Darke Mission (29 page)

* * *

As the Iceman was untaping and uncuffing Ji-hun, giving him his belated water and shoving a baguette filled with ham and salad in his left hand, the others were parking up the tankers and the Sprinter van, just out of sight of any watchtowers on the Kaesŏng Industrial Estate.

JJ and the Iceman had removed Ji-hun from the trunk, and the three of them were sitting in the back seat of the four-door saloon, the moaner in the middle. Ji-hun could speak very little English so the Iceman was to lead the interrogation. Kim Chun-So explained to him the notion of good cop, demented cop. The Iceman was the good cop, he said, prepared to reward Ji-hun for his cooperation. Pointing to JJ, the Iceman said he was one vicious mother fucker waeguk-sarem. Ji-hun glanced at JJ. The Scot, revelling in his role as the bad foreigner, let the moaner catch a glimpse of his Glock 17 pistol and decorative cigarette lighter, a present from Eloise, though he didn't smoke. Ji-hun got the idea.

“Look, Ji-hun,” said the Iceman. “We need to ask you a few questions about security at the central bank. If you answer them truthfully, and I assure you, we will know if you are lying, then you will be free to go and you will be financially rewarded beyond your dreams.” The Iceman wasn't sure what Ji-hun's financial dreams may be and he omitted to be specific as to exactly when Ji-hun would be set free. He gauged that the moaner groaner was not a happy bunny, and the nine million won (about £5,500) that he had in an envelope in his breast pocket must be one big chunk of cash for a young DPRK security guard.

“How much?” spluttered out Ji-hun still kind of enjoying his promised breakfast.

“Given that you're not in the world's strongest negotiating position, young man, this envelope here,” replied the Iceman showing Ji-hun the cash, “contains nine million won. It's yours for full co-operation.”

Ji-hun was a moaner but he wasn't an idiot. Nine million won was slightly more than his entire annual income from his security guard job. It was indeed a small fortune, but what the hell would he do with it in Pyongyang or indeed any part of the DPRK. There wasn't a lot to spend it on, and he did not have anyone to spend it with. He could buy a car and some upmarket clothes. That would raise the suspicions of the snoopers, the secret police, the government informers. He may be nine million won the richer but he'd be 90% probable the deader or the imprisoned.

“Is it South Korean or North Korean won?” he asked.

“South,” replied the Iceman. That was better thought Ji-hun, hard currency, acceptable all over the world. His captor's answer, though, further solidified an embryonic thought in his head, slightly less sore now than it was earlier.

“South Korean won isn't much use to me in Pyongyang. I'd need to convert it, annoyingly enough at my place of work, and all kinds of alarm bells would go off,” he pointed out. JJ and the Iceman exchanged glances with one another. The moaner was right, and as much as they had no intrinsic feelings for Ji-hun they didn't really want to be the direct cause of his death or prison camp enrolment.

“What do you want then?” asked the Iceman. “Be quick about it, we're on a clock and my foreign friend here is itching for it to be his turn.”

Ji-hun felt that the Iceman wasn't joking.

“I want the nine million won, safe passage to the South, new papers and identity so that I can stay in Seoul or surrounding areas, and a South Korean passport. If you give me that I will tell you everything I know about the central bank and its security,” he said, thinking clearly and hoping for the best.

“Tell him we'll get him all that if we believe he is truthful and that his information is useful,” stressed JJ, after the Iceman translated. The Iceman relayed the message to Ji-hun. The young North Korean was pensive.

“Can I trust you?” he asked meekly.

“I brought you breakfast as promised, didn't I?” replied the Iceman. While a token baguette for breakfast was no guarantee of a new life and nine million won, Ji-hun gauged that it was the best offer he was likely to get in the foreseeable future. As he was now officially on holiday, and had no friends or family expecting to see him, he would not be missed for at least a week. That was sufficient time, he thought, to either be rotting away with a bullet in his head in the trunk of a car or, alternatively, enough time to be getting used to Gangnam life. In either case, it was a no brainer.

“OK,” said Ji-hun. “I accept.” With that he shook the Iceman's hand, supporting his right forearm with his left hand, in the traditional and respectful Korean way. He exchanged nods of agreement with JJ, and the Scot re-holstered his Glock and put away his lighter.

