Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

Kim Jong Un, Supreme Leader of North Korea, did not miss this news. He watched it unfold live on the pirated South Korean news channel fed to the ninety-inch television in his office. He clenched his fists in impotent anger as he watched the full scale of China’s treachery unfold with each pen stroke. He stabbed a finger down on his intercom, “Get Sung here, now.”

Sung had taken over Chun’s position as Deputy Director. He arrived in record time, having also seen the broadcast. This news, combined with the report he held in his hands of the Brazzaville operation’s failure to capture Chung, ensured it would not be a pleasant visit. He moved through the heavy wooden door into the Supreme Leader’s opulent office.

Kim Jong Un sat behind his desk in near darkness; the image on the television screen provided the only illumination. He did not turn to face Sung when he entered. “You have seen?” It was a statement, not a question. “And your men let Chun escape.”

“Yes, I have seen and yes, the MPS failed to deal with Comrade Chun.” There were no other answers; Kim Jong Un did not tolerate lies. “He was informed of our intentions and was well-prepared for the MPS agents.”

Kim Jong Un allowed a small note of admiration to creep into his voice. “He saved me the trouble of ordering their deaths for their failure.” Kim Jong Un turned to face Sung. “I would expect no less of Chung. Father always said he fought to win.”

Kim Jong Un looked back to the still-smiling visage of the Chinese special diplomat to South Korea and his entourage. All were shaking hands and smiling for the cameras of the world. He gestured with an accusatory finger at the screen. “Look at them. It is their ultimate revenge, their ultimate punishment upon us. They have waited years for the chance to destroy us, to drag us down to their level of communism. They prostrate themselves for the right to sell their souls to feed the hunger of the west for cheap consumer goods. They would see us held on the same leash. Another country of slaves strapped to tables and assembly lines. They seek to destroy our great country. A country my grandfather and father built. I will not let that happen. Nor will you.” He held up his right hand. In it was the final version of Sung’s plan.

“Implement your plan. I am informing the Army and Air Force to increase the number of drills by the Demilitarized Zone.” Rage still in his voice, Kim Jong Un brought his fist down on the mahogany desktop. “We must bring ourselves to readiness. I will not allow this Chinese slight to go unpunished.” He grew calm, “You may deal with individuals who stand in the way of this as you see fit. You must double your efforts.”

“At once, Supreme Leader.” Sung turned and left. On his way down in the private elevator, he smiled to himself. The plan was already in motion. Sung was sure he had done his best to ensure secrecy and deniability.

Hamilton Smythe placed the photo on his desk. It was Andrew Verkatt walking into a dilapidated warehouse. Smythe leaned forward and put his fingers in a bridge across his forehead; his thinking position, as his wife called it. He scanned Evans and Weston’s observation report. The margin notations indicated there was a time-coded video to go with the pictures. That could wait. Verkatt breaking his long-established routine of only covert meetings with clients was serious. The man was very careful about his exposure. He had carried on business like this under the noses of the South African government for the last fifteen years. In fact, before that, Verkatt had been a full-time employee of said government. Until the old guards were swept away by the new Mandela government and truth and reconciliation became the norm. Cockroaches fear the light. Verkatt uncomfortable with this new level of exposure pushed his activities deeper into the shadows. Now this. Hamilton Smythe was sure of one thing: whatever was going on between Verkatt and the North Koreans, it involved a large sum of money. Verkatt’s greed was legendary. He scrutinized the photo.

“What’s your game then, Mister Verkatt? What’s your game?”

“Pardon me, sir?” Smythe looked up. He had not heard his secretary, Gwen, enter the office.

She was a handsome, slender, red-haired woman in her early forties. A South African of British descent, she had been his secretary for all of his tenure as head of MI6’s Pretoria station. Right now, she held a silver tea service. “Your morning tea, sir. I hope I didn’t interrupt.”

Smythe had been her boss for nearly ten years and, in all that time, it had never been anything but Mr. Smythe or sir. The ritual had been going on for so long now, Smythe doubted it would ever change.

“No, no Gwen, just going over the morning reports. Speaking of which, I need the latest summary of Andrew Verkatt and what he’s been up to for the last six months.” He tapped the bridge of his nose in sudden thought. “Hmmm, better get whatever the Americans have on him as well. I’ve got a feeling that he’s up to something and whatever it is, it can’t be good for any of us or our friends. I should have had him terminated when we had the chance.”

Gwen nodded. “How would you like the request to the Americans worded? Shall I make it an official request on letterhead or an informal request on your own stationary?”

Smythe was again poring over the report. He waved a dismissive right hand in the air, “I am sure you know which format will give us the best results.”

Gwen sniffed as she turned on her heel to leave. “The informal style it is then.” Smythe chuckled as she left. He had no idea what it was about Americans that she despised so much. Perhaps she detested heavy set men in Bermuda shorts and dress socks.

Gwen returned shortly with the MI6 file on Verkatt. It was thick and heavy, jacketed in red manila, stamped with a large, black “Top Secret.” Someone in the files room had a sense of humor, Smythe saw. They had assigned the code name, “Hyena.”

That, thought Smythe, was more than fitting considering the man’s reputation. He read the short bio of Andrew Verkatt to refresh his memory.

Born 1954 to a wealthy Boer family. The only son. A normal, if not undistinguished, school record. Did a little better in college and moved on to university. Concentrated on business and political study courses. That much was typical, thought Smythe. Had served in the Militia when his service had come up, as any good son of the Svelte would. Smythe flipped to the personal analysis pages. There was nothing new there either. Like most of the descendants of the Boers, he had strong views on racial harmony and had said as much during his student and army days. After his service was up, a job was waiting for him in government service, thanks to friends of his father. There was a further summary of his father and suspected friends. Close ties to right wing, white supremacists.

Young Verkatt had quickly managed his way into the NIS, then known as BOSS. Smythe grimaced in memory; an unsavory organization if ever there was one. An attempt to change their image by renaming themselves, the National Intelligence Service had been a failure. Changing the name without changing the men in the organization had guaranteed that. Many civilians, black and white, still used the old name, BOSS, when talking about the state security forces.

Secure in the bowels of BOSS, Verkatt had gone about building his own position into one more favorable to his tastes. South Africa had, for years, labored against world restrictions on trade of weapons and technology to a land controlled by apartheid.

Desperate for foreign capital, South Africa had negotiated in secret with other nations also in disfavor who needed supplies of rare earths, minerals and Uranium. Adversity makes for strange bedfellows. Israel, France, West Germany and North Korea were all suspected of black market arms trading with the South Africans. The Americans and, sadly, Great Britain, due to the control Russia had held over the greater part of the rest of the African continent, had bought what rare earths and minerals they needed on the open market. It was out of this tumultuous trade that Verkatt saw his chance to succeed.