Major Lee said nothing.
Minister Choi, with a slow insincere clapping of his hands said, “Very convincing, Goh.” He then gestured to the guards at the door of the interrogation room. The two burly SSD officers returned, part-dragging a man across the floor. He was handcuffed behind his back. Both of his legs were broken due to several hammer blows inflicted on the poor unfortunate earlier in the day by the SSD’s heavies. His hair was sodden with blood and water, the latter being used to wake him up after he had fallen unconscious from the pain of his beatings. Both of his eyes were swollen, his left cheekbone was fractured, he did not have any front teeth left and fresh blood was seeping from his mangled nose. The two heavies tossed the man’s limp body into the space between Minister Choi and Vice Admiral Goh. It was deep cover Kwon.
“This man says differently Vice Admiral,” announced Minister Choi. Kwon had run out of luck. After he had successfully ushered the moaner Ji-hun across the border to South Korea and had made initial contact with the family of the Kaesŏng border soldier, one of the four who had defected, he returned to his apartment in Pyongyang. The secret police were waiting for him. The soldier’s family did not totally believe Kwon’s story. The mother, in particular, thought that it was a set up by the DPRK authorities to test their loyalty to Kim Jong-un. She had received a phone call from her now defected son to tell her that he was okay and that the family should go South, past Songnim and await instructions. The mother did not believe this. If in doubt rat them out was her brain-washed motto. She contacted the SSD and they sprung a trap on Kwon.
Deep cover had hidden most of his incriminating stuff well and the SSD could not link him to Jim Bradbury, JJ or any of his CIA colleagues at PAU Travel. Unfortunately, while checking through Kwon’s clothes, one keen-eyed SSD officer had spotted some small scraps of previously-molten metal in the turn-ups of a pair of Kwon’s work trousers. That same SSD officer had been detailed to check the central bank’s vaults for clues. He had taken as evidence some of the small metal pieces from the floor, left behind from Victor Pagari’s thermal lance. He was sure they matched those in Kwon’s pants. When your luck’s out, it can be really out. Deep cover Kwon had not even been in the central bank’s vaults for long. The small, metal fragments must have come from Victor’s bag and a few of them accidently transferred to Kwon’s trousers. Deep cover was hauled off by the secret police. He had been interrogated, beaten, tortured for most of the time that Goh and Park had been having it relatively easy in the interview room.
Kwon was tough and much stronger than his skinny frame suggested. The secret police thugs kept beating on him. ‘Who stole the gold? Who stole the submarine?’ they screamed at him in between punches and kicks. Kwon genuinely had no idea about a stolen submarine so he wasn’t going to be able to blab on that one. He tried to keep his wits about him, but he was in severe pain and once they had broken his legs with a heavy hammer it was excruciating, indescribable pain. ‘Who stole the gold, traitor?’ ‘Who do you work for?’ they kept pounding and asking. ‘Was it Goh?’ ‘Was it Park?’ ‘Who did it you fucking piece of dead meat trash?’ There was no let-up while he was conscious. Kwon knew he wasn’t getting out of this. To his eternal credit he had not spilled on his CIA involvement or his colleagues.
The secret police torturers though had opened a small crack of opportunity, unbeknown to those foul dimwits. Kwon had no idea who Park was. He may have come across a hundred Parks in his life, but not one that he could place in a central bank or on a submarine. Goh was a slightly less common Korean name. It was part of his undercover role to know who was who in the DPRK government and armed forces. The Goh they kept yelling about could be Vice Admiral Goh of the KPN. He would have reason, perhaps, to be near or on a submarine, whatever his torturers interest in that was. Kwon waited for another severe beating. As his nose exploded in a spray of blood and his left cheek bone cracked, Kwon finally let out, “It was Goh, Vice Admiral Goh, I work for him.”
