Darke Mission

by Scott Caladon

  “Tell him we’ll get him all that if we believe he is truthful and that his information is useful,” stressed JJ, after the Iceman translated. The Iceman relayed the message to Ji-hun. The young North Korean was pensive.

  “Can I trust you?” he asked meekly.

  “I brought you breakfast as promised, didn’t I?” replied the Iceman. While a token baguette for breakfast was no guarantee of a new life and nine million won, Ji-hun gauged that it was the best offer he was likely to get in the foreseeable future. As he was now officially on holiday, and had no friends or family expecting to see him, he would not be missed for at least a week. That was sufficient time, he thought, to either be rotting away with a bullet in his head in the trunk of a car or, alternatively, enough time to be getting used to Gangnam life. In either case, it was a no brainer.

  “OK,” said Ji-hun. “I accept.” With that he shook the Iceman’s hand, supporting his right forearm with his left hand, in the traditional and respectful Korean way. He exchanged nods of agreement with JJ, and the Scot re-holstered his Glock and put away his lighter.

  For the next twenty minutes Sun Ji-hun sang like a bird. The central bank’s vaults were indeed one level below ground level, as JJ and Victor had thought. They could be accessed by the main elevator, a service lift or down some stairs. The security detail on this level was primarily based in a bullet proof, glass fronted lockable office, normally with one or two guards inside. They had monitors and video surveillance equipment trained on the main vault where precious metals, cash and many safe deposit boxes were kept. Ji-hun wasn’t certain but he thought that the vault had a dual combination lock because the only times he had seen it being opened, it required two executives to do it. Ji-hun added that the vault door also had a digital clock embedded in it, with a key pad underneath. Ji-hun continued to unload his information. JJ was taking notes, while the Iceman translated and kept eye contact with the moaner, making him feel appreciated.

  It was nearly 8am and, in the distance, they could see the industrial region’s workers make their way through the main gates of the estate. Perhaps Ji-hun could have made a break for it, or yelled his head off, but he knew that the bad motherfucker foreigner would kill him. In any case, he was warming to his new found job as an informant and allowed himself a brief happy thought about his forthcoming life.

  Ji-hun’s information was helpful and his final useful contribution was to tell JJ and the Iceman about the timing of the security guards shifts in the vaults, in the main hall and on the front door of the DPRK’s central bank.

  JJ and the Iceman stepped outside, intimating to Ji-hun not to move, and keeping low behind the car’s body shell.

  “That was useful?” said the Iceman to JJ, part statement and part question.

  “Yes, it was,” replied JJ. “We can get working on the time of the guards’ shifts to gauge precisely when they’re at their most lean and I’ll give the vault information to Victor.”

  “Are we going to waste Ji-hun?” asked the Iceman, somewhat coldly thought JJ.

  “No, we’re not Iceman,” came JJ’s firm reply. “We’re going to stick to our word, so that we don’t wake up in a cold sweat every night with a troubled conscience!”

  “What are we going to do with him then? We can’t leave him here, we can’t take him across the border right now and we can’t go waltzing into the central bank with him,” pointing out the somewhat obvious to JJ.

  “I’m working on it,” replied JJ. “For the moment, let’s stick him in the back of the Sprinter van with the ‘Toblerones’. When we’re on the move you get in touch with deep cover Kwon, his unique skills may be required again.”

  The Iceman nodded and the pair of them escorted Sun Ji-hun to the back of the Sprinter van. Ethel and Victor were a little taken aback to see the young North Korean, looking pale and tired, scramble between six triangular conveyor systems. He seemed docile enough though and bowed politely to them.

  “Ji-hun,” said JJ, introducing their captive. “He’s here to help.”

  * * *

  Kwon Min-ho had been undercover in Pyongyang for two years. He was twenty-eight years old, about 5ft 10in, well built, but not fat. His black, straight hair was cut short in keeping with the standard look of many of the DPRK’s official tourist guides. His eyes were dark brown and there was nothing spectacular about him, at least to the eye. This was good news for a deep cover operative. Most of the time Kwon was assigned to the Konyo hotel in Pyongyang, one of the three major hotels in the city designed specifically to cater for foreigners. He reported to the assistant manager of the Konyo, who also happened to be the senior state secret police officer on site.

