Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) Headquarters, London
In the movies, defector debriefings were tense affairs filled with sharp questions designed to catch the witness off guard. The answers always revealed some brilliant new plot twist.
Real debriefings were much less exciting. Every minute of face time with a defector required at least ten minutes of preparation. You only got one chance to ask a fresh question and see his initial expression, to judge if the defector was real or some kind of double agent. Of course, the British had had this guy in custody for weeks. The chances of two US agents being able to find an unanswered question was nil.
FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush studied the small monitor showing an image of the interrogation room. Kim Daiwoo was a slight, wiry man, but carried a shadow of past malnutrition in the lines of his face. Was it possible that even a third cousin of the Supreme Leader might have known hunger in his past?
“Ready?” said the man at her elbow. Reggie Bowerman, a Canadian by birth, was a strapping man with a perpetual five-o’clock shadow who probably weighed twice what the North Korean did. As a representative of the US Treasury Department’s Terrorist Financing and Financial Crimes Division, he was assisting Liz on the money-laundering aspects of the counterterrorism case.
She flashed him a smile. “Let’s do this. I’ll take point, you jump in with technical details, just like we agreed, okay?”
Reggie popped up his thumb in answer.
Kim looked up as Liz entered the room with Reggie hulking behind her. He got to his feet in a controlled manner and offered a short bow, then seated himself after Liz had taken her seat.
She opened her folio on the table and drew a pen from the pocket of her jacket. The entire interview was being recorded, but she liked to take notes anyway. It helped her think.
“Good morning, Mr. Kim. My name is FBI Special Agent Elizabeth Soroush, and this is my colleague Agent Reginald Bowerman of the US Treasury Department. I run the United States Joint Terrorism Task Force—do you know what that is, sir?”
The diplomat spoke in a cultured accent, reflecting his British education. “I presume you investigate acts of terrorism against the United States. But this is England; why are you here?”
“When an investigation of terrorism takes us outside the borders of the United States, Mr. Kim, we follow.” She placed a photo in front of him. His eyes widened for a split second, and a shadow flickered across his features.
“You know this man, Mr. Kim?”
The diplomat’s calm exterior slipped back into place. “Yes, I know him. Pak Myung-rok, the Supreme Leader’s man … I believe the American term is ‘fixer’?”
Liz and Reggie exchanged looks. “What does that term mean to you, Mr. Kim?” Reggie asked.
“When Kim Jong-un needs something done outside the normal channels of business or diplomacy, he calls this man.” Kim tapped the photo.
“I see,” Liz said. “We have reason to believe that Pak is involved in money laundering, both in the US and in Europe. Do you have any knowledge of this?”
Kim relaxed in his chair. “Oh, yes, I’m certain he is involved in money laundering. What do you want to know?”
Reggie leaned over the table and began to pepper Kim with questions. The North Korean defector answered everything immediately and truthfully as far as Liz could tell, but her mind was stuck on his initial reaction to the charge of money laundering.
He had relaxed, as if he was expecting her to ask about something else. Something much worse.
Reggie was writing furiously. Times, dates, bank visits, diamonds smuggled in diplomatic pouches, illicit weapons deals, oil smuggling. It looked as if Kim was a gold mine for Treasury.
Finally, Reggie leaned over toward Liz. “I’m good,” he said.
Liz focused her gaze on Kim, saying nothing. The diplomat’s smile faded as the silence lengthened. Reggie shifted in his seat and she willed him to be quiet. Kim dropped his gaze to the table.
“What did you think I was going to ask about, Mr. Kim?”
He attempted another smile. “I don’t know what you mean, Agent Soroush. I’ve just provided you with plenty of information about Pak’s illegal money-laundering efforts. My answers were truthful. There is nothing else.”
“Tell me, Mr. Kim.”
The North Korean squirmed, his eyes pleading with her.
“Reggie,” Liz said. “You can go.”
“But the briefing plan. We got what we wanted, right?”
“Mr. Kim and I have another topic to discuss. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
After her partner had departed, Liz let the silence drag on. “I’m not leaving until you tell me,” she said.
“Have you seen my family? Are they safe?” Kim asked. His unflappable diplomatic shell had evaporated, replaced by a hunted expression.
“They’re safe—provided you cooperate completely.”
Kim sighed. “Pak is a playboy. He leads a charmed life. Favored by the Supreme Leader, he goes on expensive European business trips and does deals for the regime. Everyone knows he skims money off for himself, but he’s always willing to share with his friends. Everybody loved Pak.”
“Loved?” Liz asked. “That’s changed now?”
“Four years ago, Pak brought a foreigner to Pyongyang. He convinced the Supreme Leader to give the man asylum. Before long, Pak was doing more than money laundering. He used this man to carry out secret assignments for the Supreme Leader. That reporter in Germany who was investigating food shipments to North Korea?”
Liz vaguely recalled a car accident and conspiracy theories. She nodded.
“That was him,” Kim said.
“How do you know this? Did you see him do it?”
Kim shook his head. “No, not that one.” He was sweating freely, and his eyes roamed around the room.
“Then it’s just a rumor.”
“No, I know because I smuggled him into the United Kingdom.”
“And he did something while he was here.”
Kim nodded. “It was easy,” he said. “He’s nearly six feet tall, has European features, and speaks English with a Spanish accent.”
Liz felt a chill run up her spine. “What did you say?”
Kim mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief. “Which part?”
“His accent,” Liz whispered.
“Spanish, but not Continental, more like—”
“South American,” Liz finished for him.
“Exactly.”
Liz stood so quickly that Kim drew back in his chair. She stabbed out her hand. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Kim. I wish you the best. You will have my recommendation for asylum.”
She made her way out of the room and found the nearest office. “I need a secure line to the CIA. Quickly, please.”
Her hand shook as she dialed her husband’s assistant in Washington, DC. The minutes dragged by as they tracked Brendan down. She tightened her grip on the receiver. Could it really be him? After all this time?
“Liz? What’s up, honey? Is something—”
“I found him, Brendan. I know where he is.”
“Who?”
“Roshed. I found Rafiq Roshed.”