One hundred and forty miles north of the DMZ, in the fortress-like edifice that served as the nerve center of Communist North Korea’s hermetic and paranoid government, Kim Jong-il smoked a cigarette while he waited for the arrival of the two men he’d summoned.
Kim, The Dear Leader and supreme dictator of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, blew threw his teeth as he paced his gargantuan office. Kim’s volcanic temper was on the verge of erupting when he heard a pair of booted footsteps echoing like gunshots off the marble corridor outside his office.
Marshal Kim Gwan Jin and General Chung Hyun Yi, his deputy, passed through three separate scanning devices designed to detect hidden weapons, then submitted to a careful examination by security guards equipped with electronic wands. Only after a full body pat-down and thorough inspection of their possessions — cigarette packages and lighters, fountain pens, eyeglasses, tie clips, even the medals pinned to their brown wool uniform tunics — were the two officers admitted to the anteroom outside Kim’s office.
Security bolts slammed open. The door to the Dear Leader’s office shivered open to reveal a blue-uniformed, white-gloved bodyguard. He gestured stiffly that the two officers should follow him inside.
“Greetings, Dear Leader,” Jin said as he approached Kim, who was standing behind a glass-topped desk fifteen feet long and six wide.
The only objects in view on the desk were an ashtray, a package of cigarettes, and a white telephone. Harsh overhead fluorescent lighting turned Kim’s chubby face a sickly green.
Jin said, “I am as appalled as you are by the—”
“You two have betrayed the State!”
Jin and Yi stopped dead in their tracks. Jin tried to speak, but Kim cut him off.
“You both are traitors and I have ordered your arrest! Your people set off the bombs that killed the two representatives in New York! Don’t deny it!”
Jin, a wiry man in his late sixties, and with a bald head blemished by ridges and fissures of bone under taut skin, didn’t react to Kim’s outburst. Instead the general stood stolidly at attention while Kim came out from behind the desk under a full head of steam, waving his arms wildly and jabbing the air with a finger.
“The warmongering Americans claim that we betrayed them,” Kim bellowed, raining spittle on Jin, “that we lulled them into trusting us. Now they are threatening a preemptive attack with nuclear weapons. Because of your criminal acts we are facing an all-out war on the peninsula and an invasion of the DPRK by the fascist pigs!” He sucked in his ample belly and tugged the skirt of his tailored khaki tunic.
“Dear Leader,” Jin said calmly, “we did not betray the State, nor have we betrayed you.”
“Silence!” Kim took a breath and wiped his mouth on the back of a hand. He gestured that his bodyguard should get out and close the door. The guard did as ordered, and Kim waited until he heard the security bolts slam shut before continuing.
“Everything I have worked for has been destroyed because you, Marshal Jin, refused to support me. Instead you insisted we keep our nuclear weapons, that we cheat on inspections, that we attack South Korea. Now we have disaster. More than three hundred Americans are dead, and the fascists are accusing me of murdering them. But it is you two who are the murderers. I should have had both of you shot months ago.”
Kim wiped his mouth again. He stood, silent, collecting himself, diamonds of nervous sweat glistening on his high forehead, which was topped by tufts of fuzzy hair. Fluorescent light reflecting off thick-lensed glasses hid his eyes. “Tell me how you did it,” he said. “Tell me how you betrayed the State.”
“But Dear Leader,” Jin said evenly, “it is you who have betrayed the State.”
Kim lurched forward as if to grab a fistful of Jin’s tunic. Instead he checked himself and pointed a trembling finger at Jin. “How dare you say that to me—”
“It is true, Dear Leader, you are the traitor. It is you who capitulated to the Americans. You who agreed to surrender our nuclear arsenal that we need to defend our nation from Western imperialism. You who agreed to sign a peace treaty to end the Korean War, to allow UN inspections in return for international loan agreements. And it is you who agreed to open talks with the criminal regime in the South and exchange representatives.”
Jin held Kim’s astonished gaze. “Given time we could have solved our problems through Juche — self-reliance — and in the bargain made the American pigs and their flunkies, the Japanese and Chinese, cave in to our demands. We could have kept our weapons, our missiles, and our power. Now we have nothing. And it is you, Dear Leader, who threw it all away because you were intimidated by American power. It is you who should be arrested and executed for committing treasonous acts against the State.”
It was the first time Jin had ever seen Kim at a loss for words. But he also knew that a silent Kim was unpredictable and that time was running out. Jin looked at Yi, who subtly raised an eyebrow.
“You two are scum,” Kim sneered. “Scum of the worst kind. Arrogant, deceitful, hateful.”
He fished a cigarette from the package on his desk and with trembling hands put it in his mouth.
“You are describing yourself, Dear Leader, are you not?” Jin said as he produced his own package of cigarettes. He held out to Kim a handsome engraved silver cigarette lighter inlaid with jade and ivory. “And now we must decide what to do about it.”
Kim inclined his head toward Jin’s lighter, which was rock steady, and said, “There is nothing to decide. You will both be executed for treason.” When the expected flame failed to materialize, Kim looked up, into Jin’s eyes, which flared like lasers.
A spurt of colorless, odorless gas shot from the lighter and struck Kim Jong-il in the face. Instantly Jin and Yi produced specially treated handkerchiefs, which they pressed to their mouths and noses to block the powerful Z-10 knockout gas. Kim’s eyes rolled up into his head as his knees buckled. Before the two officers could catch him, the Dear Leader toppled to the carpeted floor on his face, crushing his glasses under his flattened nose.
After the gas had dispersed, General Yi pressed a button under Kim’s desk to summon the bodyguard. The security bolts released and the guard entered the office. He took one look at the unconscious Kim, a mound of khaki lying on the floor at Jin’s feet, then removed his peaked cap and wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand. He put his cap back on, came to attention, and smartly saluted Marshal Jin and General Yi.
“Handcuff him,” Jin commanded the bodyguard. “Then take him away.”
The bodyguard snapped, “At once, Dear Leader.”
Part One
Warshot
1
Jake Scott lay in the dark, his mind racing, refusing to shut off, remembering, until a pale dawn crept into the room and brought him back to the present.
Why torture himself? His breakup with Tracy hadn’t been one of his finer moments. It was over and there was nothing he could do about it, but God, he wanted to see her again. He pictured her standing in the bedroom of their apartment with her head thrown back, striking a vampish pose. She had on a black thong, black high-heeled slides, jewelry, and nothing else. Her black hair, cut short, hugged her head like a shiny helmet.