by James Church
"A party secretary who defects," Pak said, "cannot but have something to do with us. How can you be so sure you never saw him? Did he ever drive through your sector?"
"I'd guess he probably did. It's hard to get anywhere in the city without going through my sector."
"Did he ever meet with anyone, talk to anyone, smile at anyone, nod to anyone while he was passing through your sector?"
"How should I know? I don't follow people at his level. That's State Security's job, if they ever wake up long enough to look at their daily operational packet. It's not my worry."
"Well, of course, these things are beneath you, O. By no means should you worry about them. Keep on not worrying until someone comes a-knockin' to find out what you know, or don't know. And someone will. Soon. They always do. This… situation… has rattled a lot of expensive teeth. At the Ministry last night I heard most of the special squad was sent in a hurry to Beijing. Of course, they made things worse. Bunch of thugs standing around the streets. Did they think he'd change his mind and come back home after he looked out the window and saw their ugly faces? Speaking of ugly, I wonder if your friend Mun tagged along with them. Maybe he'll be back to question you."
I thought of the man at the Foreign Ministry whose ambassador had disappeared. "So what? He'll find nothing, because there's nothing to find."
"Really? Mun already knows we recently entertained a visitor of dubious credentials."
"We didn't entertain him. He was assigned to us."
"And you didn't go out walking with him?"
"What has this got to do with anything?"
"Sometimes, Inspector, I think you must have been hatched in another galaxy."
"No, I meant, what does all of this have to do with being snatched by Sohn and sent away on another airplane? If I fly into Beijing, I'll be landing in the middle of this mess. You don't want that, do you?"
Pak went into statue mode: no response, not even any sign of comprehension.
"For the record, the chief inspector declines to answer."
"Ask Sohn."
"Do you actually think he will tell me anything?" I already knew what Pak would say, but I let him say it.
"Probably not."
4
The next day was the coldest on record. I read once that people in some countries get accustomed to the cold. Iceland, maybe. Not someplace I needed to go. I'd never convince myself to crawl out from under the quilt to go in to work in Iceland.
"Get something hot to drink," I heard Pak say as I passed by. He didn't complain that I was later than usual. He left me alone until afternoon, when he walked quietly down the hall and stood at my door. He must have been waiting for a few minutes for me to look up from the plans I was studying. The plans were for a built-in bookcase, which appealed to my sense of fantasy. Built into what?
"You'll want to keep those in the bottom drawer for the next few months. I think we're going to be busy."
I looked up. "What?"
"Sohn is coming back in a few hours with a more complete set of orders. The Minister personally rejected what he tried to push on us the other day. The Minister doesn't want to dip into his special fund anymore." Pak stepped inside. He leaned against the wall in an effort to appear nonchalant. "Try not to antagonize the man again. I know that's what I said before, but apparently I wasn't clear. Just listen to what he has to say, even if he raises something near and dear." Pak paused to let that sink in. "Let him throw his weight around, something you failed to do last time he was here. He is one of the few who has kept his balance during this push by the army. We may need his protection someday, so don't-do not-get under his skin."
"Why do I keep getting the feeling that you two know each other?"
"His skin, O, stay out from under it."
"I've forgotten again. Tell me again, whose backside do I worship this week?"
"The wind blows, we bend like one of your trees. Bamboo, maybe. Bamboo bends, doesn't it? Nothing too difficult. You should try it sometime."
"Bamboo. It's not real wood, you know." I didn't say the rest of what I was thinking.
"Bend, O, for once in your charmed existence, bend."
"I'll tell you the truth. I still don't like him. It's not a snap judgment, I've given it a lot of thought during my sleepless nights. He doesn't look very smart. The back of his head resembles an anvil."
"Inspector, I'm not interested in wood, or anvils, or even your exotic sense of the sublime. Whatever his physiology, he still is a key piece of the machinery of the Center. That means he has power. And to some people, there is nothing more beautiful." A car drove by. We both stopped to hear whether it was turning into our driveway.
