Peter Kirsanow - Target Omega

Chernin had heard Park’s story many times before in Russia. It preceded the knock on the door. The arbitrary arrests of loved ones. Disappearances without explanation. Angry recriminations. Then resignation, powerlessness.

Like Chernin, Park had no interest in annihilating Israel or anyone else. He took great pride in his work and understood that his life depended, literally, on the successful completion of that work. But Park had gone through some of the same historical comparisons as Chernin and concluded that he, too, bore uncomfortable similarities to the efficient ciphers at Nuremberg.

Chernin was sitting at his empty desk in his drab office, comforting himself with the thought that he would be in Iran only a few more days, when Park entered. His face, for only the second time that Chernin had known him, expressed agitation.

“Good morning, Dmitri,” Park said in unaccented English.

“Good morning, Park. You look displeased. What troubles you?”

Park sat in a metal chair on the opposite side of the desk and scooted closer. He asked in a low voice, “Your friends are not satisfied with my work?”

Park was referring to the two dour Russian engineers and a guidance expert who had arrived unannounced overnight and had begun inspecting the missiles and tracking systems without asking Chernin’s permission. Furious, Chernin confronted them but backed off upon being told that Stetchkin had sent them to make a final inspection, and if Chernin had any questions, he should direct them to the tyrant.

“They’re here only to give us the final seal of approval. It has nothing to do with the quality of your work,” Chernin said.

“I am not so sure. They will not permit me to follow them or watch what they are doing. They are very secretive. I do not like it.”

“You worry excessively. They will send a good report back to Moscow and Pyongyang. You have done a splendid job. We have all done a splendid job. You’ll go home and be justly rewarded.”

Park sat silently for several seconds studying the ugly green walls. He looked up and said, “Then, if I may be presumptuous, let us mark the occasion with two of your cigars.”

Chernin didn’t need to be prodded. He opened the upper left-hand drawer of his desk, pulled out a metal carrying case, and opened it, revealing an array of cigars. He held up two. “Macanudos,” Chernin announced.

Park nodded his approval. The pair left Chernin’s office and turned right, walking along the catwalk suspended more than forty feet above the workplace floor. The giant facility was eerily quiet, save for the sound of a couple of Towmotors and a distant hissing noise. There were only a few technicians in the facility — mostly North Koreans with a smattering of Russians — compared to the hundreds that had populated the facility during the height of operations.

Chernin and Park walked approximately a hundred feet to a freight elevator that ascended two hundred feet to a pillbox-like structure that sat on the southern slope of the mountain housing the project. They held their proximity badges up to a sensor near the sliding metal exit. The doors opened and the pair walked outside into a parking lot and past several more guards, two of whom were sitting in a jeep to the right of the doors. The guards acknowledged Chernin with a curt nod.

Chernin handed Park one of the Macanudos as the men strolled toward the fence-enclosed perimeter of the parking lot, a good fifty yards from the guards’ position. Chernin removed a cigar clipper and lighter from his pocket, snipped the ends of both cigars, and lit Park’s before lighting his own.

Park faced away from the surveillance cameras located at regular intervals atop the fence and looked at the brown mountains in the distance.

“Dmitri, I’m not going home,” Park said bluntly.

Chernin wasn’t surprised. He had sensed in the cavern that a troubled Park wanted to talk and that the cigars were a mere pretext. “What are you going to do?”

Park answered the question with a question. “You do not want to go home either, do you?”

“I want to go home very much. Truthfully, I cannot wait to leave this place,” Chernin said.

“You cannot wait to leave this place,” Park agreed. “And neither can I. But you do not want to go home.”

Chernin didn’t respond. He puffed slowly on his cigar and waited for Park to continue.

“You are not a crazy man. You are a smart man,” Park said.

“The two qualities are not mutually exclusive.”

“You can see what is about to happen here,” Park continued. “What is happening is sheer idiocy. It is incomprehensible. Our governments are vastly underestimating the consequences of this action. They think there will be retaliation only against Iran. They are tragically mistaken.”

“Our governments have not mistaken the lack of resolve in the West, however,” Chernin noted. “America and Europe are dissolute. Weak. Yes, they may not confine their retaliation to Iran, but only Iran will be struck militarily.”

Park nodded. “That may be so. But many will die here and in Israel. The world economy will be in shambles, in chaos. Our countries will not be insulated from the effects.”

“My bosses believe that after the dust has settled, we will be positioned to pick up the pieces and to profit. We have resources — oil, gas, minerals — that the West must have. They must deal with us,” Chernin said.

“The only reason anyone must deal with my country is to buy stability. We produce nothing. We cannot even feed ourselves. The only thing of consequence that we have is our military — our nuclear capability.”

“That is a very big reason.”

“But the people will remain destitute, probably more so when our role in the project is revealed, as it eventually will be.” Park shook his head. “There is nothing for me to return to except misery. I will not go back.”

“What do you plan to do? Your security people are everywhere. You cannot just refuse to go back. And even if you could, where would you go?”

“Anywhere but North Korea. Perhaps I will eventually find my way to the South. But first, I must get out of here.”

“You cannot get out of Iran without considerable assistance. Who do you know who can help you?”

“ You can help me, Dmitri.”

Chernin appeared incredulous. “Me? What can I do? My security people watch me as closely as yours watch you. Besides, I have no means to get out of this country.”

“But your friend Mansur,” Park said. “He is a man of some means. As you describe him, he is a resourceful fellow. He might be able to get us out of here and to a safe place.”

“Us? Whatever gives you the idea I am going with you? My country has compensated me very well. I plan to have a very comfortable retirement and forget all of this — as you put it — idiocy.”

“I will not be able to forgive my role in this matter,” Park said. “It is an impossibility. I will have partial responsibility for one of the great atrocities in history. And you will as well, Dmitri. There’s nothing we can do about that now. The project is complete. The Iranians will get their wish; they will destroy Israel. It is not my wish. I have no animosity toward the Jews.” He gave Chernin a sidelong glance. “And neither do you.”

Park’s intensity was somewhat surprising to Chernin. “And what will you do when you escape North Korea? Spend the rest of your life in a monastery atoning for your sins?” the Russian asked derisively.

“Nothing we do for the rest of our lives can atone for this, Dmitri. You know that. You know that very well. We will live with what we have done. That is our punishment. Our lives will be hell. But we need not live in hell.”