by D. B. John
To hell with them, Cho thought. He was on his way back to a garlanded homecoming.
As they were finishing their coffee they were informed that their driver had arrived and a bellhop was loading their luggage into the Toyota minivan.
At the souvenir shop near the reception desk Cho had bought a small thermometer set into a model of a skyscraper with the words EMPIRE STATE BUILDING at the base, a box of assorted hard candies, and a junior-size New York Knicks basketball jersey as gifts for Books. He would buy perfume for his wife at the airport, or maybe a bracelet she could show discreetly to her friends. He did not think, in the circumstances, the political officers would object to him taking such items to Pyongyang.
The minivan set off and Cho lowered the window an inch. Cab horns, traffic fumes, coffee, fresh bagels. How easily he’d got used to the sounds and smells of a New York morning. He’d miss this when he got home. It had rained during the night, making the streets seem varnished and glossy. Patches of fast-moving clouds made a theatrical effect, with the vast buildings thrown into relief by moving arcs of light and shadow. Everything and everyone was suffused with a kind of superreality. It was magical—an illusion enhanced by the tiny lights and decorations that had appeared everywhere, in every storefront, restaurant, and lobby, as if by sudden decree. He had never seen a Christmas tree before.
America.
How false his idea had been. In fact it was the opposite of everything he’d thought. He’d considered himself too shrewd to believe the propaganda. Now he saw how deeply it had lodged in his psyche, from the anti-imperialist cartoons he’d watched as a boy to his English grammar course at Kim Il-sung University.
We killed Americans. We are killing Americans. We will kill Americans.
His knowledge of America had been learned from fables written by the Party. None of them matched his experience—the thrilling, vibrant, disorderly reality—of an American city.
He thought of the woman he’d sat opposite at dinner last night, Marianne Lee. Again, he felt an unease about her that he couldn’t account for. Her lips on the rim of the wineglass; the way she’d watched him in a way that seemed mocking, curious, and vulnerable all at once. Her bare shoulders. She was undeniably beautiful. Is that what was bothering him? That he desired her? It was a disloyal thought, and not just to his wife. The Leader took greatest pride in the purity of the race. Foreign blood, mixed blood, was a stain. And yet … this was not making him feel the guilt he had expected. Had she told him her Korean name? He wasn’t sure. Soo-min? No. That was the sister. Cho shook his head absently. Crazy that she thought her sister was living in his country. She really seemed to believe it. Half Korean, half African American … Extraordinary.
The evening had taken other strange turns, too. His face clouded. He had never heard of Camp 22, though he did not doubt its existence. He simply knew it was better not to know. But what on earth was she getting at? And General Fisk, whispering in his ear about the rocket. What are you hoping to arm it with? The capability to place a satellite in orbit must indeed have alarmed them. It was proof that his country had entered the league of technically advanced nations.
He hummed to himself, drumming his fingers on the arm of his seat while the two junior diplomats and the political officers talked among themselves in the seats in front. The lights turned red at a large intersection and the minivan came to a stop alongside a taxicab with the driver’s window down. The yellow of the cabs seemed unusually bright today, a rapeseed yellow. The cab driver adjusted his bead-covered seat, scratched the back of his neck, and unfolded the New York Daily News on the steering wheel. Cho tilted his head to read the headline.
FEDS ARREST NORTH KOREAN DIPLOMAT IN DRUGS BUST
He remembered nothing more of the journey to JFK. The moment the minivan reached the terminal he ran to a news store, bought the New York Daily News, and walked away without waiting for his change, throwing out the pages until he found it.
North Korean UN diplomat was dealing in narcotics, authorities said.
First Secretary Ma Jae-kwon, 41, was arrested by federal agents in Brooklyn after being caught handing over drugs with an estimated street value of $2,000,000 to a known criminal gang. The feds, who had the gang under surveillance, were surprised to discover that the supplier was a diplomat.
