Your Republic Is Calling You

by Young-Ha Kim

  Pil leans back, relaxing a bit. "Are you going to go up?"

  "Maybe."

  Pil leans forward. "You won't talk about me if you do?" Raising his glass to his mouth, he glances at Ki-yong in a conciliatory way.

  "I don't know."

  "I have a disabled son, like I was telling you," reminds Pil.

  "I have a wife and daughter."

  "I know. She was a baby then. What was her name..."

  "When?"

  "You know, then."

  He knows what Pil means by "then." But he doesn't want to talk about that. He doesn't want to talk about Hyon-mi in that context, afraid that something nefarious will happen to her if he does. "Let's not talk about it."

  Pil rubs his face, which crinkles under his hands like a mask. "Sometimes I dream that I'm bowling."

  "Bowling?"

  "I'm standing at a lane by myself, in an empty bowling alley. I know people are looking at me, but I don't know where they are. I stand at the line, feeling tremendous pressure to do well. I stick my fingers in the ball, get ready, and run forward," Pil explains.

  "And?"

  "I throw that ball as hard as I can, but the bowling alley's gone and all that's left is a smashed head—"

  "Stop," Ki-yong interrupts, holding out his palm.

  Pil doesn't listen. "I keep thinking it's a bowling ball and I try to catch it, but I can't. The head tells me that bowling isn't as easy a sport as you might think."

  "What does that mean?" Ki-yong asks despite himself.

  "How do I know, it's a dream. Anyway, he just keeps saying that. Bowling's not an easy sport. You need to control your mind. I don't know the exact words but it's all the same idea, and it gets really scary because, you know, it's a smashed head saying it. I slide my fingers in the dark eye sockets and pick it up like it's a ball. Sometimes the sockets are so slippery that the head keeps falling out of my hands."

  Ten years ago, the final order—though back then they didn't know it would be the last—came down to Pil, Ki-yong, and Jong-hun. Their target was a mole with the code name North Star. They didn't know why he had to be eliminated, but the order was urgent, so urgent that it was conveyed to them without having been translated into code. Assassination wasn't their expertise, but they all understood that it wasn't the time to question the order. None of the three had ever killed a man. But they knew they had to do it and they didn't discuss their lack of experience.

  Jong-hun was the decoy, entrusted to lure North Star to the designated place, and the assassination itself would be done by Ki-yong and Pil. Jong-hun met North Star in the dark underground parking garage of an apartment building, carrying a bag that was supposed to contain cash. Hidden behind a pole, North Star received the bag from Jong-hun with his left hand. He hoisted it up a couple of times to gauge its weight. Jong-hun got into his car first and drove out, and North Star went to his car leisurely, probably relieved that the deal went down smoothly. North Star got into his car and placed the bag on the passenger seat. He fastened his seat belt. He seemed calm. Watching him, Ki-yong felt as if a sprinkler were whipping around in his head, spinning and spraying adrenaline. When North Star settled in, Ki-yong walked toward the car, his jacket hiding a Colt .45 outfitted with a silencer. He rapped lightly on the window with his knuckles. The dark tinted window slid down, revealing the target's face.

  North Star, looking surprised, smiled at him. "Hey, Ki-yong! Aren't you Ki-yong?"

  He couldn't smile back. Could this be? Was this the famous mole North Star? In a split second, a million thoughts exploded and raced through his mind, so fast they nearly paralyzed him. In contrast his words came out pedestrian and calm. "Hi, Ji-hun. Yeah, it's me, Ki-yong."

  He slid the gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Ji-hun's head. Well, no, it wasn't as fluid as that. The sight caught in the lining of his jacket and he ended up having to tug it out, ripping his jacket in the process. It must have looked ridiculous, but his bumbling actually lent more gravity to the situation.

  "Ki-yong, what are you doing?" North Star's smile faded. He didn't say anything clichéd, like "stop joking around." He could probably read Ki-yong's resolve from his violently trembling fingers.

  "I'm sorry, Ji-hun, I didn't know it was you until now. I'm sorry. I can't do anything about it," Ki-yong said.

