Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  Krug waited until Yong-sik’s most trusted senior military staff was present. He went to Yong-sik and spoke in flawless Korean.

  “I want to say a few things to you and your men,” said Krug. “I think you should, too, General Yong-sik.”

  Yong-sik nodded and stood up. He waved the other North Koreans closer. The mood was tense. There were nine commandos inside the room and three times as many in various positions around the presidential palace.

  “You are all here because you are the men I trust,” said Yong-sik. “The Americans assassinated our supreme leader.”

  A low grumbling came from the North Koreans as they exchanged glances.

  “The Americans did this because the supreme leader was going to launch a nuclear attack on the United States,” Yong-sik continued. “I helped the Americans stop him. I did this because I knew that if we launched nuclear missiles at the United States, they would destroy our country. I didn’t want to see my fellow countrymen die. I didn’t even want to see innocent Americans die. Kim had cancer. He was at death’s door. He wanted to leave a lasting mark. In a way, he did. We now have the chance to create a better country, because of him.”

  Krug stood next to Yong-sik and spoke after he finished:

  “I’m General Torey Krug,” he said, looking across the line of North Korean officers. “The United States has no interest in being in North Korea any longer than we have to. We don’t want to run North Korea and we don’t care if you remain a dictatorship. In fact, for the next few years it probably makes sense to keep the existing political infrastructure in place. The United States will leave as soon as North Korea is de-nuclearized. We also stand ready to be of any assistance you need in terms of rejoining the civilized world. As you know, America believes in democracy, but we honestly don’t care what you do. It’s your country, gentlemen. The reason we’re here is because we didn’t want to be attacked with nuclear missiles. That’s the bottom line. We’ll leave when we’re sure it’ll never happen again. In the meantime, no one leaves the palace and no one communicates outside the palace unless we tell you to.”

  86

  RYONGSONG RESIDENCE

  PYONGYANG

  Several planes arrived from the United States, including a large blue-and-white Boeing 777 that resembled Air Force One. It wasn’t—this was the U.S. secretary of state’s plane.

  Secretary of State Mijailovic was accompanied by a finely curated group from State, the CIA, the Pentagon, Energy, and the White House. The group included a deep bench of America’s top Asia and North Korea experts, as well as crisis teams schooled in post-military conflict.

  Hector Calibrisi and Jenna Hartford were on the plane, as were Josh Brubaker, the national security advisor, and Dale Arnold, the secretary of defense.

  With Torey Krug serving as translator, the tension of the first few hours had lessened, though it wasn’t completely gone. Krug had an easy, direct way and the North Koreans, led by Yong-sik, were cooperating. The main focus was on the country’s nuclear infrastructure, though Krug—thanks to the Yong-sik documents—already knew all there was to know. Instead, Krug engaged them because he knew these were the crucial hours. He understood that something could go sideways at any moment and North Korea still had the largest number of soldiers of any army in the world. The more he could gain their trust—and have Yong-sik and his men see him as a reasonable, kind partner—their desire to try and do something would weaken.

  At some point, Krug ordered Kim’s corpse—as well as the dead soldier’s—be taken to another room and covered and the chair removed.

  When the group from the U.S. arrived, there were introductions. It was Calibrisi who spoke first.

  “It’s been almost sixteen hours and I apologize for the level of secrecy,” said Calibrisi.

  Krug repeated Calibrisi’s statement in Korean.

  “Are there members of the military trying to find out what’s going on?” Calibrisi asked, looking at Yong-sik.

  “Yes.”

  Calibrisi looked at Jenna. She opened her leather valise and removed a piece of paper. She handed it to Calibrisi, who handed it to Yong-sik.

  “That’s Kim’s handwriting,” said Calibrisi, “or at least as close as we can get to it. He wrote it to you on his deathbed, as he was dying from cancer. That’s the story. General, you are being appointed by Kim as his heir and the country’s new leader.”

  Yong-sik inspected the letter.

  “This isn’t true,” said Yong-sik.