Ma has claimed diplomatic immunity and has refused to cooperate, but his contact in the gang, Omar Calixto Fernandez, 32, has admitted to receiving a package containing crystal methamphetamine. The drug, also known as tina and ice, is thought to have been smuggled through JFK in a North Korean diplomatic pouch …
Pages slipped from Cho’s hands. He gazed around, trying to breathe and steady himself, but his feet were weightless, and the check-in hall’s lights had become distant strobes that hurt his eyes. The space around him was a blur that began to spin.
“Colonel?” One of the junior diplomats was at his elbow, regarding him with alarm. “You’ve turned extremely pale.”
20
Regional Bureau of the Ministry of State Security (the Bowibu) Hyesan
Ryanggang Province, North Korea
The overhead lights hummed to a bright yellow before dimming again. On the neck of the man standing in front of Mrs. Moon, an angry boil winked from between hat and collar. He was called to the desk. She was next in line.
She’d walked past the building three times. It was a squat, gray modern edifice, three stories high, that bore no external signage, no hint of the organization that occupied it, yet she felt sure there was no one in Hyesan who did not know what this place was. The limit of Sergeant Jang’s courage had been to find out the name of the arresting officer. She’d been about to walk past a fourth time when she felt the sentries’ eyes following her. She breathed in and entered before fear got the better of her.
The two lieutenants behind the main desk ignored her for at least ten minutes. She tried to calm herself by resting her eyes on the only dash of color—a full-length portrait of the Great Leader on the summit of Mount Paektu, coattails flying behind him, arm pointing into the dawn—and by thinking of Tae-hyon, whom she’d left sleeping in bed this morning. He’d have a stroke if he knew where she was now. With a pang of regret she realized what little role he played in her decisions these days. An out-of-work husband was as a useful as a streetlight in daylight. She was wishing she hadn’t drunk a second cup of tea with her breakfast when one of the men beckoned her forward with an impatient flick of a finger.
Mrs. Moon approached, feeling her stomach turn to water. “I wish to speak to Inspector Kim.”
“There are five inspectors called Kim,” he said without looking up. He was cleaning something with a damp cloth—the congealed ink off a rubber stamp.
“The Inspector Kim who made the Bible arrests this week.”
The man looked sharply up. “You have an appointment?”
“I have information.”
His eyes did not leave her face as he picked up a telephone. Then he dialed a three-digit number and spoke to someone, lowering his head so that she couldn’t hear.
“Follow me,” he said.
Inspector Kim flicked through Mrs. Moon’s ID passbook without interest. Half the space in his narrow office was taken up by a bank of gleaming filing cabinets. On his desk was a telephone with touch buttons instead of a dial, and a television with some sort of keyboard. The room’s only other furniture was a metal chair, which she was not being offered, and the Father-Son portraits.
“What do you know about those Bibles, grandmother?” he said, tossing her ID passbook onto the desk. He was a short, brutish man in his forties, with small dark eyes and skin the off-white color of a maggot. The brown uniform was new and fitted well. His revolver belt smelt of fresh leather.
“Nothing, Inspector. Only that you arrested Curly—Mrs. Ong, I mean. She’s a trader in our market at the train station. It was a terrible shock for us—me and all the women—when we heard she was mixed up in such a thing. The street kids told us what happ
ened—”
Inspector Kim silenced her with a raised palm. He looked tired. “Kotchebi …” he said, getting up. “Those kids are the eyes and ears. If only they all worked for me.”
He pulled open a drawer in one of the cabinets and lifted out a file.
“Ong Sol-joo …” he said, studying it. Over the top Mrs. Moon glimpsed what looked like a charge sheet with Curly’s mug shot taken from the side and face-on. She had on her headscarf. “Also known as Curly. Christian. Active member of a subversive criminal element, a house church. Charged with distributing seditious literature. One daughter, Sun-i, aged twelve. Evaded arrest. Still unaccounted for …” He sat back down and flicked open his notebook.
