Rogue Warrior: Dictator's Ransom Part 4

Some of Kim's good humor had drained away. "Always joking. But I would not expect anything different. You are lucky that my people do not speak very much English."

"How is it that you speak English?" I said.

"Your CIA has not made a study of this?"

"If they have, they didn't tell me."

He wagged his finger as if I were a naughty boy. "You do not get along with the Christians in Action, do you?"

"Sometimes yes, sometimes no."

Kim had studied English as a young man during visits to Malta, and he spoke with a slight British accent. He had a surprisingly good command of vocabulary, and either he had genuinely read my books or been briefed very closely by someone who had, for he now proceeded to quiz me on them. He began by asking which I liked best. Of course I answered that they were all my children, and that choosing a favorite would be out of the question.

"A most judicious answer. My favorite is your first. There is more fiction there than all the rest combined."

I told him I'd heard that joke before.

He pointed at the snooker table nearby. "Do you play?"

"Only under duress."

Kim put his gla.s.s down and chose a cue stick from the wall. The dictator slapped his cue ball into the pile of reds, sending one careening into a pocket. He proceeded to run the table in a few minutes. For those of you who don't play-a snooker table looks like a very large pool table. There are fifteen red b.a.l.l.s, a cue ball, and a yellow, green, brown, blue, pink, and black ball. You sink one of the red b.a.l.l.s, then put one of the colored b.a.l.l.s into a pocket. And on and on and on.

When it was finally my turn, I chalked up, potted a red, and made my way through the colored b.a.l.l.s. I wasn't keeping score, but I was apparently doing very well-Kim was frowning long before I finally missed a shot.

"You practiced snooker before you came to Korea, yes?" he asked.

"Haven't played in years."

"We will talk," he said sharply, gesturing toward a pair of chairs at the far side of the room.

"Talk away."

"You think of your books as children," said Kim. "But children are not like books, I think."

Kim drained his gla.s.s, then called in Korean for a fresh round. The waiter immediately hopped to, returning with a bottle in each hand.

"A book can be depended on," said Kim, his tone philosophical. "Children have minds of their own."

I felt like I'd suddenly stepped into the middle of a Dr. Phil show.

"Why don't you just leave the bottle?" I told the waiter as he finished pouring. He nodded and set mine down on the small end table near the chair.

"You are a very practical man, Rogue Warrior," said Kim.

"Call me d.i.c.k."

"And you will simply call me Great."

I smiled. He smiled. We both knew that wasn't going to happen.

"You hold your liquor very well," said Kim.

"So do you. Considering you've been drinking water all night."

Kim gave me a dirty look, then started to laugh.

"I am glad to find that in person, you are even more clever than on the page." He rose. "Mr. Sun will speak to you."

And with that, Kim departed. I sat in the chair, sipping my gin very slowly. A video camera sat in the corner of the ceiling opposite me, obviously watching.

The complex was certainly large enough to house weapons somewhere, but so far I hadn't seen any indication of where they might be. Staying the night-or whatever was left of it-would give me a chance to wander around, so I yawned for the camera, preparing my cover story. As I stretched my arms back, a burly Korean dressed in a Western business suit entered the room and strutted over to me, his face screwed into a frown.

To this point, the dinner had seemed almost innocuous-as if it were, just as Kim's people had said, a chance for the Great Dictator to meet someone he admired. But I wasn't counting on that, and Sun's manner would have cured any misconception if I had.

"You are an enemy of the people," said Sun. "Your country and my country are at war."

"That war ended decades ago."

"The war will not be over until Korea is reunited and the people are free of Western imperialism."

"Your people are free of a lot of things," I told him. "Especially food."

"You have insulted the Korean people. Your presence itself is an insult," said Sun. "Only by the grace of the Great Leader have you been tolerated. Do not forget this."

"I'll try not to."

"You are an American, and that is despicable," said Sun. "But you have one very important quality-you can get into places that others cannot."

"Such as?"

Sun frowned. "The Great Leader wishes you to locate his son, Yong s.h.i.+n Jong. You have two weeks to bring him here."

"Two weeks?"

"The leader believes you can do it in one. You will be escorted off the premises now."

"I thought I'd grab a catnap before I left."

"Your friends are already waiting in the car. There will be no delay."

Six soldiers had entered while we were talking, and came toward my chair. I rose. Sun took a business card from his pocket. It was extremely simple-just his name, with a international phone number and a Google e-mail address.

Good to see our enemies making the best use of our technology.

"You will contact me when you have completed your task," said Sun. "The Great Leader will see to it that you are paid for your efforts. $64 million. The sum is not negotiable. If it were up to me, you would receive nothing but your life."

He turned and started toward the door.

"Hold on, cowboy," I told Sun. "Where is Yong s.h.i.+n Jong?"

"I was told you were smart enough to figure this out. We last heard that he was in China. Two weeks. Or the Great Leader will not agree to your government's treaty. And I will have the very great pleasure of seeing that you do not have an opportunity to insult the Korean people any longer."

1 You like these Roman numerals and mini-chapter breaks? Yeah, neither do I, but it was the editor's idea. We have to do something he wants, or he won't spring for drinks next time we see him.

2 Officially, Delta's "funny squadron" doesn't exist, and hasn't since it was created in 1993. Then again neither does Delta.

3 The publishers' lawyers have recommended I not use Fogglebottom's real name, which is William Yarkowski, for fear of p.i.s.sing off the administration. This is what happens when lawyers are allowed to make contributions to political campaigns.