  In his two years there, Kwon had shopped a couple of foreigners to his boss. This needed to be done to maintain cover and the two people he had shopped were very unpleasant, one Russian and one American, who had only committed minor misdemeanours. The American wouldn’t do what he was told regarding photography and the Russian was always complaining about the food, both inside and outside the hotel. They were deported, but apart from a bit of a rough man handling, both men returned to their respective countries in one piece.

  Kwon was not a CIA officer and had not been trained at either of the two main CIA training sites in the United States. By quirk of fate, he was born in Israel to South Korean parents. His father had been seconded to the University of Tel Aviv from Seoul’s Hankuk University of Foreign Studies and his mother came along for the ride. Dad enjoyed it so much he stayed. His mother, tragically, had been killed by a Hamas suicide bomber in the centre of a Tel Aviv market in 1996. From that day Min-ho had vowed to fight terrorism in any way he could.

  He was a bright boy, attended his dad’s university, studying medicine and political history. It was an odd academic combination and he had to get special permission from the university’s board to do it, but his dad was head of the History department so that helped. From the university, Min-ho moved to the Centre for Political Research, the intelligence branch of the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs and then on to Shin Bet. Most folk were familiar with Mossad as the main Israeli intelligence service. Mossad was concerned primarily with overseas intelligence work. After Min-ho’s mother’s death, however, he wanted to contribute to the internal security of his adopted country and that was the responsibility of Shin Bet.

  Min-ho’s tenure at Shin Bet was productive. After failing, in 1995, to prevent the assassination of the Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin by a right wing Israeli radical, the domestic intelligence service was overhauled completely. Foreigners, or those who looked foreign but were Israeli, like Min-ho, were fast-tracked through the service. The new bosses took the view that to target and recognise domestic terror threats, the intelligence operatives needed to appear as multi-cultural as the likely perpetrators. North Korea had links with Syria and they, in turn, with Hamas. It was a soldier in Hamas’ military wing, the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigade, who had murdered Min-ho’s mother.

  The Shin Bet leadership and that of Mossad, the CIA and the FBI occasionally held joint consultations. They agreed on many intelligence issues and disagreed on some. One item they agreed upon was that deep undercover operatives needed to blend in better with their surroundings like a bottle of Coke in a Manhattan café. The US and Israeli intelligence services were urged to cooperate even more closely, as many of their enemies were common. From a memorandum that followed one of these joint consultations, Min-ho found himself seconded to the CIA, Seoul branch, under the auspices of Jim Bradbury.

  Of the CIA officers in Seoul, only Jim knew his real name. Today, though, Kwon had a rare day off. It was around 8am but he was still lolling about in his pyjamas, eating some juk and plain toast and drinking a mug of green tea. He hadn’t quite decided what to do today. He might make his way to the Kaesŏng industrial estate and pick up the car he had left for his two Seoul colleagues that he had never met, or he may wait till Saturday when the road from Pyongyang to Kaesŏng would be busier with weekend
drivers. Alternatively, it was a pleasant spring morning in the capital, sunny and not humid. It may be a day for a stroll along the banks of the Taedong River, relax, have a coffee, chill.

  As he was mulling over his options, Kwon’s pyjama pants began to vibrate. It was his cell phone, the secure one used only by his CIA colleagues. Once answered, the itinerary for his day would be set. It may involve the Taedong river, but it wasn’t going to involve chilling. It was a text message.

  Kwon, meet us at Songnim, close to the river port. We’ll be parked up in a dark blue van near a couple of PetroChina fuel tankers. ASAP. Iceman.

  While Kwon had never met Kim Chun-so, he knew his nickname was the Iceman, and it was also his communication call sign. As Kwon was getting dressed for his day out after replying to the Iceman, he was churning over in his mind as to why the Iceman and team were in the North two days running. That was unusual, if not unheard of. He said ‘we’ in his message so he wasn’t solo. Still, yesterday must have gone OK, Kwon thought, since the Iceman is clearly still alive.

