Third World War by Unknown

SAVAMA.
    The aircraft took off in light drizzle and bounced uncomfortably through the cloud on its ascent. Once clear, however, the pilot turned due west for the ninety-minute flight to Pyongyang. When he cleared air traffic control at Dalian, flying at 33,000 feet, he reported nothing wrong. He called in, out of courtesy, to the control tower at Dandong on the border crossing between China and North Korea, although he was technically in North Korean airspace at the time over the Sea of Korea. It was then that he began his descent.
    After that, no one outside North Korea was certain about what happened.

The air traffic controller at Dandong only glanced once at his screen after talking to the pilot, and the aircraft was on course. In Dalian, the controller said he had been busy with other aircraft. The North Korean announcement issued later that day from Pyongyang said the flight had crashed, and all those on board had died. It allowed no independent experts in to help with the investigation. There were no television pictures from the crash site.
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    11*
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    Pyongyang, North Korea*
    'The landing was necessary,' said Park Ho, stepping into a bleak room in the suburbs of Pyongyang that looked more like an abandoned office than the guest quarters for a visitor. Park made no explanation, gave no apology and offered no handshake to Ahmed Memed. He spoke in English, but apart from a shared foreign language, he felt no common ground with the Islamic cleric. Men of God made him feel both suspicious and vulnerable. Park was an atheist and self-taught in areas of practical help such as languages and engineering. Memed was only his guest because Pakistan had asked for it.
    Memed remained seated. He was cross-legged. Making use of the natural light, his back leaning against the wall and supported by a cushion, he had a laptop on a pile of books by his side. It was plugged into a satellite telephone. He looked up. 'The landing was as any other,' he said quietly.
    Park lit a cigarette and opened a window which gave a view out towards a long-closed cement factory and a skyline of Soviet-style apartment blocks made more monotonous by drizzle from an overcast sky. He looked around at two rolled-up prayer mats, a pile of books and two suitcases, their lids open on a table by the door.
    'Who's this?' he said, pointing the cigarette towards Hassan Muda. Muda was unpacking Memed's robes and trying to maintain the creases.
    'He saved my life,' said Memed softly.
    'He saved your life, so you brought him with you?' Park walked across the room to Muda. 'Look at me, boy,' commanded Park. Muda looked up, but only for a second. His features showed him as hardly being a boy; young perhaps, but with steel in his eyes.
    'Not much of a bodyguard,' muttered Park, moving quickly off the subject. 'Air Vice-Marshal Qureshi has arrived from Pakistan.' He jerked his head in the direction of Muda.
    Muda understood. He was fluent in Urdu, Hindi, Malay, Tagalog and English. He hurriedly refolded the robe, laid it on the top of the suitcase, headed for the door and left.
    Memed had identified not only irascibility and brutality in Park, but also high ambition and intelligence. Park represented a formidable ally. If Islamic leaders displayed a common trait, it was to squabble among themselves. Park would not tolerate internal argument and Memed wanted him onside.
    'The plan is going well, General,' Memed told Park, scrolling down the news pages of the BBC News website.
    'Is it?' said Park.
    'I am reading from the Internet,' Memed began. 'No doubt you have your own sources of information.
    'Our biggest victory is the conquest of Brunei. The Sultan is in exile in London, and within twenty-four hours we expect to have secured the oil fields. A day after that, our forces will have taken Sarawak and Sabah, and will be holding the main cities of Miri, Kuching and Kota Kinabalu. Police have used live ammunition to stop riots in Kuala Lumpur. The casualty figure is more