The Third World War: A Terrifying Novel of Global Conflict

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After the heated airlessness of underground bunkers the cold night air smelt good. Light snow fell and brought with it a silence. So different from rain. The night was frozen and black. He had wanted to see the stars, so he had ordered the street lights to be turned off.

Park Ho walked alone through a Pyongyang that would soon be engulfed in war. He headed for the river and pulled his collar up against the wind. The water was cold and black but flowed serenely, rippling with gusts of wind and reflecting the torch from the top of the Tower of Juche. It created a play of light and flame which captivated Park Ho, despite the chill of the night.

He was an intelligent man, but his life had always been at odds with his nation's place in the world. Koreans in the north starved. In the south, they were wealthy. But did that mean he should surrender his nation to the more successful system — the one that had killed his mother? When he had watched the pictures from Delhi, Park Ho accepted that Ahmed Memed had more courage than him. Memed had given him his resolve. His empathy for Delhi was blunted because his own country was under threat. Purposefully, as he walked around the monuments of Pyongyang that night, Park Ho reinforced himself with uncomplicated motives — a hunger for his own success and revenge for his mother's death.

A corner of the night sky changed colour, and soon dawn would come. Park Ho came to the monument of the Great Leader, where wreaths of flowers dampened by the night lay beneath bronze arms stretched out to protect all the people around him.

His expression was serene, showing no remorse, no expectation, nor was there any sign of moral purpose. By the time he opened the door at the foot of the statue, Park Ho had rid himself of all those issues.

He stepped inside and took the lift down three levels. They were expecting him, of course. For however alone he was, he was always watched.

'Get me President Song of China,' he commanded.

When Jamie Song came on the line, Park Ho recognized the voice of a defeated man.

In the morning, Park drove to the airport. It was a clear day, the clouds blown away by wind from the south, meaning that America's spy cameras would be watching from the sky. He stood by the aircraft as Ahmed Memed walked out of the terminal building. They embraced, Park in his uniform, Memed in his white robe. The cleric climbed the steps, looked back and waved. Park Ho stayed on the runway until the aircraft had taken off and set its course for China.