  Pil, standing on the other side of the car, was taking out his gun in case Ki-yong missed. Ki-yong shot three times; two of them hit the target. North Star's chest jumped up violently and sank, as if he had been electrocuted. Ki-yong saw, very clearly, how his half-open mouth grew stiff. Pil opened the passenger side door and took the bag out. Before he shut the door, he glanced at the wound in North Star's cranium, pierced by the spiraling bullet, dark blood and brain matter gushing out like a newly dug oil field. Pil couldn't have known that the half second of death he witnessed would jolt him awake night after night for the next ten years, when he wasn't even the one who had pulled the trigger.

  The nightmares Pil recounts to Ki-yong are intensely vivid and personal. There is something about assassination that is indeed similar to bowling, in that you focus, glare at the target, and slowly rush toward it with all your might. Ki-yong knows that this is what Pil wants to talk about. About that night ten years ago, when they hopped into their respective cars and drove out of the garage. They haven't seen each other again until now, but they need each other to talk about this, since they are the only ones who went through this event.

  "That guy, North Star," Ki-yong starts.

  Pil empties his glass. The brown foam slides slowly down the side of the glass, like mud.

  "We used to know each other in college," Ki-yong continues.

  "Right, I forgot you went to college," Pil comments.

  "Yeah, that's probably why I'm better off than you or Jong-hun," Ki-yong says frankly.

  Pil smiles bitterly. "And that's what capitalism is all about. Polarization, academic elitism, succession of wealth, the Pareto principle."

  "Since when did you become such a lefty?" Ki-yong jokes.

  Pil doesn't get it. "What?"

  "Never mind, it's nothing."

  "What did you say?" Pil insists.

  "I asked since when did you become a Marxist."

  Pil still doesn't realize that Ki-yong was joking. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It's just a joke."

  "What kind of joke is that?"

  Ki-yong scratches his head apologetically. But, still annoyed, Pil isn't looking at him.

  "Sorry, I'm sorry. That's not what I wanted to say. What I meant to say is, well, I just wonder why it had to be me. I had to shoot a smiling friend in the face. How do you think I felt?" Ki-yong explains.

  "That's what we were trained to do," Pil blurts. Even he seems to be a little taken aback at the cold words that burst out of his mouth. "I know how you felt," Pil tries to reassure him.

  Ki-yong shakes his head. "No, probably not."

  Coldly, as if he doesn't want to sink into sentimentality, Pil says, "It was fair. We were the ones who decided who was going to pull the trigger. We pulled straws, remember?"

  Ki-yong understands that Pil is trying to console him. "Yeah, but I keep thinking that even our pulling straws was somehow a ruse. I feel like they had it planned from the beginning, my shooting him," Ki-yong muses.

  "That doesn't make any sense."

  "I know. But I can't help thinking that." Ki-yong knows he's being unreasonable. He glances at his watch. He shouldn't linger anywhere for too long. If Pil knows nothing, he has to find someone who does. Who could that be?

  "Look," Ki-yong says, picking up the bill, "I won't be able to keep a secret if torture's involved. I mean, if I get tortured, I won't be able to hide the fact that you're here—I don't think I'll be that strong. But in any other situation, like if I get a deal or something like that, I'll keep it a secret. Can you do the same?"

  Pil nods.

  Ki-yong stands up. "I'll take care of the tab."

  Pil doesn
't try to stop him. They pat each other on the back with professional equanimity, like businessmen who have successfully completed a merger. They part outside the bar. It became even more crowded while they were inside. Ki-yong walks toward the subway station, his every nerve at attention. He suddenly wonders how Pil could have not received the order. Even he was able to find Pil easily, though they hadn't talked in ten years. How is it possible that they didn't get to him? A bad feeling gnaws at him. He starts walking faster. He stalks through the underground maze of the Coex building, changing directions constantly. Every time he turns a corner, every time there's a mirror or a window, he checks for a tail. He discovers at least two people speeding up and slowing down when he does, matching his tempo. The men on his tail are tense, too. Following someone is a very difficult mission. Tailing someone is the most important element of a spy war. Being shadowed always gives the advantage to the person being chased. Once he realizes he's being followed, it's the person being followed who dominates the game. In some ways, the whole game of being shadowed is similar to solving a riddle when you already know the answer. Ki-yong slips into Bandi & Luni's, knowing that large bookstores always have a separate entrance for employees and book shipments. Without bothering to pretend that he doesn't know he's being tailed and flipping through a book, he makes a beeline toward a metal door that says Employees Only. Nobody stops him. In the dark corridor, uniformed clerks walk past him, uninterested in why he's there. He walks on confidently, trusting that there will be an exit somewhere. He finds a fire exit. The door opens easily, into an empty space filled with boxes. The elevator there would take him to the underground parking lot. He presses the button, and the freight elevator starts moving, clanking. Ki-yong doesn't wait for the elevator but goes through the emergency exit and takes the stairs.

