The Persian Gamble

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  “Which one?” KBI asked.

  “Panghyon Air Base.”

  “How did you get these?” Gilad asked.

  The Saudi stroked his gray beard and shrugged slightly. “You have your secrets; we have ours,” he said. “The point, gentlemen, is that al-Zanjani just returned to Tehran with all the data from the latest missile test. This means the Persians now have everything they need to improve their own ICBMs to the point they can reach London, New York, and Washington. My staff estimates that if Ayatollah Ansari commits enough funding—and we have no reason to believe he will not—the Iranians could build and deploy fully operational long-range missiles by the end of this year. We know from the sting operation you were running in Athens, Asher—and again, I’m so sorry for the men that you lost—”

  Gilad winced. The wounds were still fresh. But the prince continued.

  “—as painful and costly as it was to learn it, we now know what we have long feared: the Persians have significantly ramped up their efforts to acquire off-the-shelf nuclear warheads and the missiles to deliver them. Rather than wait for the JCPOA to run its course and then restart their enrichment program when the sunset provisions kick in, they are racing for the finish line as we speak. The question is why. What’s driving them to move so hard and so fast right now? Why take the risk of being caught and exposed by the international community? Who might they turn to next? And what are we going to do to stop them?”

  7

  PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA—26 SEPTEMBER

  THREE DAYS BEFORE THE RUSSIAN PRESIDENT’S ASSASSINATION

  Oleg Kraskin felt like a trapped animal.

  Had the then-up-and-coming corporate lawyer known he would be marrying into a nation’s leading crime family, he would never have proposed to the daughter of Aleksandr Ivanovich Luganov. But he had not known. Nor had he even suspected such a thing. He had met Marina Luganova in university. They had become acquaintances, then friends, and in time they had fallen madly in love.

  From the very beginning, Oleg had known Marina’s father was the head of the FSB, Russia’s internal security services. But he had honestly given it little thought at the time, and how could he possibly have foreseen that the man would rise to become not only the next president of the Russian Federation but a crime boss and a modern czar? And how could he have known that his future father-in-law would draft him into government service the very day he asked the man for his daughter’s hand in marriage? Or anticipated being recruited to serve at Luganov’s right hand, giving Oleg a front-row seat to witness—and worse, to participate in—such terrible crimes almost from the moment he was ensconced in the vortex of Russian political power?

  People didn’t say no to Aleksandr Ivanovich Luganov. Not if they wanted to live. And for the better part of two decades, Oleg had wanted to live. So he had kept his head down and played the cards he’d been dealt. He wasn’t proud of it. In fact, he had become deeply ashamed, and thus his calculus was rapidly changing.

  Oleg was surprised to feel the landing gear engage. Checking his watch, he found it was approaching noon. Luganov’s plane soon touched down at Heijo Field, an air force base along the Taedong River in the heart of the North Korean capital. Before long, they were taxiing toward a secure hangar surrounded by both Russian and DPRK Special Forces units on high alert. Inside the hangar, a nineteen-vehicle motorcade awaited their arrival, ready to whisk them to the palace of the Dear Leader for a press conference that Oleg knew would shock the world.

  He turned and looked out the rain-streaked window. It was a gray, drizzly morning in Pyongyang. The temperature was in the midfifties and was only supposed to reach sixty-two that afternoon. A thick fog hovered ominously over the river and the cityscape beyond it. Just then a thought came to Oleg that had never before occurred to him. It was only a seed, really, a kernel of an idea. But as he processed it, the fog in his brain slowly began to lift. For the first time since entering the Luganov orbit, he thought he just might see a way out.

  What if he simply defected?

