by Mark Dawson
He maintained a careful balance of speed: fast enough to stay ahead of them and yet not so fast that they might panic. He wanted them to think that he was a tourist, taking in the sights.
He glanced at his watch: seven-thirty.
He concentrated on maintaining his sense of calm but it became harder and harder to do that. He was alone, in a hostile country, travelling under a flimsy pretence. He was fooling himself if he thought this was easy, as simple as his last job in Manila, or the one before that in South Africa. The wind had dropped a little and he could hear the men on his tail now, footsteps striking the pavement, unhurried and assured. How far were they behind him? He dared not look. He was frightened. He thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and rubbed a coin between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over so that he could feel the striated edge.
A road crossed the park and as Milton traversed it he saw the Mercedes again. It slowed to a halt, drawing in at the kerb, the tinted windscreen revealing nothing. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight. He heard footsteps quickening a little behind him. Two pairs. Were they going to take him now?
Finally, he reached the Arch. It was tall, sixty metres at its apex, a larger facsimile of the Arch in Paris. The white granite blocks looked ghostly in the moonlight. A second road, reserved for park officials, was nearby and, parked along it, was a Volvo 144. Four vaulted gateways were decorated with azalea carved into their girth and it was from the western-facing one that Milton saw the two figures emerge.
A man and a woman.
They moved towards him.
The woman moved ahead and spoke in quiet, accented English. “Mr McEwan?”
“Yes.”
“How many followed you?”
“Two on foot. Another couple, at least, by car.”
“Where is the car?”
“It was parked by the road. The men on foot––what are they doing?”
“Waiting,” the woman replied.
The second man spoke in urgent Korean.
“There’s another,” the woman said. “Three now. They’re coming. We must be quick. Are you ready, sir?”
Milton nodded.
The man made to strike him on the head with a billy club. The blow missed, although it would not have been obvious from distance and in the deepening gloom. Milton made a show of falling forwards, the man grabbing him beneath the arms and dragging him towards the Volvo. The rear door opened and he flung him inside.
* * *
7.
MILTON ALLOWED himself to be half-pushed, half-pulled inside the car and pressed himself down against the seat. The English-speaking woman got in beside him, her companion going around to the passenger seat.
The tyres squealed as the Volvo pulled away.
“Stay down, please,” she said.
Milton did as he was told.
“Your papers.”
Milton reached into his pocket and handed over his passport and his visa.
The car accelerated, speeding away from a sudden shrill blast of whistles as the three MPSS officers sounded the alert. The blacked-out Mercedes quickly reversed, bumping across the rough ground as it sought the service road. The Volvo had a head start and the driver quickly took advantage, swinging off the road and barrelling at high speed along the broad path that cut between two neighbouring stands of trees. Joggers stood and gaped as they roared by, the Mercedes giving pursuit but already five hundred yards behind them.
The driver spun the wheel to bring them back onto a main road and took a hard left until they reached a built-up area of the capital again. He slowed, slotting them behind a truck carrying a consignment of water melons beneath an unsecured tarpaulin that flapped in the wind.
The woman paused to look out of the rear window. Satisfied, she turned back to Milton. “My name is Su-Yung Jong. I will be with you until you have completed your objective.”
“The man in the front?”
“My brother, Kun. If you need anything, you must ask me. For now, our objective is to get you away from here.”
The driver took a sharp right into a quiet alleyway and parked. It was peaceful for a moment, just the restive background sounds of the city as they collected themselves. Su-Yung did not wait for long. She reached into her bag and withdrew a package of documents, including a German passport. She pressed them into Milton’s hands.
“Study these. Your name is now Alexander Witzel. You are a German tourist staying at the Pothonggang Hotel. They are looking for an Englishman, remember, not a German. They said you speak the language.”
“I do.”
Milton checked through the papers. The passport was an impressive fake, bearing his own photograph on the second page. Another new identity, he thought, a little wryly. He had lost count of them all by now.
“Is it in order?”
“It’s very good,” Milton said.
“I am pleased.”
“What happened to McEwan? The real one?”
“He was shot. The authorities will find his body in the car once it has been set alight. His passport will be on his person. They will not be able to identify him from his likeness but they will be able to confirm that it is him from his finger-prints or his teeth.”
“How will they have access to that?”
“Mr Milton, my country might be backwards in almost everything else, but one thing that it is extremely good at is discovering information. Mr McEwan has a criminal record in your country. Finding that is a matter of child’s play for the Ministry of Information.” She shook her head in what might have passed for an expression of grimly patriotic satisfaction. “The police will believe that he is dead, the victim of a smuggling deal that has gone wrong. They will be distracted by a murder hunt and you will be free to go about your business.”
Kun interrupted his sister in hurried, tense Korean.
“My brother is concerned that we are taking too long. We must go, Mr Milton. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then follow me, please.”
