by Ward Larsen
Slaton turned the other way. He climbed quickly, and on reaching the roof he backtracked the way he’d come, across to the neighboring building and down its tight stairwell. He reached ground level in less than a minute, exited through the back door, and rushed into the night.
FORTY-SIX
“How do they survive so far from land?” asked Sami, who was standing at the helm.
Boutros pulled his eyes away from the chart. He looked up and saw a lone bird circling overhead, a tern perhaps, some Pacific species he was not familiar with. The creature seemed unfazed by the gusting wind, its unmoving wings holding it effortlessly in a clear sky. Boutros cocked his head indifferently, then readdressed the map. “They come because the fish are here,” he said distractedly.
“But there is no land for hundreds of miles. Don’t they need a branch on which to rest? A place to build a nest?”
Boutros again forced his eyes up. This time he looked at Sami. He was staring at the bird with the wonder of youth, that naked curiosity through which one builds opinions on the mysteries of life. Given their circumstances, it seemed entirely pointless.
Unable to come up with a sage rejoinder, he said, “I am going below to see Rafiq.”
* * *
Boutros stepped into the gloom of the lower deck and found Rafiq where he’d been most of the voyage, in the makeshift workroom. As Boutros came in, Rafiq was hanging a long-sleeve shirt on a peg near the bench—he typically wore only an undershirt when he worked.
Rafiq picked up a device of some sort from the bench—it was the size of a lunch box and had a probe connected by a cord.
“What is that?” Boutros asked, announcing his presence.
Rafiq’s eyes flicked up in mild surprise. On such a small boat, he was learning, there was no such thing as privacy. “A Geiger counter—it measures radiation.”
Boutros went closer. On the box he saw a gauge with a needle. Rafiq ran the probe across various points in the workshop. When it finally came near the heavy steel container the needle jumped suddenly.
Boutros stiffened ever so slightly. He had witnessed more danger in the last few years than most men saw in a lifetime. Yet the hazards of Iraq and Syria were tangible in their manifestations. Lead, shrapnel, fire. Even Assad’s chlorine bombs one could see coming—the deadly yellow-green mist falling ominously from the sky. Here Boutros sensed a different kind of threat, one that could not be seen or heard or smelled. One that killed silently, slowly, and with profound certainness. Something about it seemed innately evil. But then, he supposed that was part of its effectiveness—not one fleeting burst of carnage, but a weapon to instill fear that would last a lifetime.
“How much material is inside?” he asked, pointing to the barrel’s end, which already contained a perfectly machined cylinder of highly enriched uranium.
“Less than half of what we need for a viable bomb,” replied Rafiq.
“But the rest we will have soon.”
“So General Park tells us.”
Boutros stepped back. “It doesn’t seem enough for such a great explosion.”
Rafiq set the Geiger counter on a bench. “When it comes to nuclear bombs, ‘enough’ is a relative term. This target cylinder contains sixteen kilos of HEU—perhaps enough to fill a few beer cans. The next batch will contain slightly more.”
“A six-pack?”
Rafiq grinned. Even for Islamic fundamentalists, it was a reference they could all imagine. He went on, “Surrounding our target cylinder is the neutron initiator. To achieve critical mass, there must be a flood of neutrons in a very short period of time. The initiator, which is made of polonium and beryllium, releases additional neutrons when the two masses collide. And as I mentioned earlier, there is a graphite tamper to further contain the neutrons.”
“It sounds complicated,” Boutros remarked.
“Actually, once everything is in place, the operation is quite simple. The remaining uranium will consist of six rings—donuts if you will—that must be installed at the breech end of the barrel. Once I have done that, the rest will be up to Saleem.” He put all ten fingertips together and burst them outward. “Boom!”
“What kind of explosives will he be using?” Boutros asked. This was more familiar ground for an ISIS commander.
“Czech Semtex—a batch acquired from a group in Libya. Saleem has worked a great deal with Semtex, and he was given instructions on how to shape the charge for maximum effectiveness. The explosion will drive the rings up the tube and into the core, initiating the chain reaction.”