  The parking lot is crowded with cars. If he were starring in a movie, he would swiftly break into a car, play with some wires in the glove compartment to turn it on, and go on to participate in a lengthy car chase. But Ki-yong was never taught that kind of skill, and never even thought it was really possible. He walks quickly down the rows of cars. The thick walls and poles installed to support the weight of the skyscraper create many blind spots. He goes toward the InterContinental Hotel but at the last minute turns toward City Air Terminal, where there will be a line of taxis waiting for customers. His back is damp with cold sweat. He's perspiring so much today—usually he barely breaks a sweat. Wishing he could change out of his damp shirt, he briefly thinks how terrible it would be if he were dragged off without being able to put on clean clothes. Cinching his tie as if to bolster his weakening resolve, he quickens his pace.

  CHOL-SU PERCHES ON a folding chair the bookstore set out for customers. Lee Pil's tip was spot on—just a minute ago, Ki-yong was right in front of him, darting away into this underground city. Now he's nowhere to be found. He clearly isn't an amateur, having picked this confusing complex as a meeting place; it houses a hotel, the Korea World Trade Center, an airport terminal, a multiplex, a subway station, and a convention center. He must know Seoul like the back of his hand.

  Chol-su hates being assigned to shadow someone. It's like doing penance. Once the target is determined, one's whole being has to be fixated on the target, and the target becomes the master. He doesn't like being dominated, or being servile. The target can choose where to go, wander wherever he wants. All Chol-su can do is follow him. It's up to the target to decide whether to go into a café or take the subway. He has to wait for his master to move, patiently, like a loyal hunting dog. He has to focus all of his attention on the target, listening carefully and quickly processing all of the visual stimuli that fill a city. He has to read the signs on the street, watch out for the motorcycle roaring close behind him, and at the same time, match the speed of the target. All of this makes him feel anxious. The most important thing, the first commandment of tailing, is not to lose the target walking in front of you.

  But he lost his target. He feels like shit. Once he compares his situation to that of a servile dog, he can't get it out of his head. Is this what stray dogs feel like? This Coex Center would be the ideal place to abandon a dog. He raises his nose, sniffing like one. For a canine, this has to be the worst place in the world to get lost, with no chance of finding its owner in this sea of smells.

  His cell vibrates. He picks it up. "Yes, hello. No, I made a reservation, but it looks like it's been canceled. Okay. I'll keep you updated." He hangs up and sticks his cell phone in his pocket.

  There are a lot of people in the bookstore. He gets up and goes toward the exit. Just as he's about to leave the bookstore, two men in navy suits stop him. "Could you please come with us?" one of them asks politely.

  "Why?" Chol-su frowns.

  "It'll only be a minute."

  People are starting to steal glances at him. He hesitates. Should he show them his government ID, or should he let them search him? He doesn't want to make a scene, so he follows the men through a door marked Employees Only, which leads to a long corridor. He guesses this is how Ki-yong disappeared so quickly.

  They accompany him to a small room and ask him to open his bag.

  "Where does that corridor lead?" Chol-su asks.

  "Why do you want to know?" the smaller of the men inquires.

  Instead of opening his bag, Chol-su takes out his wallet and shows them his fancy ID, issued by the National Intelligence Service. "I'm undercover ... Actually, I'm in the middle of pursuing a suspect," he explains.