  “General Yong-sik, it’s imperative North Korea not be seen as having been taken over by the United States,” said Calibrisi. “We believe it’s absolutely imperative that your countrymen not know what really happened.”

  Yong-sik nodded.

  “I understand.”

  “It doesn’t mean we want you to be a dictator,” said Calibrisi, “though if you do, we’ll have no control over it. This note simply covers up the fact that Kim was killed. It’s for the masses. It buys you time to plan a smooth transition and to maintain stability, that’s all.”

  Calibrisi looked at Mila Mijailovic.

  “My name is Mila Mijailovic and I’m the United States secretary of state,” she said. “Thank you for having us, for safeguarding our arrival, and most of all for listening. I want to tell you, first of all, that we are acutely aware of the dire circumstances regarding the North Korean treasury and economy. That is why the United States and several other nations have joined together and are preparing to make an immediate injection of cash into the North Korean treasury. The amount is five billion dollars and it will be wired as soon as we have the correct information. I should tell you that the group of nations includes Great Britain, Germany, Canada, and South Korea. We will help you. We want to help you. We want to do it quietly. When the money runs out, we will be there for you.”

  Yong-sik looked down at the floor, then scanned his lieutenants. Yong-sik looked at Krug.

  “May we have a few minutes to consider what you said?” Yong-sik said politely.

  “Of course,” said Krug, nodding at a pair of men clutching rifles near the door, telling them, without words, to keep their eyes fixed on the group. Krug stepped away, along with Mijailovic, Calibrisi, and Arnold.

  Yong-sik and his top lieutenants moved to the side of the room and spoke for less than ten minutes. When they returned to Krug and the others, a nervous smile was across Yong-sik’s face.

  “We will do it,” said Yong-sik. “We are unanimous in our decision. It is the right thing for our people.”

  87

  RIVER HOUSE

  MI6 HEADQUARTERS

  LONDON

  Tacoma entered Derek Chalmers’s third-floor office. He was still dressed in a leather coat and white T-shirt from Moscow.

  “That was quick,” said Chalmers.

  Tacoma said nothing.

  “Where’s Katie?”

  “Paraguay,” said Tacoma.

  “You were alone? That was worth two million dollars a week?”

  “You get what you get and you don’t complain,” said Tacoma. “Are you interested in what I found or should I come back another time?”

  “Touché.”

  “I found Billy Thompson. Definitely GRU. He admitted to killing Charles Hartford.”

  “Admitted to it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Freely?”

  “I exerted a little pressure,” said Tacoma. “I asked him why. He said it was a warning to Jenna.”

  Chalmers’s brow furrowed as he realized the implication.

  “Jenna?”

  “Yes,” said Tacoma. “When I asked him why, he said, ‘Even I don’t know that.’”

  Chalmers stood up and walked to the bar in his office. He poured himself a scotch.

  “Rob? Do you want something?”

  “No, I need to go,” said Tacoma, standing up.

  Chalmers took a sip.

  “How far does this go?” said Chalmers.

  “You pay for confi
dentiality,” said Tacoma, “unless it’s something that the United States needs to know. If she’s working at Langley—”

  “I’ll call Hector,” said Chalmers.

  Tacoma walked to the door.

  “Derek, don’t jump to conclusions,” said Tacoma. “Assuming Jenna’s bad is the same thing as everyone who assumed Billy Thompson was good. You recruited her. Someone might be setting her up.”

  “What did you do with Billy Thompson?”

  Tacoma smiled.

  “Broke his neck. See you later, Derek.”

  88

  RYONGSONG RESIDENCE

  PYONGYANG

  As the conclave broke up, Jenna glanced around the large room. She hadn’t seen Dewey, but her eyes found him on a sofa along the far wall of the gigantic, ornate room. It was a fancy, extra-long sofa, with gold-covered fabric. Dewey was seated, watching everything, a gun on his lap. His weapons vest was still on.

  Jenna walked to the sofa as Krug, Arnold, Mijailovic, Yong-sik, and the other North Koreans sat down around a large table on the opposite side of the room and began the process of working together.