Almost immediately the torturous interrogators left Kwon alone. One stood guard over his wrecked body while the other dialled an internal extension. Major Lee passed on Kwon’s confession to Minister Choi and now Vice Admiral Goh was confronted by his accuser. Of course, Kwon knew Goh had nothing to do with the central bank heist and he had no idea about the submarine. Despite the intensity of his beatings, he managed to rationalise that if he could take down one final DPRK bad guy then he would have done the best he could. By most standards Vice Admiral Goh was not a bad guy but, like Kwon, he was in the wrong place at very much the wrong time.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about Minister,” said Goh with fierce agitation in his voice. “I have never seen this man in my life and I reiterate my total loyalty to the KPN and the DPRK.”
Minister Choi was getting bored. The supreme leader of the DPRK and Choi’s immediate boss wanted answers, wanted a suspect, wanted the perpetrators of two heinous crimes in one night. Of course Goh was going to deny it. Who wouldn’t under the circumstances? However, the bleeding cripple lying at his feet said it was Goh. He could have said ‘Mickey Mouse’ or ‘Captain Falcon’ or ‘Hologramps’ from Supah Ninjas but he didn’t, he said ‘Goh’. The Vice Admiral did not look like an arch-criminal and, admittedly thought Choi, the evidence was somewhat flimsy. Nevertheless, there were enough dots to connect to make a discernible picture. Goh was in the frame.
“Vice Admiral,” resumed Minister Choi, “or should I say former Vice Admiral as you are now stripped of your rank and command. You too will be dishonourably discharged from the people’s navy. I hereby place you under arrest on suspicion of robbery of our leader’s submarine, his gold or both. Time will tell and you will be encouraged in your confession by Major Lee’s best interrogators.”
“You’re an ass and an ass-licker Choi!” yelled Goh, making a lurch for the Minister. His direct path to Choi’s throat was intercepted by Major Lee’s gun butt and as Goh fell to the floor, his head inches from Kwon’s, the courageous deep cover operative looked into his eyes, managed a grimace and muttered ‘Goh’.
Former Vice Admiral Goh was taken away. He would be interrogated harshly. He did not have the inner courage of Kwon nor his ability to withstand pain. He was visited by the supreme leader himself, no stranger to the SSD, he had worked there before the announcement in September 2010 that he was to be heir apparent. Kim Jong-un was not convinced Goh was guilty. He had indeed been instrumental in acquiring the Russian submarine but he also had over thirty years of loyal service in the KPN. The fact that he had known or guessed where the DPRK’s gold hoard was, simply reflected that he was knowledgeable, not necessarily criminal. Deep cover Kwon’s ‘confession’ was more troublesome. He really did have no apparent reason to finger Goh and he had done so before even setting eyes on the man inside the SSD. The supreme leader could not be bothered thinking about it anymore. One man doesn’t steal a submarine and billions of US dollars’ worth of gold. There must be accomplices, Minister Choi’s task is not over. In the meantime, the supreme Leader decided that Goh needed to be made an example of. A firing squad would be organised in the next day or so and then there would be no Goh. Following his confession and subsequent outing of Goh, Kwon was taken to a secure ward in Taesongsan combined hospital in Pyongyang to get fixed up and cleaned up. This may have seemed like surprisingly decent behaviour given what had occurred before, but the DPRK authorities wanted most of their political prisoners to be able to work in the camps, not loll about whiling the day away. Once his broken legs and other injuries were healed, Kwon was destined for penal camp 22, where he could look forward to some daily slop from former Commodore Park but with no glimpse of a green bean ever to be seen.
* * *
SVR Deputy Director Igor Kruglov had fared a lot better than any of the ‘invitees’ in Pyongyang’s SSD. The director of the SVR, frankly, was hopping mad that the Admiral Vinogradov had not managed to recapture or destroy the missing nuclear submarine. The President of Russia was even more out
raged. Not only had US$1bn of elite Russian naval engineering and weaponry gone AWOL, those deviants in the DPRK hadn’t fully paid for the Borei. On top of that, the glaikit looking scunner who called himself their supreme leader didn’t have the readies to pay his debt. Some old flannel about a robbery at their central bank. For god’s sake, thought the President, why did we ever get into bed with that lot!
