by Ben Coes
The numbers were casualty estimates, the circles blast and fallout zones. How many Americans would die from a nuclear strike in each area.
The last page was a photo of Kim. Beneath his photo was a paragraph, headed by “Statement by His Most Excellency, Kim Jong-un,” the word “DRAFT” next to it.
It is my decision that we will strike the Great Satan, America. I now await a sign of when, not if. But make no doubt in your mind, the decision has been made and it will be on a Sunday. It will forever be called “Bloody Sunday.”
As Yong-sik prepared to hit Send, he remembered one more thing. For a few moments, he thought about not sending it. But he had to, he knew, if there was any chance of saving his country. He found a folder on his desktop and attached a document entitled:
HEALTH RECORDS OF THE SUPREME LEADER—TOP SECRET
He hit Send as he felt his face flushing red with heat. It was unmistakable. The poison was beginning to take hold. He looked at his watch. His hand was shaking too much to read the time.
35
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY
One of Jenna’s email programs abruptly chimed. The message had no sender. Three documents were attached. All were in Korean. She opened a separate program on her computer called CYPHER. It was a CIA language translation engine. A minute later, the documents appeared in English:
KPA MILITARY POWER ASSESSMENT AND STATE OF READINESS
SUPREME LEADER’S DECISION MATRIX
HEALTH RECORDS OF THE SUPREME LEADER—CONFIDENTIAL
“Bloody Christ,” said Jenna softly to herself. “It worked.”
She looked around the half-empty operations room.
“It worked!” she yelled, clapping her hands.
“What is it?” said Perry.
“The documents from General Yong-sik,” said Jenna. “Forwarding right now. Could you get them to everyone you think should see them?”
“Yes, of course.”
Jenna reread the three titles. She opened one of the documents:
SUPREME LEADER’S DECISION MATRIX
List of cities: L.A., Phoenix, Houston, San Diego, Dallas
Decision:
Transcript:
“My decision is made. I want both missiles capable of reaching the United States to be on active alert and prepared for launch.” KIM
“The process of arming the two Iranian missiles is nearly complete. Theoretically, they will be ready tomorrow (Saturday).” YONG-SIK
“Make preparations for Sunday. It will happen Sunday. It will be called Bloody Sunday.” KIM
“Yes, Your Grace.” YONG-SIK
RECORDED BY Lt. Col. Ghan
“My God,” she said, a horrified look on her face as she scanned the plans to strike America.
Jenna began to open the assessment of North Korea’s military power, but her eyes were drawn to the third document.
HEALTH RECORDS OF THE SUPREME LEADER
It was short—only five pages long. She scanned it quickly, staring in disbelief. Then, her mouth went ajar. She knew what it meant. It all made sense now.
PROGNOSIS: STAGE 4 PANCREATIC CANCER
In our estimate, the supreme leader has between two weeks and one month left before the cancer proves fatal.
“Oh my God.”
It all crystallized in that moment. Jenna understood. Kim was dying and he wanted to live in infamy, forever known as the man who detonated a nuclear device on American soil. History would write of America destroying North Korea for what had happened.
Kim was a madman. He was actually going to do it. It wasn’t a bluff. He had terminal cancer and well, why not?
“Oh God,” Jenna whispered again. She lurched from her chair and started running down the hallway.
36
DIRECTOR’S OFFICE
CIA
LANGLEY
Calibrisi returned from the State Department, where Secretary of State Mijailovic was in a virtual shit storm of putting out fires—all of them somehow related to North Korea.
The documents from Yong-sik had been distributed within the highest levels of the U.S. government. The fact that Iran had delivered ICBMs to Pyongyang was front and center. That Iran was skirting agreements to end its nuclear program was a secondary issue, a large issue, and yet it paled in comparison to Kim and the fact that he was preparing to strike a city in the United States imminently with nuclear weapons.
