Special Envoy

by Jean Echenoz

Pak offered them beer and they all refused, so he served them tea with four portions of sea cucumber before withdrawing to let them speak in private. The main topic of their conversation was, of course, how best to get out of there. It has to be the Chinese border, said Objat, there’s no other way. And we should go our separate ways, of course. This prospect made Constance shudder. Well, I’ll keep the young woman with me, of course. And Constance stopped shuddering.

  That won’t even be possible now, said Gang discouragingly. There’ll be twice as much surveillance because of me. And even in the most discreet areas, it’s become practically impossible with the ribbons of justice. The what? asked Objat. It’s a new thing, Gang explained: keen to stop the demographic hemorrhage, the Supreme Leader came up with the idea of installing bands of extremely strong paper, eighty feet high and soaked with ultrastrong glue capable of immobilizing a buffalo, never mind a defector. Once caught, the defector dies of hunger while the border patrol guards all laugh at him.

  In that case, said Paul Objat, I don’t know how we’re going to manage. Pognel put his head in his hands. Constance, with only a vague grasp on the situation, seemed less preoccupied, reassured as she was by the promise that she would be accompanied by Objat. Some time passed, which they filled by nibbling the sea cucumbers. Which were absolutely disgusting. The atmosphere grew gloomy. The only thing we can try, Gang said finally, is to go through the DMZ.

  You’re crazy, Objat objected. Don’t even think about it.

  38

  NO, REALLY, GANG INSISTED, I’m sure that there’s a crossing point in the DMZ. Not many of us know about it, obviously, but it does exist.

  The acronym DMZ, for those who’ve forgotten, stands for the demilitarized zone that separates North Korea from South Korea, constituting a sort of buffer between the two countries. Straddling the thirty-eighth parallel, it is a vast strip of land, roughly 160 miles long and two and a half miles wide, covering a surface area of about four hundred square miles—the size of a large French département.

  So, it’s demilitarized, this zone, but it is also surveilled by nearly two million soldiers—more than a million in the North, 650,000 in the South, assisted by 37,000 Americans—and it is the most sensitive and dangerous DMZ in the world; some say, even in the history of the world. One thing everyone can agree on is that it is completely impassable. Compared to the Korean DMZ, the Berlin Wall was about as watertight as a colander.

  Not only is it lined on the north side with thick barbed and electric wire, and on the south side with a concrete wall between sixteen and twenty-six feet high, but the two borders are systematically punctuated by lines of military posts, with heavily armed brigades ceaselessly patrolling between them. And, not content with being stuffed full of bunkers, watchtowers, and artillery batteries, the DMZ is also carpeted with a million mines.

  In such conditions, it being obviously impossible to tend the forests in this area, they have grown exceptionally dense and are home to a rare flora that has disappeared from the rest of the peninsula. And the same is true for the fauna: free of all human presence, the DMZ has, in the space of sixty years, accidentally become a nature reserve—the same fate as, among others and for other reasons, the site of Chernobyl and the Montebello archipelago. In other words, a sanctuary where species that can hardly be found anywhere else on the planet are able to reproduce in peace, including the black bear, the spotted deer, the wild angora goat, the Chinese panther, and the Amur leopard.

  Of course, despite a number of upsetting incidents, these animals did not immediately become aware of the omnipresent mines and their deplorable effects, but, over time, they learned to skirt around them. Thousands of migratory birds (herons and white cranes, mostly), naturally less bothered by this problem, spent many happy days there in the branches of the trees during winter. So, yes, to sum up, one unforeseen consequence of the final repercussions of the Cold War was that the Korean demilitarized zone was transformed into an animal paradise. Its rich fauna even led international animal rights’ organizations, never short of good ideas, to demand that the DMZ be registered as a UNESCO World Heritage Protected Area.

  All of this is anecdotal, of course, and does not alter the fact that the DMZ is a site of great, unrelenting tension between the armies of the North and the South, in a state of red alert since the 1953 armistice, with the two countries still officially at war. They watch each other ceaselessly, never actually fighting but on the lookout for the slightest movement or unforeseen gesture—a soldier scratching his ear, for example, or tying his laces—which might, misinterpreted, provoke a flurry of well-aimed gunfire.

