by Ben Coes
“General Yong-sik,” said the man, his accent Middle Eastern. He extended his arm, a friendly smile on his face. “I am Farkar,” he said, shaking Yong-sik’s hand.
“Where is General Paria?” said Yong-sik.
“Waiting upstairs, sir,” said Farkar. “He wanted me to express his hope that if you would like to take a few minutes in order to unpack and relax, he could meet with you later. Alternatively, he is available now if you would like to meet sooner.”
Yong-sik nodded.
“Now,” said Yong-sik. “Later I will be playing blackjack in my suite.”
“Very good, sir,” said Farkar. “Please, follow me.”
Farkar led Yong-sik to a private elevator. Farkar watched as Yong-sik and four other men climbed aboard the cab. Other than Yong-sik, all the rest of the North Koreans clutched weapons.
Farkar inserted a key into the wall. The elevator shot up to the penthouse floor.
The hallway was dimly lit. A half-dozen Iranian gunmen stood in the hallway outside the entrance to the suite. They saluted Farkar and then watched as their North Korean counterparts exited the elevators. Farkar nodded to one of the Iranian soldiers, who returned his look, then approached one of Yong-sik’s deputies.
“My name is Abbas,” said the Iranian. He extended his hand toward the ranking soldier. “We have a suite reserved for the traveling security party. There are refreshments, food, that sort of thing. My suggestion is we each leave a guard in the hallway, and the rest of the teams go to the suite and relax. There is too much firepower in one hallway for what should be a peaceful get-together.”
The North Korean soldier eyed Yong-sik, who nodded, giving his assent.
“Please, General Yong-sik,” said Farkar.
Yong-sik, along with two of his deputies, the missile expert and the nuclear expert, followed Farkar to a door at the end of the corridor.
The door opened up into a massive suite that occupied the entire ocean half of the penthouse floor. It was vast, with windows covering three of four walls, and stunning views of the ocean as well as the lights that now glittered like jewels from Macau’s skyline.
Inside, the tall, imposing figure of Abu Paria stood in the middle of the entrance foyer.
Paria wore a short-sleeved khaki military shirt covered in medals and military insignia. He had on matching khaki pants and steel-toed boots. Paria was six-foot-five and weighed 275 pounds, but he loomed larger. He was bald, with no facial hair. As Yong-sik entered, Paria stood with his arms crossed and a blank expression on his face. After Farkar, Yong-sik, and the two other North Koreans entered, another guard shut the door. There was a long moment of silence as Yong-sik and Paria stared at each other. Finally, Paria smiled, uncrossed his arms, and stepped toward Yong-sik.
“General Yong-sik,” said Paria in a deep, gravelly voice, with a thick accent. “It is very good to see you again, my friend.”
Paria moved closer and bowed, then reached his hand out and took Yong-sik’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically.
“It’s good to see you, too, General Paria,” said Yong-sik. “His Excellency, Kim Jong-un, sends his warmest regards to you and to the most honorable leader, Dr. Suleiman.”
Paria towered over his North Korean counterpart.
“On his behalf, I thank you for your kind words,” said Paria, “and extend the imam’s wishes to your supreme leader for a prosperous and joyous spring.”
Yong-sik bowed slightly.
“Now tell me, General, how was your flight?” said Paria.
“It was very pleasant, thank you,” said Yong-sik.
“I was invited to North Korea by Kim Jong-il himself, may he rest in peace. It was a most enjoyable trip, General. It was the beginning of the oil agreements.”
“Two countries starving to death because of the West and its sanctions,” said Yong-sik.
“Together we took the first steps to fight back,” said Paria. “You needed oil. We needed guns and bullets.” Paria placed his large arm on Yong-sik and gently patted his back. “It’s been a good friendship. In fact, I would have a hard time naming a more important and reliable friend to Iran than North Korea. Come, let me show you the view.”
