Yi smoked as he talked. “Perhaps his paymasters would see to it that he was welcome somewhere. A country perhaps in need of hard currency.”
Jin said tartly, “I doubt it. The Americans’ investment in Kim has gone up in smoke and they know it. What is it the Americans say, something about throwing good money after bad?”
“Perhaps, Dear Leader, but one should ask, what did Kim personally agree to provide in return for his billion dollars?”
Jin’s eyes narrowed. “That the DPRK would disarm.”
“Which brings us back to where we started.”
“You talk in riddles. I have no patience—”
“With respect, Dear Leader, I only report what I have heard. He asked to speak with me as a conduit to you. I am reporting what he said, which was little, and what I could glean by listening to what he did not say. I am convinced he wants us to know that the billion dollars he received from the Americans purchased something of great value to them, which he may believe now might be used to purchase his exile.”
“What do you think this valuable thing is?”
“I don’t know, but perhaps it would be prudent to find out.”
Marshal Jin recalled this conversation with General Yi as he entered the special detention center at Chungwa. If Kim Jong-il had information that was valuable, then Jin had to know what it was, had to get it out of Kim any way he could. He reminded himself to tamp down his irritation over the discovery that Kim, once again, held the upper hand even while in prison. Again and again Jin had asked himself how many other things he didn’t know. It would be easy to convince himself that Kim was bluffing, that he had nothing worthy to barter, but he didn’t believe it. Kim always had something to barter. This time it was information in return for his life. And money.
Jin hid his shock when he saw Kim Jong-il, first in the prison’s video monitor, then in person in his cell. He looked skeletal from the loss of over eighty pounds. His jumpsuit, now prison green instead of powder blue, fit him like a sack. His shaggy gray-black beard and hair and patchy gray skin made him look old, like one of those ancient men who still worked the rice fields of North Korea. Kim didn’t rise from his bunk when Jin entered, just shaded his eyes from the light streaming into the cell from the open door behind the marshal.
The door rang shut. Kim didn’t look up at Jin, who started to speak but was cut off by Kim’s croaking voice.
“What I have to say will not take long. There is a spy in place in the People’s Hall of Government. He reports to the Americans everything we do and say.”
Jin felt a freeze grip his body.
“He has been in place for over two years. The Americans paid me to have him installed.”
Jin, his throat constricted, said, “Paid you a billion dollars—”
“To ensure he would not be uncovered.”
“Where does he work?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the Second Directorate.”
“How can you not know?”
“His identity was known only to the Americans through a defector. He was chosen by them. Part of the deal was that I not know his identity. It would protect him and me.”
Jin exhaled a held-in breath. “The Second Directorate is the executive staff of the National Defense Commission.” Like that of Kim Jong-il, Jin’s chairmanship of the NDC provided the base for his power in North Korea. He felt sweat break on his bald pate. “Such a thing is not possible.”
“Of course you would believe it is impossible.”
Jin felt unsteady on his feet; the cell seemed to spin as if he were drunk. Everything that he had ever discussed concerning the partnership with Tokugawa, the Philippine operation, the nuclear weapons transfer to Vladivostok, their shipment by Red Shark had had its genesis in his office in the NDC, located in the Second Directorate. A question roared in his head: Tell Tokugawa or keep silent? Jin willed himself to regain equilibrium.
“That is all I have to say,” Kim concluded.
“No, there is one more thing,” Jin said calmly. “Who is the spy?”
For the first time Kim regarded Marshal Jin. “I told you, I don’t know. But I can help you find him.”
Jin looked down at the pitiable figure of Kim Jong-il. Once the Dear Leader, now nothing more than dog shit scraped from his boot. Yet in control of the situation. Suddenly Jin saw his plan crumbling to pieces. He saw the Americans launching a preemptive attack on North Korea. He wanted then and there to kill Kim Jong-il. He wanted him to die in agony, boiled alive in a lye vat or hung by his neck by wire that would slowly cause decapitation. He was on the brink of ordering the guards to haul Kim into the chamber from which no one ever emerged alive. Instead he said, “What is the price for your help to find the spy?”
“My freedom.”
In Beijing, Admiral Shi Yunsheng greeted the latest decrypts from Admiral Chou’s North Sea Fleet headquarters with a mixture of puzzlement and annoyance. He considered: Commander Deng Zemin had a close encounter with a U.S. Navy Los Angeles-class submarine; next he located an American special-operations mini-submarine lurking off Matsu Shan but was driven off; he witnessed the deliberate torpedoing of Wu Chow Fat’s White Dragon, not with one torpedo but two, to ensure there were no survivors.
Shi squared the documents and laced his fingers on top of the pile. It was clear that a standoff between the United States and North Korea was about to spin out of control. If it did, the People’s Republic of China would be caught between two countries — one an outlaw nation, the other bent on the political and economic domination of the world — and both on a collision course that could set off a conflagration in East Asia and engulf the entire world.
Shi reached for the phone. “Connect me with President Yang.”
Kana Asuka bowed deeply as Tokugawa entered the room. Tokugawa returned the favor and said, “Please join me, Kana-san.
Tokugawa escorted Kana through the main room of his villa, past priceless works of Japanese art displayed on walls and in glass cabinets. He led her to a cozy dining area warmed by a stone brazier filled with glowing coals, and to a low table, surrounded by cushions, that had been set for two. From behind floor-to-ceiling glass the dining area gave onto formal outdoor gardens illuminated by stone lanterns spotted along white gravel paths. Located in Noda, a small city just north of Tokyo, the villa was a veritable museum filled with Tokugawa’s collection of priceless antique bronze sculpture, scrolls, lacquer work, and ceramics.
“The Iranian project was a great success,” Tokugawa said.
“I am glad that Mohammad Khatami is pleased with the arrangement.”
“And I am pleased that you have dealt with the matters needing immediate attention in such an efficient manner.”
Kana turned from admiring the garden and said, “I am always at your disposal, Tokugawa-san. It is my great pleasure to provide whatever service you request.”
Tokugawa gazed openly at Kana. She wore a man-tailored black silk suit with frog closures and Mandarin collar and had her hair drawn back in a tight bun that emphasized her flawless skin and makeup, her stunning beauty. Her grandfather, until his death, had been a business associate of Tokugawa’s. Tokugawa marveled at how much like him she was — intelligent, devoted, discreet, and always cautious.
A shoji screen slid open and an elderly man entered, carrying a tray of small covered dishes and glazed stoneware pots of warm saki. He arranged the food and drink to a prescribed fashion on the table, then withdrew.
“And the Japan Pacific War Veterans Association campaign, how does it progress?” Kana asked after a sip of rice wine taken from a paper-thin porcelain cup.