“Oh God. . . . Oh God.”
“Don’t bring God into it. This is business and nothing more. But Carlo is a nice boy. He will take you to my doctor to get that knee treated.”
~ ~ ~
The meeting with the American left him cold.
What did the fool think? . . . That I was going to haggle for a tiny bit of ownership in his company?
He sold his soul to me when he took my first dollar.
He’s just like all those other morons who sell their souls to me when they put my white powder up their noses and veins. Funny how they always think that they can function as if nothing ever happened.
Sooner or later I will need to get rid of the American.
~ ~ ~
At night the stars seemed so bright from his bedroom window. A full moon threw its cold light on his face. He was wide awake.
The business at Interpol needs to be closed. The winding down of that business has to go far beyond the dead translator. She of course had to go first. The Russians should never have put her in there. It’s time to get rid of the Norwegian and the Legionnaire.
The moon floated away.
Sohlberg. Laprade. Each man is dangerous in his own way. They are even more dangerous together. Sooner or later they will figure out everything and turn against me.
Sohlberg. Laprade. They’re not that stupid. Neither am I.
Only the truly stupid believe that others are more stupid.
Only imbeciles rely on other people’s stupidities to get away with something.
It’s time for Sohlberg and Laprade to go bye-bye.
Chapter 6/Seks
PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA:
JUNE 13 AND JUNE 14, OR
TWO MONTHS AND 2 DAYS
AFTER THE DAY
Ju Kyu Chang closed his eyes and slurped the last of the noodles in his ox bone soup. In his mind’s eye he could still see last night’s dinner—thinly sliced beef and scallions swimming on top of the milky-white soup. It had been three months since he and his family had last eaten any type of meat, chicken, or fish. They subsisted on rice and vegetables which left him hungry and weak. The seolleongtang made him feel alive.
“Good,” he said. “This is so good. What a splendid gift.”
Of course he was grateful that the Supreme Leader allowed him and the rest of the Ju family to have some food at home. It wasn’t a lot—about 1,800 calories a day per adult. He often thought about food throughout the day. He worried about reaching the magic 1,800. But it was more than enough to keep starvation at bay.
Who cared if the quality of the rationed food was usually atrocious?
Who cared if the potatoes and corn were stunted and rotting?
At least the Ju family received a weekly ration of rice. That was an absolute luxury in a country where the Supreme Leader used food as a weapon and a means of control.
“This is very good,” said Ju to no one in particular. “What a treat!”
“We are exceedingly fortunate,” added his wife Ji Won. Like her husband she also wanted to make sure that the eavesdropping devices in their dining room picked up their comments. “The Supreme Leader is so kind and thoughtful. He is wonderful. He is so good to us. He gave us so much food that we had enough soup and noodles left over for another dinner.”
The food was indeed a special one-time gift from the Supreme Leader. He wanted to reward the 78-year-old Ju, his wife, their two grown sons, and five grandchildren for Ju’s outstanding supervision of the Supreme Leader’s obsession—the design and manufacture of intercontinental ballistic missiles and nuclear warheads. The ox bone soup served as a tangible and tasty reminder that Ju’s work with nuclear triggers was advancing with great strides.
~ ~ ~
Only yesterday at an important meeting in his bunker the Supreme Leader had said:
“Ju! . . . You are on time and under budget. Congratulations. I will send some of my own seolleongtang for you and your family to enjoy.”
Ju Kyu Chang did not believe that he deserved such praise.
Yes. It was true that within a year his Nuclear Warhead Group would manufacture a reliable working model of Item # XY-RR-13096.
Yes. It was true that this trigger could set off a nuclear explosion in a wide variety of platforms—ranging from nuclear suitcase bombs to multiple warheads on intercontinental ballistic missiles.
Yes. It was true that a reliable and miniaturized trigger was critical to manufacturing small and lightweight nuclear warheads that could easily be lifted up into space by the Taepodong-4 missile. The latest ICBM could reach all of Europe and the entire western half of the USA thanks to its range of 5,000 miles.