They walked quickly onto the main street, Milton allowing Su-Yung to extend a lead of ten metres. They reached the entrance to Ragwon Metro Station. It was a squat, curved building with a large clock fixed to the roof above the entrance. A clutch of schoolchildren, dressed in identical white blouses, blue socks and red neckerchiefs, gambolled down the steps and onto the wide forecourt beyond. Su-Yung disappeared into the crowd and Milton caught his breath for a moment; he was tall enough to see over the people in his way and he quickly spotted her again. He hurried inside; he had an impression of ornamental decoration, a mixture of Soviet functionalism and oriental opulence, before he was borne forwards onto the escalator that would take them down to the tracks. Milton concentrated on looking as inconspicuous as he could, his eyes glancing across the brightly lit, sombre marble walls as they were ferried downwards. It was as striking as he remembered; only the Moscow Metro came close. With its grandiose architecture, austere cleanliness and cool atmosphere, Ragwon reminded Milton of a museum.
The platform was crowded. Milton stood away from Su-Yung, not even looking in her direction. A mural was painted on the wall, Kim Il-sung holding a book aloft and flanked by two rifle-wielding soldiers, a demure housewife and a worker. The national flag billowed behind them.
The red-and-green painted train arrived and they both climbed aboard.
Milton gazed around at the faces in the compartment. It could have been a tube train anywhere in the world. The people wore the same closed expressions, avoiding eye contact as if they were in London or New York. Framed portraits of the Great Leader and the Dear Leader were fixed to both ends of the carriage. The train hushed into another brightly lit strip of platform and Milton saw the name slide past his gaze: Samhung. They were heading west, away from the centre of the capital.
The woman who had been to his left disembarked and Su-Yung slid across until she was alongside. Milton waited for the female guard to raise her signal.
“Did you s
ee anyone?”
“No,” Su-Yung said. “I do not believe that we were followed. But we must be careful––the police are everywhere.”
“Where are we going?”
“Away from here,” she said as the train crept forwards into the tunnel. “You must trust me.”
* * *
8.
MAJOR KIM SHIN-JO was concerned. Alone in his office at the airport, he placed the picture taken at the airport of Peter McEwan face up on the desk in front of him and then slid it eight inches to the left. In its place, he laid out the picture from McEwan’s file that Captain Yun Jong-Su had emailed him. There were some similarities between the two pictures––hair and eye colouration, the height was similar, both wore glasses––but that was as far as it went. Yun was sure: the Peter McEwan who had arrived at Pyongyang Airport that afternoon was not the same as the man who had visited six times previously.
Whoever this new man was, he was not who he professed to be.
Kim was prey to the usual lurid terrors that would he knew would befall him if he failed the state. The price of failure was well known, and not open to negotiation: total humiliation followed by exile if he was lucky. Execution was possible, depending upon the consequences of the failure. If he had been responsible for allowing an enemy spy into the Fatherland, and if that enemy spy was responsible for some grand, awful statement against the Revolution, perhaps during tomorrow’s grand Parade…
Kim willed himself to remain calm as he picked up the telephone and called his man at the Hotel.
“Comrade-Major, I was about to call you. The Englishman has left the hotel.”
Kim felt a tiny flutter of panic. “What?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Was he followed?”
“Two men on foot and two by car.”
“Why? Did anything happen?”
“He ate his dinner.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was he contacted?”
“Not in his room. He did very little: he had a drink, relaxed on the bed, looked out of the window. Nothing I would consider to be unusual.”
“Radio the men now. He is to be arrested. At once.”
“Yes, Comrade-Major.”
Kim replaced the receiver. He prayed it was not too late.
* * *
9.
THE TRAIN stopped at Pongwha Station. Milton checked the platform and saw nothing. As the doors whispered shut and the train pulled away again, Su-Yung tapped him discreetly on the leg. Milton followed the direction of her gaze. Outside, two men in military uniform were questioning the passengers who were queuing to exit the platform. They were throwing out a dragnet for him.
The final stop on the Chŏllima line was Puhung. It was the most impressive station yet: chandeliers were spaced at regular intervals along the high, vaulted ceiling and marble floors seemed to have been polished to an even higher sheen than before. The train pushed up against the buffers and the doors opened. Milton followed Su-Yung as she disembarked and then quickly scanned the platform: there was no sign of the police. Another large mural of Kim Il-Sung looked down on them. They followed the crowd to the exit and waited to board the escalator. The station was over one hundred feet below the surface, and their slow ascent took five minutes. Revolutionary music was piped through an array of tinny speakers. There were no hoardings, no displays, no advertisements for new theatre productions or alcohol or upcoming films; only frescoes of the great victories of the Korean people since the Day of Liberation, in the bold, awkward, cartoon style of Soviet realism.
Milton caught himself as four men, two from the military and two from the police, descended quickly on the opposite escalator. Su-Yung did not turn but Milton noticed as she gave a single, short nod.