Yong-sik walked beside Paria through the expansive set of rooms. They crossed a spacious dining room with a huge black onyx table surrounded by a dozen chairs. One wall was filled with large Oriental paintings and a sideboard that was shiny and gold. The opposite wall was a sheet of glass. On the table was a silver tea and coffee service. Past the dining room, another hallway fed into a palatial sitting room. A curving, modern, white leather sofa sat close to the ground. The room occupied the triangulated corner of the building, so that every wall was comprised of glass.
Yong-sik nodded subtly to one of his military aides, ordering him to remain outside the room so that he and Paria could be alone.
Paria took a seat on the sofa and watched as Yong-sik walked past it to the wall of glass. He stopped next to the edge of the window and stared out at the sky.
“You like the view, I see?” said Paria, laughing gruffly.
“I remember when Macau had one hotel.”
The sky outside was a steely gray, flanged with deep orange. Several planes were in the sky, inbound for the airport, visible at different elevations. The surface of the China Sea was silvery as the last of the day’s light refracted across it. Closer to the Mandarin, neighboring hotels were like brightly lit daggers of light and glass, jutting in the air, windows visible with people inside, neon lights in fanciful script running across different roofs, a feeling of activity, of technology, of possibility and wealth.
The two men were alone. Both of the North Korean military experts who’d accompanied Yong-sik remained near the room’s entrance.
Yong-sik stared out for more than a minute. Paria said nothing, instead allowing the North Korean to enjoy the view. Had it been an underling, or someone who needed something from Iran, Paria’s behavior would have been very different. By now, Paria would be barking orders and making demands. But it was Paria who needed something. He knew he needed to be patient with Yong-sik. After all, what North Korea potentially offered—nuclear triggers and HEU—were much more valuable than what Iran offered. Still, Paria’s patience grew thin.
“General,” said Paria, “won’t you please sit down. We have much to discuss.”
Yong-sik turned.
“Of course,” said Yong-sik, walking toward the sofa and taking a seat near Paria. “What is the expression, General Paria? Let’s get down to business?”
“Yes, precisely,” said Paria. “An American expression. Ironic, isn’t it?” He let out a low grumble of a laugh.
“What do you mean?” said the North Korean dryly.
“As we speak,” said Paria, “the Iranian container ship Silver Dawn idles in international waters in the Sea of Japan. I have authorized the captain of the ship to move upon our mutual agreement. On board the ship, there are two Safir intercontinental ballistic missiles, state of the art, built with the latest technological capabilities and materials.”
Yong-sik had a blank expression, though he allowed a slight, satisfied smile.
“That is most excellent,” said Yong-sik.
Yong-sik turned to one of the soldiers standing outside the doorway and nodded. In his hand was a large stainless steel briefcase. A chain from the case was locked to his wrist. He walked to the middle of the seating area and placed the briefcase down on the table, rotated two lock dials, and popped the case open. Inside, set securely in a foam holder, was a small, odd-looking device—a sealed glass tube with four electrodes leading into its base and an arrangement of wires of varying lengths joined together by a piece of black steel. Several wires dangled from both ends of the object. It was held in place, inside the briefcase, by a pair of straps.
Paria leaned forward, his eyes wide. He stared for several moments.
“Is it what I think it is?” said Paria.
“That depends,” said Yong-sik. “Wh
at do you think it is?”
“A nuclear trigger?”
Yong-sik nodded enthusiastically. “Correct,” he said. “Specifically, a krytron: cold cathode, hydrogen filled, intended for use as a very high-speed switch. Jin,” said Yong-sik to his aide, “give the general the key.”
The young military aide removed a key from his pocket and stuck it into the lock at his wrist, unlocking the chain. He extended the cuff to Paria, who accepted it.
“But, I don’t understand,” said Paria. “We need to discuss the terms of our deal.”
“Consider this a gesture of goodwill, General Paria,” said Yong-sik, “from His Excellency, the supreme leader. I’m told it’s not the newest of technologies but it is reliable.”
“It’s no secret that triggers have been a challenge for our engineers.”