What had been a planned coffee between Mijailovic and Calibrisi had been interrupted by Jenna Hartford. An hour’s trip to Foggy Bottom turned into four. The picture the Yong-sik documents painted was alarming. Not only did the North Koreans possess the capability to hit the United States with nuclear-tipped ICBMs, there now existed a rationale for why they actually might: Kim Jong-un was dying.
What intrigued Calibrisi the most was the fact that Yong-sik had included Kim’s health reports. It wasn’t part of the exchange. Yong-sik was warning them. There could be no other explanation. Kim was about to die. He was living his final days. That those final days coincided with an underground nuclear weapons test and a sharp increase in activity at two of North Korea’s key missile bases made it clear. Yong-sik was warning them. He was asking for help.
Or was he? Was he warning the West or was he daring the West? Was it a ploy like so many of the other ploys by Kim—a ploy to get money? What if the health records were a fabrication?
Calibrisi opened a drawer in his desk and removed a small device. It was a blood pressure monitor. He wrapped it around his wrist and turned it on. As he felt it tightening around his wrist, he stared out the window. He was used to feeling anxious. He’d been a highly placed CIA agent, had worked in counterterrorism at the FBI, and now was in charge of the world’s preeminent spy agency. He was used to the feeling of the unknown, the feeling of worry for people he put at risk. But today he felt different. It was an altogether worse feeling and it gave him a rapid heartbeat and a sharp, acid-like pit in his stomach.
It was because of Jenna, he knew. Her design had pushed America into something hideously dangerous. It was information that never would’ve been discovered in time by Langley’s agents, yet even so, Calibrisi wished for a simpler time. He wished in a way they hadn’t discovered it at all. But they had—and it was impossible to ignore. Indeed, the operation—if they could figure out the right response—could end up saving millions of American lives.
Calibrisi had agreed to bring Jenna in at Derek Chalmers’s request, and now he had misgivings. The operation to poison Yong-sik was brilliant, but part of Calibrisi wished they’d simply stuck with the original plan: kill Yong-sik. Yes, they’d extracted valuable information—even critical information—but what if it wasn’t even true?
It had to be true. The information was damning. There was nothing exculpatory about it. North Korea was moving into attack scenario. For whatever reason, Kim believed striking the United States made sense. Even though much of the information was already known to the U.S., Kim’s health status was not. Yong-sik didn’t have to include it. Without Jenna’s creative operation, they would not have known Kim was about to die.
“Why did you do it?” Calibrisi whispered.
A simple needle prick to Dewey’s chest made it all so meaningless. Why didn’t they just kill the son of a bitch?
British intelligence was renowned for its complex, elegant operations, but Calibrisi felt as if he was untethered, out over the tips of his skis, flying down a sheer cliff of ice with no idea what lay below.
But of course, it was Dewey that was behind it all. He was the cause of the pit in his stomach. Dewey was going to die. Calibrisi never counted him out before, but there was no way he could walk into Pyongyang without being seen. Even if he could get there, he needed an antidote that may or may not still exist. They couldn’t reach Talmadge, the only man who knew if the two vials had survived the trip to Pyongyang, and if so, where the second one was.
His worry about Dewey mixed with his reflections on Kim. If the docume
nts were true, if North Korea was moving closer and closer to a nuclear strike on the U.S., there was only one way to stop it. America would have to strike first. A preemptive nuclear strike.
The two thoughts collided and he understood that even if by some miracle Dewey made it and found the antidote, he would die anyway. He would be one of the millions the United States might have to annihilate in order to prevent the annihilation of Los Angeles, or Houston, or Phoenix, or some other American city.
Why didn’t you just kill Yong-sik?
Calibrisi picked up his cell and called Jenna.
“Can you come down here?”
“Be right there,” she said.
Calibrisi looked at his watch. He stood up and packed some papers into his briefcase and then put his cell phone to his ear. He dialed Polk.
“Bill, you need to come with me,” he said. “Meet you on the roof.”
