Still, after a rocky start, most residents had made their peace with the Omega Congregation, noting that its members did not panhandle or proselytize on the streets or in malls, inflicting themselves upon strangers. No strange smells or noises emanated from their house on Delmar Street that would have sent property owners running to their pricey lawyers with a public nuisance claim. Police were never summoned to Lee’s address.
This day, a guest was closeted with Lee inside his third-floor office at the combination house and temple. Lee was seated in a high-backed swivel chair behind an elevated desk carved from jatoba—called “Brazilian cherry” in the States—extracted from the dwindling Amazonian rainforest. Facing him, his smaller chair designed to let Lee peer down his short nose at any visitors, sat Park Hae-sung.
“You came in through the back way?” Lee asked.
“As always,” Park replied.
“And took the usual precautions to avoid a tail?”
“Of course.”
Both knew that Park was subject to surveillance by a list of US law-enforcement agencies. So far, they hadn’t laid a glove on him, but that was not from lack of trying. Park assumed his phones were tapped, relying on bulk purchases of burner cells from Walmart that he deemed untraceable, routing his rare emails through an anonymous server based in Denmark. Whenever possible, he spoke to Lee in person, the most risky mode of all.
“My guess is that you wish to talk about Los Angeles,” Lee said.
“Indeed,” Park replied. “We need to follow up with more attacks.”
“I’ve spoken to my master,” Lee replied.
“You actually call him master?” Park cut in, a challenge in his tone.
“It’s only fitting for a man in his position,” Lee replied.”
“If you say so, comrade.”
“I’ve told you more than once, I’m not a communist,” Lee said.
“And yet, you’re helping us. You and your holy master.”
“It is unwise to mock a man in his own house,” Lee cautioned Park.
“No mockery intended, I assure you. You must understand that I was raised to treat religion—all religions—with the same disdain. Marx says they are the opiate of peasants, used by their true masters, the industrial elite, to hold them in positions of subservience.”
“If you wish to quote your manifesto, should I answer you with texts from the Bhagavad-Gītā?” Lee asked.
“Let us spare each other from that fruitless argument,” Park said, “and focus on our business together.”
“Very well. My primary soul is concerned about the heat resulting from the LA incidents. All three participants have been connected to the Omega Congregation, as you know.”
“And did we not expect that?” Park seemed disappointed by Lee’s answer. “It was planned to paint the three as infiltrators planted in your cult—”
“Our sect,” Lee said, correcting him.
“My most sincere apology.” Park’s contrition was nowhere evident in his demeanor or his voice. “Three infiltrators in your sect, planted by South Korea’s NIS.”
Park referred to the National Intelligence Service, initially launched as the Korean Central Intelligence Agency in 1961. It was renamed the Agency for National Security Planning twenty years later, finally switching to the NIS label in 1999 without revising much in its outlook or former methods of collecting information.
“That is one of Master Shin’s primary difficulties with the plan. Observers know the NIS has worked with the Omega Congregation time and time again. Why would they suddenly subvert us? Far more likely would be sabotage by your own agency.”
“Logic need not confuse the matter,” Park replied. “Perhaps the move was made by rogues within the NIS. Who knows? Who even cares? A bit of speculation in the Washington Inquirer and your master’s other news outlets should set the stage for what comes next.”
“And none of that shall happen without full approval from the primary soul, as you knew well enough when we began.”
“He was on amenable terms at that stage.”
“And he still may be, but the reaction to Los Angeles, although expected, has included calls in Congress for a full investigation of the Congregation. That jeopardizes my relationship to you, as well as your remaining in America.”
“We take precautions, do we not?” Park asked.
“And yet I hear from one of my people employed with San Francisco PD that federal agents are always watching you.”
“Which is exactly why we take precautions,” Park replied, sounding a trifle testy now.
“But risks are multiplied today. Nothing seems innocent, nothing coincidental, since the sarin was released.”
“You’re having second thoughts,” Park said. “Buyer’s remorse. That is unwise.”
“I hope that is not meant to be a threat,” Lee cautioned Park.
“Of course not, brother.”
“We are not brothers until you have joined the Congregation, Captain.”
“I do not use that title here,” Park said. “Hardly at all, in fact, except on ceremonial occasions in Pyongyang.”
“It still applies, however, does it not?”
Park dipped his head, humble acknowledgment of his rank in the SSD. “But I do not command you or the Congregation. I suggest continuing a course of action that we have agreed upon, while you appear to have cold feet.”
“That is an American expression I have never fully understood,” Lee said.
“It means—”
“I know its meaning,” Lee cut off his guest. “It is the pointless reference to feet I do not grasp.”
“Americans,” Park answered back. “What can I say?”
“Indeed.” They might have shared a laugh at that, if their present dilemma weren’t so serious.
Lee forged ahead, telling his visitor, “I simply doubt the wisdom of a new offensive now, so soon after the first.”
“Momentum is our goal. How else can we—”
“Propel our sundered nation into action,” Lee completed it for Park. “I know. But if the final vote from Master Shin is negative...”
“You’ll ask him one more time, at least, won’t you?” Park pressed.
“I will, tonight. But don’t expect a miracle.”
“Aren’t
