Narita Airport, Tokyo, Japan
Pak laid his cheek flat against the cool laminate of the table in the interrogation room. They’d taken his watch and there was no clock in the room, but hours must have passed. He was hungry, he was tired, but most of all, he was afraid. The information he possessed was perishable, and these idiots were wasting his best bargaining chip.
When his plane landed at Narita Airport, the Japanese authorities had been surprisingly gentle. In his country, the authorities would have seized someone landing uninvited at a North Korean airport and thrown him in jail—maybe even shot him first.
Here, a contingent of airport security arrived at his plane, their white helmets gleaming in the weak spring sunshine. It was even warmer in Japan, and a freshening breeze made it hard to talk unless they were close. Pak had raised his hands and said in English, “I am a diplomat from the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. I am seeking asylum.”
The man in charge of the detail stared at him, responding with a burst of Japanese. Pak shook his head and tried French. No response. “Speak English?” he said, pointing to the airport terminal. “Find someone.”
After another twenty minutes, a car arrived bearing a young man with glasses who spoke excellent English. His eyes widened when he told the security detail about Pak’s desire to seek asylum.
“I need to speak to the American embassy,” Pak said. “It is urgent.” What he really needed was their CIA station chief, but good luck getting that message across.
They didn’t even bother to handcuff him when they transported him into the bowels of the massive terminal. He waited another two hours while the customs officials argued with a rotating cast of bureaucrats about how to handle Pak’s entry paperwork.
The door to the room opened. “Mr. Pak?” Pak stood, still bleary-eyed, and nodded. The man was of medium height, with powerful shoulders and short dark hair. His mixed parentage appeared to be Japanese and some darker-skinned ancestry. “I’m Michael Willis from the US embassy.”
Pak extended his hand. The man’s grip was powerful. “I need to speak to your CIA station chief.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir.”
Pak sighed. “We’re wasting time, Mr. Willis. Even as we speak, your military command and control networks have been infected with a very potent computer virus—the same one that has infected the Chinese systems. I can give you valuable information about this situation, but my information is time-sensitive.”
Willis watched him without blinking. “Why don’t you tell me your information and I’ll make sure it gets to the right person.”
“I insist on speaking—”
“Assume that you are speaking with him.”
“What assurances do I have that I will receive asylum?”
“I’ll make that recommendation when I hear what you have to say, Mr. Pak.”
Pak felt his stomach clench. He was holding a weak hand, but if Rafiq’s cyberweapon destroyed the Americans his hand would be even weaker.…
He sat down and indicated for Willis to take a seat. At least he could exert some modicum of control on the situation.
“You know the name Rafiq Roshed?” he asked.
Willis did not flinch. “I’m listening.”
“He’s behind this.”
“And he is in North Korea now? You know where he is?”
Pak nodded. “Asylum first.”
Willis folded his arms. “Convince me this is real.”
So Pak talked. If he could bolster his story about Rafiq, then the secret of his location would be even more valuable.
“We were contacted by the Russian Bratva to stir up regional tensions with China—”
Willis leaned forward. “So the Russians are behind this?”
Pak held up his palm. “No, the Russian Brotherhood contracted with Kim Jong-un to hack the Chinese. They wanted to sell more weapons, but they stipulated no actual fighting.”
“That seems very unlike the Russians, Mr. Pak. How do you know about all this?”
“I was the one who made the deal.”
Willis stood abruptly. “Wait here.”
It was forty minutes before he returned with a man in tow. His face showed two days of stubble and his eyes were red-rimmed. He wore his business suit like a uniform.
The man disregarded Pak’s outstretched hand and sat down. “If you lead us to Roshed, you’ll get asylum. Start talking, Mr. Pak.”
“I need to see the details in writing, Mr.…”
The man ignored the fishing for his name. “Don’t try my patience, Mr. Pak. The conditions of your asylum will be in direct proportion to the amount of damage you help us avoid. You came to us, remember?” He paused. “If you prefer, we can put you on your plane back to North Korea. It seems your pilot is anxious to return home, and I’m sure the Supreme Leader is looking for you.”
Pak swallowed hard. “Roshed is out of control. He developed a computer virus that learns—I mean, he’s teaching it. He infected the Chinese, the Japanese, and the American military networks.”
“We know that much,” the man said. “Where is he?”
Pak hung his head. “Yang-do Island, near Hwadae, on the east coast.”
The man called for a map of North Korea, and Willis appeared in the doorway almost immediately. He unrolled a detailed map on the table.
“Show me,” he said.
Pak’s finger traced the coastline until he found the tiny island. “Here. This used to be a missile launch facility. There’s a bunker there, and barracks.”
“What about his utilities? Power? Communications?” Willis asked.
“He has generators and he’s severed the telecom lines with the mainland. He’s completely self-sufficient.”
“You’ve been there?” Willis said.
Pak nodded. The two Americans exchanged glances.
“I want you to tell me everything you can remember about the island,” the man said. “Don’t leave out a single detail. No matter how small. Most important, I want to know where to find Roshed.”