by Ben Coes
Everything in the package—every can, every box, every book and magazine—had a small, round, orange sticker on it, indicating that each item had been inspected.
Talmadge lifted a box of chocolate-chip cookies. The box was already open and one of two sleeves of cookies was gone. He opened the plastic on the remaining sleeve and took a cookie, then put the sleeve back in the box and handed it to Kae Myung Bin. He handed Kae a can of peaches, a can of tomatoes, and a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese.
“For you,” said Talmadge.
Kae Myung Bin smiled.
“Thank you, Ross.”
* * *
That night, back at his small apartment, Talmadge unpacked the box. It was the first care package in more than a year that contained a message from River House.
Talmadge took the National Geographic into the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, he removed what looked like a normal pair of reading glasses. He looked at the cover. In the upper right-hand corner, the number “61” was written in ink that was visible only with the glasses on. He flipped to page 61. It was the third page of an article on sharks. Certain letters in the article had small dots placed above them, again visible only with the special glasses on.
VLS ADOTE MLK
TAPE 1 SUB BENCH ACRS FR G KM NAT MUS
Talmadge understood the message immediately.
There are vials hidden in the condensed milk. Take one and tape it to the underside of a bench at the Victory Museum, across from the painting of Kim Il-Sung.
In the kitchen, Talmadge took a can opener and opened the can of condensed milk. He poured the contents into a plastic bag so as not to waste it. Inside the can, affixed to the side, was a piece of black plastic. He removed it and popped it open. Inside were two small, thin glass syringes with clear liquid inside.
Talmadge’s mind raced, trying to figure out what it all meant. Presumably, poison, or an antidote. Someone inside Pyongyang was going to be poisoned. But by whom? By him? The instructions didn’t explain. Why?
It didn’t matter.
Do your job. Do what you’re told. There will not be time to explain.
Talmadge shook his head, as if erasing his thoughts from his mind. He knew it was best to not think about it—to not attempt to figure out what the operation was all about. If he thought about anything other than the execution of the mission, he risked appearing distracted, confused, or acting erratic, the very types of behaviors the North Koreans were looking for. They’d spot his aberrant demeanor immediately, resulting in interrogation.
Talmadge knew he needed to focus solely on the mission.
He took one of the syringes and went into the bathroom. Standard procedure—they’d sent two doses in case one broke in transit. He set it down on the sink and reached for the medicine cabinet, pulling it out from the wall. He hid the syringe behind it. He went into the kitchen and returned with what looked like a glass jar of mayonnaise. He opened it and, with his right index finger, spread paint around the perimeter of the mirror, hiding where he’d stowed the needle.
He took the other syringe and placed a small strip of two-sided tape on one side then put it inside a concealed area sewn inside the left pocket of his leather coat.
Talmadge tore the page from the National Geographic and used it to start a fire in the small coal-burning stove. He opened a can of tomato soup and ate it along with some crackers, thinking about the museum. He would go first thing in the morning.
No, you stupid fuck!
That would be precisely the sort of behavior that would tip off his minders, a sudden, inexplicable change of routine. No, that was a terrible idea. He had to come up with a better one.
18
MARGARET HILL
CASTINE, MAINE
Air Force One touched down at Bangor International Airport beneath a cloudless sky in late afternoon. It was cold out. A Coast Guard Sikorsky helicopter was waiting on the tarmac when the president’s plane touched down, its rotors already humming and kicking up dust.
Dellenbaugh walked down the stairs of the plane. His tie was off. He wore a blue suit and white shirt. He climbed aboard the helicopter.
Other than Secret Service agents, Dellenbaugh was alone. As the chopper aimed for the rugged coast of Maine, he sat in a canvas fold-down seat in back, staring out the window.
Dellenbaugh knew he wasn’t simply being cautious about North Korea. He was worried. He hated micromanaging and he trusted the CIA to execute with whatever manpower they deemed appropriate. But his gut told him something was wrong. That gut instinct had never failed him, and right now it was telling him to do whatever he had to do in order to get Dewey Andreas to go to Macau.