  The men aren't impressed. The taller one takes his ID and studies it, but doesn't hand it back. They look at each other and smirk. "Do you have a citizen ID?"

  Chol-su takes it out and gives it to them. They study it. "Please open your bag."

  Chol-su is offended. There is no way he's going to open the bag. "You don't seem to understand. I'm following a spy, okay? You don't know who you're dealing with. If you aren't going to help me get this guy, just stay out of my way, okay?" He starts to move toward the door.

  The tall one blocks his way. "All you need to do is show us what's in the bag."

  The smaller one asks, "Sir, if you have nothing to hide, why can't you show it to us?"

  "You have no right to search me. This is a violation of my privacy."

  "No right?"

  "That's right, you guys can't search me. You have a warrant?"

  "If we suspect theft, we can search you with your consent," one of them explains.

  Chol-su laughs. "Only the police have that right."

  The two men grin, and as if they rehearsed it, they draw out their badges at the same time. "We're the police, okay? Now show us what's in your bag."

  Their badges identify them as detectives with the Kangnam police station. He can't believe his eyes. Why are they searching him? What's going on? He opens his bag and shows its contents to them. They take out the small Toshiba walkie-talkie, study it, and put it on the table. Because they are so focused on searching through his belongings, Chol-su starts to doubt himself. He even wonders if it's possible that there's something in his bag that proves he's not who he says he is.

  "Look, you have my ID number. Call your situation room, and you'll find out whatever you need!" he says unpleasantly, raising his voice. But they continue to go through all the pockets in his bag. The short one looks at the tall one and shakes his head. The tall one takes out his PDA and types in Chol-su's ID number and date of issue, sending the information to their situation room.

  "What's going on?" Chol-su protests.

  Soon, the results of the ID check come through on the PDA. The tall cop holds Chol-su's ID out. The instant Chol-su sticks out his hand to take it, the small cop grabs his arm and twists it: the waki gatame move, barred in modern judo. Immobilized, he can't fight back.

  "Are you sure this is your ID?" the small cop barks.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Chol-su yells, in pain, his face shoved into the desk.

  The small cop cuffs him. "The date of issue isn't
correct. This ID was lost a long time ago."

  Chol-su finally figures out what's going on. "Oh, that. Look, I can explain. I lost my ID for a while, so I got a new one. I accidentally took my old one this morning."

  They don't seem to believe him. One of them grabs him by the arms and pulls him upright. His hands cuffed behind his back, he stands in front of the two detectives, defeated. Instead of rage, he feels humiliated. "Call the Company, they'll explain it to you," Chol-su says, a little more politely. "My business card is in my wallet."

  The shorter detective goes through his wallet again. He finds the business card and holds it up in front of Chol-su's eyes. Chol-su nods. The short one leaves the room. Chol-su never even imagined that someone would want to check his citizen ID; the Company's ID has always been sufficient.

  The short one yells something from outside the room, and the taller cop answers. He sits Chol-su in a chair and goes outside. Left alone, Chol-su looks around. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to be dragged out like this, to be humiliated in public. But there's no way to get out of it. His mind is racing. He wonders if they are agents of the North, delaying him in the name of some bullshit interrogation to protect Ki-yong. Or they could be petty thieves, disguised as policemen. It might be their con to pretend they're cops and steal his wallet. The more he thinks about it, the more suspicious he becomes. But then again, they were able to find out that his ID issue date was incorrect, so maybe they are legitimate. He gets up and walks to the door. He manages to pry open the door despite his cuffs. The two detectives are standing outside. His eyes meet theirs, and somehow he gets the feeling that they are less intent on arresting him. As he's wondering why, he hears footsteps approaching them. He turns around. It's Potato, a fellow officer at the Company who is stationed at a different location. They know each other from counterintelligence workshops, and they are pretty friendly because they are around the same age. Potato sees him in cuffs and grins, amused. Four officers are behind him. Potato goes over to the detectives and whispers something, and the detectives hurriedly find the key and uncuff Chol-su, returning his wallet and ID. The detectives step back, contrite. Chol-su slides his wallet into his back pocket, turns around, and kicks the tall cop across the shins, yelling, "You asshole!"