  Oleg had already made contact with the Americans. He had already given former Secret Service agent Marcus Ryker highly classified information, including the very war plan by which Luganov was preparing to invade three NATO countries within the next few days. Oleg had no doubt Ryker was passing the information on to the Central Intelligence Agency, who would surely share it with President Clarke and the National Security Council. He desperately hoped it would force their hand, deploying additional U.S. and NATO forces and matériel to Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania in quantities sufficient to forestall Luganov’s troops and force him to call off the war. But even if it did not, Oleg knew his father-in-law would realize someone had leaked the plans. A mole hunt would ensue. How could it not lead to him?

  To stay in Moscow was to face discovery and certain death, Oleg now concluded. To flee, or attempt to, was risky beyond measure, but it appealed more to Oleg with each passing minute.

  There was at its core, however, a complication, and it was not an insignificant one. If he asked Ryker to help him escape the borders of Russia before war came, he might save himself. But what of the motherland he loved? Was it not selfish to think solely of his own fate and not that of the 143 million countrymen he counted so precious? Not to mention his family. What if the Americans did not believe the intelligence he had just risked his life to give them? What if they dithered or outright refused to take action to deter Luganov from invasion? These were distinct possibilities. America was the world’s only superpower, but her government was not exactly known for acting decisively. Was passing along such critical information enough? Did he not have an obligation to try to stop the madness his father-in-law was setting into motion? Almost certainly yes, he told himself. But how?

  Such thoughts were tantamount to treason, he knew full well. Yet by the time he got into the armor-plated stretch limousine, directly across from the Russian leader who was making final notes on the text of his speech, Oleg could think of nothing else.

  The motorcade roared away from the airport.

  They raced through the rain-soaked streets—cleared of all rush-hour traffic—and arrived at the Ryongsong Residence. The opulent, sprawling palace served as both home and office for the reclusive and bizarre North Korean leader. Surrounded by massive concrete walls, soaring guard towers, and miles of barbed wire, along with swaths of minefields bordered by tanks and armored personnel carriers everywhere, the complex was patrolled by thousands of heavily armed troops, an elite class of Praetorian guards. Yet as the motorcade approached, the gates swung open, and everyone Oleg could see was standing at attention for the first-ever state visit of the Russian president.

  Back in the spring of 2009, Luganov had first met Hyong Ja Park, the newly installed and very young president of North Korea, a man who insisted upon being called “Dear Leader” or “Great Leader” or “the Savior” or “the Ever-Victorious, Iron-Willed Commander” or “the Guiding Star of the Twenty-First Century.” Indeed, Oleg remembered being at his father-in-law’s side as a young aide, taking notes and forging relationships with several North Korean officials, including a young colonel named Yong-Jin Yoon.

  That had been a secret meeting, held on a Russian military base in Vladivostok. The “Highest Incarnation of the Revolutionary Comradely Love” had traveled by train because he was too paranoid to fly. This time was different.

  For starters, the entire international press corps had been alerted, and most were broadcasting Luganov’s arrival live around the globe. What’s more, the last time, Luganov had been trying to quietly flip Pyongyang’s allegiance from Beijing to Moscow, offering massive incentives—bribes, really, Oleg knew—to help tip the scales. The Dear Leader had said yes to it all, but the agreement had been kept under wraps, hidden from the international community.

  This time, everything had changed. The two men were not only ready but eager to go public with the alliance they had been building for a decade. But first Luganov wanted to meet private
ly to discuss a matter he had not previously raised.

  8

  The security detail led them into Hyong Ja Park’s immense office.

  Looking left, Oleg was impressed by the floor-to-ceiling windows—no doubt bulletproof—overlooking a lush, apparently uninhabited forest. To the right, he couldn’t help but notice the large and exquisitely painted portraits of Park’s father and grandfather hanging on the wall over a roaring fireplace.

  What intrigued Oleg most, however, was the contrast between the two principals as they embraced each other warmly before the pool of photographers, all of whom were ushered out of the room the moment the photo op was complete.