  Before braving this dangerous zone, Constance and the three men spent the night at Pak Dong-bok’s apartment, all four of them in the same room: she took the narrow couch, while the others tried to sleep on the floor. Not that they had much time: up very early the next morning, they climbed into the official vehicle provided for them by their host and drove along the capital’s wide, empty, tree-lined avenues to the dead-straight highway that led to the DMZ. Nine miles before this, there was a discreet bypass, barely visible but blocked by an electronic gate, with a strongly dissuasive sign standing next to it. The sedan turned into this path at a signal from Gang, who produced a chip card that had been sewn into his clothes, and the gate opened. They followed this path—asphalted to start with, before becoming a dirt track—as it wound its way through the open countryside. At another order from Gang, the vehicle stopped as soon as the border walls began to appear in the distance. I think it’s over there, he indicated. That’s the only place where the timetable for patrols is fairly slack. We’ll wait here until night.

  And so they patiently waited. It was a long wait. They didn’t speak much, only in whispers, and Paul Objat did not speak at all. When night at last fell—abruptly, as it always does in these latitudes—it was six forty-five p.m., local time.

  At the same moment in Paris—in other words, before lunch, local time—General Bourgeaud had summoned Lou Tausk. Thinking it would be premature to meet him in his office, he arranged to meet him in a bar with a clientele that was mostly unemployed and immigrant (the two not being mutually exclusive) on the corner of Rue Saint-Blaise and Boulevard Davout, about a six-minute walk from the barracks. He got there early, giving himself time to choose a discreetly located table. There, he sat down and—to kill the time—flicked through an old copy of Madame Figaro that was hanging around hopelessly on the next table.

  When Tausk arrived at the bar, he had no idea of the general’s name or appearance. But the general, knowing everything about Tausk, waved at him with his left hand while his right hand pointed out a chair on the other side of the table. It’s aperitif time, he said by way of greeting. What would you like? I don’t know, Tausk hesitated, maybe a dry white wine? Bourgeaud waved to a waiter, who came over unhurriedly. Two dry white wines, he ordered. What dry whites do you have? When the waiter offered them only Muscadet, he grimaced: Are you sure you don’t have anything else? Chablis, Sancerre, Chardonnay, something like that? The waiter did not even bother replying to this, so the general sighed: Very well, then, two Muscadets.

  While he waited for the drinks to arrive, Bourgeaud leaned toward Tausk: I think you know why I wanted to see you. Tausk guardedly shook his head, so the general said: My colleague didn’t say anything? Same lateral movement from Tausk’s head. So the general claimed to be the director of a company specializing in the transfer of technology from France overseas, particularly in the field of fossil fuels and on the African continent. Carefully avoiding the use of the words industrial espionage, the general explained that his company needed someone to—how to put this?—inspect certain existing installations. That it was currently recruiting staff. That it had identified Tausk as a good fit for this task. You have the right profile, as they say. I don’t have a profile at all, answered Tausk, and I don’t understand a word you’re saying to me. Exactly, said Bourgeaud, becoming animated, that’s why you interest us.

 
Then, after a brief silence while the Muscadets were delivered to the table: I don’t think you have any choice, in any case. At least, that’s what my colleague told me. That was my understanding too, Tausk replied with a grimace. In fact, he even explained to me that he had me by the balls. Really? the general recoiled. I’m very surprised. That’s not at all the kind of vocabulary he uses. But, well, if you say so.

  Anyway, let’s get back to the task at hand. You must go to Africa, as a matter of urgency. My God, sighed Tausk, what next? And where exactly in Africa? I mean, it’s a big place, Africa. The general leaned forward: Zimbabwe. You know where that is? Well, I know the name, replied Tausk evasively. Everyone knows the name, acknowledged the general. It’s true that President Mugabe is rather special but, apart from that, it’s actually a very pretty country. It’s verdant, airy, full of nature reserves and waterfalls, good weather, just really a very nice place. It’s also full of diamonds. All right, Tausk shrugged with one shoulder, if I don’t have a choice in the matter. One thing, though: do I have to go there on my own? As this seemed self-evident to the general, Tausk asked if there was any chance he might be able to take a friend with him. He’s looking for a job and a change of environment, but he’s a very good guy, I can vouch for him completely. Absolutely not, Bourgeaud stiffened instantly. This is a confidential operation.