Yes. It was true that the trigger would allow the Supreme Leader to fulfill his ultimate plan—the transfer of small warheads to Muslim radicals who would detonate nuclear bomb suitcases and backpacks in major European and US cities according to the American Hiroshima plan of the late Osama bin Laden.
“You are too kind Supreme Leader. . . . I don’t deserve more food.”
“Nonsense,” said the well-fed Kim Jong Un. “You must learn how to appreciate my reward.”
“Oh yes. I appreciate it tremendously.”
“Good. You never know when you might starve.”
Ju trembled inwardly. He was terrified of the 30-year-old dictator. The chubby kid took after his deranged father, “Dear Leader” Kim Jong Il, and ruthless grandfather, the “Great Leader” Kim Il Sung.
“I would gladly die . . . or starve . . . for you Supreme Leader.”
The Supreme Leader made no comment or expression. He turned to the next person sitting at a giant table in the underground conference room and said:
“Who’s next?”
Ju wondered who indeed was fated to fall from grace and disappear into some concentration camp. A year ago Vice Marshal Ri Yong Ho and his entire family had simply vanished because of “Ri’s bad health.” Out of the blue the Supreme Leader had turned on the Chief of the General Staff of the Korean People’s Army—a key figure who had helped the kid take over after his father’s death.
Ju was lost in thought when he heard the Supreme Leader berate the Chairman of the National Planning Commission. The Supreme Leader finished his tirade by saying:
“This is not good! . . . It’s unacceptable!”
Ju was ecstatic. His scalp tingled. At least he had nothing to do with economic planning. It was hard if not impossible to plan successfully for an economy in ruins. He still remembered when 77-year-old Pak Nam Gi was dragged kicking and screaming from a politburo meeting to a brutal torture session before public execution by firing squad.
The Supreme Leader must have read Ju’s mind because he looked around the room and said:
“Doesn’t anyone here remember what my father did to Pak?”
The dragon of terror charged into the conference room. Pak had been a top official—Director of the Planning and Finance Department of the Central Committee of the Korean Workers’ Party. The arrogant bureaucrat had sent the ailing economy into a death spiral when he ordered the currency to be changed and devalued. The financial “reform” targeted private farmers and other black market sources who were getting too rich and powerful for the Dear Leader’s liking. Food immediately disappeared from markets when farmers lost their life savings. Not a smart decision when famine had already raged in the land.
“I,” said the Supreme Leader, “won’t tolerate this type of incompetence when planning our economy.”
The dragon eased its grip on Ju. He was extremely lucky to be a member of the National Defense Commission and the Deputy Director of the Machine-Building Industry Department of the Communist Party’s Central Committee. Work on military issues meant that the Leader would grant him a certain level of protection and favoritism—unless Ju and his underlings were extremely incompetent. Best of all, Ju’s exalted credentials entitled him and his immediate family to receive a daily adult ration of 1,800 calories—the most he could get in his high-level position.<
br />
~ ~ ~
Only those at the very highest ranks of the military, police, and Korean Workers’ Party received 2,000 calories. Of course the Supreme Leader and his immediate family received any and all food and calories that they wanted. Only the top 1% of the population of 24 million actually received food under their ration cards. All of this meant that 99% of the adult population ate a subsistence-level 1,000 calories a day if they were very lucky and active in black market activities.
Floods routinely cut into the subsistence level of the lucky ones. The rest began dying or shriveling into a stunted and retarded generation.
Cannibalism and death by starvation prowled the streets and homes of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. Ju had seen plenty of it as his chauffeur drove past the skeletal zombies who populated cities and villages beyond Pyongyang. He had lost count of how many times he had witnessed human vultures skulking over a corpse that would soon be dismembered in the streets and fields for cooking at home.