  Neither of the principals was a tall man. Luganov, in his late sixties, stood only about five and a half feet tall yet was at least four inches taller and thirty years older than the North Korean. Luganov’s taut, oval, clean-shaven face was hard and impassive. The man was in as impressive physical shape as when Oleg had met him nearly two decades earlier. His eyes were pale and milky blue, devoid of emotion. They were, Oleg had come to learn all too well, the eyes of a killer, and he longed for the day when he would never see them again.

  The Dear Leader’s eyes were chocolate brown. Behind his retro, horn-rimmed glasses, they seemed giddy, brimming with an almost-childlike joy as their owner firmly shook Oleg’s hand and warmly welcomed him to Pyongyang. The man had an immense head, a round, flat face, a double chin, and thin, jet-black hair. He was a soft, pudgy man of wide girth and doughy hands, clad in a dark Mao suit and freshly polished black shoes, and he could hardly hide his enthusiasm in having the czar of Moscow in his home.

  “President Luganov, you have bestowed upon me and my people a very great honor by making your first-ever state visit to Pyongyang and coming here to the Ryongsong Residence,” he said when the two men had taken their places directly across from each other at a long and ornate mahogany conference table, surrounded by their foreign ministers, generals, and senior staff. “In your honor, I have declared this a national holiday. All of our factories are closed, as are our schools and universities, shops, restaurants, and other places of business.”

  “It is very special to be here, Dear Leader, for today you and I will make history,” the Russian leader replied as a steward served tea. “This is an alliance we began working on a decade ago. We took our time. We built the appropriate infrastructure. We got to know each other over many calls and private meetings in places other than here and in Moscow. But now we have come to a critical moment. No longer will you or your people ever have to concern yourself with the prospect of an attack above the thirty-eighth parallel—not by the Americans or anyone else. When we sign this treaty in a few minutes, the DPRK will formally and officially become a strategic ally of the Russian Federation. Any attack on you will be regarded as an attack upon us. And should this ever happen, I assure you that the Russian people will respond with the full might and fury of the greatest nuclear arsenal the world has ever seen.”

  All the officials on the other side of the table burst into applause.

  “I have the greatest confidence in you, my friend,” the Dear Leader responded through a translator, his plump face beaming. “And you have my personal pledge that as of this day, the DPRK is wholly committed to serving as the Pacific partner of the expanding Russian Empire. The world does not see what is coming, but they will. In due time—indeed, not that long from now—they will, and what a glorious day that will be.”

  “We have come a long way from our first meeting,” Luganov noted.

  “We have,” said the North Korean. “I want to especially thank you for all of the scientists and technical assistance you have provided since then. As you know, our most recent missile test of the Hwasong-17 was completely successful, making it effectively comparable to your SS-18 ICBM. This now gives us the capability of hitting any target in the United States, or anywhere else in the world, delivering a payload of far greater devastation than anything we’ve been able to do heretofore.”

  “Yes, I have been briefed on this, Dear Leader, and let me just say that I couldn’t be more thrilled about this development. It is a testimony to how much we can accomplish when we work together, and you are correct when you say neither the Americans nor the rest of the world powers see what is coming.”

  “The day of reckoning is fast approaching,” the Dear Leader said.

  Luganov nodded. “It is indeed. Have I ever told you what nickname the Pentagon has given to our signature SS-18 long-range ballistic missile?”

  “I don’t believe you have.”

  “They call it the Satan—how appropriate, no?”

  The North Korean roared with laughter. Actually, both men did. It was one of the few times Oleg had ever seen his father-in-law laugh, but as he took down every word in his notebook, he felt as if he was going to be violently ill.

  9

  “Have you seen the warheads I sent you?”

  Luganov asked the question when they had both regained their composure.

  “Not yet,” said the North Korean. “But my generals assured me that they did all arrive last night, by train, intact. I want to say to you how profoundly grateful I am. This gesture speaks volumes about your illustrious character and the depths of our partnership that you would deliver all twenty state-of-the-art weapons even before we have signed the treaty.”