"So, who's behind him?" The car had passed without stopping. "That's the question. The party is losing its grip, and the army is getting very cocky. Maybe I forget to tell you, I had a nasty run-in with a colonel a few weeks ago."
"Did he take down your unit number?"
"No, he was in a hurry. He only wanted to make sure I knew he could wipe the floor with me anytime it suited him." My thoughts trailed off. Another car went by.
"We'll worry about the army another time. Just let Sohn say his piece and go away. That's all I ask. I think I fixed things; don't say anything that will get them unraveled. It's delicate, but he has to show up one more time for appearance's sake, and then he won't bother us anymore."
"Nice thought," I said, "but it's hard not to stare."
"Don't think about his ears."
"I'm still so tired I can't see straight. Why did they pick me? I keep wondering."
"We've been through that, Inspector. Maybe they pulled your name in a random drawing-how should I know why you got tagged?"
A horn blared. Pak moved to the window. "It's Sohn."
"You stay," I said. "This time I'll go down to receive the man. I'll be humble and crawl behind him up the stairs."
"No, humble is not your strong suit. Anyway, I don't want him marching up here like the king of Siam. I want to be in my office when he calls from the gate. Same routine. He'll argue with the guards for a while, but then he'll have to ask me to rescue him."
The snow had started falling again, and it was almost dark when I heard the bear once more coming up the stairs. The door to Pak's office slammed. Was reality what I remembered had happened or what was happening now? What if they were the same thing? Angry words and sharp barks emerged, even sharper than the first time. Finally, Pak's door flew open. I was half dozing in the hall, just where Pak expected me to be. "Come into my office," he said. "There's someone here you may remember."
I started to clear my throat, but Pak shook his head, so I just coughed politely and stepped inside, meek as a goat about to meet a bear.
PART III
Chapter One
I had been relaxing on the bench only a couple of minutes when a tall, thin man sat down beside me. He wore a felt hat with a feather stuck in the band. It wasn't a whole feather, or if it was, it was from a very small bird. The hat didn't do much for him, but he didn't seem to care. The sun was up and the clouds were clinging to the western horizon, so it looked like it might be a nice day. Even so, the lakefront was practically deserted. Only a few people were out for solitary morning strolls, probably waiting for the cafes near the lake to open. Along the path where I sat there were several other benches, all vacant, but the man in the feathered hat clearly wanted to be on this particular one. This bench, and only this bench, would do.
Maybe it was his usual place to sit early in the morning; maybe he often put on that green felt hat and came here to think about his life. Maybe in taking up his normal spot, I was interfering with a rite that had by now begun to define his existence. It seemed churlish of me to do so, and I almost got up to move. On second thought, I told myself, maybe being overseas, in unfamiliar surroundings, was causing me to philosophize myself into a corner. I'd only been here a day; it was too soon to feel guilty.
The man didn't say anything at first, just sat look
ing out at the water with a completely relaxed air. He took off the hat and laid it on the bench so that it sat between us, the feather pointing at me. Then he pulled a croissant from his pocket and tore off a piece, which he chewed slowly. He stood up and threw the rest to the swans, who had assembled in the shallow water near the shore, about ten steps away. The strollers had gone past, and there wasn't anyone else around except an elderly couple with a child, very subdued and with a serious look on his face. I wondered if the child had been vetted, or maybe the swans. This was a setup. I could feel it in my bones.
The man sat down again; he didn't even turn his head when he spoke. "Against my advice, you were given permission to enter." His English was deliberate, like a person might speak to a dog whose intentions are unclear. "I don't control the border. But here, inside, you are mine. You understand? Your every move will be watched. If you enjoy the scenery, I will receive a report on what you looked at, how long you observed it, whether you took a picture. I'll even know what exposure you used on the camera. If you stop for a drink at a bar, I'll get word in a trice what you ordered, how big a tip you left, whether you stared at anyone, or made small talk, or winked at the Indonesian prostitutes hanging around at the entrance. I'm going to be all over you until you get back on an airplane and fly away-far, far away." An insect landed on his shoulder. He crushed it quickly, examined what was left, and then flicked the pieces onto the grass. "Fine weather for February." He stood up. "I wish you a pleasant stay in Geneva." He left the hat on the bench. I don't like green felt. As he strolled away, I had the feeling neither did he.
