As all eyes around him were focused on the activities at the stage, So reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and started to brush it against his nose but let it fall to the floor at his feet, as if by accident. When he saw the vase placed in front of Kim, he took a deep breath and leaned foward to retrieve the handkerchief. At the same instant, he pressed one of the watch buttons, then another one.
As the DRAGON reached for his handkerchief, concealing himself behind the protective shield of rows of the Party faithful, a tremendous explosion ripped through the Presidential Palace hall, sending shards of five-hundred-year-old ceramic material tearing like shrapnel into the bodies of those on the stage and nearby. Kim and his son died before they could comprehend the perfidy of the moment. Others were found later with looks of shock frozen on their faces. The deafening roar reverberated like thunder about the marble walls, creating a startling sound that was heard around the world.
Brig. Gen. Henry Thatcher, Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, sat alone in his office nursing a hot cup of black coffee and watching TV. He was on the job early as usual, a habit ingrained over a thirty-year Army career. The obligatory picture of the man occupying the Oval Office hung on the wall behind the plain wooden desk. Other walls sported photos of a young officer standing beside a World War II vintage tank in West Germany, a more mature soldier in jungle fatigues outside a tent in Vietnam, a still older officer in the Saudi desert, posing in a sand-camouflage uniform with a smiling Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf. The picture on the TV monitor suddenly showed an attractive blonde anchor in Atlanta.
"We switch now to an important developing story in Pyongyang, North Korea. Here is ITN's Sylvester Bromley."
There was no live picture, only a map showing the location of the North Korean capital and the identification of the British reporter.
"There has been a massive explosion at Pyongyang's Presidential Palace," said an accented English voice, "where a ceremony was being held in honor of the world's longest reigning head of state, Kim Il-sung. First reports are sketchy, and nothing can be confirmed as yet, but word from the Chinese Embassy indicates both Kim and his son and heir apparent, Kim Jong-il, are dead, along with Chinese Vice Premier Yip Mun Tong. One difficulty in obtaining confirmation of these reports is the absence of high-ranking North Korean officials. Virtually all of them were at the Presidential Palace and many were apparently killed or injured. We are making every effort to obtain additional details and will update the story as soon as anything becomes available. This is Sylvester Bromley, ITN, Pyongyang."
"Sylvester," prompted the anchor, "do you have any idea at all of what caused the explosion?"
"I'm sorry, none at all. It has been very difficult getting anyone to talk. But the sound of fire apparatus and ambulance sirens have been filling the streets ever since it happened some twenty or so minutes ago."
"Thank you, Sylvester Bromley in Pyongyang. We hope to hear more from you shortly."
General Thatcher reached for his phone to call the family residence upstairs. The President would be up but may not have been watching TV. He would shed no tears over the demise of Kim Il-sung, but the likely effect of the despot's death on deteriorating Korean-American relations would certainly bring no feelings of joy. The Kwak government had pressed the U.S. to negotiate the withdrawal of its 40,000 troops. American forces had been stationed there to help protect against another North Korean invasion ever since the end of the fighting in 1953. Congress, eager to continue cutting back on defense expenditures, had enthusiastically applauded the move.
Chapter 5
To a seasoned traveler, the glowing signs on the buildings flanking Vaci Utca, Pest's fashionable shopping street now converted to a pedestrian mall, were a far cry from the neon glitter of Hong Kong's Nathan Road or Tokyo's Ginza. Rather than a frantic rush in search of bargains, most shoppers seemed to prefer the easygoing sociability of an early evening stroll, while some heeded the beckoning tables and aromas of the sidewalk cafes. Lori and Burke Hill wandered leisurely among them, scanning the shop windows for a gift for Margit Szabo.
The lunchtime flap over Burke's failure to inform Lori that she had a twenty-something stepson had been more or less resolved by his contrite promise to never withhold anything else from her. He also vowed to track down his son at the earliest opportunity to straighten out the record and make amends for failing to contact him earlier.
After catching bits of the news about the bombing in North Korea, which Burke took as no concern of his, he and Lori had spent the afternoon touring the National Gallery and the other museums in the Royal Palace, a massive edifice that had been restored as the crown jewel of the Castle Hill complex. With all the walking and standing, Lori appeared to be a fading lady-in-waiting. But when she saw a cute ceramic music box that played a theme from one of Franz Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, she glowed with the knowledge that she had found her gift.
With the handsomely-wrapped box in hand, they walked to a nearby intersection and hailed a taxi. Burke gave the driver their destination, and the cab whisked them off to one of the city's culinary landmarks. A one-time gathering place for writers, artists and intellectuals, it had suffered the ignominy of having its unique name changed to a rather dull Cafe Hungaria during the Cold War, an affront most Budapest natives ignored. But now the famed restaurant was enjoying a reincarnation, not as something new but a return to its original name and glory as the Cafe New York.
The restaurant occupied two levels of the old New York Insurance Company Building. Lori and Burke chose the upper level, where they could watch the diners come and go below. In the old days, this was where the affluent gathered to peer down disdainfully on the writers and artists who subsisted on the cheaper fare of the lower level, called Melyviz, or Deep Water.
They had just placed their order — Lori recommended the paprikas csirke, which she described as paprika chicken covered with sour cream, and a side dish of cucumber salad — when a waiter came over and handed Burke a business card.
"The gentleman asks if he might join you."
The waiter gestured toward a nearby table. Burke glanced at the smiling face, then at the card. "Benjamin Shallit," he read aloud. "Managing Director, Integrated Digital Development, Limited." There was a Tel Aviv address.
Lori had a puzzled look. "That's the man I saw watching you at the airport. He was also sitting near us in the restaurant at the Hilton."