The captain was displeased that the old man was sending questions back across the table. If he didn’t watch out, he would lose control of the situation.
‘Let’s start from the beginning.’
And he wrote down Allan and Julius’s full names, nationalities and business. Their business was, in fact, nothing. It hadn’t been their intention to float around on the sea. As Captain Pak decided to believe their story, he also began slowly to believe he would survive this chapter of his life.
The interrogation paused at a knock on the door. The terrified sailor outside had been tasked with asking if there was a chance they would be serving the guests dinner. The captain thought that would be fitting. If fifteen or twenty minutes suited.
‘Is there still a ban on alcohol?’ Allan wondered, after the sailor had left.
The captain confirmed that there was. With their food they would be served water and tea.
‘Tea,’ said Allan. ‘Captain, are you really sure you wouldn’t like to drop us off somewhere along the way?’
‘That would put both our cargo and my life in jeopardy. If you behave yourselves, you may accompany us to the Democratic People’s Republic.’
‘If we behave ourselves?’
‘Exactly. There, the Supreme Leader will take care of you in the best way possible.’
‘The way he took care of his brother not long ago?’ Allan asked.
Julius swore internally. Couldn’t the old man control himself? Did he want to become shark food?
Captain Pak might not have had a black tablet like Allan’s, but he did have access to news from all corners of the world as long as he was at sea. He was aware of the accusations in the international media and said angrily that Mr Karlsson had clearly allowed himself to be taken in by imperialist propaganda. ‘No Korean leader would kill either relatives or visitors from other countries.’
For one second, Julius entertained the vain hope that the hundred-and-one-year-old would back down. When that second had passed, Allan said: ‘Oh yes they would. The only reason I’m sitting here today is that Mao Zedong saved my life a few years back, when Kim Il-sung intended to have me shot. As it happens, Mao himself had a change of heart at the last moment.’
What was Captain Pak Chong-un hearing? So much was wrong, all at the same time. A Caucasian blaspheming the name of the Eternal President of the Republic. The president who had stepped into said eternity twenty-three years previously.
‘A few years back?’ said Captain Pak, waiting for his thoughts to fall into order.
‘Oh, time flies. It was 1954, I think. When Stalin was putting on airs. Or was it ’fifty-three?’
‘Mr Karlsson, you … met the Eternal President of the Republic?’
‘Yes, him and his angry boy both. But, of course, they’ve both sailed on since then – not everyone can simply grow healthier with age, like me. Aside from my memory, that is. And my hearing. And my knees. And something else. I’ve forgotten – the memory part, you know.’
Captain Pak realized that the risk to his own life was not at all in the past. The man before him might constitute a direct threat to his health. For him to bring someone who might possibly have denigrated the Eternal President to Pyongyang could not reasonably lead to anything other than … other than what the imperialists claimed had afflicted the Supreme Leader’s brother.
Then again: to take the life of someone who had sat down with the Eternal President without first double-checking with that leader’s grandson …
Rock or hard place? Captain Pak weighed his options.
Julius was, to his own surprise, still conscious. Did Allan understand how high the stakes were, or was he just old? Whichever it was, the hundred-and-one-year-old had talked himself into a state in which the captain’s threat to throw them overboard was more topical than ever.
Julius considered how he might salvage the situation and heard himself saying, ‘Allan here is a great champion of freedom for the Democratic People’s Republic. And an expert in nuclear weapons, too. Isn’t that right, Allan?’
Captain Pak stopped breathing for a few seconds. He automatically brought his right hand to the safe key around his neck to make sure it was still there. A nuclear weapons expert? he thought.
Allan was thinking the same thing. He was afraid he had played a little too offensively against the suspected teetotaller across the table. And, as things were, it was best to play along with the make-believe his friend had started. ‘That was kindly put, Julius. Yes, I suppose we’re experts just about to a man, but in different areas. My speciality happens to be slapping together what we called atom bombs in the good old days. I’m almost as good at that as I am at making vodka out of goat’s milk. But, as I’ve understood it, vodka won’t win me any points on this ship. And, anyway, I don’t suppose there are any goats aboard.’
