There was no problem there; Ri understood the order perfectly. His old mentor was to be fed to a pack of seven starving dogs that were maintained at Chongjin labor camp for just such a purpose. He confirmed to the minister the order would be followed with utmost haste.
But there was something else. The minister directed Ri himself to monitor the execution in order to ensure it was carried out to the letter of the instructions.
Ri said he understood and would comply, but he knew the real reason he would have to travel to Chongjin and watch his friend and mentor die a horrific death before his eyes. He was being forced to watch the event because as the new director, his cooperation was to be encouraged, and the best way for that, Choi and his ministers had decided, was by him learning in detail what would happen to him if he failed in his duties.
It took a tremendous amount of horror to impress the new director of the North Korean foreign intelligence service, but since the day of his director’s death by the gnashing teeth of seven dogs a week earlier, Lieutenant General Ri Tae-jin had had a recurring nightmare of the event. In his dream he was never the one in the pit, although that could easily be the reality if Choi lost confidence in his ability to execute the duties of his office. Instead, he was a witness to the execution.
His nightmare was virtually the same as the actual event.
As he sat in the gilded ceremonial office Ri’s mind drifted to the dog pit, and then it moved to one further horror. It became known at the RGB soon after Gang’s death that his family had been executed as well. His wife, his three adult children, and their wives and even their small children had all been taken to Chongjin and shot in the dead of night. No criminal complaint had been read to them, no explanation at all for why they had to die.
Ri had trouble pushing his impure thoughts about his society out of his head, but they cleared quickly when a group of transcriptionists, generals, bodyguards, and then finally the Dae Wonsu himself entered. Choi carried a snifter of Cognac in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. He wore his black Mao suit; Ri had seen him in nothing else save for a uniform he sometimes wore for purely military events. Ri also saw that Choi’s eyes were typically active, flashing around the room, both on the general in front of him and at random objects. Choi looked at a clock, a container of water, a painting of his father on the wall.
Without preamble he said, “You had no involvement over the failed operation to obtain the guidance software from France.”
Ri did not know if it was a question or a statement. He shook his head. “None, Dae Wonsu. I was not involved in our cyber-operations at all.”
Choi seemed to know this already. “General Gang’s failures do not cast a shadow over you. You have my full confidence.”
Ri bowed four times and thanked his Supreme Leader, who seemed content to watch him bow. Then Choi said, “Missile Guidance Bureau must do better, but General Gang had an opportunity to provide them with assistance, and he failed.”
Ri knew what was good for him. He agreed in a full-throated manner.
Choi then looked at his drink and said, “My burden is this… like my father, and my grandfather, I am a keen expert on matters of history.”
“This is well known by all, Dae Wonsu.”
“Nothing has struck me more than what has happened in Ukraine, in Libya, in Iraq. When these nations parted with their most potent weapons, they were not rewarded with good relations. No, they became nonentities, lambs.”
“Yes,” Ri said. Okay, so we are, in fact, going to talk about the problems at Missile Guidance Bureau.
Choi sipped the Cognac. “We must produce better rockets. Able to fly further and more reliably. We must develop, develop, develop!”
“I agree completely,” Ri said. Choi was used to hearing this, of course, no matter the topic. The last time Choi Ji-hoon had heard the words “I disagree,” he was nine years old.
“The plutonium weapons are in our arsenal. Our uranium enrichment is progressing. We have miniaturized the bombs into warheads. Our nation has the power, but not the mechanism to deliver the power. We need a ballistic missile capable of delivering the warhead.”
Now Ri cocked his head in surprise. “I am told the Rodong system performed flawlessly in its most recent test. My eyes have been focused outward at RGB. Have I been misinformed?”
Choi waved a hand. “Rodong has a range of nine hundred kilometers. This makes it merely a defensive weapon. Yes, we can obliterate Seoul, but this will not protect us from America. They would gladly sacrifice South Korea in order to destroy us in North Korea. We need something with the range to reach the continental United States. The Taepodong-2 is not operational, and despite what I am being told by RGB, I don’t think it soon will be.”
Ri assumed his nation’s military leaders had received an earful from their grand marshal. Fortunately for Ri, however, he and his department had not been given responsibility for the development of the ballistic systems.
Unfortunately for Ri, he feared this was about to change.
Choi leaned forward. “Our military, our scientists, they have been unable to provide us with the technology we need. I want you to go out and get it.”
Ri thought of the nonproliferation sanctions. Of the naval blockade that checked shipping cargo in the Yellow Sea and the Sea of Japan. He thought of the tight controls on the manufacture and sale of items involved in the construction of all things rocket, including dual-use items that the West feared might be smuggled into North Korea.
In short, he thought of the dozens of barriers in front of him.
But he said the only thing he could say. “Of course, Dae Wonsu. I will not fail.”
“You have three years.”
Now he thought of the seven dogs of Chongjin and he wondered if they were already hungry again after consuming General Gang.
“Three years? Three years for…”
“Three years to see that the Taepodong-2 is operational with our Missile Guidance Bureau.”
A purple vein on Ri’s forehead pulsed a few times, but he made no overt reaction. “That is not much time.”
“Three years is more time than I should give you. Does our nation have three years before our enemies attack?”
In a measured tone the general said, “I confess I do not know.”
“No, you don’t. The only thing that will stop an attack is the Taepodong-2. Operational and dependable. Our nuclear scientists have done their job. They have successfully miniaturized the device. But we have to be able to deliver it to the United States mainland.”
Choi held up three fingers. “Three years. Three years until I find someone else.”
Ri knew what would happen to him if Choi decided to find someone else.
11
Shortly before nine a.m. three large Chevy Suburbans rolled into the garage under the North Fairfax Street offices of Hendley Associates. The vehicles pulled up to an entrance, and out of view from the street all the doors on all the Suburbans opened as one, and a phalanx of young armed men stepped out. Soon a distinguished sixty-three-year-old woman climbed out of the center vehicle and moved purposefully to the entrance, where she was greeted by Gerry Hendley, ex — South Carolina senator and the director of both Hendley Associates and The Campus.
Gerry thought Director of National Intelligence Mary Pat Foley looked tired and worn. He knew she had been working hard since taking over the DNI job. She was the top intelligence official of the top intelligence community in the world, after all, so there was no surprise the position came with long hours and high stress. But even so, Gerry saw in Mary Pat a deep concern.