Special Envoy

by Jean Echenoz

  Constance again noted that, despite his mastery of the French language, the really quite simple syntax of this last sentence had put the dignitary in difficulty. I don’t know yet, she smiled, pulling him toward their king-size bed. We’ll have to see.

  36

  SO THINGS ARE PROGRESSING, the general says, rubbing his hands together. The Americans are going to be happy. If all goes to plan, Gang should be in Seoul a few weeks from now. Except they suspect something, points out Objat, looking through the window, where the rain has stopped. If they won’t let him leave anymore, that could be a bit annoying.

  He’ll just have to manage, supposes Bourgeaud. There’s no question of going through the demilitarized zone, of course. The best thing would be to travel via China. Even if they’ve increased security, the border is still pretty porous. But he’d better not hang around. The South Korean consulates in Beijing are carefully monitored by Kim’s regime. To avoid problems, they sometimes turn people back and hand them over to the Chinese police, who take great pleasure in sending them back to North Korea.

  This could be tricky, remarks Objat, turning to the general. Not necessarily, replies Bourgeaud, standing up. He’ll have to get out of China as quickly as possible, and for that we have two solutions. The general heads over to a map of the region pinned to the wall and, without recourse to any sort of cigarillo, punctuates the following words with his finger.

  To the north, you have Mongolia and to the south, you have Laos. The Mongolian network isn’t bad. The South Korean diplomats in Ulaanbaatar are generally quite welcoming. It would mean a long trip, obviously—you have to cross the entire Gobi desert—but it’s the nearest border. And, of course, there are trains, people can be bought. Gang must have put quite a bit of money aside for palm-greasing purposes. There’s also a whole gang of Protestant pastors in the area who kindly devote themselves to helping defectors. They could be useful.

  As for Laos, the general continues, the good thing is that it’s very easy to get into Thailand, and from there, you’re in the clear. The less good thing is that it’s complicated, Laos. No train lines. Nothing but buses and planes, and there’s no question of taking either of those. You have to walk, while avoiding roads for safety reasons. And that means putting up with the jungle, moving forward only at night, with the snakes, the wild animals, the leeches, the risk of being picked up by a patrol who’ll send you back to Pyongyang without a second’s thought. Apparently it’s exhausting. Personally, I would recommend the Mongolian option.

  What about Vietnam? suggests Objat. Don’t even think about it, the general interrupts him, you can’t count on Hanoi. They’ll send him back home in a flash. So, we’re definitely not out of the woods yet, observes Objat. Listen, the general says irritably, there are plenty of people who’ve managed to get away without any money or connections or anything. I assume Gang has maintained contacts in various places. He has everything he needs to get through this. If you say so, shrugs Objat. If necessary, he offers, I could go over there and give him a helping hand. I’m not too busy at the moment. If you like, but don’t be gone too long, objects Bourgeaud. I have another project for you.

  This is a medium-term project whose broad outlines he goes on to sketch: It will be different, in Africa, but the system should be more or less similar. We’ll have to use an amateur, like the young woman you found me for Pyongyang. An innocent, if you like, who understands nothing about our activities. In terms of recruitment and training and so on, it should be simpler than it was with her. No need to purge him before the mission like you did with the girl. Just keep him under pressure. After two seconds of thought, Objat announces once again: I may have an idea for that. He salutes the general and goes to his own office.

  There, in accordance with methods known only to him—and which, lacking familiarity with such techniques, we don’t really understand anyway—Paul Objat first gets in touch with Clément Pognel. He gives him a few instructions regarding the affair they’re dealing with now, but the call does not end there: he also asks for some information about another, much older affair, insisting on certain details. And then, even though it’s not raining, Objat takes his raincoat, goes downstairs, walks through the barracks courtyard, shows his badge at the exit yet again, comes to a halt on Boulevard Mortier, and hails a taxi. Inside, he sits in silence for a moment until the driver—no, it’s not Hyacinth—turns around and asks: Where to, sir? Objat replies: Parc Monceau.

