‘Bring two cups of tea here!’ the man shouted, turning towards the kitchen. He picked up the newspaper I had been reading, rolled it up, and swatted a fly on the table’s edge. Then he threw the paper into the bin and turned to me again. His manner made me think that he wouldn’t care what I said. Feeling guilty, I decided I would have to spin a story.
‘I’ve come from North Korea,’ I began.
The owner, who had been sitting back comfortably, turned to shout at the kitchen again. ‘Breakfast for this gentleman!’
My stomach had been groaning and moaning since I first stepped into the restaurant, but I pretended to be taken aback by the suggestion of breakfast. ‘I didn’t come here for a free meal!’ I exclaimed. ‘I came to talk to you about something.’
The man looked quizzically at me and shouted again to the kitchen, ‘Cancel that breakfast!’
My heart sank, but I tried not to show my disappointment. I asked, ‘Do you know about the Ace Bed Company, the South Korean furniture giant?’
He replied, ‘I don’t have any links to corporations like that, and I’m not interested either. What’s your point?’
‘The Chairman of Ace Bed, Ahn Yoo-su, is originally from North Korea.’ I knew about Chairman Ahn’s background from my work at the UFD. We had compiled extensive profiles of South Korean CEOs in order to manipulate South Korean conglomerates into providing us with aid. Ahn Yoo-su was the first one to come to mind because, like me, he had been born in Sariwon, my hometown in North Hwanghae Province. He had fled south in the course of the Korean War and, starting from scratch, had created the largest furniture company in South Korea. The main roads in Sariwon had been paved with asphalt through funds donated by Ahn.
I rattled off many personal details, so that the restaurateur wouldn’t just dismiss me as a desperate refugee winging it. I paused for a moment, and uttered my next sentence with special emphasis: ‘I’m Chairman Ahn’s nephew.’
The man glanced up at me. He had been concentrating on the design painted on his teacup.
‘My uncle has a subsidiary in Beijing,’ I continued. ‘As soon as I crossed the river from North Korea and reached Yanji, I called the managing director of the Beijing subsidiary. He said he’d deliver my message to the chairman, and that he’d be waiting for me at the office. All I ask of you is a bus fare to Beijing. I promise I will repay you. My uncle too will be forever grateful.’
None of this made any sense. Why would the nephew of a tycoon be short of a bus fare? And even if he was, why would the managing director in Beijing be waiting for me at the office instead of sending me a car? I was an idiot. Sweat ran cold down my back.
‘I’m not the only Korean in this part of town. Why did you choose me to ask for your bus fare?’
I couldn’t think of an answer to that question. I was sure he wanted me to leave. He wouldn’t care even if I really was the penniless nephew of the rich uncle. A moment of silence passed between us. I opened my mouth to speak in the desperate hope that my heart would guide my words.
‘Because you’re the owner of Kyonghoeru, because you run the biggest Korean restaurant here in Shenyang, and because I knew I could trust you,’ I said.
These words, at least, were sincere.
After I’d made myself vulnerable like this, there was nothing else I could think of doing but to leave the restaurant and wait outside the entrance for his verdict. He didn’t say anything, but sat stroking his cheek with his huge hand, staring at me. Then he leaned to one side as if to rise from his chair. But before I could shut my eyes in terror, he pulled a wallet from his back pocket.
‘The fare to Beijing is 250 yuan. As you said, I’m the owner of Kyonghoeru, so here’s an extra hundred. Eat something on the way. Your lips are all cracked.’
The tears of despair that had been welling up inside me were transformed into tears of gratitude. Drops rolled down my cheeks and onto the backs of my hands. The owner of Kyonghoeru pretended not to have seen, and stood up. ‘You don’t need to pay me back,’ he said, kindly. ‘You have your fare now. Get some breakfast before you go.’ His manner became brusquely managerial again when he called out to the kitchen, ‘Breakfast for this gentleman!’