2
The entire team-all six of them-sat around a table in a small room that overlooked the entrance and the wide steps that came up from the driveway. The curtains were shut, and the air was stale, a little overheated, I thought, as soon as I walked into the room. Five heads turned and followed my progress to the one empty chair. Only the delegation leader ignored me. He sat hunched over an open binder of papers, occasionally marking a page or underlining a word. A tiny black notebook lay to one side. As I sat down, a young man across the table frowned. "You're late," he said.
His face rang a bell, but only faintly. "No one told me we were meeting until a few minutes ago," I said mildly. "A bit more notice might have been helpful. It certainly would have been polite." This was an awkward beginning to what already had all the hallmarks of an unpleasant assignment. They didn't want me around; that much had been made perfectly clear.
"Never mind," the head of delegation said, still studying his papers.
Nice touch, I thought. Busy man, too busy to look up. He might not know me, but I already had become as familiar with him as I wanted to be. His file had been handed to me before I left Pyongyang, two bulging folders stuffed with irrelevant gossip and a nugget or two of useful information. There had even been a fair character sketch by someone who had watched him closely for years. The photographs, as usual, were old. He had lost weight, and maybe a little bit of hair.
"You're here. Exactly why or what you'll be doing on this delegation isn't clear to me. All we know is that your name was transmitted as a late addition. There aren't even any instructions on how I'm supposed to introduce you." He looked up and smiled wryly, just as he apparently had done hundreds of times before in situations he didn't like. I studied his face. The photographs in the file may have been old, but his eyes were the same-more observant than they first appeared. If you didn't pay attention, you'd think he had soft eyes. It was a mistake you didn't want to make.
A few days ago, just before I climbed the stairs to the airplane in Pyongyang, Sohn had emphasized that I was to keep close tabs on this man-our friend the diplomat, Sohn had called him. "Make sure you keep him in your sights," he said. "Don't forget, the Center considers the diplomatic mission in Geneva a sensitive place, for reasons that go beyond anything you'd be interested in knowing. In simplest terms, if our friend the diplomat doesn't return to Pyongyang from there, you're in shit up to your ears." I figured if Sohn mentioned ears, it must be serious.
At the moment, the delegation leader didn't look like he was in danger of going anywhere or doing anything untoward. I took out a couple of pencils and lined them up in front of me. Then I reached into my jacket pocket and found a small notepad, which I put next to the pencils. When I had everything straight and square, I looked up and studied each of the delegation members in turn. Most of them gave me blank stares, or what they hoped were blank. It's hard for people to keep up the pretense of disinterest when they are holding their breaths.
"Whatever you decide," I said at last, after I'd wrung the final drop of drama from the moment. The delegation started breathing again. At least they knew where things stood. Showing them I couldn't be pushed around was something they could understand. It wouldn't do any good to go beyond that, especially if I was supposed to keep close to their boss. Doing that would be easier if he didn't bristle every time he saw me.
"Good." The delegation leader didn't seem fazed by how long I had taken to answer him. In his universe, if he didn't react to an insult, it fell to the floor and could be kicked away. "I'll say you are Mr. Kim, a researcher in the Ministry. Can you remember that? They think everyone is named Kim, so it won't even register with them."
"Fine by me." Nice jab-can you remember that? I ignored it, but it didn't exactly fall to the floor. Everyone around the table had heard it and was scoring one for their side. I wasn't crazy with the title "researcher," either. It sounded like I brought tea in for the heavyweights.