  And it is in Parc Monceau that Tausk has arranged to meet Hubert’s new assistant. As it is very close to where he lives, the choice of this location constitutes the first part of a plan. For the same reason, Charlotte is wearing perfume and a plunging neckline and she has loosened her bun, which, in its usual tightly knotted work position, has the unfortunate side effect of accentuating her face’s flaws: this more relaxed version of the bun—aka a loose bun—falling over her neck a little bit and allowing a few locks to escape, produces a much more appealing effect. Her dark roots are also more visible beneath the blond, and Tausk finds this pretty exciting, so he sets out to seduce Hubert’s assistant without any qualms whatsoever. She talks about Hubert, whose latest clients, she suspects, are involved in some dubious business. They are not the first clients to entrust Hubert with shady cases, and consequently Charlotte is worried for her employer and, naturally, for her own employment prospects.

  While conversing, they walk along the paths in the park, where, strategically placed, Objat observes their comings and goings. And no, we don’t really understand either, despite our omniscience, how he could have come to find out about this meeting, which does, it has to be said, seem to be going pretty well. Charlotte has a tendency to become enthusiastic about practically everything she sees in the park. Though not very interested in the statues of the artists, she goes into raptures over the languid, pensive, lascivious women who accompany them: Gounod’s mistress, one of Maupassant’s whores, Musset’s fan club, Chopin’s girlfriend.

  Seeing her reaction to these poses and shifting into a higher seduction gear, Tausk ventures, at the risk of heavy-handedness (and alliterative overkill): They’re not nearly as nice as you, just to see what effect it produces. As she reacts with a glimmer in her eye and a provocative half smile, Tausk concludes that far from being limited to the artists’ groupies, Charlotte’s enthusiasm will bloom even more rapturously in his bed. The plan is shaping up nicely.

  So, having walked around the park and courted the girl for a sufficient length of time, Tausk suggests they go to his place—I live just over there—for a drink: this is phase two of the plan. Oh, she exclaims in apparent alarm, not on the first date! A phrase that suggests a second date, which is positive, but that also involves the postponement and complication of the plan. Without agreeing on a date for their next date, they part, Tausk careful not to kiss her on the cheek, as in such scenarios he has found that gazing deeply into the other’s eyes is generally more effective. When she has left, Tausk goes back to his apartment.

  There, he paces around for a while, turns the television on, and then immediately turns it off again. Opens a magazine, a window, the refrigerator, and closes each one in turn. Checks his fingernails again and goes for a piss. Sees himself in a mirror. And just then, the doorbell rings: has Charlotte changed her mind?

  Nope. It’s a man, in fact, quite good-looking (better-looking than Tausk in any case, which annoys him right away), and about forty years old (hence younger than Tausk, which also annoys him). The man looks at him in silence, half smiling, wearing the sort of kind, affectionate, understanding expression that nonetheless augurs the worst, again like Billy Bob Thornton in some of his roles. Monsieur Louis Coste? the man asks. Yes, replies Tausk suspiciously and also irritably, as he never likes being named in that way: it is generally tax inspectors, police officers, or similar pains in the ass who address him by his full, correct name. That’s me, he says, but I don’t think I know you. I know you, though, says the man. Can I talk to you for a minute?


  Tausk hesitates briefly, and then, ever naïve, it crosses his mind that this man could also be an admirer of his work or even—why not dream?—a producer or an agent keen to help him make his comeback. It could even be a journalist. You never know. Come in, then, he says, pointing the man toward the living room. Please take a seat, he adds, sitting down himself. Thank you, but I’d prefer to stand, the man replies. This won’t take very long.

  With him ensconced in his chair and the man standing, looming over him in a low-angle shot that disconcertingly tilts the balance of power away from him, Lou Tausk regrets having sat down too quickly. I’m listening, he says. It’s a simple matter and I’ll be brief, the man tells him. Do you remember a bank on Avenue de Bouvines, near the Nation metro, quite a few years ago? Ring any bells? If not, I could remind you of certain details that might interest you. Oh God, Tausk sighs. Exactly, acknowledges Paul Objat.

