Covert Actions Division, Ministry of the People’s Armed Forces Pyongyang, North Korea
The desk between them was a cheap affair of metal and plastic laminate, built for a much smaller frame than his own. When Rafiq Roshed bothered to visit his office, which was infrequently, he managed to bang the tops of his knees against the drawer every time.
He allowed the slight man in the well-cut, Western-style business suit to speak first.
“How are you getting on these days?” said Pak.
Rafiq shrugged and lit one of the vile sticks that passed for cigarettes in the DPRK.
“Ah!” Pak said. He slid his hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a red and white package. Marlboros. “Try one of these.”
Rafiq immediately crushed out his own butt and seized the unopened pack. As he tore the foil, the scent of real tobacco filled the tiny office. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it, drawing deeply.
“Your brother’s brand, remember?” Pak said with a smile.
Rafiq considered the burning end. He hadn’t thought about Hashem in months. His only link to this greedy little man who’d given him shelter in the rogue state of North Korea. A gift of sorts, with strings attached.
“Half brother,” he replied. He stowed the pack of Marlboros in his breast pocket. Pak pretended not to see his petty theft even though real cigarettes were like gold on the thriving DPRK black market.
Rafiq flexed his shoulders. The dark green uniform he was forced to wear in this formal office setting pinched in all the worst places. He told himself it was because the tailors of this godforsaken country only knew how to sew for two sizes: concentration-camp-thin or as fat as the Supreme Leader, who smiled down at them from his picture on the wall.
“Half brother, then,” Pak said, watching him closely. “A good man all the same.”
Rafiq grunted. His feet were like ice in the thin uniform shoes—also too small for him. They never turned the heat on in these damn buildings.…
“I have a job for you, Rafiq,” Pak said.
Rafiq. He’d called him Rafiq, not Chul, his new name in North Korea. Was this Pak’s subtle way of telling him this was a special task?
“What kind of job?”
Pak produced a second pack of Marlboros from his leather valise and lit one. He left the open pack sitting on the desk between them. He continued in English, a fact that caused Rafiq to sit up in his chair.
“A job that requires finesse.” Pak pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and aimed it at Rafiq like a dart. “A skill that is sorely lacking in many of our operatives.”
Rafiq nodded. The problem with a cult of personality like North Korea was that it killed independent thought, let alone initiative. The people of this damned country were a hammer and every problem was a nail. Threaten to attack, shoot a missile, test a nuclear weapon. Then what?
“I had an interesting trip to Russia. The Bratva is seeking our help. They want to—how do the Americans say it?—create a seller’s market, I think.”
Rafiq reached for the open pack of Marlboros and took one, leaving the pack on his side of the desk. “Explain.”
“Cyberwarfare. They’re looking for a third party to hack the Chinese and spread disinformation throughout the region. Release war plans, diplomatic cables, that sort of thing.”
“So the Russians can sell more hardware?”
Pak nodded.
Rafiq drew on his cigarette, holding his breath, finally expelling a long stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Too risky,” he said, pointing to the picture on the wall. “He’ll never agree to it.”
“The Supreme Leader already has agreed to it.”
Rafiq hid a smile behind another drag of his cigarette. “The Russians have legions of hackers. Why not do their own dirty work?”
“Because they want the best—”
“We’re not the best, not even close.”
Pak’s lips tightened.
“They want plausible deniability, Pak. If this goes wrong, it could start a shooting war. The Russian Brotherhood doesn’t want to be left holding the bag and they certainly don’t want any suspicion to fall on the Russian government. That’s why they want you to do it.”
Pak stayed silent.
Rafiq smoked his cigarette to the butt, then tapped another out of the pack. “It’s a tricky job. ‘Finesse’ is a good word to describe what’s needed.”
“So you’ll do it then?”
“How much are you getting under the table?”
Pak reddened. “That’s insulting. How can you suggest I—”
Rafiq leaned across the desk. “You know what’s insulting, Pak? I’ve built the Supreme Leader’s covert-action capabilities into a world-class operation and I’m still freezing my balls off in this office. Your suit costs more than I made in the last six months. Every meal I eat is some sort of rice mixed with mystery meat—if it has meat at all.” He took a deep breath. “Answer me: How much are you skimming?”
“A million,” Pak whispered.
“Which means it’s actually one point five. I want half—and a way out of here when the time is right.”
Pak nodded.
“Good.” Rafiq sat back in his chair. “I need full authority—no interference from the chain of command. I report to you and you alone.”
“That can be arranged.”
“I already have a core group of cyber people. I’ll need a squad of commandos for overseas work. Handpicked by me. I don’t want any informants in the group.”
“You already have a plan,” Pak said.
Rafiq shrugged, his shoulders straining at the confines of his uniform. “I’ve got something that has been waiting for an opportunity.”
“Tell me.”
Rafiq smiled but stayed silent. Pak snorted as a reply. This was a familiar dance between them. Rafiq Roshed delivered results, and Pak had learned not to interfere.
“Anything else, Rafiq?”
“A location. Someplace remote, secure, but with facilities for a top-notch cyber war room.”
Pak brightened. “I know just the place.”