Livid as they both were, neither the President nor the SVR Director blamed Kruglov. At least he had tried and had had one of his agents on the submarine, though that channel seemed to have now been switched off. Investigations by the FSB showed that Kruglov had acted with expediency and could not have done much more. Admiral Chirkov had been on the case too and his instructions to the captain of the Vinogradov were clear, concise and timely. Maybe Captain Sergei Kargin could have aimed better, but it was a long-shot from the off, both in planning and in targeting. Kruglov was exonerated from any blame. However, both the President and Kruglov’s SVR boss felt that the job was still unfinished. When the Admiral Vinogradov had reached the missiles detonation site in the East China Sea, there was no sign of wreckage or debris or fuel. There had clearly been no direct hits on the submarine. While that was disappointing, thought the President, it meant that $1bn of Russian nuclear submarine was still in the hands of an unknown enemy. Kruglov could redeem himself fully by tracking down the sub’s whereabouts and discovering the identities of the audacious thieves. Kruglov said that he would, but in his heart, he did not know if he could.
The SVR had operatives all over Europe, Asia and North America. The Illegals programme in North America was, with the absence of Anyata Ivanovna, down to one. That one was well-placed in the US Congress but would not likely have access to any information in this regard. Kruglov reasoned that the submarine would not surface in Asia. He thought that if he had stolen it, he would not just drive it around the corner. Also, the route that the submarine had been on suggested that it was headed for Europe, possibly eventually, the United States. That was where he would concentrate the efforts of the SVR. Over the next few hours Kruglov contacted several key SVR operatives in Europe, principally located in Italy, Germany and France. The Deputy Director of the SVR did not gauge that Eastern Europe was a likely destination for the submarine. While there was the occasional political spat with allies and former parts of the Soviet Union, these countries were primarily friends and would be unlikely to sponsor such an act against Russia.
The one area in Europe which was not fertile ground for SVR activities was the UK. Ever since the poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko in 2006 and the death of Boris Berezovsky in 2013, Russian activities in the UK were under the microscope of MI5 in a big way. The SVR had not managed to place a senior operative into key circles of government or policy making for years. Most of the time this did not matter. In issues of most concern to Russia and the SVR, the UK government simply went along with whatever the United States decided. Every now and then the British bulldog may bark but it had lost nearly all of its teeth and rarely presented Russia with any credible threat or obstacle. Kruglov also was aware that the economic significance of the UK had diminished. The governments of the 1970s and 1980s had more or less wasted the legacy and potential economic power of North Sea oil, unlike modern day Russia. Britain now seemed to have a permanent balance of payments deficit and the accumulation of trade deficits year in, year out, meant that the external debt of this small island was ballooning forever higher, resulting in owing foreigners money at an increasing rate. Their political leadership was also on the wane. The twentieth century saw Britain with two great leaders, Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher. You could love them or loathe them, but they were strong, decisive, not possible to bully or pressurise. Since then it was all downhill. The current coalition government, in and of itself guaranteeing inertia, seemed to be populated by men who all looked the same, sounded the same and, eventually, did the same.
Yet, Igor Kruglov could not discount British involvement in the submarine theft. Despite its small size, its economic decline and its political jelly tots, the UK was still a formidable force in two areas. Intelligence and financial innovation. The British Intelligence services were, perhaps, the best in the world. The CIA, SVR and Mossad may have more loyal bodies dedicated to their cause around the world, but MI5 and MI6 were now extremely tough to penetrate and their defensive record against terrorist assault was impressive. Most of the time the British public did not even know that they had been saved from murderous attacks. The M’s deep cover agents were brave and effective. It was also somewhat incredulous that this small dot of land and people in the vast ocean could retain the hub of the world’s financial activities. It did and despite claims by one financial centre or the other, London was still at the pinnacle. If the submarine had been stolen for cash, thought Kruglov, then financiers in London would probably get to know about it, if not handle it themselves. Consequently, it was clear to Kruglov that he needed to take two steps immediately. One was to tap whatever information the SVR could get out of their meagre undercover sources in the United States. Second, initiate contact and a regular flow of information from their people in London. He would need help.
“Yuri,” said Kruglov, as he finished dialling an internal extension, “please come to my office as soon as you can.”