  37

  A TORRENTIAL FLOOD of mud poured under the bridges of the Taedong River, then Constance left the movie theater before the end of a very popular film entitled Sea of Blood, which tells the story of the Japanese massacres of the North Korean people when the Koreans were under their protectorate. She stood up discreetly and headed noiselessly toward the exit under the disapproving gaze of the other viewers and her guides, who were determined to watch the movie until its conclusion. So it was that the driver, waiting outside the theater, took her back to the villa alone, leaving her there earlier than scheduled and, contrary to usual protocol, driving off immediately afterward. Constance saw an ambulance parked near the villa. Also contrary to usual protocol, however, she did not see a single servant in the entrance hall, though she did spot, lined up at the foot of the stairs, a dozen jerry cans smelling strongly of gasoline. Then, going upstairs and opening the door of her bedroom, she came upon an unexpected scene.

  There were five intruders. Two men in white coats and three in black overalls surrounded Gang Un-ok, who lay naked on the floor, tied up with translucent plastic straps, gagged with sticky tape, his eyes flickering from face to face. The men in white were crouched down next to him. One of them tore off the sticky tape and opened Gang’s jaws, sliding a red funnel into his mouth, a demijohn of opaque green liquid to hand. The other was taking a large amount of equipment from a bag, but—one of the black overalls grabbing Constance from behind and immobilizing her, and another placing a hood over her head—she did not have time to examine this equipment in any detail.

  The procedure in progress was what is known as the plastering of anti-party elements, a technique developed under the reign of the current leader’s father. This treatment is reserved in particular for diplomats stationed abroad who are convicted or merely suspected of ideological deviation by state security agents, who monitor all embassy employees. In such cases, the diplomat must be repatriated urgently, and the following method is used. After being given a massive dose of a soporific, the suspect is stripped and his body wrapped in gauze before being covered up to the neck in fast-drying plaster, immobilizing him in the blink of an eye, then swathed in rubber bands. With a house fire claimed—or started—to justify this intervention, the diplomat’s body is then put on a stretcher, shoved into an ambulance, and evacuated by specially chartered plane to his homeland, where, rest assured, a specialized treatment center is waiting to welcome the wounded man. Such centers really do exist, and such treatment really is very specialized.

  The equipment glimpsed by Constance and unwrapped by the second white coat consisted of bags of fine plaster, rolls of gauze, and rubber bands, along with all the appropriate tools, plus a bucket of water. The jerry cans she saw in the entrance hall presumably being intended to set fire to the villa, the procedure was all set to be carried out as planned. Admittedly, it was not necessarily essential, within North Korea itself, to go to such trouble over Gang, but perhaps the procedure was followed simply because it always gives such pleasure to the security agency’s leaders and agents.

  Things followed their course, quickly and efficiently. Once Gang was wrapped in gauze, the plastering began: beginning with his feet, the white coats covered him up to his shoulders. While one of the black overalls continued immobilizing the hooded Constance, the others, hands behind their backs, watched calmly as the operation unfolded. One of them, having already prepared the stretcher, whistled “Footsteps,” not inappropriately. So everything was going well, from the intruders’ point of view, when the door burst open and two European-looking men charged at the three black overalls. Trained in tae kwon do, the Koreans put up a fierce resistance.

  We know that tae kwon do, a martial art native to Korea, consists in delivering violent blows to one’s opponent with the aid of all one’s limbs. The upper limbs, of course—fist, side of the hand, fingertips, elbow, forearm—but most of all (and this is what distinguishes tae kwon do from wing chun or bando, for example) the lower limbs. The knee is used to some degree, but the foot in all its aspects—side, tip, ball, heel, bridge—is the main weapon, being utilized to perform all imaginable variants of kick: direct, lateral, scissor, circular, downward . . . and that’s without even mentioning the acrobatic flying kicks popularized by Bruce Lee and his imitators.

