangerous. He’s a threat now that the President appointed him to a new office in the Russian federation government.
Navalny parked his car in front of 16 Zhitnaya Street by driving up on a broad sidewalk that was already packed with government workers’ cars. He was curious about Col. Valiulin’s new job at the Ministry of Internal Affairs. He walked towards the modern white building which vaguely reminded him of a small version of CIA headquarters at Langley.
Valiulin must be licking lots of boots if his office is on the top floor.
~ ~ ~
A discrete sign in the hallway announced:
CENTER FOR COMBATING EXTREMISM.
A chigger of jealousy dug into Navalny. He resented Col. Valiulin’s presidential appointment as the head of the E-Center for the entire country. Navalny simply could not accept that someone as dangerous as Valiulin was now in charge of all anti-terrorism and anti-extremism activities in Russia.
A beautiful but pretentious blond secretary looked down her nose at Navalny. “Yes?”
“Here to see Timur.”
A hint of a frown marred the woman’s exquisite features. She obviously did not approve of Navalny’s disrespectful use of her boss’s first name. “And you are? . . .”
“Ivan . . . Ivan Navalny.”
“Please wait to be called inside.”
Navalny examined the expensive but bland artwork on the wall. He did not look forward to dealing with a ruthless back-stabbing power-grabber.
“This way please,” said a slightly less pretentious male assistant.
Navalny followed the armed and smartly uniformed aide. Vague feelings of inadequacy washed over Navalny. His cheap civilian suit felt grossly inadequate. He wondered if he should start wearing his uniform and carrying his official gun.
~ ~ ~
Col. Timur Samirovich Valiulin sat behind a massive burl ash desk in an imposing corner office. The man was a sharp well-dressed werewolf. He had a thick and trimmed black beard that hid all facial expressions. Valiulin wore a solid helmet of black hair on his head and a sleek wardrobe that reeked of Ermenegildo Zegna. The hirsute colonel pointed at a chair and said:
“Have a seat. . . . So we meet again.”
“It was bound to happen. What’s this meeting about?”
“I need to know something.”
Navalny said nothing. He was going to make it difficult for the newest enforcer of Russian tyranny and corruption.
“How loyal are you?” said Valiulin.
“As loyal as you are.”
“That’s an interesting answer. Very interesting.”
Navalny crossed his legs. “Colonel . . . why do you find it interesting? . . . I’m sure that there are plenty of loyal citizens beyond these walls.”
The colonel’s obsidian eyes sparkled. “Speaking of loyalty . . . I read the file on your grandfather. He lost his job as a senior customs inspector . . . and never found work after that.”
“Yes,” said Navalny. “His crime was that he refused to take bribes at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo International Airport from communist government officials who came back to Mother Russia . . . loaded with illegal contraband from evil capitalist countries.”
“Your grandmother then had to maintain the family. Correct?”
Navalny remembered his grandmother. Nana walked with a pained sideways shuffle thanks to the arthritis that ravaged her hips and knees. After her husband got axed and blacklisted she had to work like a dog to provide for her family as a registered nurse for decades. “Colonel . . . I’m glad you have enough time to read old K.G.B. files on my grandparents. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”
“Of course I do. . . . I imagine that you’ve had plenty of time over the decades to reflect on what happens to people with a holier-than-thou complex like your grandfather.”
“I have better things to do than taking some mindless trip down memory lane.”
“Actually,” said Col. Valiulin, “I think that reflection is a good thing in a man. Introspection teaches a man to learn from his mistakes. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not big on reflection or introspection. I’m big on action.”
“Do you think that your father took the right action?”
“I don’t think about the past.”
“It would do you good. You would at least remember that your father also lost his job at the university when he spoke up for Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn.”
“What’s done is done. Anything else on your mind?”
“There’s always something else in my mind.”
“Let’s hope so. . . . What is this all about?”
“I know that you keep some operations off the books from the higher-ups. You don’t report everything that your department is doing . . . or you only report a little.”
“What?”
“Do play coy with me.” Valiulin’s wolf eyes flashed in steely angry. “I know this from my days working down there with you at The Old Lady.”
“Colonel. . . . Does this mean that you did the same thing in your anti-extremism unit? . . . Or does your E-Center have off-book operations going on right now?”
“We’re not here to discuss me. We’re here to discuss your operations.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Everything.”
“How many hours
do you have?”
Valiulin broke into a dazzling white smile that was not friendly. “I understand that you have been monitoring the activities of our intelligence services.”
“Your understanding and sources are both wrong.”
“One of your men was spotted last afternoon . . . he was driving an unmarked car on Volgogradsky Prospekt. He had someone under surveillance at the Mercedes Benz dealer. Your man then followed his target to a warehouse on Ostapovsky.”
Navalny kept his poker face intact.
Was my man careless or were Valiulin’s men lucky?
Either way it wasn’t good for Navalny or his department. His man was supposed to be following Col. Pyotr Petrovich Zubkov, a corrupt colonel in the FSB—the successor agency to the KGB. The Federal Security Service was riddled with crooked agents who profited from activities that ranged from protecting organized crime to participating in it. A few agents had already been caught selling state secrets to the highest bidder. Navalny suspected Zubkov to be in that treasonous category.
“I,” said Navalny, “will have to look into that.”
“Are you telling me that you have nothing to do with that operation?”
“I have a lot going on. I’ll find out who was there and get back to you.”
“You better. Or else. . . .”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a reminder that you are legally obligated to cooperate with me and my department.”
“Tell me something,” said Navalny as he stood up.
“What do you want to know?”
“Since when did truth—honesty—and integrity become a form of extremism?”
“My friend. Don’t be naive. Or stupid. Truth . . . honesty . . . and integrity have their limits.”
“Do they?”
“Anything and everything . . . even truth and honesty can be taken to extremes . . . the same goes for integrity.”
~ ~ ~
The gloomy Brezhnev-era apartment building swallowed up Navalny into its proletarian grayness. And yet he looked forward to dinner with his family. He would soon be greeted by appetizing smells from the kitchen and the chatter of his wife and two sons. He opened the door. The apartment was, however, utterly empty. His eyes immediately fell on the blinking red light of their outdated phone message machine.
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 8