Perhaps it was the warning issued to him by the Chinese president. Even delivered through an interpreter, there was no mistaking the chill in Xi’s voice.
“If the United States moves preemptively on North Korea, the People’s Republic will respond as if you have moved on our country. We have Kim under control. You must trust us, Mr. President.”
“That’s Blue Hill below, Mr. President,” said one of the pilots, leaning back and shouting. “We’re almost there.”
The hills outside were colored blue and green, then were flanged with gray rock, jagged coast, then the black-blue water of Penobscot Bay, patched with sailboats, motorboats, and the occasional whitecap from the wind.
The Sikorsky began a rapid, sharp descent. Fields of green were spread in neat rectangles: a farm. In the middle of the acres of land stood a large red barn, along with a rambling white farmhouse, with black shutters all around.
The chopper swirled in a slow eddy then hovered, inching smoothly down onto a field near the farmhouse. The pilots quickly shut the engines down.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” said Dellenbaugh, leaning into the cockpit.
He stepped out of the helicopter and walked toward the front porch of the farmhouse as a pair of dogs, one a slow-moving sheepdog, the other a suspicious English bulldog, came marching across the low-cut grass. A teenage girl with long blond hair came walking behind the dogs.
“I’m J. P. Dellenbaugh,” said the president as he approached the girl.
She extended her hand as she approached. “I’m Reagan Andreas.”
“Hi, Reagan,” said Dellenbaugh. “Is Dewey here?”
“Yeah,” she said, staring at the helicopter. “Can I check it out?”
“Sure,” said the president. “Tell the pilots I said it was okay.”
“Awesome. Thanks. Is it okay if my brother looks at it too?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks, Mr. President.”
Dellenbaugh reached a split-rail fence and swung his leg over it, then walked to the screened porch. An older man, whom Dellenbaugh recognized, pushed the screen door open.
“Hi, Mr. Andreas,” said President Dellenbaugh.
“Hello, Mr. President. Please call me John.”
John Andreas, Dewey’s father, was, like Dewey, tall and stocky. He had a resigned, calm, happy look on his face. He reached out to shake Dellenbaugh’s hand, but Dellenbaugh pulled him closer, hugging him.
“We need your son again,” said the president.
“I figured that.”
Dellenbaugh entered the screened porch. He saw the others: Margaret, Dewey’s mom; Dewey’s brother Hobey and his wife, Barrett; Sam, Dewey’s nephew. They all stood up and greeted the president.
“Is Dewey here?” said Dellenbaugh.
“He’s out in the barn,” said Hobey. “Sammy, go get him.”
“No, that’s okay,” said Dellenbaugh. “Just point me in the right direction.”
* * *
Dellenbaugh crossed the gravel driveway and walked along a hundred yards of white fence. In the distance, the ocean was visible in dark blue above trees beginning to unfold with new green as spring approached. The door to the barn was open and Dellenbaugh entered. He found Dewey in the stables. He was brushing down a large brown horse. Dewey was in a flanne
l shirt that was covered in dirt and strands of hay. His face was wet with perspiration. He caught the president’s eyes. He stared a few moments at Dellenbaugh, then put the brush down.
“What do you want?” said Dewey, wiping his face with his sleeve.
Dellenbaugh entered the stable.
“I grew up in a house where you could see the concrete of the foundation,” said Dellenbaugh. “It was one story. It was light blue, ugliest thing you’ve ever seen, right next to another house that looked exactly the same. The whole street looked the same. The reason it was light blue is because my dad got the paint free from the assembly line where he worked. It was car paint, some Oldsmobile color they discontinued.”
Dewey nodded, listening with a blank expression.
“I always wanted to live on a farm,” said the president. “What’s it like?”
Dewey stared at him, as if considering not answering—his guard was still up. He knew what was coming.
“There’s a lot of work,” said Dewey. “You get used to it.” Dewey put his hand up to the neck of the horse and rubbed it. “It’s hard to explain how close you can feel to a horse. Or when you go inside and there’s a fire going and your fingernails are lined with dirt.”
There was a long pause and they could hear the horse exhaling.