Calibrisi hung up and pocketed the phone as Jenna approached the door and stepped inside. He looked at her with a blank expression.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Where?”
“The White House. We’re briefing the president.”
As Jenna and Calibrisi walked down the corridor, a tall man with a mop of frizzy, curly blond hair came out of one of the elevators. It was Lloyd Edgington.
“Hector,” said Edgington.
“I don’t have time, Lloyd.”
“We found the connection,” said Edgington. “A cargo ship from Iran pulled into the Port of Nampo last night.”
“Nampo?”
“On the Yellow Sea, south of Pyongyang. DIA captured still photos of the ship being offloaded. Missiles.”
Calibrisi shook his head in exasperation.
“Send a flash to the War Council,” said Calibrisi, turning and moving to the stairs that would take him to the rooftop helipad.
37
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Hector Calibrisi, Bill Polk, Mack Perry and Jenna Hartford climbed aboard a helicopter on the roof helipad at CIA headquarters. They choppered from Langley to the White House, landing on the South Lawn. It was Saturday afternoon. The group from the CIA was met by several Secret Service agents along with Josh Brubaker, the president’s national security advisor. As the agents escorted them on a speedy walk across the South Lawn and through the Rose Garden, Brubaker pulled Calibrisi aside.
“I just got off the phone with the Roussy Institute,” said Brubaker, stopping Calibrisi in the middle of the Rose Garden. “They were the ones who made the diagnosis on Kim. They were in Pyongyang. The document is real. Kim is dying of cancer.”
Brubaker wore jeans and a navy blue V-neck sweater. His blond hair was tousled and a layer of stubble was on his face.
“What’s the temperature in there?” said Calibrisi.
“What do you think it is? Hot. The secretary of defense is in there, along with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They want to turn Pyongyang into an ink stain.”
“That’s understandable,” said Calibrisi calmly. “The question is, how much time do we have? We need to understand if our satellites can pick up when the North Koreans start fueling the missile.”
“Or missiles,” said Brubaker.
“Or missiles,” agreed Calibrisi.
“It’s not going to be a friendly crowd, Hector. General Tralies is blaming you guys for not knowing Abu Paria was in Macau and not knowing Kim was dying of cancer.”
Calibrisi nodded.
“Fair questions,” said Calibrisi. “Though I would point out, we know about them now.”
* * *
Accompanied by two armed plainclothes members of Department of Defense internal security, Will Parizeau crossed the lobby of the Watergate, went outside, and climbed into the back of an idling black Chevy Suburban.
Parizeau had only been to the White House once before—as a twelve-year-old while on a vacation to Washington, D.C., with his parents. That time, he didn’t come anywhere near the Oval Office.
Parizeau was the Pentagon’s top satellites expert. Out of a highly secure suite of offices in the U.S. Navy Yard in southwest Washington, he managed a team of analysts whose job was to direct America’s high-altitude satellites and spy on friend and foe alike in order to create as accurate a situational awareness as possible as to threats potentially facing the U.S. and its allies. The deployment and movement of the Pentagon’s satellites were done by a different department, but Parizeau and his team aimed the cameras. More important, Parizeau was the interpreter of what the resulting photos showed. And what they showed were nuclear weapons.
The call from the secretary of defense had come in at eleven A.M.
“Will, this is Dale Arnold.”
Parizeau thought he was dreaming—or perhaps having a nightmare. He reached for his glasses as he sat up in bed.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”
“There are two DIS agents on their way to your apartment,” said the secretary of defense. “They’ll escort you to the White House.”
“Ahh … okay, sir,” said Parizeau, wiping his eyes, trying to wake up. “Can I ask what’s going on?”
“North Korea.”
“Is everything okay, sir?”
