General Rashood and Ahmed joined their driver on the smooth concrete floor and were greeted, in English, by the obvious commandant, who was all business despite the late hour.
“You will see your merchandise?” he said, bowing medium-low, twice. Like a Japanese double-dome. Then he extended his hand and said, “Greetings, General. We welcome you here — hope this first of many visit.”
He introduced himself as Colonel Dae-jung, and his colleagues in turn. Then he led the way back around the corner he had come from and into a wide, brightly lit vestibule where two armed guards and a desk clerk were on duty.
Each man stood to attention and saluted the Colonel, who now led the way along a corridor and up a flight of steps into a wide, bright warehouse with overhead cranes, surrounded by cables leading to great, broad, upwards-sliding steel doors. Ahead of them were two gleaming stainless-steel cylinders about 15 feet high and 6 feet in diameter, known as “flasks” in the trade — heavily constructed Western containers whose sole task on earth was to transport radioactive nuclear material. They were actually perfected at British Nuclear Fuels in England, and were generally considered to be as close to fail-safe as you can get.
Built of one-inch-thick steel, the flasks were heavy with inbuilt shields to reduce radiation, making them at once safer for passersby and also less vulnerable to attack by terrorists.
“Inside there, General,” said the Korean Commandant, “are two nuclear warheads you ordered. Each one correctly assembled includes decoys. Both warheads ready for fitting in the new missiles, packed separately — Chinese guidance and navigational engineers may wish work inside the nose cone of missile — this way no encumbrance of nuclear material. Mostly fit warhead at last moment, before missile sealed and loaded into submarine.”
Ravi nodded. “May I see the warheads?” he asked.
“Certainly. There is small window, glass four inches thick, but you can see inside.” He led Ravi around to the six-inch porthole in the flask and shone a flashlight through it. Ravi peered inside and could just make out the shape of the cone behind the crossbeams and cable that held it secure.
“I assure you, no one disappointed,” said the Commandant. “That’s 200-kiloton warhead. Detonate properly will make all the damage you intend…”
The North Koreans were known for their integrity in these matters, and Ravi did not doubt him. “And the regular missiles?” he asked. “The RADUGA look-alikes.”
“Crated over here,” said the Commandant, leading the way. “One of them not sealed, so you can see—”
Ravi looked at the long, 30-foot crates, each one weighing two tons. “These conventional warheads are assembled and fitted?” he asked.
“Correct.”
“No problem matching the Russians?”
“Absolutely not. We have two Russian RADUGAs here in plant. Reconstruction very straightforward. We have shell casings for certain SCUDs, and for Nodong-1—more or less identical.”
“I won’t even ask how you got ahold of the RADUGAs,” said the General, grinning.
“No. Perhaps not,” replied the Commandant, not grinning. “But we fit entirely Korean-made engine for the rocket. We think it’s marginally superior to Russian motor, and definitely more reliable. Works on regular nitric-acid rocket propellant.”
Ravi nodded. He counted the crates, inspected one of them, leaned over and touched the cold metal casing.
“Are the loading docks at Nampo ready for a heavy cargo like this?”
“Loading docks at Nampo second to none in whole world,” replied the Commandant, modestly. “We expert at loading and transporting missile and warhead. Been doing it for very long time now. No mistakes.”
“Made one off the coast of Yemen a few years back,” said Ravi.
“No mistakes in area of northeast Asia,” said the Commandant. “That more important. That’s what you need to know.”
“You’re right there,” said Ravi. “That more important.”
“Are you satisfied with the shipment?”
“I am. Would you like to conclude the payment details now?”
“Very good, General. Then we have some dinner and then you go. Three of our trucks travel in convoy. Gas tanker inside plant now. Plenty fuel get you to Nampo.”
“I appreciate that,” said Ravi.
The method of payment had been established several months before—$150 million advance in U.S. dollars; the final balance of $350 million U.S. payable upon completion, ex-factory. Arrangements had been made through the Korea Exchange Bank in downtown Seoul, south of the border, and the money had been deposited direct from Tehran several weeks previously.
The bank in Seoul would receive a code word from General Rashood either by phone, fax, or E-mail. Only when the Korea Exchange confirmed that with the Bank Melli Iran would the funds be released to a North Korean Government account. Tonight everyone was on standby awaiting the big-money communiqué from the Hamas General.
He sat before an open online computer in the Commandant’s office, and tapped in the phrase in Persian, se-panjah bash-e—which meant, broadly, Three-fifty, it’s cool. Moments later the code was transmitted 5,000 miles west and six hours back in time to Bank Melli in downtown Tehran, right on the main commercial avenue, Kheyabun-e Ferdosi, opposite the German Embassy.
The reply was back in Seoul in moments…Release funds to the North… Thus, in less than five minutes, $350 million U.S. changed hands, and the brutal terrorist High Command of Hamas took delivery of its first-ever nuclear weapons.
Dinner with the North Koreans surpassed Ravi’s expectations. They provided a superb sinsollo—a special national dish of boiled red meat, fish, and vegetables, flavored with dweonjang (bean paste) and gotchu (red chili), a bit like Japanese shabu shabu, but tastier, saltier. Ravi’s was served with buckwheat noodles and egg rolls.
They drank only mineral water, which he sincerely hoped had not come out of the ground anywhere near the radioactive environs of Kwanmo-bong.
He declined a tour of the laboratories, but could not help seeing dozens of technicians walking around dressed entirely in white, including low-fitting hats and gloves. He trusted that they were staying well clear of the old hexafluoride, and that the executive of this astounding underground complex had rules and regulations about safety and a secure environment for their noxious raw material.
Before he left, the Commandant informed him, “Remember, we conduct the entire nuclear process right here in Kwanmo-bong. Enrichment, harvesting of plutonium, and refinement of U-235. Right into weapons-grade material.
“Down at far end, nearly one mile away, we make rockets and missiles. SCUD-B; Hwasong-5 short-range; Hwasong-6 short-range, like SCUD-C; the Nodong medium range; the Taep’o-dong-1, like Soviet SS-4; the NKSL-1/Taep’o-dong-1 intermediate-range satellite launch; and the big long-range ballistic missiles, Taep’o-dong-2 and NKSL–X-2/Taep’o-dong-2—we make Iran’s Shahab from that last one — like Soviet SS-5, satellite launch. We make what you want. Two-or three-stage missiles. Big payload. No problem. Very good, ha?”
“Excellent,” replied General Ravi. “Most impressive.”
They walked on and turned into the bog-loading bay. The Commandant was correct: There were three big North Korean Army trucks in there now, parked between the massive steel girders of the overhead cranes. A team of young soldiers was swarming all over the vehicles, refitting the big waterproof canvas covers over the rear beds into which were now stacked the thirty-foot-long missiles.