  “The treaty only codifies the trust we have already forged,” Luganov demurred. “No one fully understands just how powerful your new missiles are—no one but our friends in Tehran, that is, because we will soon bring their missiles up to the same standard. More importantly, though, after today, the world will believe that you have given up your entire nuclear arsenal and your entire nuclear industry. They have no idea that we have secretly provided you with twenty warheads that are among our most powerful.”

  “Seven hundred and fifty kilotons each, I understand.”

  “Precisely,” Luganov said, “more than two and a half times as powerful as the last warhead you tested.”

  “You honor us greatly with your tremendous generosity,” the Dear Leader said. “Everything is about to change.”

  The Russian nodded. “How true. Which brings me to a favor I must ask for before we begin the press conference.”

  “Whatever you wish, my friend,” the North Korean responded. “What is it that you would ask of me?”

  Luganov paused and took a sip of tea, and Oleg took a moment to look around the room. Due to strict rules of protocol, neither he nor his father-in-law had been introduced to the Dear Leader’s advisors. Indeed, they had all entered after the press pool had been escorted out. Now, however, Oleg studied each face, trying to match them to the names on the single-spaced, typed guest list resting on the plate before him. He recognized only a few from his previous trip.

  But there was one face he recognized immediately—Yong-Jin Yoon. Once a colonel and a personal military aide to the Dear Leader, Yoon had been Oleg’s chief point of contact with the regime during the past decade, and Oleg had watched as Yoon had been repeatedly promoted over the years. Today, he not only held the rank of three-star general, but he was also the DPRK’s deputy director of military intelligence. Given the poor health of his boss, Yoon was effectively the acting director of his ministry.

  On paper, Yoon was outranked by every other North Korean in the room. Thus, he was seated at the far end of the table. Officially, North Korea’s prime minister, defense minister, foreign minister, and ambassador to Russia—all currently sitting to either side of the Dear Leader—jointly managed the DPRK’s Moscow portfolio. Practically speaking, however, Oleg Kraskin and General Yoon were the conduit for the most sensitive messages between Luganov and the Dear Leader.

  Oleg was glad to see his old friend. It was only the second time they had been in the same room. But they spoke frequently via a secure satellite phone channel and communicated regularly through a secure email system unknown and inaccessible to nearly everyone else in their respective gover
nments. Indeed, the details of this very meeting had been arranged primarily by the two men, and Oleg hoped he and Yoon could exchange personal greetings on the sidelines of the press conference or before the lavish lunch planned after that.

  Luganov set his teacup back on the conference table. As he did, Oleg returned his gaze to the two men at the heart of the discussion.

  “Earlier this month, our friends in Tehran asked you to sell them twenty of the atomic warheads you have built,” the Russian said softly. “Is this correct?”

  “It is,” the Dear Leader replied.

  “But you have not yet given them an answer.”

  “How could I until I had met with you?” the Dear Leader asked. “Our agreement was that you would remove all of our warheads, and do so with a great flourish of publicity, so the world would think we were completely disarmed.”

  “Quite right,” Luganov said. “But are you opposed to such a sale to the Iranians?”

  “Not in principle, no, though I do have reservations, which you and I have discussed in the past.”

  “You don’t believe the Iranians will prove loyal to us.”

  “I hesitate to speak so bluntly.”

  “You fear they have their own agenda.”

  “They certainly want to join us in neutralizing the Americans. I have no doubt about this. But given the opportunity, is there any question they will try to annihilate Israel first?”

  Luganov took another sip of tea. “Your concerns are valid,” he said at long last. “But leave that to me. For now, I would like you to sell Tehran fifteen warheads. The Supreme Leader has assured me he is willing to increase his price.”

  “To what?”

  “He is ready to pay up to $100 billion of the money the Americans and Europeans gave Iran for agreeing to the JCPOA,” he said.

  “Why not the full $150 billion?”