“Yes, I know,” said Yong-sik. “As we speak, the uranium was moved into the waters near the Strait of Hormuz, four hundred and fifty-four kilograms.”
“It seems the possibility of a trade is imminent,” said Paria.
“More than imminent,” said Yong-sik. “I’ve been instructed to remain in Macau until we’ve concluded our business.”
Paria gently unstrapped the trigger from the briefcase and held it in the air, looking at it with a confused look on his face.
“I don’t even know how it works,” said Paria, “but I suppose that doesn’t matter. Let’s discuss value. The question is, what are eleven nuclear triggers and four hundred and fifty-four kilograms of uranium worth to me, and what are two intercontinental ballistic missiles worth to you, yes?”
Yong-sik smiled and nodded. “Yes, you’ve said it perfectly, General Paria.”
“ln 1997, Iran had so little cash that often we went without pay for months at a time,” said Paria. “North Korea was generous with us. Iran was paid market rates for our petroleum, even though we both knew you could have insisted on paying much less. After all, there was no market for Iranian oil, yet you paid full price. Today, with our sanctions gone, we are in a better position, but you now suffer the burden that we once suffered. Am I right?”
Yong-sik looked emotionlessly at Paria, a hint of coldness in his eyes. Perhaps it was pride. Finally, he nodded yes, without saying anything.
“Among friends, there is no shame,” said Paria. “The Republic of Iran will give you the missiles, free of charge. In addition, we will pay you for the triggers and HEU. Please determine a price you think is equitable.”
“That is most generous, but it’s not necessary, General,” said Yong-sik.
“I know,” said Paria. “It wasn’t necessary for Kim to buy our oil in 1997 either. But he did.”
21
MACAU
Dewey flew aboard Air Force One to JFK, where Mack Perry met him on the tarmac. Perry handed Dewey a leather satchel.
“Here are your papers. You’re getting into Macau under a Spanish passport; the details are inside. You’ll be operational once you’re there.”
“Why Spain?”
“It has nothing to do with the mission,” said Perry. “It’s a safe alias, that’s all, a rich Spanish guy who did some work for MI6. We don’t want you getting stopped at the border. You have a history with PRC. You’re flying to Madrid, then Macau.”
“Got it. Is the operation still the same?”
“No. We need to get the poison inside Yong-sik’s hotel room. You can’t carry it in. We’re figuring it out now. It’ll be set up by the time you’re there, hopefully.”
Dewey glanced at Perry.
“There’s your ride,” said Perry, pointing to a black jet, stairs down, engines purring, a hundred feet away.
Dewey climbed aboard the jet, a CIA GV, which took off as soon as the stairs were back up and locked. Dewey read over the papers as the GV climbed to thirty thousand feet over the dark blue of the Atlantic.
Dewey was traveling under a Spanish passport and the name Diego Escalante. Escalante was a Spanish billionaire, traveling to Macau for the first time to check it out after decades’ worth of gambling in Las Vegas and Monaco.
Usually CIA agents, when on assignment in a foreign land, took a role at the local U.S. embassy or consulate. This provided the agent with official diplomatic immunity, or “cover,” protecting the agent from prosecution if they were caught. An official agent, if captured, was usually escorted to the border and kicked out of the country.
But there were also agents who ventured into enemy lands without diplomatic immunity, unprotected. It was called “non-official cover.” Inside Langley, they were nicknamed “illegals.” Officially, they were known as NOCs. If captured, these operators faced severe criminal punishment, up to and including execution. They operated alone, across enemy lines, without a safety net. The reasoning was straightforward. A NOC had more freedom to roam because he or she would not necessarily be under surveillance by a foreign government, as embassy workers often were. This meant that NOCs had wide operational latitude. It was the ideal way to surreptitiously enter a country and move unhindered by the threat of surveillance and law enforcement.