To hide my tears, I bowed my head as I stood up. Unable to look him in the eye, I bent my waist in a deeper bow. ‘Thank you. I will repay your gratitude. Please remember me – my face and my voice. I will repay you.’ I bowed again, then turned and left.
‘Hey!’ the man shouted. ‘Have some breakfast!’
I ran outside, but didn’t go far before I turned to look back at the sign: ‘Kyong-hoe-ru’. I would cherish those three syllables for the rest of my life. And now, I would be able to make my way to Beijing, to the South Korean Embassy.
I headed straight to the Shenyang bus terminal. On the way, I stopped to make a call to Mr Shin. I wanted to give him my word, and Cho-rin too, that if I managed to be given asylum in South Korea, I would return to see them. But Mr Shin’s phone was switched off, and his wife’s phone was not connected either.
I called several times from the terminal, but I couldn’t get through. I worried that the authorities, having successfully captured Young-min, might have seized Mr Shin. I told myself I would try again when I arrived in Beijing.
While waiting for the bus I remembered the telephone number for the Korean broadsheet that I had seen at the restaurant. My bad experience of talking to the South Korean consulate in Shenyang prepared me to try a different approach with the woman who answered the phone.
‘Hello, how can I help you?’ she said breezily.
‘Hello! This is the number for tip-offs, isn’t it?’ I spoke as calmly as I could.
‘Yes, it is. May I please have your name and address?’
‘I’ve come over from North Korea.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m not calling to seek asylum or anything like that. I work on inter-Korean affairs, at the United Front Department. I’ve come to China on business. I’m calling to provide your newspaper with an exclusive.’
‘United Front Department, did you say? Inter-Korean affairs? Yes, please wait a moment.’ She called out to someone else in the office. ‘Sir, sir! Do you have a moment?’
I could picture the woman putting the phone down and running off to fetch the editor. A few seconds later, I heard the urgent voice of a man.
‘Hello? Hello! Thank you so much for getting in touch, it can’t have been easy. Where exactly are you at the moment? United Front Department, you said? Is that the section that deals with South Korea?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘I see! What an honour to speak to you. Could you please explain your position in the Department?’
‘I can’t stay on the line for long. You must understand.’
‘Of course, I understand absolutely. Would you please tell me a little about the information you wish to provide us with? As for the rest of it, there’s no hurry.’
‘I’ve got my North Korean identification documents with me. But how can you trust that I’m genuine just by talking to me on the phone?’
‘No, I trust you. When I heard your voice I could—’
‘Sorry, I need to say this quickly: please give me the number of your Beijing correspondent. Not his office number, but his mobile number. It’s got to be a private one too, so it won’t be bugged.’
‘Yes, please hold for a moment. I’m really sorry, it’ll really only be a moment.’
South Korean journalists were quick off the mark. The editor was soon back on the line and gave me a private number for his Beijing correspondent. He said I should wait ten minutes before calling, and that he would call the correspondent right after we hung up to tell him to expect my call.
In those ten minutes of waiting, I considered, with the sort of intense concentration that I might apply to a poem, what I would say when I got through to the correspondent. I had just one phone call to get him on my side.
When I called, he answered the phone imm
ediately.
‘Hello,’ I began, ‘I used to work in the United Front Department of the Workers’ Party.’ Calling a private number like this, I felt more able to speak openly. To establish the legitimacy of my identity, I told him why I’d left North Korea, what information I could provide, and the fact that I had been framed for murder. I focused on the main points and kept it as concise as I could. I then said in a frank tone, ‘If you decide to meet me, you must realise the risks. I am happy to tell you what I know, but I cannot guarantee your safety, let alone my own. If I make it to South Korea, I promise to repay you with many exclusives. Please help me.’
‘What kind of help do you need?’ he asked.
‘Please connect me with a South Korean spy in Beijing.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. I don’t know any spies.’
‘I’m not stupid. You’re a journalist in a country like China, where North Korean agents operate freely, and if you don’t know, you must be only one phone call away from someone who does. Please put yourself in my position. When you hang up, you can go back to your normal life, but the only thing left for me is suicide.’
