60
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.”
He crossed the tiny room to help his friend overcome the cast on his leg and rise to his feet. When Eichmann looked into his face, though, some of the fear had returned.
“You tried to kill me, Christian.”
“In Morocco?” Dresner smiled sadly. “No. It was Smith and Russell. They did it to turn you against me. To trick you into bringing them here.”
Eichmann broke away and stumbled backward, trying to think through what he was hearing. By the time Dresner reached out to steady him, it was clear from his face that he realized it was the truth.
“I…I’m sorry, Christian.”
“I know.”
“They found the data for the study. And they know what was done here. Everything except Division D.”
Dresner retrieved a set of crutches leaning against the wall and held them out. “Let’s go, Gerd.”
“Go? We’re leaving?”
“Of course. My jet is waiting. We’ll be home soon.”
“Home,” Eichmann repeated. “But that’s where they found me. I can’t go back unless they’re gone. Are they? Do you know what’s happened to them?”
In fact, Dresner didn’t. They’d escaped into the mountains and the military had mounted a massive—and thus far fruitless—hunt for them. While it seemed impossible that they would be able to avoid capture, both had proved their resourcefulness too many times to make any other assumption. And that left him relying on Castilla’s anxiousness to end their investigation. Far from certain, but more likely than Smith and Russell allowing themselves to be caught. Powerful men were easy to predict and even easier to manipulate. Castilla would protect his beloved country. And he would protect himself.
“Not Morocco,” Dresner said, opening the door to the cell and standing aside so Eichmann could hobble through. “Somewhere else. Somewhere no one will be able to bother you again.”
Dresner watched his oldest—only—friend struggle up the hallway, unable to keep the memories from intruding on his mind: Their first meeting at East Germany’s Olympic training facility. The delicate beginnings of trust as they tested each other with increasingly unequivocal admissions of their disillusionment. And finally their escape.
The corridor was so long it seemed to stretch into infinity. No guards were present and the only sound came from the confused rhythm of their footsteps and breathing. Dresner put a hand on Park’s shoulder and then pointed to his holster. Understanding came quickly, as would be expected for a man like him.
The Korean pulled his sidearm and held it out as they walked. Dresner took it with no outward demonstration of the hesitation he felt, no acknowledgment of the terrifying weight of it in his hand.
He had done so many horrible things and there were so many more to come. None had touched him personally, though. And that was hypocrisy.
Dresner raised the gun to the back of his friend’s head. He wouldn’t feel any pain. None of them would. The computer that made him who he was would just turn off. Forever.
The sound echoed through the confines of the concrete passage, and blood splashed hot across Dresner’s face. He let the gun fall next to his friend’s body as he once again told himself that there had been no choice. That Eichmann was a weak link in the chain he’d spent the better part of half a century forging. And while it was all true, it did nothing to diminish the profound sense of emptiness he felt. For the first time since he’d been dropped in front of the orphanage in Erfurt, he was truly alone.