and mild as Pak drove out of the city and into the countryside along the Dandong Highway that led northwest to the Chinese border. The well-maintained road was all but deserted, and passing through Changsan Park, he felt a momentary pang for the bustle of the West.
Roads like this in California at this hour of the day would bestreaming with cars of every make and vintage. Parks would be filled with mothers pushing baby carriages or dressed in spandex tights with tiny plastic helmets perched on their heads riding ten-speed mountain bikes along the paths.
Everyone would be listening to music, either through headsets or boom boxes or in their cars, which vibrated with the bass notes. America was a musical nation.
Here it was quiet, by contrast. A graveyard compared to a fairground. Pak’s car had no radio except for communications, which he’d turned off, so he drove in silence. He turned off the main highway about twenty kilometers outside the city, and followed an unmarked highway up into the heavily wooded hills until he reached a tall fence topped with razor wire. A Special Forces soldier came out of a guardhouse and motioned for him to pull up at the reception gate. A Kalashnikov, muzzle down, was slung over his shoulder and his uniform and boots were as crisp as his movements as he approached the car.
“Your papers,” the guard said, and Pak handed them out.
“What are you doing here?” the soldier asked, inspecting Pak’s identity booklet. He looked up to compare the photograph.
“To present my report on a situation in the city that developed early this morning. I’m here on orders from Dear Leader,” Pak said. He could see another soldier inside the guardhouse talking on a telephone.
“Are you armed?”
“Yes,” Pak said. He took his shoulder holster and Russian-made PSM pistol out of the glove compartment and handed them through the window. The semiautomatic fired a small 5.45 mm bullet, but its compact size was an advantage. It could be carried in a shoulder or ankle holster or even in a trousers pocket without detection.
“Your weapon and identification booklet will be returned to you when you leave,” the soldier said. “Do you know the way, Colonel, or would you like an escort?”
“Is he in the main house?”
“Yes.”
“I know the way.”
“Do not stop or turn off the main road,” the soldier warned. “You will be expected.” He stepped back and the electric gate trundled open allowing Pak to drive through.
Residence 55, which was Kim Jong Il’s official home, was actually an elaborate compound in the sprawling hills. The main house was a rambling two-story building nestled on the shore of a man-made lake dotted with islands, all of which were connected by walkways.
Nearby, but partially hidden by the crest of a hill, was the main security building where Dear Leader’s guards were quartered and where his personal intelligence directors who made up the real power behind the Cabinet General Intelligence Bureau met and worked.
In front of that particular building, for whatever reason no one knew, a running track and athletic field had been constructed along with a parade ground and grandstand where Kim Jong Il could review his private Praetorian Guard army.
Sprinkled here and there in the woods were several smaller residences for some of Dear Leader’s family members and for a few close personal friends, though precious few, even those high in the government, knew who was staying out here at any given time.
A pair of buildings housed a theater for live music and dance performances and a state-of-the-art movie theater with a library of thousands of titles, mostly American. Watching American movies was one of Dear Leader’s major preoccupations, that along with his love of fine French cognacs cost the state millions of dollars of scarce foreign exchange every year.
Pak pulled up at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway in front of the big concrete and steel house. The
Roads like this in California at this hour of the day would bestreaming with cars of every make and vintage. Parks would be filled with mothers pushing baby carriages or dressed in spandex tights with tiny plastic helmets perched on their heads riding ten-speed mountain bikes along the paths.
Everyone would be listening to music, either through headsets or boom boxes or in their cars, which vibrated with the bass notes. America was a musical nation.
Here it was quiet, by contrast. A graveyard compared to a fairground. Pak’s car had no radio except for communications, which he’d turned off, so he drove in silence. He turned off the main highway about twenty kilometers outside the city, and followed an unmarked highway up into the heavily wooded hills until he reached a tall fence topped with razor wire. A Special Forces soldier came out of a guardhouse and motioned for him to pull up at the reception gate. A Kalashnikov, muzzle down, was slung over his shoulder and his uniform and boots were as crisp as his movements as he approached the car.
“Your papers,” the guard said, and Pak handed them out.
“What are you doing here?” the soldier asked, inspecting Pak’s identity booklet. He looked up to compare the photograph.
“To present my report on a situation in the city that developed early this morning. I’m here on orders from Dear Leader,” Pak said. He could see another soldier inside the guardhouse talking on a telephone.
“Are you armed?”
“Yes,” Pak said. He took his shoulder holster and Russian-made PSM pistol out of the glove compartment and handed them through the window. The semiautomatic fired a small 5.45 mm bullet, but its compact size was an advantage. It could be carried in a shoulder or ankle holster or even in a trousers pocket without detection.
“Your weapon and identification booklet will be returned to you when you leave,” the soldier said. “Do you know the way, Colonel, or would you like an escort?”
“Is he in the main house?”
“Yes.”
“I know the way.”
“Do not stop or turn off the main road,” the soldier warned. “You will be expected.” He stepped back and the electric gate trundled open allowing Pak to drive through.
Residence 55, which was Kim Jong Il’s official home, was actually an elaborate compound in the sprawling hills. The main house was a rambling two-story building nestled on the shore of a man-made lake dotted with islands, all of which were connected by walkways.
Nearby, but partially hidden by the crest of a hill, was the main security building where Dear Leader’s guards were quartered and where his personal intelligence directors who made up the real power behind the Cabinet General Intelligence Bureau met and worked.
In front of that particular building, for whatever reason no one knew, a running track and athletic field had been constructed along with a parade ground and grandstand where Kim Jong Il could review his private Praetorian Guard army.
Sprinkled here and there in the woods were several smaller residences for some of Dear Leader’s family members and for a few close personal friends, though precious few, even those high in the government, knew who was staying out here at any given time.
A pair of buildings housed a theater for live music and dance performances and a state-of-the-art movie theater with a library of thousands of titles, mostly American. Watching American movies was one of Dear Leader’s major preoccupations, that along with his love of fine French cognacs cost the state millions of dollars of scarce foreign exchange every year.
Pak pulled up at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway in front of the big concrete and steel house. The
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