“Certainly, Sir,” replied Yuri Menkov. “I’ll be up in a flash.” Yuri Menkov was as pleased as anyone that no harm had befallen Igor Kruglov following the blank result on the submarine case. Menkov had been involved in that project. If Kruglov went south, actually it would probably have been north to Siberia, then Menkov would have gone south with him.
“Deputy Director, how can I be of help?” asked Menkov, having been true to his word and arrived in Kruglov’s office less than a minute after his call.
“Yuri, we’re still on the case of our missing submarine. Captain Kargin of the Admiral Vinogradov detected no sign that the submarine had been hit. We deduce, therefore, that it remains operational and in the hands of the enemy thieves. My own research leads me to believe that the stolen submarine is headed for Europe or the United States. I’ve already contacted the appropriate officers in Italy, Germany and France to be vigilant and to report to me twice a day. Where I need help, Yuri, from your signal tracking and your databases, is the US and the UK. Agent Ivanovna has not been in touch and there have been no further signals from her phone. She must be presumed MIA. We have one deep cover Illegal in a senior position in Washington but I do not think that he is in the right place to know of clandestine movements of military hardware. In the UK, I don’t know what we’ve got. After Litvinenko, Berezovsky and agent Kushchyenko (Anna Chapman), we could not make any inroads. MI5 and MI6 have successfully blocked our efforts to establish an effective Illegals program in the UK. We are blind in that country, Yuri. Any ideas?” asked Kruglov.
Menkov absorbed all the information that he had just been given. As head of AI for the SVR with an IQ of 165, it didn’t take him long.
“I know that we have two officers, albeit relatively recent placements, in the CIA and the NSA. They can be contacted with urgency and ordered to direct their attention to this issue, Deputy Director,” suggested Menkov.
“Yes, Yuri, good. At least that would be a start,” replied Kruglov, content with Menkov’s suggestion but not yet getting out his cigar. “And the UK?”
“We have no one, Sir,” responded Menkov without hesitation. “You are correct in your assessment of our penetration of the British security services and the government. We have not had any useful information from Britain since early 2013.”
Igor Kruglov was not over the moon about this piece of news. While he did not really expect that the UK had anything to do with the theft of the submarine, their security services may chatter on occasion with their US and European counterparts. Also, London was mega-cosmopolitan. Every race, creed, colour and nationality floated through the capital. Gossip, whispers, drunken babbling, surely there was something.
“We do have one contact, Deputy Director, kind of,” offered Menkov, with reticence but wishing to alleviate the pained expression on his boss’s face.
“What’s a kind of contact, Menkov?” barked Kruglov, annoyed by Yuri’s lack of precision.
“Well, we occasionally get information from him regarding vulnerable business men or financial types, sometimes government ministers. It’s not been greatly useful in the past but it has allowed some of our own businesses to apply leverage to strike better deals. He is not, however, an employee of the SVR.”
“Who is it, for god’s sake?” yelled Kruglov.
“Vladimir Babikov.”
“What! That old criminal douchebag! He should be in a fucking salt mine! You’re not seriously suggesting that we use him, Menkov, are you?” hollered the Deputy Director.
“No, Sir, I’m not,” said Menkov meekly, “it’s just, well, it’s just that he is the only source in the UK that we have had a scrap of useful information from in over a year. He runs a casino in London and has at least six ex-FSB officers in his entourage. We’re desperate by the sounds of it, and he’s a desperado for certain, but one with an array of contacts, including inside the British government.”
Igor Kruglov had his head buried in his hands and may even have been covering his ears. Had it really come to this? He had probably lost his beautiful Anyata. The best information source replacement the SVR could come up with was a torturing murderer who was lucky to have got out of Russia in one piece. Drugs, prostitution, gambling, Babikov was like an online dictionary of all man’s vices. This was not a pleasant thought. Kruglov and Babikov knew of each other. If the first Deputy Director had to ask for the dirtbag’s help, then he must, but it was going to be painful.
Menkov returned to his desk and emailed Kruglov the criminal Babikov’s contact details. He thought it wise not to present himself before Kruglov again so soon after the Deputy Director’s outburst. He was only trying to help. After a strong cup of tea with some vodka in it, Kruglov dialled.
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