Unfortunately, the risks were far greater. In the case of Macau, Dewey was on Chinese sovereign soil. This made the risk of the operation much higher. Unlike some countries, the Chinese liked to put most foreign travelers under some sort of surveillance, especially Americans. Even though Dewey was traveling under a Spanish alias, which was designed to withstand electronic scrutiny, the Chinese also used sophisticated facial recognition software at most airports and border crossings.
Dewey’s last visit to China was two years before, an operation to kill the head of Chinese intelligence, Fao Bhang. The mission was successful. China was just about the last place on earth he could afford to spend a lot of time in.
But Macau also had advantages. It was one of China’s shining jewels. Macau now surpassed Las Vegas as the largest gambling mecca in the world. Gambling was incredibly important—and brought in hundreds of billions of dollars to the Chinese economy. If gambling was an important and growing source of revenue for China, so were gamblers, especially so-called “big fish” like Diego Escalante. Those arriving in Macau on private jets were screened on the tarmac by local Chinese customs officials. It was a far simpler and easier process than having to go through the long customs line in the main terminal.
In Madrid, he switched planes, getting on a private Airbus owned by Escalante. The plane was luxurious. There were two staterooms along with a large lounge area with leather couches, televisions, and several stewardesses. In case any of the stewardesses or pilots aboard the jet worked for Chinese intelligence, Dewey acted the role of a Spanish billionaire, or at least how he thought one might act.
A few hours out, he phoned Jenna.
“Hi, Dewey.”
“Hi,” said Dewey.
“Where are you?”
“Two hours out. Mack said there are changes to the design.”
“Only one,” said Jenna. “You’ll get to the Grand Hyatt, change, and go to the Mandarin. General Yong-sik has arranged for a private blackjack game at eleven P.M. You’ll be posing as his dealer. I hope you’re okay with cards.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Bill was worried about a strip search by Yong-sik’s security crew,” said Jenna. “We won’t want them finding the needle, obviously. We altered the protocol. The needle will be taped to the underside of the blackjack table.”
“Got it.”
“There’s one more thing,” said Jenna. “A plane left Tehran heading to Macau and landed around the same time as Yong-sik’s plane. It was Abu Paria’s.”
* * *
When the jet touched down in Macau, a pair of young Chinese customs officials came on board the plane and inspected his passport, then conducted a brief interview with Dewey. The two officials were deferential.
A limousine was waiting on the tarmac. The driver was an older man in a black uniform. He was Chinese and opened the back door of the limousine.
“Grand
Hyatt Hotel, por favor,” said Dewey.
“Of course, sir.”
“What is the local time?” Dewey asked in Spanish.
“Nine thirty,” said the driver as the limousine started moving.
It was getting late. He needed to move quickly now.
At the Grand Hyatt, Dewey was given a key to his room. The suite was on the top floor of the hotel. Once inside, he went to the closet and found the safe. He typed in a six-digit code and the safe popped open.
Inside was a large pile of cash, two silenced handguns—Colt 1911s—an earbud, two concealed weapons holsters, and a piece of twine.
Dewey picked up the earbud and placed it in his ear, tapping twice.
“This is Dewey Andreas, on commo, check.”
He heard a few clicks, then a male voice.
“Hold on, please.”
A moment later, he heard Jenna’s soft British accent.
“Dewey?” said Jenna. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Was everything there?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you need to get moving,” said Jenna. “Yong-sik is now at dinner. The Mandarin Hotel is next door to the Grand Hyatt. There’s a tuxedo in the closet. Put it on. It should fit you.”
“I don’t like tuxedos.”
Jenna laughed.
“As I said before, you’ll be penetrating the operation as a blackjack dealer. Two security men from the Mandarin will accompany you to Yong-sik’s room. Your identification is in the pocket of the tuxedo. You’re Spanish, but not Escalante; that was simply to get into the country. You’re originally from Madrid. You’ve worked various places, Las Vegas, Dubai, and most recently, Monaco. There’ll be a security perimeter around Yong-sik’s suite. It’s imperative that you be unarmed.”
