Chapter One


March in Paris, France

Cold rain drips from the black umbrella and balls up on shinny black shoes as Mostafa walks briskly toward the five-star hotel. A passing gendarme's nod brings a glimmer of a smile to Mostafa's lips. If the policeman only knew, but of course he has no chance of recognizing Interpol's most wanted terrorist. Mostafa has not been to Paris since leading the Hezbollah bomb
team that killed thirty-six Parisians and wounded twice as many. Since then, a plastic surgeon
unhawked his nose and squared his receding chin. Only the cold black eyes remain the same.
Eyes so black that the boundary between pupil and iris is indistinguishable.

The doorman quickly opens the door and bows as Mostafa enters the lush lobby. Obviously, he considers the well dressed man another of the hotel's wealthy guests. Wearing a dark blue pin-stripped suit, a glistening white shirt, and a tasteful red, white, and blue striped tie, he looks like a successful American businessman. Exactly, the image Mostafa wants to portray.

Walking directly toward the house phone, he notes his right hand man sipping a cappuccino at a lobby table. Kaleef is wearing an Italian-cut suit, and a large black sample case sits next to his leg. Neither man exhibits any form of recognition, but Kaleef's presence boosts Mostafa's confidence. He knows the black bag holds plastic explosive and a Uzi machine gun with three extra clips of ammunition. Enough to take out the people Mostafa is meeting if they are setting a trap. He is confident Kaleef will spring into action unless he receives the proper signal ten minutes after Mostafa enters the elevator.

Mostafa lifts the house phone and announces in perfect English, "I am here." He listens for a moment and replaces the receiver. Entering the elevator he asks, "Fourteen, please." Kaleef lays down his paper to signify he heard.

The elevator opens into a lavishly decorated living room. Two large oriental men stand beside the doorway. As the elevator doors close, the man on the right asks politely in heavily accented English, "Are you armed?"

"No."

"Please raise your arms." One large man rapidly and carefully pats Mostafa's body. Satisfied, he motions toward a plush chair fronted by a glass-topped coffee table holding a china teapot, two cups and two saucers.

The other man walks to a closed door and raps three times softly. A moment later, a short, barrel-chested man opens the door and enters. He smiles graciously as Mostafa rises. Although the smile curves the lips, it never creases the eyes. Both men bow slightly, then sit.

"It is good of you to come," the man says.

"What can I do for you?"

"You act as an American, with no time for pleasantries. Would you care for coffee or tea?"

"Tea would be nice," Mostafa answers softly while bristling inwards at the insult. "What shall I call you?"

"Until we have our discussion and come to agreement, You may call me sir."Mostafa nods. He already knows his name. General Rhee, commander of all North Korea's armed forces. Kaleef supplied pictures of six possible contacts, and this is General Rhee. His round face is topped by thinning gray hair and dominated by widely spaced narrow eyes that stare unblinking into Mostafa's. Evil, lying eyes, Mostafa thinks.

General Rhee raises his hand, one finger slightly higher than the others. One of the large
men quickly brings a thermos of hot water and fills the teapot. When Rhee waves him away, both
guards exit the room. "We will let the tea steep for a moment. Since you are a man in a hurry, let me quickly tell you about my mission. It will strike America and to cause all Western nations to abhor them. I think you will like that."

"Indeed," replies Mostafa. He hates America because they support Israel, and Israeli bombers killed his wife and parents in a retaliatory raid on their refugee camp. On that day, he swore to get revenge on Israel and America. Already, he has struck significant blows such as bombing Pan Am flight 101, firing the missile that brought down TWA 700, and planning many bombings in European cities. He is still searching for bigger opportunities.

"Are you still a part of Hamas?" Rhee inquires.

"No. They are too radical and too ready to die. I work alone."

"Good. This plan does not need martyrs; it needs intelligent planning and execution."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Your job will be to recruit an engineering team and maintain security during the project. The engineers are to build two copies of the newest U.S. stealth fighter, the XF-46."

"I do not know how to build airplanes. I have never heard of the XF-46." Mostafa protests.

"Yes, I know. Only a few Americans know about it. However I have secured the complete drawing set for the airplane. The engineers will provide the know-how; you will provide the security."

Mostafa glances at his watch, then asks, "May I use your phone? I must call a colleague."

The general smiles, "Of course."

Mostafa dials the operator and asks, "Please page Mr. Stephan Black to call room 605." "So, you have back-up. I like that A man who covers all angles." General Rhee pours tea into the cups, then continues, "My Russian friends have provided a list of several top but disgruntled engineers. They believe the engineers will eagerly accept the task."

"If I make the offer and anyone refuses, do you want me to kill him?"

"Of course. My plan must not be compromised."

The two men discuss the proposition for another hour before reaching agreement. Mostafa feels good. The plan can deliver a serious body blow to America, and he will receive five million U.S. dollars plus expenses. Each of the five engineers will receive three million dollars and an American passport. An additional five million will be allotted for the second tier engineers. Mostafa will get twenty-five million when the engineers are dead. He can live the lifestyle he wants and still have resources for additional strikes against his hated enemies.

*****

When the elevator door closes behind Mostafa, General Rhee retires to his private sitting room. Standing in front of the mirror, he admires his image as haunting memories flood his mind. He sucks in his stomach and admires his profile. Yes, the years have broadened his face and enlarged his stomach, but otherwise, he resembles the twenty-one year old lieutenant who led a
column of tanks into Seoul in 1950. That had been only three days after they burst across the U.N
established boundary between North and South Korea. They would have achieved total victory if
the United States had not responded so quickly.

The Korean War provided Rhee rapid battlefield advancement, so he was a colonel when the armistice was signed. He gloried in his achievements, never mourning the three million people killed. The thirty seven-month war was terrible only because he failed to achieve victory.

The war also provided contact with Zhang Chi Ming, now the third most powerful man in China. They served together after the Chinese troops entered the war and enjoyed pushing the American troops out of North Korea. Zhang will be a key player in his plan.

He continues to admire his image as he considers Mostafa's reaction. What was his motivation, revenge or greed? Probably mostly greed, he concludes. He laughs out loud. He will never pay the money. He has it, but it is easier to kill than pay.

Soon, he will rule both North and South Korea, and will declare himself Emperor. The playboy,
Kim Jung Il, now recognized as "Dear Leader," will die, and Rhee will assume all the powers that
Great Leader Kim Dong Il previously enjoyed in ruling North Korea. Once he captures the
factories of the South, he will build an army the entire world will respect and fear.