Yes, she was saying, this might be challenging yet.
She was right. The exit to the street was guarded by four soldiers. A folding table had been arranged to block the way out and two officials sat at either end, the queue splitting so that they could take half each. The soldiers filling the gaps on either side all carried side-arms. A queue had already formed as people waited their turn to hand over their credentials.
Su-Yung was buffeted towards the official sitting on the left of the table and Milton found himself nudged to the right. He watched the officials run through a practiced routine: they inspected papers and registration cards, comparing the photographs with the faces of their owners. Milton reached into his pocket for his new documents. He inspected them again, idly scanning them in the fashion of someone who finds queuing the most tedious thing imaginable.
If they had discovered his deception, and if they had circulated copies of the photographs that would have been taken of him at the airport…
He reached the front of the queue. The official was stern-faced, with alabaster skin, small dark nuggets for eyes and a sharply hooked nose. He took Milton’s papers and scoured them, looking up to gaze into his face and then back down again.
“You are a long way from Germany, Mr Witzel.”
“Yes,” Milton said, affably.
“What is the purpose of your visit to the DPRK?”
“Just to enjoy your excellent country.”
“I see.” He looked down at the coupon that recorded where he was staying. “And how do you find the Pothonggang?”
“Comfortable.”
“Not to your usual standards, though, I’m sure.”
Was he making a joke? Milton couldn’t tell. “It is very pleasant.”
“You will excuse me for a moment, Mr Witzel. I will speak to the hotel to ensure that what you have told me is true. Please wait to the side.”
The man stepped away from the table, replaced with seamless efficiency by another official, this one crop-haired and severe, who had been waiting outside.
Milton leant against the wall. He swallowed hard. He turned his eyes to the barrier and watched as Su-Yung took her papers and passed out of the entrance to the station. She did not look back and was quickly out of sight. Milton felt his stomach turn again. When he made a plan, he tested everything to destruction but, here, he was not in control of the situation. His cover was only as strong as its weakest link, and if an Alexander Witzel of Germany had not checked into the Pothonggang then he would be exposed. There would be nothing for it but to take his chances and run. The four soldiers looked as if they knew how to handle their weapons; he thought he would be able to disable two of them quickly enough, but the other two would be a problem. As the official took out his mobile telephone and dialled the number of the hotel, Milton was reminded of the odds against him.
He was practically alone against the most ruthless and thorough security service the world had seen since the salad days of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti.
The man spoke for a moment in Korean. Milton caught the name ‘Witzel,’ and a word he took to mean ‘German,’ but apart from that the language was incomprehensible. He noticed that the official had a holstered pistol fixed to his belt and automatically began to sketch out an alternative plan: the man was of a typically slight Korean build, and it would be a simple matter to put an arm around his neck and draw him in close, using his body as a shield, the other hand liberating him of the firearm. It might increase his odds, if only a little.
The officer smiled at him for the briefest moment. He handed back the passport, the papers tucked into the front cover. “Thank you for your patience, Mr Witzel.”
“Everything is in order?”
“Indeed, yes.”
“What is this about?”
“We fear a man has been kidnapped––a European man––and it would be remiss of us if we did not do everything in our power to try and locate him. Again, my apologies for the inconvenience.”
“It’s not a problem at all,” Milton said. “I hope you find your man.”
Milton passed through the exit and outside. He looked around him and saw Su-Yung appear from the shadows. She nodded, just the
single time once again, and set off. Milton fussed with a shoelace that did not need tying so that Su-Yung could have a small head-start, and then followed.
* * *
10.
THE CAR had been a Volvo, a 1440. Major Kim Shin-Jo recognised the badge despite the damage that the fire had done to it. The car was blackened with ash and soot, the metal buckled in places. They had needed to pry the boot open with a crowbar. Kim and his deputy, Captain Yun Jong-Su, stood at the rear of the car, peering through the acrid black smoke at the body curled up in the narrow space.
“Get him out,” Kim said to the two privates who had found the car.
“Should we not wait for the forensic department?”
“It will serve no purpose. This man is Peter McEwan. He is an English businessman. This”––he indicated the smoking wreck with an irritated flick of his wrist––“has been arranged for our benefit. Our enemies would like us to believe that Mr McEwan went out for a walk after dinner at his hotel this evening, was kidnapped in Monbong Park and then met his fate. None of that is true.” He turned away from the car before either of the baffled privates could ask him what he meant. When he was out of earshot he turned to Yun and said, quietly, “You agree, Captain?”
“You are undoubtedly correct, Comrade-Major. The question is not who this is, but where the person who was pretending to be McEwan is now.”
“And, more to the point, what he intends to do now that he has eluded our surveillance. This was not a simple thing to arrange. There must be more to it than this.”
“You think it is something for the Parade?”
