“It seems we are both dedicated to our countries and our cause.”

“The destruction of America.”

“The destruction of America,” General Kim echoed, sensing in the Arab’s intense stare that the same fires burned in his belly, too.

“For too long they have pushed their influence into all corners of the globe. They are slowly smothering the planet by first sending in soldiers and then poisoning the people with their decadence.”

“They have troops on your borders as well as mine. But they fear attacking my country, for they know our retribution would be swift and final.”

“And soon,” Hourani said with an oily smile, “they will fear our retribution as well. With your help, of course.”

Kim’s smile matched that of the Syrian. These two men, from different sides of the globe, were kindred spirits, devout haters of all things Western. They were defined by this hate, shaped and molded through years of indoctrination. It didn’t matter that one worshiped a bent view of a noble religion and the other a warped faith in the infallibility of the state, the results were the same. They saw beauty in savagery and found inspiration in chaos.

“We have arranged transportation for your delegation to the Munch’on Naval Base near Wosan on the eastern coast,” General Kim told Hourani. “Will your pilots need accommodations in Pyongyang?”

“That is most generous, General.” Hourani stroked his mustache again. “But the aircraft is needed back in Damascus as soon as possible. One of the pilots slept most of the way here so he can fly back to Syria. If you could arrange for refueling, I would like them to leave immediately.”

“As you wish.” General Kim spoke to a subaltern, who passed the order to the head of the security detail. As Hourani’s two assistants finished unloading their luggage, a fuel tanker arrived and workers began to unreel the hose.

The car was a Chinese-made limousine with at least two hundred thousand miles on the odometer. The seats sagged deep enough to almost swallow the slightly built North Korean general, and the interior reeked of cigarettes and pickled cabbage. The Kumgang Mountain highway linking Pyongyang with Wosan was one of the best in the nation, yet it taxed the limo’s suspension to the breaking point as the vehicle ground its way around tight switchbacks and along precarious gorges. There were few guardrails along the highway, and the car’s head-lamps were little more than dim flashlights. Without the moon’s cool glow the drive would have been impossible.