  Jenna took a seat next to Dewey.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “There’s a plane for you over at the airport,” said Jenna, brushing her hair out of her face. She smiled. “Whenever you want to go. I think this thing is under control.”

  Dewey looked exhausted. He remained seated.

  “Dewey, get up,” she said.

  “We’re done. You’re done. Let’s get out of here.”

  89

  PYONGYANG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  PYONGYANG

  A silver Gulfstream G650ER was idling at Pyongyang International Airport, engines humming.

  A few seconds later, a gray Sikorsky SH-60 descended toward the tarmac and touched down next to the jet. The side door opened and Dewey and Jenna stepped down onto the tarmac. They walked to the G650, Jenna in front, and they both climbed on board. Inside, Dewey pressed a button and the hydraulics purred, pulling the stairs shut. Within a minute, the CIA-owned jet was barreling down the runway, climbing rapidly into the dark sky.

  It was a luxurious jet. There were sixteen seats in the cabin, along with several staterooms with en suite bathrooms. The seats were white leather captain’s chairs, on either side of the aisle. Dewey sat down and kicked his feet up on the chair across from him. Jenna sat down next to him.

  Jenna looked at him, for the first time noticing his shirt, which was torn in several places. He still had on his weapons vest. She noted the butts of two guns tucked beneath his armpits. His jeans were brown—dried dirt and mud—and ripped at both knees. His face had a layer of stubble, war black, dirt, and dried blood. His hair was messed up, but still parted roughly in the middle. He was tan. Finally, her eyes met his. He was looking at her.

  “What are you looking at?” said Dewey, his voice weary.

  Jenna looked into Dewey’s eyes, noticing for the first time how blue they were. She averted her eyes.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Dewey shut his eyes and leaned back, pushing his head against the window to go to sleep.

  “If it’s all right, I’m getting a drop-off in England,” said Jenna.

  “It’s fine,” said Dewey without opening his eyes.

  “It’s my father’s seventieth birthday,” she continued, despite the fact that Dewey was trying to sleep. “There’s a party for him. They definitely aren’t expecting me.”

  “That’s great,” mumbled Dewey, his eyes remaining shut.

  “He’ll be very surprised,” said Jenna, trying to engage Dewey in conversation. But Dewey said nothing. Instead he adjusted his position in the seat, trying to stretch out and find a comfortable position for his head between the seat and the window.

  “Are you trying to sleep?”

  Dewey opened his eyes. They were bloodshot from exhaustion.

  “How’d you guess?” he said. He immediately shut his eyes again.

  After a minute or so, Jenna reopened the conversation.

  “It’s my first time in England in six months,” she said in a soft British accent. “My husband was killed by a car bomb in London. It was intended for me.”

  Slowly, one of Dewey’s eyes opened.

  “Can this wait?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Dewey shut his eye as if he was about to go back to sleep. Suddenly, he opened both eyes and sat up. He shook his head as if trying to wake himself up. He looked at Jenna.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  Dewey stood and walked up the aisle to the bar. He opened the refrigerator and took out two cans of Budweiser and set them on the bar. He opened both cans and chugged them, one after the other, crushing the cans after he was done and leaving them on the bar. He started rifling around the bar area, opening drawers and cabinets, finally finding an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He unscrewed the top and took a sizable chug. He looked back down the aisle.

  “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” said Jenna.

  Dewey took two glasses and poured each one half full with whiskey. He took two more beers from the refrigerator and walked back down the aisle. He handed Jenna the glass of Jack Daniel’s. She took the glass with a look of disbelief and shock at the volume of brown liquid, just as Dewey extended the beer. She took that, too. Dewey sat down, put his legs up, and brought the glass of bourbon to his lips and took a big sip.

  “So, your husband died?” said Dewey, leaning back. “Tell me what happened.”