  When Tausk added, incidentally and without any particular hope, that this friend of his was African, the general relaxed just as instantly as he had stiffened, then squinted as if in deep thought. Well, obviously, that changes matters, he articulated while searching for his wallet. Let me think about this. We might be able to use him, if he looks the part. Leave it, please, I insist. I’ll take care of that.

  39

  BUT WHEN NIGHT did finally fall: No, Gang whispered, we’re going to wait a little longer. As the patrols theoretically became more spaced-out after midnight, it was worth postponing any action until a more comfortable timeframe.

  A little longer, however, turned out to mean nearly five interminable hours in conditions of increasing cold and hunger, not to mention increasing fear. And comfortable was not the most appropriate word for their situation either, each of them sitting or lying down, unable even to kill the time by chatting. Instead, they thought about themselves and then about the situation and then about themselves again. Their only distraction was to gaze at the stars, which had come out at dusk in a remarkably pure sky. Because, while North Korea’s level of development at least means the country does not pollute the atmosphere too much, the nationwide curfew also precludes the phenomenon of light pollution, which, in the West, turns the heavens into a gray murk. Gang walked off for a while, then came back with a large branch torn from a tree, which he began transforming, with his bare hands, into a stick. Constance stood next to him as he whittled his branch, but there was not even the slightest hint of intimacy between them, not a brush of skin or a whisper or a look. Silence. Objat and Pognel were silent too, but then they’d never had much to say to each other.

  As for the patrols, it was just possible to make out their presence in the distance, every twenty minutes. There were probably just half a dozen men, all in helmets with transceivers and night-vision goggles attached, dressed in camouflage, machine guns with infrared laser pointers strapped diagonally across their chests, marching past the barbed-wire fence in the same silence, disturbed occasionally by a barked monosyllabic order from the mouth of a squadron leader. And, just as Gang had forecast, the frequency of the patrols gradually diminished: by midnight, they were appearing only every hour. We can go now, he said softly. We’ll only have fifty minutes.

  They went. Bent double, they moved forward while taking care not to snap twigs beneath their feet, still without a word, though Gang did hold Constance’s hand now. When they came to the foot of the fence, it seemed to sparkle with the superhuman, supernatural electric current that ran through it, so powerful that they could distinctly hear it vibrate. So it was with infinite care that Gang used his stick as a lever to lift up the base of the fence, micron by micron, until he had cleared enough space for them to crawl through—proving that, when faced with the highest technological marvels, nothing beats the simplest, most rustic methods—then, trapping the stick between the ground and the barbed wire to hold this gap in place, he signaled to the others to get ready.

  Each of them in turn crawled, not without a great deal of fear, through this gap. When they had all gone through, hardly daring to believe it, they stood in the DMZ and Gang ordered them: No one move now. One false move and . . . boom! From here on out, there are mines everywhere. So what are we going to do? asked Pognel anxiously. We can’t risk it out here without visibility, Gang replied, we wouldn’t make it thirty feet. We have to wait again. Of course, said Pognel. And so they had to wait for what remained of the night to pass, cursing the sun, which seemed to take forever to rise. The hardest thing was that they had to remain standing while they waited, crouching down on their heels when standing became unbearable, although very quickly that squatting position grew even more unendurable.

  When day finally deigned to break, Gang unstitched another part of his jacket and extracted a document from it. This was a map of the DMZ with all the explosive spots marked in red. Gang carefully unfolded it, examined it, then cast a circular glance around him before signaling to the others that they could start walking. So they did.

