Rason Seaport
Democratic People's Republic of Korea
H
akim Farouk, the Falcon's most trusted envoy, stepped from the deck of the patrol boat that had brought him ashore from the
Sea Master
supertanker anchored a mile off the North Korean coast. His traveling companion, an Iranian nuclear physicist in his sixties, followed him onto the recently completed dock.
A diminutive official dressed in a black topcoat, black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie was waiting to greet them. Atop his head was a black fur hat that either had been imported from Russia or sewn in a North Korean knock-off factory. Armed soldiers flanked him on either side.
“
Annyeong-hasimnikka
,” Farouk said, having memorized the formal version of saying “hello” in North Korean while making the long voyage from the African port of Durban. (The supertanker actually had been too large to enter the Durban port and had been moored at a single buoy at Isipingo, some nineteen kilometers south, but still had listed Durban as its port of origin.) Farouk had read in online travel guides that he would be expected to bow, and he'd practiced in a mirror in his berth aboard the tanker. Keeping his legs straight and pressed together with both arms at his side, he now bent down from the waist with his eyes cast downward so as to not look at the older man.
“
Kam-sa ham-nida
,” his host replied, which Farouk knew when translated meant “Thank you.”
“You do not speak Korean,” the man said, “and I do not speak Egyptian Arabic, so we will converse in English, which I understand is a tongue familiar to both parties.”
“Yes,” Farouk said.
“My name is Pak,” the man replied. “Please allow me to welcome both of you to the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, a genuine workers' state in which all the people are completely liberated from exploitation and oppression. Only here will you discover that workers, peasants, soldiers, and intellectuals are the true masters of their destiny.”
Farouk nodded. Privately, he had little use for the man speaking to him. Pak was an infidel no different in Farouk's eyes from the infidel Christian Believers of the Book and the much-hated Jews. But the Falcon had sent him to trade with the North Koreans, and he took some comfort in knowing they would eventually be subjugated.
“My name is Runihura,” Farouk said, and my traveling companion is Hassan Yazdi.” Farouk assumed that Pak was not the actual name of his host just as Runihura and Yazdi were not their true namesâan acceptable subterfuge, given the serious nature of their business.
“Please follow me inside to an accommodation where we can be more comfortable,” Pak said.
Farouk and his companion were eager to oblige. The afternoon sky was overcast and it was only seven degrees Fahrenheit on the dock, with a strong wind blowing off the Sea of Japan making the wind chill factor several degrees colder. The patrol boat ride from the
Sea Master
had taken them by tall stacks of white, red, blue, and yellow shipping containers that had been unloaded for transport. Although North Korea controlled the port, Farouk knew that it allowed both the Chinese and Russians to transport goods through it inland, making it one of the country's bustling seaports. Yet Farouk had not seen a single worker, not even on the tugs tied to piers or manning the two giant floating cranes used to lift containers from ships. He assumed Pak had sealed off the entire area to dockworkers and allowed only DPRK soldiers to be present.
Pak led them into a nearby four-story concrete building at whose entrance two soldiers stood guard despite the bone-chilling weather. Farouk noticed that they, like the two soldiers with Pak, were armed with North Korea's copy of the Russian AKM assault rifle called the Type 68. Once inside, Pak guided them along a vacant corridor into an office that contained only a table and three chairs. Nothing else. Pak waited for his guests to sit first before joining them at the table with his two guards taking positions directly behind him. The soldiers stared straight ahead and did not look at either guest.
“The occasion of our meeting today is filled with the dignity and self-respect of being victors in our glorious Workers' Party of Korea struggle against those enemies who would destroy our socialist Korea and the sun of Juche. We welcome you today at the request of our trusted and mutual friend, Umoja Owiti, the builder of the magnificent and most glorious socialist port where you are now sitting and the arranger of this exceptional meeting.”
Although Farouk suspected Pak was sufficiently conversant in English to speak unscripted, it was clear the North Korean was following dialogue that had been carefully crafted for him.
Farouk reached inside the heavy wool coat that had been lent to him by the captain of the
Sea Master
. He had little use for such a heavy garment in his native Egypt. From a pocket inside, he withdrew a folded document: a bill of sale for the oil. He remembered to present it to Pak with both hands, as etiquette required.
“The cargo aboard the
Sea Master
can be released when you produce the object of our desire,” Farouk said. Because both of them were speaking a language that was not their native tongue, their conversation contained words that would seem stilted by Western standards.
Pak returned the bill of sale with both hands without reading or signing it. “Our glorious people's republic has no need for documentation of our mutual objectives.”
In a symbolic gesture, Farouk ripped the document and dropped its torn pages onto the concrete floor.
Pak said something in Korean to one of the armed guards, who left the room. No one spoke while they waited. It was overly hot thanks to a vent blowing warm air into the room, yet none of them removed his coat, and Farouk noticed sweat on Pak's forehead directly under the brim of his heavy fur cap. The guard returned with three soldiers who were pushing a bright red cylinder loaded on a waist-high steel cart. Farouk estimated the missile-like device was about six feet long and two feet in circumference.
