General Namgung leaned forward and told the driver to stop. Instantly, the man obeyed, pulling to the side of the road.
Namgung ignored the questioning look from his aide, who was sitting next to him in the rear of the Russian-made sedan. He needed a moment to think. The enormity of what he was about to embark upon had settled on him, filling him with a dreadful sensation of foreboding. He knew from experience that he must take a few moments to let the sensation pass. Otherwise, he would not be able to make clear decisions. And the future depended very much on clear decisions.
At the age of fifty-three, Namgung was one of the top commanding generals in North Korea, in charge of the divisions around the capital and several in the northwestern provinces, including those on the Chinese border. Family connections had helped him launch his career, but in the thirty-plus years since he became a lieutenant he had worked extremely hard, out-hustling and outlasting many rivals. He knew the supreme leader, Kim Jong-Il, extremely well and visited him often—or had, until Kim’s recent sickness.
The dictator’s health was a closely guarded state secret—even those of importance, like Namgung, didn’t know exactly how bad off he was. But the general could guess that the supreme leader had perhaps six months to live.
After that, chaos supreme.
Unless Namgung acted.
There were many benefits to Namgung’s plans, for him personally as well as for the poverty-wracked People’s Republic, but avoiding chaos was Namgung’s primary objective. Chaos was an intense, immobilizing enemy, far worse than an opponent armed merely with guns and bombs. Chaos was to be defeated at all costs. It was a general’s duty, a Korean’s duty, to ward it off.
The general exhaled slowly. His moment of anxiety had passed.
“Mr. Park is waiting,” the general said, leaning forward to his driver. “Proceed.”