  Although walking really wasn’t the right word. It was more a question of slowly venturing one foot in front of the other, sometimes with the heel of the front foot touching the tip of the back foot, and often having to retrace their footsteps on the orders of Gang, who consulted his map every five seconds. But at that pace, at least, they did have plenty of time to look at the landscape. As far as trees were concerned, while it was true they grew gigantically tall, there was a distinct lack of exoticism here since the forests in this part of the world are essentially alpine: too easy to identify, predominantly pines and larches, birches and oaks, and in that regard, it was a little disappointing. True, they could also see, here and there, avalanches of splendid and probably very rare flowers, but due to lack of botanical training, they could not name any of them.

  In terms of fauna, things were better. They could distinguish flocks of chilled-out birds high up in the trees, especially in the treetops. Instinctively unconcerned by anything that happened on the ground, they hung out, relaxed, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in groups of influence, sometimes in entire communities, while chirping blithely to one another. As the four escapees advanced over the ground, they came across animals that are, under normal circumstances, dangerous for humans—a white royal tiger, two panthers—but which, just as preoccupied as said humans in avoiding the mines (even if they were, by now, old hands at this exercise), had better things to do than attacking them. Or, indeed, running away from them, since—humans being unknown in the DMZ—these felines had no idea about the two-legged species’ cynegetic and carnivorous proclivities. And so they simply ignored them. The humans also spotted patches of land that looked heavily trampled, where dense clouds of butterflies proliferated. In other circumstances, anyone encountering these multicolored, fluttering swarms—so thick that they blurred the landscape beyond them, their wingbeats creating a velvety, crumpled, shivery kind of music—would have stopped to marvel at them. But they didn’t have time. Particularly since it was possible to deduce from their presence that, beyond the rare beasts already mentioned, there must also be elephants hanging around somewhere nearby, for reasons explained in Chapter 13.

  It would be time-consuming and tedious to describe in detail the fugitives’ journey south, a journey that was itself extremely time-consuming and tedious. As Gang moved forward, scouting the ground, too busy to pay any attention to Constance, she clung to Objat’s arm, taking comfort in the physical contact. Even though he had, up to now, from Creuse to Korea, led her into experiences that can only be qualified as questionable, she could not imagine that he was solely respons
ible for these projects. Had she imagined that, she would probably not have accepted his arm—even in circumstances like these. Anyway, Pognel’s limp obviously did not accelerate the process. But still, after about ten hours of this, they did finally perceive, not too far away, the concrete wall that ran along the southern border of the DMZ. We’re almost there, Gang warned them. They slowly approached it.

  Looking up from the base of this new barrier to its summit twenty-three feet above induced a sort of inverted vertigo. And, while it somehow had been possible to crawl under the fence that lined the northern border, it was difficult to imagine climbing over such a wall here in the South. Gang, though, seemed unfazed by this prospect, and headed over to a cluster of beech trees that concealed a double bend.

  This was a sort of niche in the bulwark, designed so that—by dint of an optical illusion—it remained invisible until you stood directly next to it. Going through this chicane, they found themselves facing a thick, solid, thoroughly discouraging gate. Apparently possessing a bottomless well of resources, however, Gang loosened another hem in his jacket and removed another magnetic card, and, to our surprise, the gate began to slide along its rail, albeit with exasperating slowness. They could hardly believe their eyes, but the path was clear: they were in the South, with its abundant and varied food supply, its congested and polluted highways and flyovers, its penthouses with swimming pools and air-conditioning, its plastic surgeons and its whorehouses, its rivers of neon flashing day and night everywhere you looked, its two-figure economic growth.

  But then the purr of an engine—powerful albeit muffled—arose behind them. They turned around to see a Chinese Zubr hovercraft speeding toward them in a straight line, unconcerned by mines since, buoyed up on its cushions of air, it could skim over the ground in total safety. No sooner had it come to a halt near them than two new men in black overalls, both looking rather nervous, jumped off the vehicle. One was equipped with a copy of a Dillon assault rifle with built-in grenade launcher, capable of propelling three thousand 4.45-caliber projectiles per minute, while the other had a simple but very large ax. That’s really annoying, Gang had time to mutter. We almost made it.