4 I wrote about some of my experiences with PBRs and their commanders in the original Rogue Warrior.

5 Admiral Crowe pa.s.sed away while I was in Korea. He was one of the finest leaders I've ever known. He had a brilliant mind and he used it instead of his rank to show the way. The admiral was instrumental in having CNO pick me to commission Seal Six. I'm proud to say he was also a friend. He'll be sorely missed by his family, and his country.

6 See Violence of Action.

7 The width of the highways is not a coincidence. They're intended to be used as runways during a war.

8 Should I confess here that Kim had used a variety of the stand-in trick on the Chinese the year before? Nah. Better you think I'm omniscient rather than well read.

2.

[ I ].

YONG s.h.i.+N JONG, only son of a woman named Jeong Eun Kyung," explained Fogglebottom a few hours later in Tokyo. "She and the Great Leader had a hookup in the late 1970s and early eighties while he was on Malta. She's probably one reason he speaks English so well-she was one of his tutors."

"He likes older women?" I asked.

"He likes all women."

"A man after my own heart."

I paged through the photos Fogglebottom had brought. They showed a slightly pudgy Korean in his mid-twenties. He had a serious face, even in the two candid photos. He had dark buzz-cut hair and a dimple in his chin that looked like an upside-down triangle. He resembled his father as a young man, though unlike Kim Jong Il he didn't need gla.s.ses.

Fogglebottom and I were sitting in a secure room in the emba.s.sy, which included metal s.h.i.+elding in the walls-a Faraday Cage for the technically minded-to prevent eavesdropping. Kim's goons had marched me out of the complex the same way I'd come in, depositing me in the Mercedes where Trace and the translator were waiting. We'd been driven directly to the airport and returned to Tokyo.

"If he's looking for his son, it's very possible that he does have cancer," said Fogglebottom. "Two of Russia's top oncology experts have been flown to Pyongyang in the past month. Until now, we've had nothing connecting them to Kim, but it would make a lot of sense. Pancreatic cancer cannot be cured once it has spread beyond a certain point," he added. "So it's understandable that Kim is looking to reconcile with his b.a.s.t.a.r.d son before he dies."

Except that Kim didn't strike me as the touchy-feely type. Obviously there was more to the "request" than met the eye; it was just a question of how much more. I leaned back in my chair, listening as Foggy told me everything he knew about Yong s.h.i.+n Jong. Unlike Kim's acknowledged sons, who had reputations as eccentric ne'er-do-wells-or just plain psychos-Yong s.h.i.+n Jong was not only normal but reputed to be fairly bright. He had been raised far from the capital until he was twelve. At that point he was taken to a private school in China, and later to Germany. He went to college in Hong Kong, studying economics. Upon graduation, he'd gone to work for Daddy, helping administer the Kaesong Industrial Region, a small area near South Korea where companies from the South can use cheap northern workers.

How cheap? The most recent estimates put North Korean wages-which are mostly paid to the state, not the workers-at about half the average Chinese worker's. And Chinese laborers get about a tenth of what a South Korean factory worker is typically paid.

Not a bad deal for the companies, which is one reason so many South Korean capitalists want to normalize relations with the North. But of course, nothing in North Korea works very well, even when Kim himself is behind it, and the Kaesong Industrial Region hasn't come close to its potential.

"According to the CIA, Yong s.h.i.+n Jong disappeared three months ago," said Fogglebottom. "There was some thinking that he was on vacation in Europe, traveling under an a.s.sumed name-something Kim's other sons tend to do a lot."

"Did you look for him in Disneyland?"

"They did. And in many other places."

Disneyland wasn't a joke. Kim's oldest son-and onetime heir apparent, Kim Jong Nam-had been arrested in 2001 trying to sneak into Tokyo Disneyland. Kim Jong Nam has since fallen out of favor and last I heard was trying to sell condos in Macau, a tiny region of China once populated by Portuguese traders now best known for its casinos.

Son number two, Kim Jong Chul, was once considered a favorite of the army. (He was also a very big Eric Clapton fan.) But in the past few years Jong Chul was criticized by his father for being too weak and "girl-like"-the ultimate put-down in male-dominated North Korea.

The latest intelligence estimates listed Kim's youngest legitimate son, Kim Jon Woon, as the dictator's favorite. But Kim's interest in Yong s.h.i.+n Jong was sure to cause a reevaluation.

"So how soon do you think you can locate Yong?" asked Fogglebottom.

"Who says I'm going to locate him?"

"You're not?"

Foggy looked like I had hit him in the gut. "Why should we help North Korea?"

A long dissertation on the need for "patriotic Americans to stand up to the plate" followed. But patriotism wasn't the question here. I'd only gone to Kim's drinking party because of Admiral Jones; I hadn't had a chance to locate the bombs, but what I had seen would be of use, so I'd done my patriotic bit.

Fogglebottom pointed out that finding Yong s.h.i.+n Jong might mean he would end up in power after Kim died-which in turn might help us win friends and influence enemies after the regime change.

"I would think if your government asked for your a.s.sistance, you would help gladly," said Fogglebottom.

"You'd think that, wouldn't you?" I got up. "See you back in Was.h.i.+ngton sometime."

"But, d.i.c.k-"

"Having dinner with him was bad enough. I'm not going to work for him."

"You'd really be working for us," said Foggy.

"Well that just cinches it, doesn't it?"

"Wait, d.i.c.k. Don't go. Someone from the CIA wants to talk to you. He wants to debrief you about Kim's palace."

"Where is he?"

"He must be running late," said Fogglebottom. "I expected him before you arrived."

"Tell him I'll meet him after lunch. I have to go see a friend of mine and if I don't go now, I'll be late."