Sohlberg and the White Death (9 page)

“Mister Johnson. What are you talking about?”

“I mean . . . why did your people have to blindfold me and throw me in the back of the van for hours?”

 “Mister Johnson. I’ve paid you millions of dollars. Seventeen at last count. And that’s your take-home pay on top of the start-up costs that I funded. Right?”

“I don’t disagree.”

“And I also paid for all of the design and manufacturing costs. Correct?”

“That is true.”

“So . . . the seventeen million dollars in your pockets are pretty good treatment. Aren’t they?”

“Well—”

“Did your old bosses at General Atomics or Insitu or Boeing ever give you the time of day? . . . Did they give you seventeen million dollars?”

“No but—”

“Mister Johnson . . . you told me that they never gave you stock in the company although
you
were the one who came up with the only working design for the drones that made them hundreds of millions of dollars. Correct?”

“Yes but—”

“You told me that they fired you because they thought you were overpaid and too old at age forty-one. Right?”

“They—”

“They hired a
team
of young pothead punks to replace you at half your salary. Isn’t that true?”

“I—”

“I
what
? . . . You’re the man who made billions of dollars for other people thanks to your designs for the
Predator
and
Reaper
drones. I remember you telling me that your moron bosses at General Atomics never gave you bonuses or salary increases. . . . They wouldn’t even give you a little time off when your wife got a blood clot that almost killed her.”

“I didn’t mean anything by—”

“That’s the problem with you Americans. You mean nothing whenever you speak or think. There’s nothing behind your pretty words and pretty faces.”

“Why did you bring me here? . . . To insult me?”

“I brought you here because I understand that you are working on a new drone.”

The American’s eyes grew wide. Domenico Pelle instantly knew that his hired and planted spies had been
on target
. The American detective agency Kroll never failed him.

“I . . . I was toying around with some preliminary designs. I haven’t even made a prototype.”

“Make sure that you inform me from now on about any new designs.”

“Of course. It’s just that I like tinkering with my stuff . . . constantly improving things and then pushing the envelope to unexpected places.”

“You,” said Domenico Pelle, “have a knack for that. That’s why I reward you so richly. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“I always liked the fact that you were the first person to produce an unmanned aircraft that could fly long distances. Your drones first spied on people. Then you made them bigger and better so that they could drop bombs on America’s enemies all over Yugoslavia. Then you and General Atomics moved on to bigger and better and more profitable killing fields in Afghanistan . . . Iraq . . . Pakistan and Yemen.”

The American’s chest visibly expanded. “I’m proud of that. I’m glad I could help the war against terrorists and evildoers.”

“Maybe. But you got nothing but a slap in your face and a kick in your butt from your employers.”

“That’s why I’m glad to be working with you.”

Domenico Pelle frowned. He wanted the American to tell him that he was
damn grateful
to be working
for
him. Actually it was the other way around. Pelle was exceedingly grateful for the American. The clueless American had built and sold him five drones. Each aircraft carried 500 pounds of cocaine every week into five small private airfields in Spain and France from an airbase in Morocco—courtesy of the very corrupt generals and King of Morocco.

After landing the cocaine was shipped all over the border-less European Union in one-pound packages that easily and quickly eluded detection. Pelle was proud that he had came up with this distribution system. It was a perfect “
just in time
” system that he copied from innovative Japanese and American manufacturers, wholesalers, and retailers.

“Tell me . . . Mr. Johnson . . . just what tinkering and envelope-pushing do you have in mind for your drones?”

“I want to go the opposite way.”

“What?”

“I started my career by making drones bigger and bigger. Now I want to design them to be smaller and smaller.”

“Ah yes,” said an interested Domenico Pelle. “Miniaturization.”

“Exactly. I want to make them as small as birds and mosquitoes. They could like look animals. Just imagine what you could see and hear with a miniature drone that was as big as a fly.”

“I like that. Such a thing would be wonderful.”

“You could fly the thing inside the White House or the Kremlin and see or hear everything. You could also fly a small device . . . like a small bird . . . next to someone and blow up their head with a quarter-pound of high explosives.”

“How would you commercialize this? Who would you first start selling it to?”

“Military intelligence . . . law enforcement.”

“I like that,” said Domenico Pelle with a smile. He visualized making a fortune from such sales while at the same time covertly intercepting law enforcement’s information for his own profit and benefit. “How much money do you need to start working on a prototype?”

“Ten million for the first six months. I’ll probably need fifty million to produce a reliable model.”

“I will give you the money.”

“What do you want in return?”

“Half your company.”

“No. That’s too much.”

“Mister Johnson. I have many partners to take care of . . . many mouths to feed.”

“Now that I sold you the five drones I can easily go out and raise the money myself.”

“Come here Mister Johnson.”

“Why?”

“I want you to look at my cheese press.”

The American’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “No thanks. I’ve seen enough.”

“But you haven’t seen enough. Mister Johnson.”

Pelle nodded. A young Italian tough from an isolated three-hut village near Monte Pecoraro in Calabria stepped forward. He took out his pistol and shot the American through the left knee. A deafening blast echoed in the creamery. Screams and blood spurted out of the American.

“No . . . . Please! . . . No,” begged the American.

The Calabrian aimed for a head shot.

