Pyongyang, North Korea
Pak looked up in surprise as Rafiq walked through his office door. Pak’s new—and very attractive—secretary followed him with a flustered expression on her face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “He just—”
“It’s all right,” Pak replied. “Jung Chul is just anxious to be early for our appointment.” He waved at her to shut the door behind her.
Rafiq took a seat without invitation and slouched low in the chair. The last time Pak had seen Rafiq, he’d seemed like a caged animal. Now, his chiseled features showed a flush of energy and his eyes danced as if he was anxious to share a secret joke with Pak.
“You’re looking well, my friend,” Pak said.
“And you’ve traded in your secretary for a younger model,” Rafiq shot back. “Well done, old man.”
Pak bristled. “From your attitude, can I assume you are bringing me good news about the project?”
“Beware the Ides of March, Pak Myung-rok,” Rafiq replied.
“What does that mean?”
Rafiq pointed at the calendar on Pak’s desk. “Today. It’s the Ides of March.” He waited for Pak to respond. “C’mon, Pak. Shakespeare? Julius Caesar’s assassination? The first step in the Roman civil war?” Pak shrugged, and Rafiq threw up his hands in mock dismay. “Your expensive Western education was a waste of money, Pak.”
The North Korean absorbed his friend’s unusual high spirits with a growing sense of unease. “The project, Rafiq. What is the status of the project?”
Rafiq grinned at him for a few seconds before replying. “We are ready. I’ve confirmed the code is active and ready to deploy. Just say the word.”
“And it will do all that you claim? You will be able to access the Chinese and Japanese networks?”
Rafiq’s grin grew wider. “Oh, yes, and much more.”
Pak had had about enough of this insolence. “Your orders are explicit. We want to raise tensions between China and her neighbors, not cause an international incident.”
“There’s an American saying about omelets and eggs. It might apply to this situation.”
“Will you please be serious for a moment, Rafiq?”
The other man sat up in his chair and delivered a mocking half bow. “I apologize, Pak. My good humor has gotten the best of me, I’m afraid. Please continue; I’ll do my best to contain my exuberance.”
Pak placed his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “That would be much appreciated. Now, is the project ready to launch?”
“Yes, all three sites are active and ready to deploy as soon as we have the Supreme Leader’s approval.”
“Three sites? I authorized two sites: Beijing and the Japanese naval base. What is the third?”
“We took advantage of proximity to develop a third option.”
“Speak plainly, Rafiq. What is the third site?”
The corners of the man’s lips turned up. “The American Seventh Fleet.”
Pak fell back in his chair, aghast. “The Americans? How? Who gave you…” He thought of the Russian’s warning about keeping the cyberwarfare in the virtual world. The Americans?
“No,” Pak said, leaping to his feet. “Absolutely not. We are not authorized to take action against the United States. The Supreme Leader did not authorize that at all.”
“Relax, Pak. It’s an option at our disposal, nothing more. Why not mention it to the Supreme Leader and see what his reaction is? A trial balloon?”
Pak stared at him, acid churning in his stomach. This was his project. He was responsible. Anything that went wrong would fall completely on his shoulders.
“That is a ridiculous idea. One does not float trial balloons with the Supreme Leader, Rafiq.” A misplaced trial balloon was a quick trip to a firing squad.
Rafiq shrugged. “Then we can keep it between us. Makes no difference to me.”
“And?” Pak said.
“And what?”
“What do you want in return?”
To Pak’s surprise, Rafiq rose to his feet and placed both hands on Pak’s narrow shoulders. “My friend, you were there for me when the world was against me. I owe you everything and ask for nothing in return. Consider my debt to you paid in full.”
In the blink of an eye, Rafiq’s mood had turned solemn—another mood change. Pak tamped down the lingering twinge of unease. “Friendship is a treasure, Rafiq, but I prefer cash.” He retrieved a slip of paper from his desk. “We’ve received the final payment from the Russians. Here’s your cut.”
Rafiq pressed the paper back into Pak’s hand. “I want you to have it.”
Pak’s fingers closed around the slip. It was nearly four hundred thousand dollars. “I don’t understand.”
“Money’s of no matter to me. Take it. I want you to have it.”
Pak slipped the paper into his pocket, feeling suddenly guilty at having shortchanged Rafiq on his cut. “If you insist…”
“I do.” The secret smile returned to Rafiq’s lips. “And now I must take my leave, good sir.” He made an elaborate bow to Pak. “I return to my island to await your call.”
Pak stared at him. Had the man lost his mind with all the stress? He’d been on the run for the better part of a decade, without his family, always one step ahead of the authorities. No matter how this operation turned out, Rafiq’s erratic presence could be a liability in the future—a liability he did not want the Supreme Leader blaming on him.
Pak’s next trip out of North Korea would be his last. It was time to run. He’d saved enough money to live a secret life of luxury abroad, far from the clutches of the Supreme Leader.
On impulse, he hugged Rafiq. “Goodbye, my friend.”
Rafiq hugged him back. Further proof that his friend was losing his mind.
“Goodbye, Pak. Take care of yourself.”
Pak smiled. Taking care of himself. That was something he’d never found difficult.