"That's fine, then," he said evenly. "Everything's fine. I'm glad we settled that." Another smile. "Perhaps something will come in the overnight cable traffic that will tell us a little more about how we're supposed to deal with you." He looked around at the others, but none of them had anything to add, so he continued. "Sometimes we break for coffee during the talks. We do that to manage the pace. It has nothing to do with wanting coffee or one of those little cookies we've gone out and bought. You should hang back when we break. Don't mingle." He slipped the little book into the inside pocket of his coat. "Pretend you're working on your notes or something. If one of them comes up to you, act like you don't speak English. You don't, do you?"
"I know some." A little cookie now and then would be good.
The man across from me studied the top of the table carefully. Now I remembered. We'd had an entire conversation in English, standing in the hallway of the Foreign Ministry a few years ago. It was in the spring, and the windows of the offices were open to let in the breeze. Neither of us had said anything important, just a few idle minutes trying to come up with a vocabulary word or two the other didn't know. "At least, I think I can speak a couple of words. I used to."
"Well, forget whatever you knew. If they sense you understand English, they'll constantly be trying to draw you out. How about French? You don't know any French, do you? German?"
"No. Don't worry, I'm not here to get in your way."
This time his smile was broader, more encompassing. There was nothing I could do but get in his way, and we both knew it. "See that you don't, and everything will be fine. You probably have your own reporting channels." There was a sense that he was trying hard not to sound irritated. "I realize you'll write what you feel like writing, and it is unlikely you'll show it to me before sending it out. That's how these things usually work, isn't it?" He pursed his lips and took off his glasses. That had been in his file, how he pursed his lips when he was displeased. "An unconscious pout," one entry read.
"Do you need to see our reports as well?" His voice took on a mock-friendly ring. "Even if you read them, of course, you have no authority to make changes. I've already checked. The rules for outgoing telegrams from a permanent diplomatic mission are the same as those that apply to the embassies-the ambassador at post gets to comment on whatever goes through our channels if he wants to, but his is the last word. Especially"-he let that word burrow in nice and deep, and then repeated it to make sure there was no mista
ke-"especially here."
"Unless, of course, there are overriding orders." I threw that in the pot to see if it would unsettle him. It didn't.
"There are no such orders. If any do come in, let's deal with them then, shall we?"
It must have been something they taught in the Foreign Ministry. Never let a point go unchallenged. There were times we worked that way, too. But I wasn't in the mood, and this didn't seem like one of those times. Something about that episode on the bench earlier in the morning had set my teeth on edge. I wasn't ready to battle with one of my own diplomats over millimeters. "Actually, I don't need to see your reports; I'm not interested in reading fiction."
There was an intake of breath from the delegation, which stared at me in unison like a set of oversharpened penknives. Then they each turned away and began going through their script for the meeting. One or two sneaked a glance at me. The young man smiled to himself. He looked like he might know a thing or two. I made a mental note to talk to him later, when I could get him alone.
3
On the day I left Pyongyang, almost at the last minute while we waited in a special room that kept me out of sight of the rest of the passengers and anyone else in the terminal building, Sohn finally told me why he was sending me to Geneva.
"You'll be on the delegation to the talks."
"What talks?"
"The missile talks." He watched me closely. "Something the matter?"
"Nothing." Missiles. Hwadae county. Pakistan. The dead woman. A lot of tabs were fitting into a lot of slots.
The first round of negotiations, Sohn said, had been in Berlin. They had produced nothing, other than the estimate that the second round wouldn't produce anything, either. Just having another session was considered good enough. After some internal discussions in the Center, it had been decided that, off to the side during the next round of talks, there would be a chance to pass the following message: Beware, you never know when starving people might do crazy, irrational, dangerous things. They'd told Sohn to find someone who could do that, and after rummaging through the files, he'd selected me. I had been overseas, I didn't freeze up around foreigners, and I had a good revolutionary pedigree. They also wanted someone to keep an eye on the delegation leader, but most of all, my assignment was to deliver that message. The messenger was important, and I checked all the boxes, that's what Sohn said. I didn't believe him. It was all smoke.
