entrance was hidden behind an elaborate screen of flowers and topiary. A dozen Korean flags fluttered in the light breeze, and getting out of the car he could smell the fragrant odors. Somewhere in the distance he could hear water flowing in fountains, and the sun reflected brightly off the expansive windows in the house.
He’d been out here to personally brief Dear Leader on three other occasions, and each time, like now, he’d felt a profound sense of peace and well-being mixed with the sense that an incredible malignant force was just inside.
An old man in a plain gray tunic buttoned to the neck, Dear Leader’s pin on his lapel, came out of the house and bowed before Pak. “Your presence is most welcome, Colonel Pak. He’s waiting for you inside. Please allow me to present you.”
Pak followed him up the walk through the maze of bushes and dwarf trees. He’d not seen this particular servant before, but the man seemed genuinely pleased by the presence of a counterinsurgency colonel.
“Can you tell me his mood this morning?” Pak asked cautiously.
The old man smiled faintly. “Tread with care, Colonel. This business has upset him worse than the Americans and the nuclear inspectors. Shall we say, Dear Leader is volatile at the moment.”
“Thank you,” Pak said, and he genuinely meant it. The warning might help him get out of here alive.
“Oh, you are most entirely welcome.”
Linking verandas, balconies, and wooden patios ran the entire length of the back of the house, which faced the lake with its islands. The place wasn’t as elaborate as some of the palaces Saddam Hussein had maintained before his fall, but it could have been the Beverly Hills estate of a wealthy movie producer.
Kim Jong Il, his hands clasped behind his back, stood rocking on his heels looking out across the lake when the old man left Pak off and disappeared back into the house. No one else was around; no advisers, no guards, no one watching to make sure that Pak made no false moves.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Colonel,” Kim Jong Il said, his voice soft, delicate, almost feminine. He turned to face Pak across a distance of seven or eight meters. He was dressed in a dark blue jacket unbuttoned at the neck, matching wool slacks, and softly polished black shoes. His pushed-up dark hair, sharply receding forehead,jowls, and large, steel-framed glasses made his round face seem chubbier than it was. His tight-lipped smile was more enigmatic than usual.
“My pleasure is to serve, Dear Leader,” Pak recited the formulaic response.
“I understand that you have made excellent progress already.”
“Yes, sir. We made a preliminary identification of the two assassins and arrested them as they were trying to make their escape by air back to Seoul by way of Beijing.”
Kim Jong Il’s eyes tightened perceptibly, but he said nothing, nor did he motion for Pak to come any closer.
“One of the assassins was shot trying to make his escape, thus proving his guilt. But the second assassin is at this moment being prepared for vigorous interrogation. I can speak with confidence that our State Safety and Security Agency will solve this crime to your satisfaction in the shortest time possible.”
“You say that they are Koreans?”
“Yes, sir. From the South.”
With no change in his expression, Kim Jong Il suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs. “South Koreans! Trained by the war-mongering CIA! The Chinese are convinced that I ordered the assassination of General Ho! Their ambassador says they will cut off aid to us! Their ambassador actually threatened me with a military attack!”
Pak stood absolutely still, as neutral an expression on his face as he could possibly maintain.
“They do not believe me,” Kim Jong Il said, his voice back to normal, almost sad as if he were having a difficult time accepting that anyone would question something he’d said. He turned again to look at the lake, his hands clasped
He’d been out here to personally brief Dear Leader on three other occasions, and each time, like now, he’d felt a profound sense of peace and well-being mixed with the sense that an incredible malignant force was just inside.
An old man in a plain gray tunic buttoned to the neck, Dear Leader’s pin on his lapel, came out of the house and bowed before Pak. “Your presence is most welcome, Colonel Pak. He’s waiting for you inside. Please allow me to present you.”
Pak followed him up the walk through the maze of bushes and dwarf trees. He’d not seen this particular servant before, but the man seemed genuinely pleased by the presence of a counterinsurgency colonel.
“Can you tell me his mood this morning?” Pak asked cautiously.
The old man smiled faintly. “Tread with care, Colonel. This business has upset him worse than the Americans and the nuclear inspectors. Shall we say, Dear Leader is volatile at the moment.”
“Thank you,” Pak said, and he genuinely meant it. The warning might help him get out of here alive.
“Oh, you are most entirely welcome.”
Linking verandas, balconies, and wooden patios ran the entire length of the back of the house, which faced the lake with its islands. The place wasn’t as elaborate as some of the palaces Saddam Hussein had maintained before his fall, but it could have been the Beverly Hills estate of a wealthy movie producer.
Kim Jong Il, his hands clasped behind his back, stood rocking on his heels looking out across the lake when the old man left Pak off and disappeared back into the house. No one else was around; no advisers, no guards, no one watching to make sure that Pak made no false moves.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Colonel,” Kim Jong Il said, his voice soft, delicate, almost feminine. He turned to face Pak across a distance of seven or eight meters. He was dressed in a dark blue jacket unbuttoned at the neck, matching wool slacks, and softly polished black shoes. His pushed-up dark hair, sharply receding forehead,jowls, and large, steel-framed glasses made his round face seem chubbier than it was. His tight-lipped smile was more enigmatic than usual.
“My pleasure is to serve, Dear Leader,” Pak recited the formulaic response.
“I understand that you have made excellent progress already.”
“Yes, sir. We made a preliminary identification of the two assassins and arrested them as they were trying to make their escape by air back to Seoul by way of Beijing.”
Kim Jong Il’s eyes tightened perceptibly, but he said nothing, nor did he motion for Pak to come any closer.
“One of the assassins was shot trying to make his escape, thus proving his guilt. But the second assassin is at this moment being prepared for vigorous interrogation. I can speak with confidence that our State Safety and Security Agency will solve this crime to your satisfaction in the shortest time possible.”
“You say that they are Koreans?”
“Yes, sir. From the South.”
With no change in his expression, Kim Jong Il suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs. “South Koreans! Trained by the war-mongering CIA! The Chinese are convinced that I ordered the assassination of General Ho! Their ambassador says they will cut off aid to us! Their ambassador actually threatened me with a military attack!”
Pak stood absolutely still, as neutral an expression on his face as he could possibly maintain.
“They do not believe me,” Kim Jong Il said, his voice back to normal, almost sad as if he were having a difficult time accepting that anyone would question something he’d said. He turned again to look at the lake, his hands clasped
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