His pen was poised. He was looking at Mrs. Moon. “Let’s have it.”
His eyes had a deadness in them that frightened her, as if they were watching her through a tank of stagnant water. They held not a trace of kindness.
“I’ve come to …” The room felt warm suddenly. The words she’d prepared turned to stones in her mouth.
Inspector Kim dropped his pen and massaged his eyes with his knuckles. “Look, grandmother, I thought I’d be taking the mountain air today, getting my back rubbed by one of those beauties at the hot springs. As it is I’ve been on duty all night and now I’m with another old peasant who’s wondering who to denounce for a few extra food coupons.” His voice rose. “Do you know where this bitch daughter is, or don’t you?”
Mrs. Moon glared at him. In some room down the corridor telephones rang and switchboard operators transferred calls.
Oh yes, she could imagine him interrogating Curly in a cell, slapping her about the face. This pitiless cold bastard with his strangler’s hands.
Mrs. Moon tilted her head back slightly. Her voice was cool.
“I’ve come to ask for the release of Ong Sol-joo.”
The dead eyes came to life for moment. After a pause he closed his notebook. “What’s she to you?”
“A close friend and a good socialist.”
“That all?” He leaned back in his chair. His leather belt creaked. “Or have you caught this religion, too?”
“No, sir, I wish to vouch for her excellent character and ask you to let her go.”
There was a bored amusement on his lips now. “And you’ve brought a release order signed by Comrade Kim Jong-il himself, have you? Or you’re going to tell me she’s innocent and there’s been a dreadful misunderstanding. You’re a bit late.” He laid his hand flat on the file and gave a breathy laugh. “She confessed. We didn’t even need to show her the instruments.”
“She will make amends for her error.”
“Get out, old woman.” He snatched up Mrs. Moon’s ID passbook and threw it at her so that it struck her on her breast and fell to the floor. “You’re lucky I’m keen to go home.”
Her joints groaned as she bent to pick it up. She had a sudden image of the portrait in the lobby.
“Did you ever meet the Great Leader, Inspector?” she said straightening back up stiffly. “I was in that presence once. It was like facing the sun.” Inspector Kim looked at her uncertainly. Without taking her eyes off him she said, “The morning he visited our farm, workers came from miles to see him. We sat in the field like children, hundreds of us. And when he spoke I felt he was speaking only to me, as if he knew everything about me. He had an aura of great …” She breathed in as she chose the word. “… dignity. Her voice hardened. “So remember who you represent.”
A wariness glinted in his eyes before they went dead again. It was unwise to interrupt a paean to Kim Il-sung.
“You know what my school teachers used to say?” Mrs. Moon smiled and it wrinkled her whole face. “No one in history is greater than Kim Il-sung. Not Buddha in kindness, not Christ in love, not Confucius in virtue …” As she said this her hands moved slowly to her money belt at the front of her apron. Still her eyes did not move from Inspector Kim. “Inspector, don’t you think that a heart as great as his could forgive a young woman her folly?” She began cautiously to unzip the money belt. His eyes seemed hypnotized by the movement of her hand. “You’re not saying that her pathetic delusions could harm our Revolution …”
“What are you doing, grandmother?”
“I am showing you how sorry Curly is for her mistake. We’re reminded every day that the Great Leader is always with us. In his mercy … would he not forgive her?”
She extended her arm toward the desk and opened her fist. His eyes flared as the roll of bills fell from her hand. Red hundred-yuan bills wound tightly by an elastic band. Mao’s red eye and chin wart facing up, wobbling as the roll came to a stop. It was as if a light had been shone into Inspector Kim’s face—his features were suddenly bright and alert. He stood up, almost knocking over his chair, walked the five paces past Mrs. Moon to the door, and yelled into the corridor. “Get me the duty sergeant!” He turned toward her. “Should’ve gone when you had the chance, old woman. Now you’ve—”
The expression on his face made him look oafish; simple even. She was dealing with a human after all.