For the next twenty minutes Sun Ji-hun sang like a bird. The central bank's vaults were indeed one level below ground level, as JJ and Victor had thought. They could be accessed by the main elevator, a service lift or down some stairs. The security detail on this level was primarily based in a bullet proof, glass fronted lockable office, normally with one or two guards inside. They had monitors and video surveillance equipment trained on the main vault where precious metals, cash and many safe deposit boxes were kept. Ji-hun wasn't certain but he thought that the vault had a dual combination lock because the only times he had seen it being opened, it required two executives to do it. Ji-hun added that the vault door also had a digital clock embedded in it, with a key pad underneath. Ji-hun continued to unload his information. JJ was taking notes, while the Iceman translated and kept eye contact with the moaner, making him feel appreciated.

It was nearly 8am and, in the distance, they could see the industrial region's workers make their way through the main gates of the estate. Perhaps Ji-hun could have made a break for it, or yelled his head off, but he knew that the bad motherfucker foreigner would kill him. In any case, he was warming to his new found job as an informant and allowed himself a brief happy thought about his forthcoming life.

Ji-hun's information was helpful and his final useful contribution was to tell JJ and the Iceman about the timing of the security guards shifts in the vaults, in the main hall and on the front door of the DPRK's central bank.

JJ and the Iceman stepped outside, intimating to Ji-hun not to move, and keeping low behind the car's body shell.

“That was useful?” said the Iceman to JJ, part statement and part question.

“Yes, it was,” replied JJ. “We can get working on the time of the guards' shifts to gauge precisely when they're at their most lean and I'll give the vault information to Victor.”

“Are we going to waste Ji-hun?” asked the Iceman, somewhat coldly thought JJ.

“No, we're not Iceman,” came JJ's firm reply. “We're going to stick to our word, so that we don't wake up in a cold sweat every night with a troubled conscience!”

“What are we going to do with him then? We can't leave him here, we can't take him across the border right now and we can't go waltzing into the central bank with him,” pointing out the somewhat obvious to JJ.

“I'm working on it,” replied JJ. “For the moment, let's stick him in the back of the Sprinter van with the ‘Toblerones'. When we're on the move you get in touch with deep cover Kwon, his unique skills may be required again.”

The Iceman nodded and the pair of them escorted Sun Ji-hun to the back of the Sprinter van. Ethel and Victor were a little taken aback to see the young North Korean, looking pale and tired, scramble between six triangular conveyor systems. He seemed docile enough though and bowed politely to them.

“Ji-hun,” said JJ, introducing their captive. “He's here to help.”

* * *

Kwon Min-ho had been undercover in Pyongyang for two years. He was twenty-eight years old, about 5ft 10in, well built, but not fat. His black, straight hair was cut short in keeping with the standard look of many of the DPRK's official tourist guides. His eyes were dark brown and there was nothing spectacular about him, at least to the eye. This was good news for a deep cover operative. Most of the time Kwon was assigned to the Konyo hotel in Pyongyang, one of the three major hotels in the city designed specifically to cater for foreigners. He reported to the assistant manager of the Konyo, who also happened to be the senior state secret police officer on site.

In his two years there, Kwon had shopped a couple of foreigners to his boss. This needed to be done to maintain cover and the two people he had shopped were very unpleasant, one Russian and one American, who had only committed minor misdemeanours. The American wouldn't do what he was told regarding photography and the Russian was always complaining about the food, both inside and outside the hotel. They were deported, but apart from a bit of a rough man handling, both men returned to their respective countries in one piece.

Kwon was not a CIA officer and had not been trained at either of the two main CIA training sites in the United States. By quirk of fate, he was born in Israel to South Korean parents. His father had been seconded to the University of Tel Aviv from Seoul's Hankuk University of Foreign Studies and his mother came along for the ride. Dad enjoyed it so much he stayed. His mother, tragically, had been killed by a Hamas suicide bomber in the centre of a Tel Aviv market in 1996. From that day Min-ho had vowed to fight terrorism in any way he could.

