RYONGSONG RESIDENCE
NORTH KOREA
Yong-sik walked down the corridor. As always, he wore a khaki military uniform adorned with medals and other insignia.
The hallway spread a hundred feet across. The ceiling was thirty feet high. Every surface was composed of rare crimson-and-white marble. Great tapestries hung along the walls, interspersed with massive paintings, each one a portrait of the same individual—a young, black-haired North Korean in various settings. One painting showed him atop a horse, sword raised high, surrounded by bodies on the ground. Another scene showed the man in the cockpit of a fighter jet, flames coming out the back, missiles just fired now soaring toward the ground where a small American flag was seen. Still another portrait showed the man performing surgery on a fallen soldier in the middle of a battlefield with mushroom clouds from nuclear explosions visible in the background.
This was the hallway that led to the official residence of North Korea’s supreme leader, Kim Jong-un.
General Yong-sik arrived at the door to the suite of rooms. Two men in military uniforms, both of whom, technically, worked for the general, looked evenly at Yong-sik, scanning him from head to toe, Kalashnikovs trained on him at all times.
* * *
The guard on the left saluted and reached for the large mahogany door handle, pulling the door open.
Yong-sik stepped into Kim Jong-un’s private chambers.
Yong-sik had been head of the Korean People’s Army now for two decades. This was considered miraculous in Pyongyang’s ruling hierarchy. Kim Jong-un, like his father, had no problem beheading aides and associates close to him on sheer whim. Yet Yong-sik had somehow survived. On several occasions, Yong-sik was convinced that Kim would have him killed. But it never happened. Kim Jong-un—like his father—found something comforting in Yong-sik’s quietude and calm.
Yong-sik stepped inside the suite of rooms, entering a large, luxurious room of mirrors and large paintings, white leather couches, and gold-leafed walls, ceilings, and furniture. Music was playing. The air was cantilevered in smoke. Several half-naked women were positioned about, serving drinks, lighting cigarettes, or letting Kim and his friends grab their asses.
Yong-sik had seen this before. He was emotionless as he walked to Kim.
Kim was smoking a cigarette. A short, large-breasted Chinese woman was sitting in his lap.
Yong-sik saluted.
“General,” said Kim, waving his arm drunkenly. “Won’t you join us?”
“My supreme leader,” said Yong-sik, bowing slightly. “It would be my honor except that as your appointed leader of the army, I feel it is not in my best interest to take enjoyment as long as I am in your trust.”
Kim’s smile turned into a sideways scowl.
“I asked you to have a drink with your supreme leader,” said Kim, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Yong-sik bowed.
“My supreme leader, if it is your insistence, then of course I will have a drink with you,” said Yong-sik.
Kim Jong-un smiled.
“That is why I love you,” said Kim, waving to a servant. “You are sober-minded and yet your loyalty guides you.”
A glass of champagne was handed to Yong-sik, who took a large, awkward sip.
“Might I have a word, my supreme commander?” said Yong-sik.
Kim’s smile disappeared.
“Of course,” he said, shoving the woman from his lap.
“Perhaps in another room?” whispered Yong-sik, glancing at the small crowd gathered inside the spacious, luxurious room.
Kim did not want to rise from his perch. Yet Yong-sik’s eyes told him it was important.
Yong-sik followed Kim to a room off the main living room. It was another massive room, one wall made completely of glass, looking out onto the few lights that dotted Pyongyang, North Korea’s largest city and yet a place where electricity was rationed. The ceiling was two stories tall. One wall was covered in bookshelves, the other with three massive oil paintings, one of Kim’s grandfather, Kim Il-sung; another of his father; and the third of him.
A large, oval-shaped leather sofa sat in the middle of the room. The two men sat down.
“I leave for Macau in an hour, Your Excellency,” said Yong-sik.
Kim nodded, suddenly remembering. “Ah yes. To meet with the Iranian.”
“Correct,” said Yong-sik. “The exchange will take place tomorrow evening. I wanted to apprise you of this, my supreme one, and to make sure you still want to do it.”
Kim took a large swig of champagne, then reached to the table, where a silver tray was stacked high with cigarettes. He picked one up and lit it, took a large drag, then leaned back and exhaled, blowing the cloud of smoke in Yong-sik’s direction.
“We know how to make highly enriched uranium,” said Kim, “but our missiles fall into the sea. Iran can send a missile anywhere but they have no highly enriched uranium.”
“Correct, Your Excellency.”
“It is a good and fair trade. I want you to go and make the exchange. When you return, we will finally have the capability to strike at our enemies. North Korea will at long last be able to attack the United States of America.”