For a moment there was only static on the line. I expected him to hang up, as the employee at the South Korean consulate had done.
‘You said you’re in Shenyang right now?’
I was elated by the mere fact of hearing his voice again. ‘Yes, I’m at the bus terminal in Shenyang,’ I said urgently. ‘I’ve already bought a ticket for the noon bus to Beijing.’
He asked me to call him back as soon as I was in Beijing. He said that he would do his best to find help for me before my arrival.
The journey to Beijing took eight hours. During every moment of those eight long hours, I replayed in my mind the details of the conversation I’d had with the Beijing correspondent. Every word, the emphasis on each word, how his breath punctuated each sentence – I left nothing unexamined. Eventually, I was able to relax a little at the thought that I had spoken not to an ordinary local but to the correspondent of a major South Korean newspaper, and that he had promised to do his best. All I could do for now was to trust his word.
As soon as I got off the bus in Beijing, I looked around for a phone booth. The bus terminal was incomparably larger than the one in Shenyang. An enormous clock showed that it was ten minutes past nine, and off to the right I found a phone box. Dialling the number, I prayed that the correspondent would answer. I didn’t care if he gave me a cold refusal at this point – I just wanted him to answer the phone.
‘Hello?’ he answered.
I exhaled in relief. ‘I’ve just arrived in Beijing.’
‘I’m going to read you a phone number,’ he said. ‘Please don’t write it down, just memorise it. You should call it as soon as we hang up. Someone will be waiting on the other end. Just so you know, he’s not with South Korean intelligence, but he can help you reach the South Korean Embassy.’ The man made me repeat the number and then hung up.
My fingers shook as I dialled. The phone rang just once before someone answered.
‘Hello, how are you?’ he said.
‘Yes! Hello! I am—’
He interrupted me. ‘Don’t say anything for now, sir, please just listen carefully. From where you’re standing, there’s a tree at ten o’clock. Do you see the rubbish bin next to it?’
There was indeed a tree at ten o’clock, and a rubbish bin beside it. Somebody must be watching me! As soon as I became conscious of this fact, the thought of North Korean agents filled my head, and I looked round in panic. To calm myself, I reasoned that North Korean agents would have jumped me by now, and I fixed my eyes on the tree and the rubbish bin.
‘Yes, I can see those things,’ I replied.
‘If you look inside the rubbish bin, you’ll find a black plastic bag. There’s a mobile phone inside the plastic bag. Let’s continue our conversation on that.’
Before I could ask any questions, the line went dead. I crossed to the rubbish bin and looked inside. It was too dark to make out what was inside, so I reached down into it and started to feel for the plastic bag. The first thing I pulled out was a torn sneaker. I tried again, and then I felt something like plastic. I pulled it out, opened the bag, and found a mobile phone and another object, thick and tightly wrapped in paper.
Taking out the phone, I flipped it open and turned it on. My hands were shaking wildly, and I could feel my pulse thumping in my neck.
The phone rang immediately. I answered, ‘I found it!’
‘Yes. It’s great to meet you, sir. We already know who you are.’
We? As in South Korean spies? Or journalists?
‘We’ve been trying to reach you, and it’s wonderful to meet you at last. Please listen carefully now. You are in great danger. The Chinese authorities have not only sent out their border guards and police, but have also mobilised agents of the Ministry of State Security. And North Korean agents arrived at their Embassy here in Beijing a couple of days ago.’
The Chinese Ministry of State Security? That was their secret police. What crime had I committed against the Chinese Communist Party?
‘So for the safety of us all, you must do exactly as I ask you to.’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘First, I’d like to ask you something. When you were in Shenyang, did you provide the South Korean journalist with any information in the form of documents?’
‘No, we only spoke on the phone.’
‘I see. Good. Please make your way quickly towards the main road and flag a cab down. Call me back when you’re in the cab and I’ll tell the driver where to go.’