None of this bothered Ju Kyu Chang. After all people were no better than insects. We are nothing more than an evolutionary collection of molecules. Human beings only exist to serve the state. The Supreme and Glorious Leader and his all-knowing all-powerful government are all that matter.
~ ~ ~
Yesterday’s meeting with the Supreme Leader had droned on for hours. Vice Premier Ro Tu Chol began his report at midnight. Ju was sleepy. He could barely keep his head in an upright position. A sudden commotion jolted him awake.
“Enough!” yelled the Supreme Leader. “I’ve heard enough. The economic reports are a disaster . . . totally unacceptable. Vice Premier Ro will submit himself to self-criticism sessions immediately. This meeting is over.”
Ro Tu Chol shook and whimpered. The Vice Premier and State Planning Commission Chairman no longer looked so high and mighty.
Although a collective sigh of relief could not be heard in the conference room, it was definitely felt by all of the haggard men who dutiful trooped out of the bunker to toil one more day in the socialist workers’ paradise. Vice Premier Ro’s loud sobs echoed in the concrete tunnel. The slightest suggestion of a smile flickered on Ju’s face.
Don’t people understand that a government big enough to give you everything you need is big enough to take everything you’ve got?
Once he was outside Ju felt euphoric. He was literally going to explode from an overwhelming joy. Surviving one more day under the Supreme Leader was enough to give a man a sense of well-being.
~ ~ ~
In the late evening Ju Kyu Chang said goodbye to his family and left for North Hamgyong Province. He took the 300-mile midnight train ride with a bodyguard and two assistants. The three men spied on him and each other. The train jerked to a stop every hour on the hour while army guards and state security forces climbed on board to inspect travel permits.
Despite the constant presence of government spies and surveillance, Ju slept well. His choice of engineering as a career had been wise. His colorless personality and careful comments had protected him over the decades. He had risen to powerful ranks and ingratiated himself with the Supreme Leader’s father when he helped Kim Jong Il establish party control over the military’s vast industrial empire. And now his outstanding job performance in nuclear armaments meant that he and his family should survive one more week under the Supreme Leader.
The train arrived at the main station in Chongjin. It was 7:00 AM.
Ju and his entourage walked around the dingy train station looking for some food vendor but found no one. Ju was shocked at the enormous number of orphaned and homeless children who begged for food and money in the train station and the surrounding streets. Children sat around clumps of grass which they ate ravenously. He was also surprised at the large population of homeless and starving adults who shambled about aimlessly in the dark train station. Their hollow cheeks and dead eyes sent a shiver down Ju’s spine.
Three hours later Ju and his little group took a train headed north to Hoeryong and the mountainous northeast panhandle. He smiled broadly once he was alone in his own compartment. From his briefcase he pulled out two puffed rice cakes that his wife had made him. His belly was full. He was warm and clad in good shoes and clothes. He had a good job.
What more could anyone want?
Ju and his attendants got off in the middle of nowhere during an unscheduled stop shortly after they had passed the Changdu station. The foursome boarded a chauffeured limousine with a military escort of two trucks filled with scowling soldiers. The convoy snaked into the labyrinth of mountains that are wedged in the northeast corner of North Korea. Ju felt a chill when they passed a road that led to Penal Labor Colony No. 22. The 90-square mile concentration camp held 49,332 political prisoners who were serving horrific life sentences with their families.
Ten miles later a fading wood sign pointed to the Advanced Agricultural Sciences Laboratory. Ju Kyu Chang had invented the false name as a cover for the research center where nuclear triggers were being designed and manufactured in secret under a mountain. As the President of the Second National Academy of Natural Sciences, Ju had unlimited resources for his projects. The Academy’s sole purpose was not the study of natural sciences but to coordinate all research, development, and education for the military industry.
Cold shadows swooped in and chilled Ju and his cohorts as they drove past empty valleys that got narrower and desolate mountains that got steeper. The spring weather had been delightful in Pyongyang. But thick snow in the northern mountain ranges covered the land like white sheets over corpses at the morgue.
