Origin - Season Two (13 page)

“Iran.”

“How badly am I hurt?”

“The local doctor had to remove a kidney. And you almost bled to death on the way here, but otherwise you’re good to go.”

Francis let out a weak laugh and immediately grimaced at the pain. “Are we safe here?”

“For now. We need to call Zurich and come up with a plan for getting out of here. The mullah has agreed to take me to Bandar Abbas. It’s a three-hour journey. I should be back by this evening.”

“I’m coming with you,” Francis said.

“Sure, why not? Perhaps you could drive.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. And I’m telling you it’s out of the question.”

When Titov was gone Francis decided to try sitting up again. This time he made it onto one elbow before the fire in his gut forced him back down.

Pyongyang, North Korea

Sunday 10 June 2007

2230 KST

By the time the debate finally ended in a nine-to-three vote in favor of elevating Kim Jong-sul to the position vacated by his late father, it had lasted for over seven hours. Rhee had watched the entire spectacle from the operations room in the basement of the intelligence directorate with growing frustration as one vulture after another made his subtle bid for power. The performance was made all the more macabre by the understanding that the victorious faction would not look kindly on those who had made too strong a case against it. Thus every plea seemed to end in a contradiction, offering both praise for the opposing view and a reason to discard it. In the end it had come down to a choice between Kim Jong-sul, the prodigal son, and Choe Yong-su, First Vice Chairman of the National Defense Commission. The outcome had of course been predetermined, as Choe, among others, would soon find out.

Rhee left as soon as the cabinet meeting ended, stopping at the ministry of foreign affairs to report the news to Duan in Beijing before moving on to the ten-story concrete box on the outskirts of the capital known to the outside world simply as Building Five. The building was home to most of the government’s “supplementary” initiatives, such as the foreign exchange office—known as Office 39—which dreamed up ever more inventive ways of keeping the supreme leader and his family in dollars, pounds and euros, and the euphemistically titled
import restriction office
, a virtual mail-order catalogue service for foreign goods catering to the upper echelon of Pyongyang society through its network of contacts inside the Kaesong industrial zone.

Rhee was there to see an old friend by the name of Song Chun. Song ran the city’s real estate black market, a position that required an extremely well-developed understanding of the intricate and often confusing relationships that formed the backbone of the North Korean social and political hierarchy. The fact that he was neither heterosexual, nor a member of the party—the latter being by far the greater crime—yet was still alive, was a testament to both his cunning and his reach. Thus Rhee was not surprised to hear that Song had been expecting him, had in fact put together a list of potential properties that might be of interest to the general.

“Perhaps later,” Rhee said. “For now I’m more interested in what you can tell me about minister Kye-nam.”

“General,” Song protested, “you know I don’t get involved in politics.”

Rhee smiled and handed him an envelope. Song gave the contents a cursory inspection, then quickly placed it on top of the safe next to his desk.

“Exactly what is it you would like to know?” Song said.

“Can he be trusted?”

“He voted for the right candidate, did he not?”

Rhee looked at him in surprise. “You know the result of the meeting?”

“Oh come, general. A man like me wouldn’t last long if I didn’t have a few birds of my own among the rafters.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“It is true that Pak would have preferred to see Choe assume power,” Song said. “They are distant cousins, after all. But he is no fool. I also suspect he’d have little to say if his friend were to fall under suspicion now that his bid has been defeated.”

Rhee found his respect for Song rising in roughly equal measure to his fear of him.

“That’s good to know,” Rhee said.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see the properties I have selected?” Song said. “There’s one here I think you’ll particularly like.”

“It will have to wait,” Rhee said. “I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

“Indeed you do, general,” Song said. “There
is
one more thing, if you have a moment to spare.”

Rhee looked at him with unguarded suspicion, but made no move to go. Song walked to the filing cabinet at the back of the room and returned holding a black and white photograph. He handed it to Rhee.

Rhee could only stare at the picture, the hand holding it no longer quite steady. In the sepia tone exposure a woman was sitting on the earthen bank of a rice paddy with a young girl on her knee. When Rhee looked up what Song saw on his face made him take a step back.

“Where did you find this?” Rhee demanded.

Song seemed to consider the question, as if it might have more than one true answer, then said, “I had it recovered from the war archive at Chongjin. The man who took it was a friend of your father’s.”

For a long, awkward moment it was unclear whether Rhee would thank Song for his efforts or shoot him. Song, clearly fearing the latter, took another step back and cast a glance at the door. Then Rhee carefully folded the picture and tucked it into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket.

“I meant no disrespect,” Song said. “I thought you would want it.”

“I take it you know what happened to them?” Rhee asked.

Song nodded, but said nothing.

“Then you also know that my current position would be compromised should anyone find out.”

“No one will hear it from me,” Song said, his voice both sincere and pleading. “You have my word, general.”

“And your silence, does it have a price?”

“I’ll not insult you by claiming that the practice is beneath me,” Song said. “But I consider this a question of my own honor, general. I’d like to think we might be friends as well as associates.”

Rhee’s features softened at this, and he offered a Song a guarded smile. “Then friends we shall be. And if I can reward your kindness, you need only ask.”

“I’ll not hesitate,” Song said.

“Good.”

Rhee left the building and ordered his driver to take him back to his office. The announcement of Kim Jong-sul’s appointment would be broadcast that afternoon. For the people of North Korea the occasion would mark a resumption of the status-quo. For Rhee, however, it would change everything.

The Pandora

Sunday 10 June 2007

2200 EEST

Richelle had retired to one of the empty guest cabins for a few hours of much-needed sleep when Titov’s call arrived. She dressed quickly and rushed down to the hangar where Almila was waiting.

“How is he?” Richelle asked Titov as soon as Almila handed her the phone.