“You know why I’m here,” said Dellenbaugh. “We need you.”
Dewey continued rubbing the horse’s neck. After a while he pushed his hand back through his hair.
“No, you don’t, sir,” said Dewey.
“Do you think I would’ve flown up here if we didn’t?” said Dellenbaugh.
“You might think you need me, but there are several people who can get this operation done. I heard the briefing. It’s straightforward.”
Dewey moved to the stable door to leave, but Dellenbaugh stood in his way, blocking him from leaving.
Dellenbaugh had grown up in Detroit. He played professional hockey and knew how to fight. He wasn’t stopping Dewey with the power of his office. At this moment, he was challenging Dewey, one man to another.
Dewey moved next to Dellenbaugh and started to push him aside, but Dellenbaugh held firm. Dewey pushed harder now—and Dellenbaugh pushed back.
“No one’s watching,” said Dellenbaugh, rolling up his sleeves and squaring off. “Your country needs you right now. I’d go if I could, if I understood what to do—but I don’t.”
Dewey shook his head.
“I’m not fighting you, Mr. President—”
“If I win, you go to Macau,” said Dellenbaugh, raising his fists in a fighting stance that once sent shivers through the NHL. “You win, you can stay and we’ll find someone else.”
Dellenbaugh swung as he suddenly stepped forward, his fist brushing Dewey’s chin as Dewey instinctively ducked out of the way, but Dellenbaugh’s other fist hammered a blow to Dewey’s stomach. Dewey had slashed his arm through the air beneath Dellenbaugh’s next swing, catching him at the throat and jamming his thumb hard into the president’s carotid artery. It all happened before Dellenbaugh knew what was happening. Dellenbaugh let out a pained grunt. Calmly, Dewey pushed the president back—gently but firmly—to the stable wall.
“I’m asking you,” said Dellenbaugh, his voice straining under Dewey’s grip.
Dewey held Dellenbaugh one more moment, then let go.
“Okay, Mr. President,” said Dewey. “I’ll go to Macau.”
19
IN THE AIR
Abu Paria sat back in the luxurious seat inside the cabin of the Gulfstream 100 that now coursed across the sky.
With him, other than the pilots, were two younger men, both KUDS Force, both Paria’s chosen traveling companions. Kaivan, twenty-four, was five-foot-eight and stocky. Farhad was six-two and even Paria occasionally feared his physical presence, despite the fact that he worked for him.
When Abu Paria, the leader of Iran’s most elite fighting force, KUDS Force, as well as the overall boss of all Iranian intelligence forces, ventured outside of Iran, there were precautions. Paria was a target of all Western intelligence agencies as well as a motley collection of underground Iranians who wanted an end to the radical Shia regime started by Ayatollah Khomeini two generations ago. It was no secret that Paria was the mastermind behind terror throughout the West. He funded Hezbollah, Hamas, and even, very secretly, through various middlemen, ISIS. Paria had paid for and witnessed battles between two of his own forces—ISIS and Hezbollah, ISIS and KUDS, Hamas and Hezbollah—on multiple occasions. He was playing a longer game. Paria believed chaos, political strife, terror, and war were the foundations that Iran could build a superpower upon.
He ventured from Iran only when the stakes were truly large.
Despite all this, he barely fidgeted as he flew, cabin lights off, through a misty oblivion. He didn’t sleep, read, or look at his phone. He stared straight ahead, at the back of the seat across from him, which was empty.
The trade was straightforward. Iran would give North Korea two Safir missiles—Iranian-made intercontinental ballistic missiles—which could deliver whatever payload was attached to it to any place on earth. In exchange, North Korea would give Iran 454 kilograms of highly enriched uranium, as well as eleven nuclear triggers.
Paria knew Yong-sik. Not well, but he knew him. They’d met in North Africa, at a meeting a week after 9/11. It was a discussion amongst the intellectual and financial underpinnings of the countries and organizations who all believed they were at war with America, convened by a Chinese billionaire and major funder of the anti-American diaspora. Paria and Yong-sik had talked—through interpreters—late into the night, Yong-sik telling Paria stories about Kim Jong-un and Kim Jong-il, Paria speaking of Khomeini. They were just stories, no information of value, more tales from the unique worlds from which the two came.