“What could go wrong?” Boutros inquired. As a commander, it was a question he always asked.
Rafiq thought about it. “I am an engineer, not a physicist. But from my readings, I gather the most common problem is for things to happen too slowly. If the explosion is not forceful enough, the two masses collide with insufficient speed, starting the reaction prematurely. Everything is blown apart before it reaches a supercritical state.”
“So the tube explodes before an atomic blast is achieved?”
“Something like that. This device is the product of years of research by the North Koreans. Ultimately, they gave up on uranium gun-type devices—it’s the most reliable method, but could never be mounted on top of a ballistic missile. For that one needs a smaller implosion warhead, which requires plutonium. According to the technician who briefed me, the Koreans built this device early in their program, and for years they’ve wondered what to do with it.”
“Now they have decided,” said Boutros. “They have given it to us.”
Rafiq nodded. “A turnkey operation.”
“Will that not be suspicious?”
“What do you mean?”
“In the aftermath … will it not be said that ISIS could never have built this alone?”
“It would not be impossible. With enough time, enough money, anyone can fashion such a bomb. The difficulty is in acquiring weapons-grade uranium.”
“Yet after this bomb explodes, I am told traces of the material can be identified. How can we take credit if that points to the North Koreans?”
Rafiq cast his eyes down at his wrench. “That is the part I have yet to understand. The Koreans assured us they would be able to deny any involvement. They must be supremely confident about that—otherwise, they would be inviting a nuclear response by the United States. I suspect the final shipment of material will somehow absolve them of responsibility.”
Boutros remembered these Korean promises from the planning meetings—ISIS would get sole credit for the strike. He had never understood the details, yet Rafiq seemed convinced. And on technical matters, Boutros trusted his judgment. “Very well,” he said.
Rafiq lifted the lid of a toolbox and extracted a wrench. Boutros decided to leave him to his work.
As he was walking away, he again noticed the shirt on the peg—in the breast pocket was a letter. The envelope was creased and wrinkled, as if it had been opened many times. He could just make out an old postmark. The unit commander in him wanted to take a closer look. The sea captain thought otherwise. What little privacy could be had was to be respected.
He walked down the companionway to the galley. There he found a half pot of coffee on the burner. It looked like something drained from the engine sump. Still, Boutros decided he needed a lift. He plucked a Styrofoam cup from a stack.
As he filled it he looked around the room. In one corner were neatly rolled prayer rugs, and next to the sink a wash basin and clean towels—necessary for the ablution. This was where Sami and Saleem prayed.
Boutros sometimes envied such men.
There were two essential camps in the caliphate. Most obvious were the ardent jihadists, men like Sami and Saleem who ran at death with their willful conviction. Yet others were less fervent, men and women who were deeply religious, but whose motivation to fight was sourced elsewhere. He and Rafiq fell in that category.
He took his first sip, found it lukewarm and bitter. Boutros added some po
wdered creamer, began stirring with a plastic spoon. He found himself thinking about Rafiq. He was the most highly educated of them all. Unfortunately, education counted for little these days in Syria. Even with the government taking charge, the country was better fitted to gangsters and black marketeers than scientists. He knew Rafiq had no wife or children. He also knew that he’d seen little direct fighting in the war—yet by all accounts, he’d made himself useful behind the lines. The caliphate, no doubt, needed such men. Needed them to keep power grids running and sewers from overflowing. To keep mobile towers connected so that the word of jihad could be spread across the world.
He found himself staring at the two rugs. He had seen Rafiq pray once or twice, but not like the others. Not like the martyrs who seemed to treat piety as a kind of competition. He felt an unease, although couldn’t put his finger on the source. Rafiq? Sami and Saleem? Or was it something to do with himself?
The coffee was unsalvageable. Boutros dumped it in the sink and set a new batch brewing. He would have Sami bring him a cup at the helm later. Boutros zipped up his jacket and started up the stairs.