Allan noticed the captain’s hand seeking something around his neck whenever nuclear weapons were mentioned. That might, of course, have been mere chance. Or perhaps it explained somehow why he looked so tormented. The hundred-and-one-year-old had done some reading on the North Korean atomic weapons programme. Why, just a few days earlier, Kim Jong-un had sent a missile over the Sea of Japan, provoking fury from the rest of the world. This had prompted the old dynamiter to update himself via the black tablet, where you could read absolutely anything if you only knew where to look.
It turned out a lot had happened on the atom bomb front in the seventy-plus years since Allan had last had reason to delve into the topic. But the North Koreans seemed to be far from leaders in the field. ‘Beginners’ would be a better word. International pundits guessed that the country’s plutonium facilities hadn’t yet succeeded in delivering what they were meant to.
Should Allan mention this to the captain and see what sort of reaction he got? With a tiny promise embedded to be on the safe side? His and Julius’s options were no longer to be let off in Indonesia or North Korea, if they ever had been. Instead they would be let off in North Korea or tossed over the railing. North Korea sounded more pleasant. ‘Like I said, nuclear weapons and I are the best of friends. And you seem to have plenty of problems.’
Captain Pak’s hand immediately went back to the key.
Allan went on: ‘Judging by the puny strength of your country’s first nuclear weapons tests, either you haven’t quite figured out plutonium production or you have a severe lack of uranium. Or maybe both. One issue, when it comes to uranium, might be that you don’t understand how to maximize it. That’s what usually happens to nuclear weapons bunglers in general. No wonder people are laughing at you.’
‘Who’s laughing at us?’ Captain Pak said defensively.
‘Who isn’t?’ Allan said, and Julius prayed silently to himself that Allan would stop there.
But Allan had caught a scent. The captain wasn’t protesting at Allan’s account of things: instead he was lamely arguing about the laughter. Had Allan hit the mark more accurately than he could have guessed? ‘Uranium,’ he said, feeling his way forward.
That was it. Nothing more. And once again.
‘Uranium.’
Now the captain’s hand, clutching the key, almost turned white.
‘Why do you keep saying uranium all the time?’ he asked angrily and uncertainly all at once.
‘Because anyone who has two plutonium facilities at their disposal and still shoots off toy bombs likely has a problem. Anyone who can’t produce their own plutonium must seek solace in – you guessed it – uranium.’
Captain Pak tried to bring his hand to the key again, only to discover it was already there. Allan told the captain not to look so terrified. Surely it was no surprise that the world’s leading nuclear weapons expert, all humility aside, would understand the situation.
One person who didn’t was Julius. Had Allan become a mind-reader?
‘What situation?’ said Captain Pak, fearing the answer.
Allan was on the verge of betting that the captain’s boat was full of smuggled
uranium. But if he was wrong, matters would deteriorate. ‘Let’s not spend too much time on the obvious,’ he said. ‘This sort of thing is best dealt with discreetly. But the captain will have to make his decision soon. Either Julius and I will come to Pyongyang and whip your puny attempts at nuclear weapons into shape. Or you will have to throw us overboard and justify it to the Supreme Leader after the fact.’
Captain Pak wanted to bury the two gentlemen a few thousand metres below the sea. At the same time, the older one knew so much. Perhaps more than the republic’s own experts. How patriotic would it be to feed the fish with all that knowledge?
Allan could tell that the captain hadn’t yet made up his mind. He gave it an extra go. ‘I believe this is your lucky day, Mr Lackey of a Captain. Let’s do this, for the good of everyone.’
And he promised to tell the Supreme Leader of the Democratic People’s Republic everything he knew about the technology behind the new hetisostat pressure.
‘Hetistosat …?’ Captain Pak attempted.