“He’ll be okay,” Titov said.

“We have someone in Tehran who’s going to get you out of the country. I’m going to give you a number to call. Tell him where you are and he’ll pick you up.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Is it someone we know?”

“Not exactly. Caroline found him through one of her contacts in Zurich who does a lot of business over there. He can be trusted.”

“What makes you so sure?” Titov asked.

“Because we’re paying him half a million dollars to get the job done.”

“Richelle, you—”

“I don’t want to hear it. The deal’s been made.”

“And where is he supposed to be taking us?”

“India. We have a security consultant who does work for our office in Mumbai. His name is Mohindar Bhatti. He’ll pick you up and make sure you get back here. No one gets paid until he’s confirmed your arrival.”

“Sounds like you have it all worked out,” Titov said. “I’ll make the call.”

“Good. You better get going.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“How did you know there was a plane on the island?”

Richelle considered telling him the whole truth, then settled for half of it. “You know Mitch and his computers. I don’t know exactly how he did it, but thank God he did.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll let you go,” Richelle said. When Titov didn’t reply she added, “Alright, out with it.”

“After we took off something very strange happened,” Titov said. “I was intercepted by two UAE fighters. I’m pretty sure they were there to escort us back.”

“And?”

“And they both dropped out of the sky.”

“Well, that was a stroke of luck,” Richelle said.

“So you don’t know anything about it?”

“Nope. Now I suggest you get going. I don’t know what kind of contacts this guy has, but I doubt he’ll be much good if you end up in jail.”

“I guess we’ll speak soon then.”

“I’ll call Mohindar as soon as you’re there.”

When Richelle hung up Almila was looking at her with a smirk.

“What?” Richelle said.

“That was a bit sly.”

“What would you suggest I do? Tell him we have fucking
alien
vision now? That we can shoot down planes and spy on anyone we like? Hell,
I
don’t even believe it, and I’m
here
.”

“Easy,” Almila said. “I was only kidding.”

“Well your timing’s a little off, Captain.”

But when Almila smiled at her, she returned it. “Oh piss off. Don’t you have anything to do?”

“Not really,” Almila said, still smiling.

“Well maybe you can go scrape some barnacles off the rudder, or practice your knots.”

Almila laughed. “Now that you mention it my monkey paw
is
a little rusty.”

Richelle gave him an odd look, but before she could reply Mitch came down the gangway of RP One and said, “We’ve found the Beixiang. It left Dubai this morning.”

“And where’s it going?” Richelle said.

“According to the port authority it’s stopping in Goa to refuel, then heading back home to the port at Qingdao.”

Almila and Richelle both looked at each other.

“How long will it take to get to Goa?” she asked.

“Three, maybe four days,” Almila said. “Probably closer to three.”

Iran

Monday 11 June 2007

0130 IRST

By the time Titov returned the sun had gone down and the small village lay shrouded in darkness. When he entered the house in the company of the mullah, Francis was sitting up in the living room.

Titov looked at him. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“What, you’re a doctor now?” Francis retorted.

“Good news,” Titov said. “The cavalry is on the way. Caroline has arranged for someone to take us to the Indian border.”

Francis looked unimpressed. “Who?”

“I don’t know. Apparently one of her contacts in Zurich recommended him. He seemed nice enough on the phone.”

“Anyone can seem nice on the phone,” Francis said. “It’s what they’re like when we’re being dragged into the back of a car with our hands tied and our heads covered that worries me.”

“Richelle says he’s being paid half a million dollars on delivery.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Francis said.

“I’m not. One of our own people is going to meet us on the border and arrange the trip home.”

“Did this man tell you when he was going to arrive?”

“He said he would try to get here in the next twenty-four hours.”

“We need to be gone when he does,” Francis said. “In fact, the sooner we leave the better.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a price on our heads. If she’d offered them five or ten thousand, that would be one thing. But half a million is going to bring every two-bit asshole with a gun out of the woodwork. And if they find us here it’s going to be two million for our heads. Trust me, I’ve been here before.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?”

“Did you hear what I—”

Francis stopped suddenly and cocked his head to one side.

“What is it?” Titov whispered.

“Listen.”

Titov walked to the door. The low thrum of blades cutting through the air was faint, but growing louder with every second. Titov rushed back inside where Francis was now attempting to stand up. The mullah ran to help him. Francis took a few steps, then let out a cry of frustration and lowered himself down to his hands and knees.

“We can’t leave,” Titov said. “Not like this.”

“You need to get out of here,” Francis said.

“You tried that one already, remember?” Titov said. “What makes you think I’m going to fall for it this time?”

The sound of the approaching helicopter was beginning to drown out everything else. Titov picked Francis up and carried him to the door. One of the houses at the end of the row lit up as the pilot turned on the landing light and began to search for a place to set down.

“Anyone jumping out?” Francis said.

“Not that I can see.”

The mullah came out behind them and pointed at the house directly across the road. “Go inside. You wait.”

Titov helped Francis across the road. A woman came to the door and urged them to hurry inside. They heard the helicopter set down and the turbine begin to slow. Less than a minute later they saw the mullah step out of his house and walk away. He returned in the company of a soldier wearing desert camouflage and the two men entered the mullah’s house.

“Does this look like a rescue mission to you?” Francis said.

Both men emerged from the house a moment later. The soldier was talking in short animated sentences that sounded more like pleading than threats. The mullah appeared to hesitate for a moment, then he pointed directly at them.

“Oh shit,” Titov said.

The soldier came over and knocked on the door. The conversation he had with the woman sounded like a repeat performance.

“You want me to take him out?” Titov whispered.

Francis shook his head.

They both turned to the door as the soldier stepped inside. He regarded them for a moment with a kind of detached curiosity, then said, “Come, we must go quickly. You’re not safe here.”