FORTY-SEVEN
Slaton drove fast and west out of Vienna, the Renault darting through Salzburg and skirting the Bavarian Alps. The sun was barely a glow in his mirror when he crossed uneventfully into Germany. There he rounded Berchtesgaden, where Hitler’s Nazi Party had established its alternate Chancellery, and where the infamous Eagle’s Nest lorded high on a summit. Soon townships gave way to forest, and Slaton found himself on a minor road in thickening woods, skirting the Bavarian National Park.
He steered the car around hairpin turns and through the occasional tunnel. His thoughts seemed to correspond—alternately veering and darkening. Most dominant was Mordechai’s dying confession: that he had drawn Slaton into his personal plot to return to Mossad’s good graces.
I wanted to run an op.
Mordechai had managed to establish a communication link with Christine, assuming Slaton’s identity in their last-ditch connection. He ignored any regrets about letting it happen to concentrate on more pressing questions. Where were they now? Still in hiding? Or had this far-reaching Asian contingent become involved?
With each passing mile his desperation mounted, like a wave driving into ever-shallowing water. He knew the police in Vienna would eventually make progress. There was always a chance his face had been caught by a camera he hadn’t noticed. Or perhaps a neighbor had seen him leaving one of the murder scenes. This alone was something of a personal best—or worst, depending on point of view. To be involved in two deadly incidents within a matter of hours. In both cases he’d tried to intervene. Tried to keep killers from doing their job. In both cases he’d been too late.
The wave climbed higher. Cresting in a way he couldn’t control.
Slaton needed to find out what was on the flash drive. But first he had other priorities. To begin, he needed freedom to operate. It was time to ditch the Renault. Munich, he decided, was the best place for a tactical reset. One more hour west. He would abandon the car outside town, take a train the rest of the way. Blend in with the early commuters. In Munich he could find everything he needed. A computer, web access, all manner of transportation. It was time to burn the identity he’d been using and assume that of his last passport. This was a Canadian item. Thomas La Pierre of Edmonton, Alberta. Importer of fine European stone. Keep with what you know. Operate from bases of fact.
With a rough plan in place, Slaton decided there was time for some desperately needed rest. Two hours, no more. It was not a random number. His sleep cycle had once been clinically determined by Mossad. Every individual has unique rest patterns, and the agency wanted its assassins, who could spend countless hours in wait of a target, to know both the limits of their endurance, and the length of time needed for one restorative cycle of deep sleep. Slaton’s personal recharge: one hundred and fifteen minutes. He’d initially been skeptical of the idea, but having applied it over the years he found it unerringly accurate.
He began scouting sidings and service roads, and eventually chose what seemed an inviting path. Little more than two gravel ruts separated by a line of dead weeds, the road was a challenge for the Renault. What would be potholes in the summer had gone to pockets of ice, and shallow rivers of snow lined either side of the raised roadbed. The trail curved through trees and ended at a small tarmac parking apron. All around were the remnants of some bygone construction project—a few rusted pipes, scrapped sections of guardrail.
Slaton K-turned to leave the car facing back toward the main road. He left the keys in the ignition and climbed into the back seat. He rolled up his jacket for a pillow, put the Glock in the seat back pocket, situated for his preferred right-hand grip.
He closed his eyes with deliberate slowness, intending to mentally sketch his next five moves. He was fast asleep by number two.
One hundred and fifteen minutes.
* * *
The palace was officially referred to as Residence Number 55, a name whose provenance—rather like the bunkers of the People’s Strategic Rocket Forces—was of dubious numerical merit. Situated eight miles northeast of central Pyongyang, the residence borders the fringes of the Ryongsong district. Through the vision of the people’s architect, the palace lies centered in a pleasantly wooded glade, ostensibly because its occupant was a lover of nature, although among the select few who worked inside, and who knew its ostentatious scale and luxurious accouterments, the quiet theory floated that the surrounding forests had more to do with the concealment of riches than bonding with fauna.