‘Almost,’ said Allan. ‘Twice the power for a quarter the uranium, in short. Or, alternatively, the same amount but eight times the power. With my help, you could blow half of Japan sky-high without losing more than a few kilos. Although I don’t recommend it. The Japanese who were still around would be furious, I can tell you that much right now. And the Americans too, I’m sure, although they were once out to do the same thing. With a certain amount of success.’
‘Hetistosat …’ Captain Pak tried again, but Allan hushed him.
‘That’s not something that should be said aloud, Captain, even if you could get the pronunciation right.’
Captain Pak sat quietly in his chair, apparently awaiting Allan’s instructions about what to do next.
Well, first of all the captain must immediately revoke that fussy rule against alcohol. If he wanted to join in and share the champagne with Allan and Julius he could; otherwise he didn’t have to. If by chance there happened to be anything else good to drink hidden in the captain’s quarters, he was more than welcome to bring it out so the champagne wouldn’t feel lonely.
‘Revoke the ban on alcohol?’ the captain said.
‘Be quiet and let me finish.’
Julius closed his eyes as Allan snapped at the man who held their lives in his hands.
Allan went on to say that he would prefer to sleep in a separate room from Julius, as his friend tended to be a noisy sleeper, but in the interest of healthy cooperation he was able to overlook this. The captain should, however – once the bit about alcohol had been dealt with – get in touch with the Supreme Leader; Allan suggested doing so in an encrypted manner.
‘Say that you’ve snagged the solution to all his problems, and that the Democratic People’s Republic shall blossom like never before, thanks to hetisostat pressure and your resourcefulness. The Korean nuclear weapons programme will reach heights you never thought possible. Given the part about the champagne, that is. And the rest.’
Captain Pak made notes on his paper.
‘Het-iso-stat pressure,’ said Allan. ‘Hetisostat pressure one thousand two hundred is between sixty and eighty GDM more than the USA itself can produce. And that is double the pressure of Russia’s capacity.’
‘GDM,’ said Captain Pak, still writing.
‘Double, Mr Captain. Can you even comprehend such a thing?’
No, the captain couldn’t. Neither could Julius. Nor even could Allan, as it turned out, once the friends were alone once more.
‘I suppose I invented more than I actually needed to,’ he said.
‘Oh? How much was that?’ asked Julius.
‘All of it.’
* * *
Captain Pak made no promises as he left the friends’ cabin. No more than that he would ‘process things’.
To some extent he had already made his decision. The situation remained potentially fatal for him, but the potential upsides for the Democratic People’s Republic, and by extension himself, were great. To touch a hair on the head of, or even displease, the man who possessed the solution of the hetisostat-something technique would presumably be very stupid.
The captain felt that he had reached his conclusion. As far as he could, anyway. Soon he would sit down and formulate the to-be-encrypted message to his Supreme Leader. There was only one thing he needed to take care of first.
Ten minutes after the captain had left Allan and Julius to do his processing, there was a cautious knock at the gentlemen’s door. It was an on-duty watch sailor, who, with a greeting from Captain Pak Chong-un, handed over, first, the bottle of champagne, and, second, one of dark Cuban rum. Then he asked in Russian what else the gentlemen would like to drink with their meal.
‘I think we have enough to get by for now, thank you,’ said Allan. ‘If you like you could have our tea.’
The sailor bowed and made his exit. He left the tea. A few minutes later he was back with a meal of stewed meat and rice.
The friends gorged themselves. But the question was, with what would they wash down their food?
‘I think we should start with the rum,’ said Allan. ‘And have the champagne for dessert. Perhaps we could have used the tea to brush our teeth, if only we had brought toothbrushes. We can save thinking up something clever about hetisostat pressures and GDM for tomorrow.’
‘We?’ said Julius.
The Indian Ocean
The encrypted report from the captain of Honour and Strength was absolutely sensational. Kim Jong-un read it himself and drew his own conclusions. He had certain similarities to Trump in Washington in that he was reluctant to delegate tasks in his administration. With the possible difference that Trump drew conclusions without doing the actual reading.