On the desk was a second, identical roll of red yuan bills, to which she had added a third, and now a fourth. Finally she took out a large clear-plastic sachet of crystalline white powder—hundreds of grams of bingdu, worth as much as all the cash—and placed it next to them. His eyes were darting from one to the next. His face went slack, as if he couldn’t grasp what was happening, or who she was. Slowly he closed the door and locked it, returned to his chair, and sat down, knitting his thick fingers together on the desk, staring at the bribe. After what seemed like a full minute he looked up and met her gaze.
21
O Street
Georgetown
Washington, DC
The day before Thanksgiving Jenna got up early to run, despite getting home late from New York the previous night. Warming up along the canal towpath in the predawn gloom, she was determined to cast Colonel Cho Sang-ho from her mind, and First Secretary Ma, and that whole damned evening.
If she’d only trusted her instinct, she told herself, she’d have known that what Mrs. Ishido had told her was true; what Cho had told her was false. Cho was a functionary, a face from a propaganda poster, a minion who followed the regime’s script. Such infuriating arrogance, and yet he was probably in no position to know anything about Soo-min. She was so focused on forgetting him, she realized, that she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She lengthened her stride to a full sprint, taking satisfaction in her strength, in the sheer physical power her training was giving her. She had never felt so fit. She was striving for full steam, pushing her body toward its top speed, when her phone rang. She slowed down and stalled. Panting hard, she unstrapped it from her arm, frowned at the screen, and had a sudden premonition of fate. The number had the prefix +82. South Korea.
It took her a moment to figure out what the distant voice on the other end was talking about. A man was saying that he was an officer of the South Korean National Intelligence Service in Seoul. He was calling about her application to the Ministry of Justice seeking permission to speak with a special Category A prisoner named Sin Gwang-su, being held at the Pohang Maximum Security Penitentiary.
Jenna went dead still. In the five weeks since she’d begun her training, this had gone right to the back of her mind. She’d sent that application more than a month ago, soon after meeting Mrs. Ishido in Geneva.
He said, “Are you aware of who this prisoner is?”
A captured North Korean commando held in solitary. “Yes, I’m aware.”
A long pause at the other end. She tried to think what time it was over there. Late in the evening. “I’m afraid we can’t grant this request unless there’s a very compelling reason … May I ask you what your interest is in this prisoner?”
Jenna turned to face the slow black water of the canal, and saw Soo-min’s figure reflected back at her.
“I believe he abducted my sister.”
The call ended with him promisin
g to refer the matter up the chain. He sounded dubious and noncommittal. She sat down on a bench and dropped her face into her hands. That was a blow she could have done without today.
That evening, when Jenna went to bed, it was a mild, clear night in fall. When she awoke on Thanksgiving Day morning, it was winter. The leaves of her maple tree were furred in frost; the ground diamond hard and sparkling. Through the kitchen window Cat watched her from the top of the yard wall, and yawned a mouth of needles. Voices on the radio chirped and chuckled about the cold front sweeping Virginia. Snow was on the way.
She made her coffee, turned on her laptop, and saw, at the top of her inbox, an e-mail from the South Korean Correctional Service. Her heart began to race.
Her call with the Pohang Maximum Security Penitentiary had been booked for 13:00 tomorrow. It would terminate automatically after fifteen minutes, or immediately if any of the regulations below were violated. There followed a list of topics she was not permitted to discuss with a Category A prisoner, including explosives and anything of a lewd and sexually explicit nature.
13:00 in South Korea tomorrow … is midnight in DC tonight.
Suddenly a horrible fear seized her at the thought of who she would be speaking with. It overcame her with such waves of vertigo that she sat motionless, breathing slowly for several minutes until it had passed.
She had already been dreading Thanksgiving. After weeks inside the closed world of the Farm, she felt unusually exposed to the strain of a family occasion. Now it awaited her like a severe trial. She looked at Cat, still watching her from the yard wall. How was she going to make it through the day?