The convoy briefly stopped at a gate beside a double row of electrified fences. Land mines surrounded the military-industrial complex. A red star flag snapped in the wind over a cluster of wood buildings.
A squad of upper management bureaucrats gathered in the central plaza to bow deeply before the Father of North Korea’s nuclear program. Ju dismissed the sycophants. His Chief of Staff escorted him and his three underlings to Ju’s office in the main building while the man proudly rattled off a list of activities completed in Ju’s absence.
“Okay,” said a non-committal Ju. “But I still want to meet with everyone tomorrow at seven in the morning to see what progress has been achieved while I’ve been gone.”
Ju locked his briefcase in a safe. Two-inch steel now protected state secrets and rice cakes. The Chief of Staff reminded Ju that he was expected in a half-hour for a dinner of boiled cabbage at the executive dining room.
“Oh yes. Let me go to my cabin and wash up.”
The Chief of Staff bowed and left. Ju ordered the two assistants to go to their quarters. Ju’s bodyguard grabbed Ju’s suitcase and followed him outside. The burly young man waited for Ju to start walking down a dusty road which went straight to the residential zone.
A curt voice rang out of the dark space between the main administration building and the first laboratory. “Young man . . . you go on ahead. I have matters to discuss with the boss.”
The bodyguard turned, saw who had spoken, and saluted stiffly before trotting off.
“Welcome back,” said Colonel Cha Hyong Sop—the Chief of Security.
“Thank you,” said Ju. He was surprised that the man was even speaking to him. The skinny chain-smoking colonel was famous for not uttering a single word for hours if not days.
“We have an emergency. A serious emergency.”
A stunned Ju Kyu Chang stared at his Chief of Security. The colonel from the Ministry of State Security was not a man given to exaggerations. Ju fought off a sense of doom.
Had there been an accident at the Yongbyon Nuclear Scientific Research Center?
Perhaps a radioactive cloud was headed south to Pyongyang?
“What is it?”
“It’s your nephew.”
“Nephew?” said a perplexed Ju. He had seven nephews. “What nephew? . . . Who?”
“Sik Yoon. He and his wife are gone. They never came back from Pyongyang. They
were supposed to go up north to Hoeryong for few days and then spend a week in Pyongyang.”
The insides of Ju’s body froze.
His one goal in life—to die peacefully in bed—was shattered.
He and his entire family would be exiled to die slow and horrible deaths in Camp 22 or—even worse—Camp 14. Eventually all of his and his wife’s brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles, and cousins would be deported to labor camps. The same fate awaited all relatives of Ju Sik Yoon and his wife.
A frantic Ju gathered his fleeting thoughts and finally forced himself to say:
“Gone? . . . What do you mean by gone?”
“They’re defectors . . . gone to South Korea.”
“No. No way,” whispered a light-headed Ju. His knees almost buckled.
“Or they ran away to China.”
“No way!” cried Ju. A thin mask of ice-cold sweat covered his face.
Ju and his world were collapsing. The Supreme Leader was merciless under North Korea’s “guilt-by-association” system. Yeon-jwa-je assured that three generations of all Ju family members would perish from starvation, overwork, and torture unless the hangman, the shooting squad, or an ill-tempered guard did not finish them off first.
“This,” said Col. Cha, “is not good.”
Ju forced himself to think. “Did you alert anyone else?”
“No. I thought they might have met you in Pyongyang and come back with you. That’s why I didn’t raise the alarm.”
Several deep breaths later Ju said:
“You were smart. No need for us to be punished over their insanity.”
“Us?” said the colonel. “They’re your relatives.”
Ju managed to put on his expressionless boss face as he struggled to control the situation. “Colonel Cha . . . you are in charge of security. You failed to keep tight enough tabs on them. You should have known that they were planning on leaving.”
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 7