Among the trappings was a swimming pool with a water slide on which Dear Leader himself enjoyed the occasional splash during summer. The adjacent running track, on the other hand, had never been graced by his presence, nor the nearby athletic field. A shooting range saw limited use, which was just as well for the traitorous exemplars who took the place of paper targets. The locals outside the high fence referred to the palace as the People’s Luxury Mansion, a peculiarly contrarian label that was as accurate in fact as it was at odds with any classic view of communist ideology. Even so, with the shooting range in the back of everyone’s mind, few complaints were lodged.
General Park made his way down a long corridor in the massive main residence, his aggravation evident as he passed between paintings that might have been credited to Old World masters, and beneath crystalline chandeliers the size of cars. He was irritated he’d been forced to go through three security stations to get this far. Park no longer carried a weapon. He had done so many years ago, as a rising young officer eager to impress, yet he’d advanced to a point in his career where others could be relied upon for that sort of thing. He was now the senior officer others tried to impress.
The final anteroom was a gilded cavern of silk and tapestry. Here, he knew, the final indignity awaited. He was frisked by two separate officers—one straight after the other, and each man being watched by a supervisor. Park had been through the drill many times, yet he always marveled at the implied mistrustfulness. Here he was, a former army general and now head of SSD, North Korean state security, and even he was made to go through the motions. It smacked of paranoia, of the deep-seated mistrust Chairman Kwon assigned to even those duty-bound to protect him.
Park looked about the great foyer. He saw six members of the chairman’s personal security detail. He knew there were between eight and ten others nearby, guarding other entrances and waiting in reserve. Those in front of him looked serious and competent, each acutely alert—no doubt more than usual due to his arrival. Park had screened every one of these men, plucked them from elite military units. As head of SSD, he knew the security measures of the palace better than anyone on earth. Most disquieting among them: at each shift change, firearms were handed out randomly to the oncoming detail. Only one in three contained live rounds, the others being loaded with blank cartridges. In Park’s opinion, it was one of Kwon’s most unsound initiatives. Fearing a rogue agent inside his prot
ective circle, he’d decided the scheme bettered his odds. Decided it introduced a calculus of failure into any lone-wolf plot. The security men had all been briefed on the situation—which of course was entirely the point. There was grumbling, Park knew, but only one man had ever formally complained. Kwon got wind of it, and the man had never been heard from again.
He was finally cleared. The two unsmiling men at the door stepped aside.
Park wondered if it was that stoicism, the unswerving masking of what was beneath, that had driven the Chairman’s scheme in the issuance of bullets. As twin doors opened in unison, he stepped through and thought, Then again, maybe the man has a point.
FORTY-EIGHT
Park was greeted by a stunning woman in a white servant’s coat and knee-length skirt. She smiled like the hostess of an upscale restaurant, bowed once, and ushered him forward. He mounted a long red runner whose hue, he’d always thought, conveyed all the humbleness and dignity of a Macau casino.
The room was less an office than a stage. Each picture, each piece of furniture, had been chosen for a certain image and posed accordingly. The familiar, and surprisingly modest, mahogany desk was a case in point. Park supposed it was a deliberate nod to the working class, yet he thought it wholly inadequate for a man who served not only as Supreme Leader of North Korea, but also Chairman of the Workers’ Party, Chairman of the Politburo, Chairman of the Central Military Commission, Marshall of the Republic, and Supreme Commander of the Korean People’s Army.
A busy man indeed.
Kwon Il-sun was a rather short, rotund man, with pale skin that magnified his youth. He was dressed in an impeccably pressed dark tunic and pants. He wore no jewelry or accessories, which had always struck Park as odd—he knew Kwon regularly sent emissaries on shopping trips to Beijing and Hong Kong where they would spend millions of dollars on jewelry and watches. Where it all ended up Park had no idea—but then, such were the mysteries of the Kwon dynasty.