  What is less well-known is that, while the impact of classic tae kwon do, when the contact is part of the sport, can touch the opponent’s face, legs, solar plexus, or ribs without risk of injury, there is also a variant known as black tae kwon do, which is much more dangerous. Reserved for a fighting elite (to which the men in black overalls belonged), this practice is based on the supposition that any kick must be delivered with the intention to kill. The technique, then, is to target certain crucial areas such as the throat or the temple or—most sensitive of all—the genital triangle.

  But anyway . . . When it came to this martial art, the Europeans, to general surprise—or at least to ours, as Constance, still being hooded, was unable to enjoy the spectacle—proved themselves technically excellent, overpowering the black overalls while ignoring their raucous insults: in no time at all, the three Koreans were defeated. As for the men in white coats, they had very little combat training and offered only minimal resistance before also being thoroughly neutralized.

  When that was done, the Europeans removed the hood from Constance’s head. Initially dazzled and frightened by the scene’s soundtrack, she covered her eyes with her hands. Then, peeking through her fingers, she recognized the two Europeans. Having recently met him in the restroom of the Hotel Koryo, she immediately identified Pognel (whom, incidentally, we wouldn’t have thought capable of such pugilistic brio), but it took her a few seconds longer to place Objat, whom she had not seen since his return to Creuse, and who had obviously decided to intervene personally in this operation, as he’d suggested to the general in the previous chapter. Oh, Victor, she said, appearing surprisingly unsurprised given the overall context.

  After that, they left as quickly as they could while carrying the stretcher downstairs and slid said stretcher into the back of the ambulance, which was still parked in the same spot, the driver having been permanently subdued with a simple, well-aimed forearm smash followed by a pinch of the carotid artery. And before leaving, to make things look less suspicious—and delay the doubtless imminent intervention of the army—they set fire to the villa using the contents of the jerry cans.

  As the building blazed, they climbed into the ambulance, and Pognel—who, despite the incomplete city maps, had managed to scout the area—got behind the wheel. In the back of the vehicle, Objat, aided by Constance, removed the plaster from the unconscious apparatchik, not without difficulty even if the cast was not yet hard enough to require the use of a hammer. Then Objat, having thought of everything, took a hypodermic syringe and a vial of an analeptic drug from his pocket and injected said drug into Gang’s bloodstream. The Korean’s body jumped as if he’d been electrocuted, but his consciousness seemed to come back only gradually.

  In the meantime, the ambulance crossed the city, its official appearance al
lowing it to avoid being intercepted by the military checkpoints posted at street corners. It came to a halt at the end of a short dead-end road in a quiet neighborhood. Apparently it was expected: barely had it stopped before a garage door opened. Though it was impossible to distinguish anyone inside it, the two-car garage already contained a government-style sedan, decorated with official stickers and pennants. The ambulance went inside and the garage door promptly closed behind it. They got out, carefully covered the vehicle with a tarpaulin, and—Objat and Pognel supporting the still-wobbly Gang—headed toward the back of the garage. There, a curtain concealed a narrow entrance to a narrow staircase. Still no one around. They climbed the stairs. At the top, a door opened and the face of a man named Pak Dong-bok appeared.

  We are not going to bother describing Pak Dong-bok: he will play only a minor role and we have more important things to do. Living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment in the Kangan District, he had been pointed out to Objat as an opponent of the regime: an extremely discreet opponent, as you might imagine, above suspicion but somehow detected by Bourgeaud’s networks. He worked as a cook in the Ministry of Electronics, where his specialized knowledge made him irreplaceable: he was the only man in the country, and probably in the world, who knew how to prepare sea cucumber. Pak was rightly fearful for his life, so it was only after long negotiations, the opening of a generous Swiss bank account, and the promise of being rapidly exfiltrated that the networks convinced him to let his apartment be used as a hideout, if only for a few hours, and to supply an official-looking vehicle. Which might seem a little implausible in a country with such strict surveillance, but what can I do? That’s just how things happened.