Red Shark

Marshal Jin recalled this conversation with General Yi as he entered the special detention center at Chungwa. If Kim Jong-il had information that was valuable, then Jin had to know what it was, had to get it out of Kim any way he could. He reminded himself to tamp down his irritation over the discovery that Kim, once again, held the upper hand even while in prison. Again and again Jin had asked himself how many other things he didn’t know. It would be easy to convince himself that Kim was bluffing, that he had nothing worthy to barter, but he didn’t believe it. Kim always had something to barter. This time it was information in return for his life. And money.

Jin hid his shock when he saw Kim Jong-il, first in the prison’s video monitor, then in person in his cell. He looked skeletal from the loss of over eighty pounds. His jumpsuit, now prison green instead of powder blue, fit him like a sack. His shaggy gray-black beard and hair and patchy gray skin made him look old, like one of those ancient men who still worked the rice fields of North Korea. Kim didn’t rise from his bunk when Jin entered, just shaded his eyes from the light streaming into the cell from the open door behind the marshal.

The door rang shut. Kim didn’t look up at Jin, who started to speak but was cut off by Kim’s croaking voice.

“What I have to say will not take long. There is a spy in place in the People’s Hall of Government. He reports to the Americans everything we do and say.”

Jin felt a freeze grip his body.

“He has been in place for over two years. The Americans paid me to have him installed.”

Jin, his throat constricted, said, “Paid you a billion dollars—”

“To ensure he would not be uncovered.”

“Where does he work?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the Second Directorate.”

“How can you not know?”

“His identity was known only to the Americans through a defector. He was chosen by them. Part of the deal was that I not know his identity. It would protect him and me.”

Jin exhaled a held-in breath. “The Second Directorate is the executive staff of the National Defense Commission.” Like that of Kim Jong-il, Jin’s chairmanship of the NDC provided the base for his power in North Korea. He felt sweat break on his bald pate. “Such a thing is not possible.”

“Of course you would believe it is impossible.”

Jin felt unsteady on his feet; the cell seemed to spin as if he were drunk. Everything that he had ever discussed concerning the partnership with Tokugawa, the Philippine operation, the nuclear weapons transfer to Vladivostok, their shipment by Red Shark had had its genesis in his office in the NDC, located in the Second Directorate. A question roared in his head: Tell Tokugawa or keep silent? Jin willed himself to regain equilibrium.

“That is all I have to say,” Kim concluded.

“No, there is one more thing,” Jin said calmly. “Who is the spy?”

For the first time Kim regarded Marshal Jin. “I told you, I don’t know. But I can help you find him.”

Jin looked down at the pitiable figure of Kim Jong-il. Once the Dear Leader, now nothing more than dog shit scraped from his boot. Yet in control of the situation. Suddenly Jin saw his plan crumbling to pieces. He saw the Americans launching a preemptive attack on North Korea. He wanted then and there to kill Kim Jong-il. He wanted him to die in agony, boiled alive in a lye vat or hung by his neck by wire that would slowly cause decapitation. He was on the brink of ordering the guards to haul Kim into the chamber from which no one ever emerged alive. Instead he said, “What is the price for your help to find the spy?”

“My freedom.”