I did as I was told. I went out to the main road and I waved down a cab coming towards me with its light on. For a moment I thought the driver had not seen me. But then he stopped maybe ten metres ahead of where I was standing and reversed the vehicle until the car was right in front of me. When I got in he said something to me in Chinese, but I signalled for him to wait and called the South Korean man again.
‘Hello? I’m in the cab,’ I said.
‘Good. Now pass the phone to the driver.’
Maybe the driver was annoyed by the soft foreign voice on the phone, because he responded roughly. He didn’t even look back as he passed me the phone, and took off in a hurry.
As the taxi made its way to our unknown destination, I kept looking behind us. I was not so much concerned that hidden eyes were watching me but, rather, I was afraid that at this breakneck speed we might get too far ahead of my minder. I sat in anxiety and even gestured at the driver to slow down when he accelerated too hard for my liking.
The phone rang again. ‘There’s 2000 yuan in the plastic bag,’ the voice said.
‘Where?’ Only then did I realise that the other object in the plastic bag was a bundle of cash.
‘Give the driver 100 yuan when you get out. He can keep the change. After turning into the next street, the taxi will stop.’
When the taxi pulled up I found that we had come to a hotel, but I didn’t have time to register its name. The voice on the phone guided me straight to the café in the hotel lobby. It instructed me to order a coffee and even told me how I should sit.
‘Well, that’s it from our end,’ the voice concluded. ‘In five minutes, a man will come to sit at your table. All you have to do from now on is whatever he says. Goodbye.’
When the call ended, my lifeline was gone too, and the mobile phone became an ordinary object again. I felt a rush of impending disaster. I feared that the man’s words, ‘from now on’, were an instruction to forge a new life as a fugitive with the 1850 yuan that remained after the cab fare and cup of coffee. Why else would they have given me so much cash?
As each minute passed on the mobile phone’s tiny screen, my breathing grew louder. I had experienced more despair than I could ever have imagined when I lacked one yuan with which to make a phone call, or ten more yuan with which I could have shared a drink with Young-min. Yet the possession of 1850 yua
n gave me no consolation. It lay heavy in my hands, and I clutched it because there was nothing else to hold on to.
‘Mr Jang?’ I started at the sound of a man’s voice behind me. I made a move to stand but felt his hand on my shoulder. His arrival after exactly five minutes seemed to confirm his trustworthiness, and when he finally stood before me, his physical presence was as solid as a mountain. He was a smartly dressed man in his early fifties, dapper in his freshly pressed suit and gleaming glasses.
‘Thank you! Thank you so much for coming here,’ I said.
‘Please stop looking round. Look only at me,’ he muttered quietly as he took a cigarette from a red pack. ‘I wanted to meet you, Mr Jang, in person,’ he continued, ‘so I asked a friend to guide you here. It’s a relief that you two were able to connect at the station.’
‘Thank you for organising that. I had no trouble getting here.’
He nodded. ‘I have a contact in the Chinese authorities. About two weeks ago, he mentioned you. You crossed the river with a friend, is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Why did you separate?’
‘We were looking for a place to stay the night, and we thought there was nowhere that would let two men into their house.’
‘I understand. Just for routine verification, do you have your identification documents with you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
I reached into my inside pocket but hesitated before taking them out, and put my empty hand slowly back on the table. My other hand, with which I had been rubbing my knee, I also placed on the table.
‘And what if I don’t have my papers?’ I found myself saying. The man flinched, almost imperceptibly, and I saw something in his eyes that clashed with his suave façade. I looked into them as I spoke my next words: ‘If I don’t have my identification documents, will I be denied asylum? I’m speaking Korean right now. Is that not proof enough that I’m one of you? You said you learned of my situation from your contact in the Chinese authorities. Since then – as a matter of fact, only a couple of days ago – my friend committed suicide. He and I, we’re not the only North Koreans being pursued on Chinese soil. There are thousands of us who are fleeing from North Korea. If we don’t have our papers, do we all have to die like him?’
Dear Leader Page 32