“I believe this is the object of your desire,” Pak said, referring to the thermonuclear device that bore Korean markings.
Farouk spoke in Persian to the Iranian nuclear physicist with him, and the scientist rose from his chair to inspect it. As he did, Pak issued another command in Korean to the guards, and one of them produced a packet of schematics and papers written in Arabic. For the next forty minutes, Farouk and Pak watched the Iranian study the tube. He used instruments that he had brought with him to verify it contained fissile material. When he was satisfied, he addressed Farouk.
“This is legitimate,” he said.
“Are you one hundred percent certain?” Farouk asked.
The Iranian grinned. “The Koreans built it based on plans that our nuclear scientists gave them. It is like one of my own children.”
“Where must this item be transported?” Pak asked.
“Our benefactor is arranging delivery from the airplane hangar he constructed near this port for use when he flew in and out of Rason to supervise construction.”
“I am intimate with the hangar,” Pak said. He spoke to the soldiers and they began to wheel the device from the room.
“No!” Farouk exclaimed, rising abruptly from his chair. His sudden movement alarmed the guards standing behind Pak and they began to lower their weapons.
Speaking in a calm voice, Farouk said, “With much respect, I am required to be married to this container now that you have completed delivery. It must not leave my eyesight.”
“Just as I am required to be with you,” Pak replied. He ordered his guards to stand down and explained to the soldiers that they were to wait with the device until his guests were ready to accompany it to Umoja Owiti's private hangar.
“With your kind permission,” Farouk said, “before departing, I will use my satellite phone now to inform the
Sea Master
captain that our exchange has been achieved. He is authorized to make his way into port. Two other ships are in international waters nearby. They will be notified by him. I will inform Mr. Owiti's employees and tell them to be ready for our arrival at his airplane hangar so our flight will be ready for exiting.”
Pak nodded his approval and waited while Farouk made those two calls. When he was finished, Farouk said, “There is one more message I must deliver.”
Pak again nodded and sat patiently, his face now glistening with perspiration from the heat blowing into the tiny room.
Farouk dialed a third number that was answered by a computer in Belgium. He typed one word into his phone's touchpad:
Runihura
, the pseudonym that he had used when introducing himself to Pak. The computer immediately sent that word to another machine in France, which relayed it to yet another in London, which relayed it to a fourth in Taiwan. Farouk had no idea how many more times his message would be bounced around the world. All that he knew was that his message would eventually reach the Falcon and that master terrorist would be well pleased.
Pak stood and asked, “Are you ready to go with the object of your desire?”
Farouk rose from his seat. Within the hour, the nuclear device had been loaded on one of Umoja Owiti's private jets and the two envoys were ready to depart.
“
Kamsa ham-nida
,” Farouk said to Pak, bowing.
“Our glorious Workers' Party of Korea and our supreme leader hope your visit to the Democratic People's Republic of Korea was most enjoyable and fruitful,” Pak said, returning the bow. Then he added, “Have a pleasurable flight, Mr. Runihura.”
As he boarded the aircraft for takeoff, Farouk wondered if the North Korean had learned enough about Egypt to realize the significance of the name
Runihura
.
In his native tongue it meant “The Destroyer.”
The authors wish to thank Joe DeSantis for his contributions to the development, writing, and editing of this book. His political experience and insights were invaluable.
We also are grateful to our agents, Kathy Lubbers and David Vigliano, as well as Kate Hartson, our editor at Center Street, an imprint of Hachette Book Group, and our copy editor.
In addition, Newt Gingrich wishes to acknowledge: Steve Hanser, who for forty years taught him to think historically; General Chuck Boyd, who tutored him about national security; Joan Dempsey, whose long career in intelligence has been dedicated to protecting America; Congressman Bob Livingston, who was in many ways the model for “the Chairman”; Barry Casselman and Annette Meeks, who introduced us to the vibrant and exciting Somali community in Minneapolis; daughters, Kathy Lubbers and Jackie Cushman, and their husbands, Paul Lubbers and Jimmy Cushman, who have encouraged all of his adventures; grandchildren, Maggie and Robert Cushman, whose future safety keeps him focused on national security and politics; and his wife, Callista Gingrich, whose companionship and love make it all worthwhile.
Pete Earley wishes to thank: Dan and Karen Amato, William Donnell, Amanda Driscoll, Walter and Keran Harrington, Marie Heffelfinger, Michelle Holland, Don and Susan Infeld, Kelly McGraw, Dan Morton, Richard and Joan Miles, Jay and Barbara Myerson, Bassey Nyambi, Nyambi and Atai Nyambi, Mike Sager, Lynn and LouAnn Smith, and Kendall and Carolyn Starkweather. He also is grateful for the love and support of his wife, Patti Michele Luzi, and his children, Stephen, Kevin, Tony, Kathy, Kyle, Evan, and Traci, and granddaughter, Maribella.
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