  * * *

  For the next two hours, Jenna did most of the talking. Occasionally, Dewey went back to the bar for refills, all of them for himself. It was as if Jenna hadn’t spoken to anyone in six months. She told him about Charles, about the investigation, about MI6, about London. Eventually, Dewey’s eyelids simply could not remain open any longer. He fell asleep during a story about an operation Jenna had designed, her first operation, a rescue of a British diplomat who’d been taken hostage in Belfast.

  When they landed at Heathrow, Dewey awoke. He looked at Jenna. Her eyes were closed.

  “Hey, Jenna,” he said.

  Jenna looked at him through drowsy eyes.

  “We’re here.”

  She looked out the window and then at Dewey. She smiled.

  “See you back in Langley,” she said.

  * * *

  After dropping Jenna in London, Dewey found one of the staterooms and climbed onto the bed with his boots still on and blood still staining his shirt, arm, and hair. He collapsed and fell asleep until, six hours later, he felt a hand shaking him.

  “Dewey,” said a female voice, one of the pilots. “We’re back in the United States. You’re home.”

  Dewey arose slowly from the bed. He moved past the pilot and walked to the left front of the fuselage. He hit a button and the stairs descended to the tarmac. He stepped down onto the ground. It was warm out, mid-sixties. Summer was coming. He stepped down the stairs and onto the tarmac.

  Dewey walked into a small gathering of on-duty air force men, killing time, hanging around in one of the hangars.

  They stopped talking and looked at him.

  “Hey,” said Dewey.

  All of the men stood up. One of them saluted him.

  “We heard what happened,” said the officer. “Nice work, Mr. Andreas.”

  Dewey nodded but said nothing. He kept walking until he found the parking lot where he’d left his car. It was a black Ferrari 575 Superamerica, a gift from Rolf Borchardt. Dewey didn’t necessarily like expensive cars, but he was starting to like this one. He stood back and stared at the sports car for a few moments, then put his hand on the back left tire and found the key he’d left there. He climbed inside and hit a button that caused the glass roof to unhitch, lift up, then tuck behind him. It was a warm night. Dewey pressed the ignition switch and the Ferrari roared to life.

  90

 
; BUTCHER

  LUBYANSKIY DRIVE

  MOSCOW

  The man, Nemkov, walked into the restaurant. It was crowded, the mood festive. Moscow’s best steakhouse on a Saturday night.

  He cut through the crowd. He arrived at a booth upholstered in soft blue leather. It was a luxurious, private table in the back, out of any sight lines from the window. He sat down and placed his valise to the side, inside the booth.

  Nemkov looked at the man seated in front of him, Ilyitch.

  “Ya izvinyayus. Ya prishel tak bystro, kak tol’ko mog.”

  I apologize. I came as quickly as I could.

  “Vasili is dead,” said Ilyitch.

  Nemkov’s mouth went slightly agape, his only emotion.

  “How?”

  “Last night, at a nightclub. He was beaten to death, then they broke his neck. This is Vasili we’re talking about.”

  Nemkov nodded. He reached to the other man’s glass of vodka.

  “Do you mind?” he said.

  “No.”

  Nemkov took a large sip, then put the glass down.

  “And you think he talked?”

  “Can we take that risk?” said Ilyitch. “Why else would someone kill him? More important, who could kill him? This is not a man who loses a bar fight.”

  “So someone is digging into the death of her husband?”

  “If she is exposed, she knows a great deal,” said Ilyitch.

  Nemkov stood up.

  “I understand,” he said.

  Nemkov grabbed the glass of vodka and polished it off. He put the glass down and gave Ilyitch one last glance—then turned and walked quickly to the door.

  91

  POOLESVILLE, MARYLAND

  Dewey took a circuitous route home from Andrews, driving through the Maryland countryside. He knew the route well by now. Fields of deep green spread out on each side of the thin, winding country road. Spring was here and hints of summer came through in the fresh, flowery scents of the country plain. When he came to the crest of a hill, he slowed. There, in the distance, was Bruner’s farm.

  As he drove closer, he suddenly registered the line of vehicles, including an ambulance, several police cars, and a few dark sedans.