He was a bright boy, attended his dad's university, studying medicine and political history. It was an odd academic combination and he had to get special permission from the university's board to do it, but his dad was head of the History department so that helped. From the university, Min-ho moved to the Centre for Political Research, the intelligence branch of the Israeli Ministry of Foreign Affairs and then on to Shin Bet. Most folk were familiar with Mossad as the main Israeli intelligence service. Mossad was concerned primarily with overseas intelligence work. After Min-ho's mother's death, however, he wanted to contribute to the internal security of his adopted country and that was the responsibility of Shin Bet.

Min-ho's tenure at Shin Bet was productive. After failing, in 1995, to prevent the assassination of the Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin by a right wing Israeli radical, the domestic intelligence service was overhauled completely. Foreigners, or those who looked foreign but were Israeli, like Min-ho, were fast-tracked through the service. The new bosses took the view that to target and recognise domestic terror threats, the intelligence operatives needed to appear as multi-cultural as the likely perpetrators. North Korea had links with Syria and they, in turn, with Hamas. It was a soldier in Hamas' military wing, the Izz ad-Din al-Qassam Brigade, who had murdered Min-ho's mother.

The Shin Bet leadership and that of Mossad, the CIA and the FBI occasionally held joint consultations. They agreed on many intelligence issues and disagreed on some. One item they agreed upon was that deep undercover operatives needed to blend in better with their surroundings like a bottle of Coke in a Manhattan café. The US and Israeli intelligence services were urged to cooperate even more closely, as many of their enemies were common. From a memorandum that followed one of these joint consultations, Min-ho found himself seconded to the CIA, Seoul branch, under the auspices of Jim Bradbury.

Of the CIA officers in Seoul, only Jim knew his real name. Today, though, Kwon had a rare day off. It was around 8am but he was still lolling about in his pyjamas, eating some juk and plain toast and drinking a mug of green tea. He hadn't quite decided what to do today. He might make his way to the Kaesŏng industrial estate and pick up the car he had left for his two Seoul colleagues that he had never met, or he may wait till Saturday when the road from Pyongyang to Kaesŏng would be busier with weekend drivers. Alternatively, it was a pleasant spring morning in the capital, sunny and not humid. It may be a day for a stroll along the banks of the Taedong River, relax, have a coffee, chill.

As he was mulling over his options, Kwon's pyjama pants began to vibrate. It was his cell phone, the secure one used only by his CIA colleagues. Once answered, the itinerary for his day would be set. It may involve the Taedong river, but it wasn't going to involve chilling. It was a text message.

Kwon, meet us at Songnim, close to the river port. We'll be parked up in a dark blue van near a couple of PetroChina fuel tankers. ASAP. Iceman.

While Kwon had never met Kim Chun-so, he knew his nickname was the Iceman, and it was also his communication call sign. As Kwon was getting dressed for his day out after replying to the Iceman, he was churning over in his mind as to why the Iceman and team were in the North two days running. That was unusual, if not unheard of. He said ‘we' in his message so he wasn't solo. Still, yesterday must have gone OK, Kwon thought, since the Iceman is clearly still alive.

Kwon made his way to Songnim by railway. It was easier and he had not received any instructions to the contrary about being mobile. As he was strolling through the river port, he spotted the blue van and the PetroChina tankers. They didn't look that out of place. This was a relatively busy seaport, with many loadings, unloadings, tankers, containers, vans and lorries. There weren't any petrol or gas facilities though, but many long distance drivers parked there, like a lay-bye, to have a snooze or a snack or both.

Jim Bradbury saw Kwon coming. He donned a plain, dark baseball cap and stepped out of one of the tankers' cabs. He still had his suit on, so he looked a bit fashion stupid but better stupid than having his foreign face stand out.

“Min-ho,” said Jim, giving Kwon a firm handshake. “It's really great to see you,” he continued, meaning it wholeheartedly. It was not easy being deep cover and seeing Kwon alive and well made Bradbury feel good inside.

“Hi Jim,” replied Kwon, also happy to see his boss. “Guess you guys aren't here on a tourist package,” he joked, nodding in the direction of the tankers and van.