“No, it’s not. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”
38
IN THE AIR
The jet was a specially designed Gulfstream GV. It was almost ten years old but still one of the fastest—and most luxurious—of Air America’s fleet of jets. Dewey sat on one of the brown leather seats in the main cabin. The jet had its own master bedroom suite, but Dewey took one of the regular chairs and quickly fell asleep.
Dewey was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
Halfway through the flight, Fields shook Dewey’s shoulder several times, trying to wake him up. He did it as gently as he could, not wanting to be the one who woke Dewey up too abruptly.
“Dewey,” said Fields in British accent, shaking his shoulder. “How you feeling?”
Dewey looked up as if awakened from a dream, its haze remaining even after his eyes opened. Pain from the fever still hung in his bones. It took him a few seconds, then he looked at Fields.
“Who are you?”
Fields stared at Dewey, not responding.
“Where are we?”
“Over the Sea of Japan.”
“How long until we land?”
“A couple hours. Here,” said Fields. “Take these.”
Fields reached his hand out. There were two small pills, one oval and red, one light green and round. He dropped them into Dewey’s hand.
“Am I being taken hostage?” said Dewey, still not understanding where he was.
Fields grinned.
“I work for MI6. Jenna sent me to help you.”
Dewey nodded, a dazed, confused look on his face.
“Oh, yeah. It’s coming back now.”
Fields pointed at Dewey’s hand, holding the pills.
“It’s called a stat-pak,” said Fields. “If we’re ever shot down and captured behind enemy lines, we’re supposed to take them. I don’t know what it is. All I know is, it’s designed for torture. Before they torture you. It’s not an opioid. It’s a nerve block.”
“No one’s torturing me,” said Dewey.
“You were poisoned,” said Fields. “It’s a way to deal with pain that doesn’t sideline you.”
Dewey looked at the pills.
“At least put them in your pocket,” said Fields, pushing the pills into Dewey’s hand.
Dewey took the two pills and stuffed them in his jeans pocket.
“Is there a plan?”
“I have no fucking idea,” said Fields. “Technically, I’m AWOL from an operation we’re running back in Macau. I don’t know how Jenna got me wrapped up in this, but she did. This seems like it’s more interesting. I figure Jenna can call Derek Chalmers after and get me my job back. Anyway, Jenna wanted to talk to you when you woke up.”
Dewey stared at Fields for
a few seconds. Then he picked up a phone attached by wire to the wall.
“Name?”
“Andreas.”
A small click.
“Yes?”
“Jenna Hartford.”
“Hold, sir.”
A few moments later, Jenna’s soft British voice came on.
“Dewey?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“How are you?”
“Fine,” said Dewey. “Is there a plan?”
“It’s coming together.”
“Is there really an antidote in Pyongyang?” said Dewey. “Because if there isn’t, don’t put me through this bullshit. I’d rather go drink a few beers before I die.”
“There is an antidote,” said Jenna, “in fact there are two. A backup was sent. General Yong-sik sent the documents, but we haven’t given him the location yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because if one of the vials broke during transit, that would leave only one. We’d let Yong-sik die so that you can get it, Dewey.”
“No,” said Dewey.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I gave him my word.”
There was a long silence.
“Is the information helpful at least?” said Dewey.
Jenna bit her tongue. She knew the answer to the question, the fact that it was not only helpful but crisis-stage material—that Kim was dying and about to drop a nuclear bomb on a city in the U.S. But she didn’t tell him that. She knew he had to focus on one primary, sole objective: getting to Pyongyang.
“It was helpful,” said Jenna, “but we need to discuss your situation. The other antidote will be in Talmadge’s apartment. He will hide it. You need to get to Talmadge’s apartment.”
“Is he expecting me?”
There was a pause.
“We’ve been unable to establish contact with the agent in Pyongyang,” she said finally.
“Oh, great,” said Dewey.
“It doesn’t mean he’s not there.”
“Or maybe they caught him,” said Dewey. “Killed his ass, found the other antidote, and poured it down the drain. Or maybe it broke.”
