The prospect of failure and disgrace was very real now. The Parade was about to start and, whatever Kun said, it had to be the target. A bomb? A sniper? Perhaps there were more of them than just the Englishman. And what could he do? There were already tens of thousands of people there, a crowd so dense that it would be perfect for one man to hide within. Kim certainly couldn’t ask for the Parade to be stopped. He had nothing to suggest that was necessary, nothing except the dull, sickening ache in the pit of his gut.

The doctor’s drugs had ruined the man’s mind now, flipping him into a deep unconsciousness from which he emerged only now and again, generally babbling incoherently. Yet they persevered, Yun asking the same questions over and over and over again.

Who is the agent?

What was smuggled into the country?

What is his target?

And still nothing! Kim felt the bitter, selfish anger of a man who sees a bounty turn to ashes in his hands. His promotion, his position in the Ministry, in the Party, his whole life; his foolishness had put everything was at stake. He had chided himself for allowing the man to pass into the country in the first place, but, until now, he had never failed to believe that he would be able to find him and end the threat that he posed. Each answer, each potential source of knowledge, had crumbled between his fingers. He felt trapped.

Yun suddenly shot to his feet and dashed to the intercom. He thumbed the channel open.

“Comrade Major, I have it.”

“What is it?” he practically yelped, his heart catching.

“He does not know the man’s name, nor does he know what was brought into the country, but he says that he knows what it is that they intend to attack.”

“What is it, man? Speak!”

16

Midday. Milton was in his fifth hour of lying in wait. He had watched the city come alive, watched the crowds file into the huge square half a mile away. Now, it was packed. Thousands of spectators, people who had been bussed into the capital from the surrounding towns and cities, many of them travelling overnight. They were arranged into neat squares, each square holding hundreds of people, and they were dressed in colourful clothes, bright reds and yellows. The members of each square had been given a colourful banner to wave; some had red, others blue or white. When viewed from above, the national flag was depicted.

The sound of marching bands filled the air, loud even at this distance. Tens of thousands of troops marched alongside the Palace, some carrying colourful standards, others armed with rifles and rocket-propelled grenades. They stepped in formation, their legs held straight and lifted high, their arms synchronised in perfect time. Fifty Russian tanks followed the troops and then came the launchers: FROG-7 artillery rockets, Scuds, Hwasong short-range missiles, then Rodong and Taepodong medium-range missiles. Finally, Milton saw the largest missile of all, borne on a six-wheel launcher. It had been painted in camouflage greens-and-browns and bannered with messages threatening to destroy the United States and its military. It was the Musudan BM-25, the untested missile that they boasted could reach Alaska.

Large bleachers had been built on the tiered steps of the Palace. They were packed with dignitaries: officials from the Workers’ Party, members of the intelligence services, high-ranking members of the military. Milton adjusted the rifle’s range to ten plus two: one thousand yards plus two minutes of angle. He moved the gun in tiny increments, left to right, staring down the scope at general after general after general.

Then he stopped.

A short, rather chubby figure was suspended between the crosshairs. He wore the usual black Mao suit with a small red pin on the lapel. The pin was the emblem of the North Korean Workers’ Party. His face was soft, almost malformed, with small black eyes, fat cheeks and thin, bloodless lips. His skin was unnaturally pallid and his hair was jet black, almost certainly coloured, the sides shorn very close to the scalp. He looked out of place, a spoilt boy in a man’s body. He was looking out over the marching soldiers, his right hand brought up just above the level of his eyebrows in an awkward salute. He nodded every once in a while but he did not smile.

He looked a little like his father.

Milton slipped the index finger of his right hand through the guard and felt the trigger nestle between the second and third joints. He applied a tiny amount of pressure and felt it depress against its oiled springs; just a tiny amount more would be enough to send one of the ten big projectiles in the magazine on its way.

The shot was there for him to take, but his orders were clear.

Milton was the mailman.

The cleaner.

He was the operative who put the orders of others into practice and it was not his place to doubt them.

He moved the sniper scope up so that it was aimed at the army building five hundred yards beyond the Palace. One thousand yards from his position. He moved it across, methodically, left to right, until he found the room he wanted. A large conference space, a lectern set up at the front before a dozen rows of folding chairs. A projector hung from the ceiling, shining the flag of the DPRK against the white wall that faced it. A table against the furthest wall held pots of tea and coffee. People were slowly assembling. Milton estimated forty, although there were chairs for twice that many and they were still coming.

Today was a banner day for the Technical Bureau of the RGB. Three weeks ago, a cyber bomb created by its talented programmers had been unleashed onto the internet. The conference had been arranged to discuss why and how the operation had been such a success. They wanted to learn from it so that future attacks could be made even more effective. It had been so successful that great prestige had attached to the RGB, and now officials from across the National Defence Commission wanted to be associated with it. Some would no doubt seek to claim credit after the event.

The list of officials attending was impressive.

Two of the four Vice-Chairmen of the NDC.

The Director of the RGB.

The Assistant Directors of each of the RGB Bureaus.

No doubt the plan was to take them down to the Palace for the conclusion of the parade.

Some of them would not be able to keep that appointment.

He waited, keeping still, breathing low, clearing his mind. He tuned out every possible distraction: the night from the morning, the dust in his lungs, his surroundings. He was aware that Su-Yung was waiting behind him but she, too, soon faded away into nothing.

It was just him, his rifle, his targets.

He concentrated on that.

Him, his rifle, his targets.

Nothing else mattered.

Time.

The attendees started to take their seats.

Milton nudged the rifle half an inch to the left and acquired his first target.

He flipped the kill switch, making the rifle live.

Breathe in, hold it.

Wait.

Wait.

Wait.

Now.

He pulled the trigger.

17

Kim rushed between the opening doors of the elevator car and, shouldering aside the attendants who were guarding the door, tumbled into the offices of the Reconnaissance General Bureau. Yun had telephoned ahead with news of the threat but, as he had breathlessly relayed to Kim as the Major sped across the city, the security officers had dismissed his fears with supercilious disdain. There was, they said, nothing that a single man could do to threaten the leadership of the People’s Army. To suggest otherwise was ridiculous. The building’s security had never been breached and was considered to be impregnable but, to humour him, it would be checked. In the absence of better evidence of the threat — the narcotic ramblings of a man whose mind had been broken were not sufficient — the meeting could not possibly be cancelled. Kim knew why: no-one would want to admit to the generals that there was the possibility that they might be fallible.