Indeed, Paria trusted Yong-sik enough that he’d already floated the Safirs. They were on a ship less than a day from North Korea’s coast.
The plane arced right. Paria finally turned from looking at the seat back. He watched through the window as the jet descended from the sky. Blue went to white and then, below the cover, was a grayish, cloudy horizon. Nevertheless, Macau’s glittering silhouette cut through the mist, beckoning Paria toward it like a moth to the flame.
20
MACAU INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
TAIPA ISLAND
MACAU, CHINA
A red-and-tan Dassault Falcon 8X swooped out of the clouds and descended quickly toward the airport’s lone runway, a strip of concrete laid atop a man-made pile of dirt and debris adjacent to the small island of Taipa, connected by a pair of aging causeways to the heart of the airport.
The facility was only built in 1995. Somehow, the small facility showed both its youth and, at the same time, its age. At the time of its construction, Macau was still controlled by the Portuguese, who China had allowed to operate the city under long-term lease as a port. Along the way, gambling had been introduced to Macau. By the time the long-term lease expired in 1999, Macau was a fast-growing hub of gambling, if still small compared to Las Vegas and Monaco. But now it was the world’s largest gambling epicenter.
The airport’s maintenance buildings and garages were dilapidated, but the central passenger terminal was glass and modern. Since taking control of Macau in 1999, the Chinese, rather than rebuilding the airport, had opted instead to “put lipstick on the pig,” putting glass where they could but leaving the cracking concrete and ugly sight lines alone. After all, Macau’s visitors weren’t coming to admire the airport. They were coming to gamble.
At least, some of them were.
Yong-sik was not here to gamble—at least, not until tonight, after business was completed. At this moment, North Korea’s top general was here to do the opposite of take risk. He was here to trade North Korean–made nuclear materials for Iranian-made intercontinental ballistic missiles.
The jet landed at just before six P.M. Macau time.
Yong-sik sat in the front row of th
e sleek French-made jet. He was accompanied by a small army of soldiers and staff members. Twelve soldiers comprised his security team. Half a dozen other men worked for Yong-sik in various capacities inside the executive office of the KPA, including a personal assistant, a secretary, and a translator. Yong-sik had also brought along top KPA experts in the Directorate of Nuclear Activity as well as from the KPA Missile Directorate.
The Falcon taxied to the private terminal, where several long, black limousines were waiting. After the plane came to a stop next to the line of limousines, a soldier from Yong-sik’s security cordon activated the hydraulic door to the jet. Once it lowered to the ground, a line of armed soldiers were the first to go down the stairs, scanning the area immediately around the jet, then inspecting the line of limousines, inside and out. Two of the soldiers removed long, thin poles which they moved beneath the vehicles, inspecting for explosive devices, while two other soldiers inspected the insides of the vehicles, scanning for bombs.
The other four members of the team stood guard around the vehicles, rifles aimed at the ground, scanning for anything suspicious. As the inspection took place, several soldiers removed suitcases from the back of the jet and put them inside the limousines.
The air was humid, in the eighties, and a warm wind blew off the ocean.
The inspection took almost half an hour. Finally, when the security team was done, one of the men signaled to an officer at the top of the jet’s stairs.
“General,” the man said. “It is ready.”
The line of vehicles moved out of the airport and was soon on the main road to downtown Macau.
The sky had turned a purplish gray. The central district of Macau was a cluster of glass skyscrapers, each with a distinctive design.
At the sloping, blade-like curvature of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, the limousines split. Two entered the underground parking lot while the other two moved into the circular front entrance of the hotel. Yong-sik was in the second of these. He climbed out of the limo and walked inside the massive entrance foyer of the Mandarin, accompanied by four soldiers as well as two of his aides. Standing immediately inside the lobby was a man in a black linen suit, with a beard and mustache, and dark, olive-toned skin. He walked toward Yong-sik.