  Kwon made his way to Songnim by railway. It was easier and he had not received any instructions to the contrary about being mobile. As he was strolling through the river port, he spotted the blue van and the PetroChina tankers. They didn’t look that out of place. This was a relatively busy seaport, with many loadings, unloadings, tankers, containers, vans and lorries. There weren’t any petrol or gas facilities though, but many long distance drivers parked there, like a lay-bye, to have a snooze or a snack or both.

  Jim Bradbury saw Kwon coming. He donned a plain, dark baseball cap and stepped out of one of the tankers’ cabs. He still had his suit on, so he looked a bit fashion stupid but better stupid than having his foreign face stand out.

  “Min-ho,” said Jim, giving Kwon a firm handshake. “It’s really great to see you,” he continued, meaning it wholeheartedly. It was not easy being deep cover and seeing Kwon alive and well made Bradbury feel good inside.

  “Hi Jim,” replied Kwon, also happy to see his boss. “Guess you guys aren’t here on a tourist package,” he joked, nodding in the direction of the tankers and van.

  “Guess not, my friend,” replied Jim. “C’mon you need to meet some folks.”

  Kwon, the Iceman and Lily stood at the side of one of the tankers, out of plain sight, and gave each other a warm Korean handshake, with a few backslaps thrown in.

  “Hey Kwon, your new nickname is ‘the Doctor’,” said Lily with mirth. “Because the stuff you left us yesterday was spot on.”

  “I like that,” replied Kwon. “I do have a medical qualification and my mum was a big fan of the sci-fi TV show.”

  Under different circumstances JJ would have been content for the bonhomie to continue but time was flying and they were dawdling in a North Korean seaport. There was sure to be a military presence there. JJ stepped out of his tanker’s cab, committing the same fashion faux pas as Jim Bradbury.

  “Hi Kwon,” he greeted the Doctor with a warm handshake. “I’m JJ Darke. I’m an ex-MI5 officer, good friends with Jim Bradbury and, for better or worse, the team leader for this mission. Great job yesterday, thank you, your work is much appreciated.”

  Kwon returned the greeting. He knew that standing on the Songnim dockside was not the place for the many questions he had for JJ Darke. Before departing Songnim for Pyongyang, JJ, Jim and Kwon sat in the cab of one of the tankers. JJ and Jim gave Kwon much of the information he needed to know and answers to most of the questions he asked.

  It appeared that Kwon’s immediate responsibility was to babysit the moaner Ji-hun. JJ wanted Kwon to keep Ji-hun with him that night, but to stay in contact in case he was required. If all went well then the next morning Kwon was to deliver Ji-hun across the border to awaiting PAU operatives, with his nine million won intact. The CIA team at PAU would then organise Ji-hun the correct papers, a new identity and a South Korean passport, as promised. Kwon thought that it was a lot of effort for one day’s worth of snitching but he was professional and would do his best. He also admired the fact that this JJ Darke wanted to keep a promise in a profession where promises were often worth ziltch.

  It was 9.30am and it was time to leave. Ethel, Victor and Ji-hun were in the Sprinter van, Jim Bradbury, Kwon and Lily in one tanker, and JJ with the Iceman in the other. The road from Songnim to Pyongyang was straight and should take about thirty-five minutes to get to the targeted petrol station to park the tankers. There was only one checkpoint on the remaining part of the road, near Chollima. Hopefully it would be as simple as the crossing at Kaesŏng. It wasn’t.

  The road was quite busy, insofar as any roads in North Korea could be termed busy. It certainly was not the M25 car park but there was a short tail-back at the checkpoint. One of the military guards had recently been promoted and, that morning, he was clearly hell-bent on thoroughness.

  The Iceman was driving the lead truck and the guard asked him to step out of the cab. He checked his papers completely. They seemed fine but then he spotted JJ. With his rifle pointing at JJ he made the Scot get out of the cab and started barking orders at him. Of course, JJ hadn’t a clue what he was saying but the Iceman translated. Do not move and give me your papers was the gist of the barking. JJ handed them over. Jim Bradbury saw the mini commotion, got out of his cab and walked, slowly and unthreateningly towards JJ. While the guard was inspecting JJ’s papers, Jim politely interrupted. He explained in Korean to the guard why they were on the road. Delivering new petrol tankers from PetroChina to Pyeonghwa Motors in Pyongyang. He handed the guard the letters of authorisation from Pyeonghwa Motors along with all the other necessary paperwork. Your average military guard at these checkpoints would probably just look at the papers, maybe peek into the trucks and, if all seemed in order, then that would be that. Not this soldier on this morning. He signalled to his buddy to stand guard over these foreigners and their indigenous companions while he went to call Lee Gun-woo, Assistant Vice President for Logistics at Pyeonghwa Motors.