“Mister Johnson. I don’t think you’ve seen enough.”

“Yes. Yes. Oh yes. You can have whatever you want.”

“Carlo. Finish him off and then drop him in the cheese press . . . dead or alive.”

The American howled. “I swear I’ll do anything. Anything . . . Please!”

“Okay. You win Mister Johnson.”

“Oh God. . . . Oh God.”

“Don’t bring God into it. This is business and nothing more. But Carlo is a nice boy. He will take you to my doctor to get that knee treated.”

~ ~ ~

The meeting with the American left him cold.

What did the fool think? . . . That I was going to haggle for a tiny bit of ownership in his company?

He sold his soul to me when he took my first dollar.

He’s just like all those other morons who sell their souls to me when they put my white powder up their noses and veins. Funny how they always think that they can function as if nothing ever happened.

Sooner or later I will need to get rid of the American.

~ ~ ~

At night the stars seemed so bright from his bedroom window. A full moon threw its cold light on his face. He was wide awake.

The business at Interpol needs to be closed. The winding down of that business has to go far beyond the dead translator. She of course had to go first. The Russians should never have put her in there. It’s time to get rid of the Norwegian and the Legionnaire.

The moon floated away.

Sohlberg. Laprade. Each man is dangerous in his own way. They are even more dangerous together. Sooner or later they will figure out everything and turn against me.

Sohlberg. Laprade. They’re not
that
stupid. Neither am I.

Only the truly stupid believe that others are more stupid.

Only imbeciles rely on other people’s stupidities to get away with something.

It’s time for Sohlberg and Laprade to go bye-bye.

Chapter 6/Seks

PYONGYANG, NORTH KOREA:

JUNE 13 AND JUNE 14, OR

TWO MONTHS AND 2 DAYS

AFTER THE DAY

Ju Kyu Chang closed his eyes and slurped the last of the noodles in his ox bone soup. In his mind’s eye he could still see last night’s dinner—thinly sliced beef and scallions swimming on top of the milky-white soup. It had been three months since he and his family had last eaten any type of meat, chicken, or fish. They subsisted on rice and vegetables which left him hungry and weak. The seolleongtang made him feel alive.

“Good,” he said. “This is so good. What a splendid gift.”

Of course he was grateful that the Supreme Leader allowed him and the rest of the Ju family to have some food at home. It wasn’t a lot—about 1,800 calories a day per adult. He often thought about food throughout the day. He worried about reaching the magic 1,800. But it was more than enough to keep starvation at bay.

Who cared if the quality of the rationed food was usually atrocious?

Who cared if the potatoes and corn were stunted and rotting?

At least the Ju family received a weekly ration of rice. That was an absolute luxury in a country where the Supreme Leader used food as a weapon and a means of control.

“This is very good,” said Ju to no one in particular. “What a treat!”

“We are exceedingly fortunate,” added his wife Ji Won. Like her husband she also wanted to make sure that the eavesdropping devices in their dining room picked up their comments. “The Supreme Leader is so kind and thoughtful. He is wonderful. He is so good to us. He gave us so much food that we had enough soup and noodles left over for another dinner.”

The food was indeed a special one-time gift from the Supreme Leader. He wanted to reward the 78-year-old Ju, his wife, their two grown sons, and five grandchildren for Ju’s outstanding supervision of the Supreme Leader’s obsession—the design and manufacture of intercontinental ballistic missiles and nuclear warheads. The ox bone soup served as a tangible and tasty reminder that Ju’s work with nuclear triggers was advancing with great strides.

~ ~ ~

Only yesterday at an important meeting in his bunker the Supreme Leader had said:

“Ju! . . . You are on time and under budget. Congratulations. I will send some of my own seolleongtang for you and your family to enjoy.”

Ju Kyu Chang did not believe that he deserved such praise.

Yes. It was true that within a year his Nuclear Warhead Group would manufacture a reliable working model of Item # XY-RR-13096.

Yes. It was true that this trigger could set off a nuclear explosion in a wide variety of platforms—ranging from nuclear suitcase bombs to multiple warheads on intercontinental ballistic missiles.

Yes. It was true that a reliable and miniaturized trigger was critical to manufacturing small and lightweight nuclear warheads that could easily be lifted up into space by the Taepodong-4 missile. The latest ICBM could reach all of Europe and the entire western half of the USA thanks to its range of 5,000 miles.

Yes. It was true that the trigger would allow the Supreme Leader to fulfill his ultimate plan—the transfer of small warheads to Muslim radicals who would detonate nuclear bomb suitcases and backpacks in major European and US cities according to the
American Hiroshima
plan of the late Osama bin Laden.

“You are too kind Supreme Leader. . . . I don’t deserve more food.”

“Nonsense,” said the well-fed Kim Jong Un. “You must learn how to appreciate my reward.”

“Oh yes. I appreciate it tremendously.”

“Good. You never know when you might starve.”

 Ju trembled inwardly. He was terrified of the 30-year-old dictator. The chubby kid took after his deranged father, “Dear Leader” Kim Jong Il, and ruthless grandfather, the “Great Leader” Kim Il Sung.

“I would gladly die . . . or starve . . . for you Supreme Leader.”

The Supreme Leader made no comment or expression. He turned to the next person sitting at a giant table in the underground conference room and said: