Outside of Pyongyang
North Korea

CHRISTIAN DRESNER FOLLOWED SILENTLY, a darkness he hadn’t felt since the night of his escape from the East threatening to overwhelm him. The concrete-and-steel bunker of a building was empty except for the occasional guard, whose only purpose seemed to be to snap to attention when he and the aging Korean general came into view. None of this was as he had instructed. Whatever this building’s original purpose, it now felt like the dungeon it was.

On his way there, he had flown over the facility in Hamgyong and confirmed that its destruction, while unnecessarily public, had been entirely thorough. Even the rubble created by the military’s heavy-handed action was nearly gone—to be recycled into a project proclaiming the enduring glory of Kim Jong Il.

The immediate eradication of the facility had been a difficult decision. The human cost was much higher than it would have been under the more measured dismantling he’d planned before his hand was forced. North Korea had become an ironic microcosm for his situation—a reminder of not only why what he was doing was so necessary, but also of the gravity of that undertaking.

Left to its own devices, the country’s malignant government would continue to starve its people by diverting resources to the task of staying in power. But when those resources dwindled, they would have no choice but to turn to their nuclear arsenal. Millions of their own people would die, as would countless innocents in the greater region. All for a handful of twisted men like the one in front of him.

Dresner could never allow himself to forget the blood on his own hands, though. The people who had died at that facility weren’t part of North Korea’s sadistic ruling elite. They were blameless victims who he had sacrificed so that others could live and prosper.

General Park stopped next to a heavy steel door and turned toward Dresner. His skin hung loosely, contrasting with the heavily starched uniform weighted down with meaningless medals and a polished sidearm. He didn’t speak, but his dull eyes flicked toward the door, making it clear that they had reached their destination.

Dresner’s anger intensified as the bolt was thrown back and he entered. The cell was probably no more than three meters square with an open toilet, a cot, and a single chair where Gerhard Eichmann sat. Park had undoubtedly gone out of his way to defy his wishes that his friend be made as comfortable as possible until he arrived.

When Eichmann looked up, the fear in his eyes was replaced by relief, hope, and even joy. All illusions spun by the computer in his head, of course, but no less powerful for not being real. And neither was the deep sense of melancholy he himself felt.

“I’m so sorry, Gerd. They weren’t supposed to put you here. I came as soon as I could.”