The captain had managed to spell the non-existent phrase ‘hetisostat pressure’ correctly. And he had got the meaningless acronym GDM in the right order. But in the captain’s formulation, the international expert Allan Karlsson happened to become Swiss instead of Swedish.
Perhaps this was lucky, given what was to come. A Swedish foreign minister who wanted to talk nuclear weapons, and an equally Swedish nuclear weapons expert a few days later, might have been too much for a conspiracy theorist’s brain.
Instead the entire situation landed within the realm of likelihood, and Kim Jong-un could see potential.
Honour and Strength would reach the harbour outside Pyongyang in a few days. What if one were to … said Kim Jong-un to himself. And agreed. A PR war was still war. With the help of the UN and the Swiss man, the republic could, within a few days, begin to matter extraordinarily in this area.
The Supreme Leader summoned his secretary from outside the door, with a curt order: ‘Get the Swedish ambassador here.’
‘Yes, Supreme Leader. When, Supreme Leader?’
‘Now.’
* * *
‘The Supreme Leader wished to speak with me,’ said Ambassador Lövenstierna when, under an hour later, he found himself in Kim Jong-un’s palace.
‘Not so much with you as to you,’ said Kim Jong-un. ‘I have decided to invite the UN Security Council to informal talks. What was her name again, the one who wanted to come here?’
‘Minister for Foreign Affairs Margot Wallström,’ said Ambassador Lövenstierna.
‘That’s right. Bring her here, as I said. Immediately.’
Ambassador Lövenstierna nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Then I ask permission to withdraw,’ he said, for the second time in twenty-four hours.
And once again he backed out of the Supreme Leader’s office. Whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself.
Tanzania
Unlike their American colleagues, the Germans were not particularly good at outer space. But they were good on the ground – not least when it was African. The German equivalent to the CIA, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, had placed one of its many worldwide non-existent offices inside a hairdresser’s in central Dar es Salaam. Work there was led by a self-involved, unpleasant but capable male ag
ent. For assistance he had a meek, depressed and slightly more capable woman.
Through months of working on a dubious laboratory assistant in Congo, as well as patient network-building in environments where people were particular about portraying themselves as something other than they were, the BND had cobbled together some clear indications that a limited amount of enriched uranium would soon make its way out of Congo, through Tanzania, and on to the south.
But unfortunately, a couple of holidays got in the way. Among the few things that might be more important to the arrogant Agent A than saving the world was to travel home to Germany over Christmas and New Year in order to salvage whatever he could of his family.
The meek Agent B reconciled herself to a break in their work and spent the holiday on her own inside the salon in Dar es Salaam. She had no family to go home to, since her spouse in Rödelheim had exchanged her for a younger woman with nicer teeth.
After the holidays were over they resumed their patient puzzle-piecing, day by day, week by week. The package seemed to have left Congo. And was transported on through Mozambique. This created plenty of concern, for the ruler there was a former freedom fighter, a Marxist-Leninist, and a buddy of Kim Jong-un in Pyongyang.
The arrogant man and the meek woman were getting closer to it. Apparently the uranium had been carried by fishing boat to Madagascar, off the east coast of Africa. This was a country that had formerly tight bonds with the blessedly late Soviet Union.
The trail went cold in Madagascar. And there were no further informants to turn to.
Agent A decided, in his capacity as the boss, that B should find out what was going on. The meek B did as she was told. After a brief period of analysis, she informed her boss that there were three potential scenarios for the uranium parcel in question. The least likely was that the isotope was still on Madagascar. Unless it had been sent on, either by plane or boat. Flying to or from Madagascar necessarily meant flying internationally. And to do this with more than a few kilos of uranium in your luggage would be tantamount to being discovered. Which left a boat – that was to say, the same method of transport by which the uranium had been brought to Madagascar. Repacking it and coming back the same way on a different fishing vessel didn’t strike her as rational.