  Lee was real enough, Victor had discovered correctly who the man in charge of transport vehicle logistics at Pyeonghwa was, but he hadn’t ordered any new petrol tankers from PetroChina. The rest of the Darke mission team realised that something wasn’t going smoothly. They had a vast array of weaponry with them, and they would have liked to be getting prepared if there was to be a shootout. Their vast array of weapons, however, was still snug as a bug in a rug in the Gore-Tex waterproof bags in the tankers. They were, de facto, totally unarmed.

  “Hello, Kim Min-su speaking, personal assistant to AVP Lee,” said the pleasant voice at the end of the telephone.

  “This is Lieutenant Muk Woo-jin from the Chollima checkpoint, may I speak to Lee Gun-woo?”

  “AVP Lee is on one day’s vacation, Lieutenant, can I be of any assistance?” replied Min-su.

  Muk thought for a moment. He could try and get Lee’s PA to track him down, but that would probably take a while and the tail-back at the checkpoint was building up. While he wanted to be thorough, Muk didn’t want to cause a traffic jam. One of the ruling party’s politicians or army generals may be in the queue and he didn’t want a bollicking for being overzealous. Lee Gun-woo existed alright and the letter of authorisation seemed real enough. It was probably OK, he thought, but I’ll ask one more question anyway.

  “Ms. Kim, are you aware of AVP Lee authorising the delivery of two PetroChina tankers to your company?”

  Kim Min-su tried to open up her work email account on her antiquated computer. Everything electronic was going slow this morning and she wanted to catch a tea break with her friend. When the cat’s away, the mouse will have a tea break she thought. This lieutenant fellow could be on the phone all day if I don’t get rid of him.

  “I do not recall, Lieutenant, but we often take delivery of cars and trucks from China. If the driver has a letter of authority from AVP Lee I am sure it is in order.”

  “Thank you,” said Muk, and hung up. Lieutenant Muk Woo-jin waved the Darke mission co
nvoy through.

  There were silent sighs of relief all round in the PetroChina tankers and the Sprinter van. This mission was moving rapidly towards the business end of matters and with it the concomitant risk of discovery, imprisonment and death.

  * * *

  Dannielle Eagles phoned in sick that morning. She told her friend Carolyn that she had eaten some bad fish and was chucking up all over the place. Carolyn wished her a speedy recovery and said that she’d pop round to see her later in the day.

  In truth, Danniellle wasn’t feeling that great, but it was more in the mind than in the stomach. She really wanted to know why JJ Darke was in town and she really wanted to know the status of Operation Philidor Defence. Carolyn hadn’t been very forthcoming on the former though Dannielle did conclude that effective radio silence on the latter was to be expected. Yet, she still had a disturbing feeling in her gut, not the result of bad fish, but of nervous tension.

  It was nearly midday in Seoul, so close to 7am in Moscow. Time to phone Mother Russia, Dannielle felt.

  Dannielle’s apartment in Gangnam was very pleasant. It was on a short term let, just for two weeks. She was on the fourth floor of a high-rise building, roughly equidistant from Gangnam station and the PAU Travel office. Carolyn was on the sixth floor. It made sense for them to be close, they worked with each other, got on well and went to the Gangnam office every day, bar today, together.

  Today, though, Dannielle went into the keypad lockable safe in the wardrobe of her bedroom and extracted her iPhone. It wasn’t any old iPhone but one with a Thuraya Satnav sleeve attached which turned it into a satellite phone. It weighed 3½ ounces and was a bit bulkier than a naked iPhone but the sleeve meant that you could make secure calls from more or less anywhere in the world, with a guaranteed signal and unobstructed transmission. It was not NGA issue. Dannielle only used this phone on special occasions. Today was one of those. Dannielle dialled, she was through.