Bamboo and blood io-3

by James Church

  "How do I deliver this message? Over drinks? Crudely handwritten on a piece of paper?"

  "Up to you," Sohn said. "You're smart. You assess the situation. But however you do it, slip it in like an assassin's blade. Make sure they feel it. Make sure they don't forget."

  Why not let the diplomats do it? I asked. It was their job, wasn't it? It's what they're trained to do, to circle around the bush, dropping hints here and there, shards and splinters to be reassembled in faraway buildings. Sohn snorted. "I don't trust them to do it right. Most of a message isn't content anyway, but context, tone, the play of light and dark across the mind. These striped pants have no sense of menace. They smile too much, they laugh." He laughed. "You see? It sets you at ease." Then he barked and cleared his throat. "I don't want the Americans at ease. I want them tossing at night, waking at odd hours in a sweat." He laughed again, as if he finally found something that pleased him. "What sort of message is that?"

  "Why the drama, hiding me away in this little room?"

  "You'll board a few minutes after everyone else. The plane will wait around with the door open until our sedan pulls up. The crew will know there was a last-minute passenger put aboard; they'll tell their friends. The story will seep in here and there. That's good. I'll get out of the car just long enough to wave good-bye. I want some people to wonder what I'm doing."

  4

  The delegation leader looked at his watch and stood up. "Time to get moving," he said. He turned to me. "We got off to a bad start. I apologize." He extended a hand. "Nothing is easy these days. It's hard enough to do my job under normal circumstances. We'll stay out of each other's way."

  I went on high alert. I'd been with smooth characters before, but this one was going to be a champion, I could tell. I shook his hand.

  "Once we go into the meeting room, please sit at the end, next to Mr. Roh." The young man, the one who had smiled to himself, nodded slightly. "If we decide to break for a delegation meeting, come out of the room with us. It's their turn to invite us to dinner, which they'll probably do just as we adjourn for lunch. I'll accept, but we'll make excuses for your inability to attend."

  This was the first real sign of the game he was going to play, keeping me in a box. "I'm afraid I have to tag along," I said. "Where you go, I go, too." That card was on the table. I wanted to see what he would do with it.

  He shook his head. "The instructions I received this morning said only that you were to attend the talks; there was nothing about the dinners." The man was a curious mix. One minute he was pliable, the next he was unbending. His tone of voice stayed calm throughout; even the look on his face didn't change that much. Somehow, though, he conveyed what he wanted you to know. On my being at his dinner table, he was adamantly opposed.

  "Maybe not, but I'm afraid you have no choice."

  His reply was cut off when the door opened and a woman looked in. "Their cars are on the way up the drive."

  "Very well. We'll greet them in the entry hall. Everyone put on a pleasant face." The delegation leader turned to me. "It's how we conduct our business. We are pleasant. You don't object?"

  I smiled at him. "Will this do?"

  "It would be best if you came in at the last minute. If they see a new face during the initial pleasantries, it may put them off." He looked at my jacket and swallowed hard. "Your pin seems to have gone missing."

  "It does seem to have done that." I hadn't even brought the pin bearing the leader's small portrait with me to Geneva. I was indifferent to wearing it, but I didn't like sticking my finger every time I put it on. Pak never commented on its absence anymore, and Sohn-though I was sure he had noticed right away-never said anything. I straightened my tie. "How do I look?"

  The delegation filed into the front hall. I went over to the window and pulled back the drapes. A sedan pulled up, followed by a van. The press had been allowed in the compound, and the photographers were taking a lot of pictures of nothing. When I heard people moving into the meeting room, I slipped in the side door. No one gave me a second look.

  Once we were seated, the introductions began. People nodded solemnly when their names were mentioned. "And finally, at the far end to my left is Mr. Kim." The faces across the table turned to look. "He is a researcher in the Ministry, assigned temporarily to our mission here." It sounded ridiculous, though the other side didn't seem to notice. A couple of them made notes; the rest stared at me for a moment, thoroughly uninterested or uncomprehending. Or both.

  I didn't plan on picking up my pen during the session. No sense looking like a minor scribe; it was bad enough to be introduced as a researcher. When the time came to pass the message Sohn had given me, it was important that they thought I had credibility. I couldn't give off those vibrations if they considered me a table sponge. One member of our delegation had already closed his eyes. That wasn't something I could do. Sohn had told me I was supposed to keep my eyes open. I decided to sit back and frown, with an occasional glance at the ceiling. From across the table, maybe it would appear I was following the discussions with disdain. It only took a few minutes for me to realize that was impossible. I was bored to tears. My eyes shut, and it was pleasant until I heard Mr. Roh whisper in my ear, "We try not to snore in these sessions." He closed his notebook. "But we can petition for an exception in your case."

  5

  "You spend a lot of time looking at the lake." The next morning, the tall man sat down beside me. It was the same bench, but this time he wore a dark blue beret. He seemed more comfortable in that than in the green felt hat. "It seems it might snow. Nothing to write home about," he said, looking straight ahead, almost as if he didn't know I was there. "But then, you don't write home, do you? You don't write, you don't phone. You're almost always out by yourself. Why is that, I wonder? It's very odd. You're not thinking about defecting, I hope."

  "Only if it gives you sleepless nights."

  "Why did they introduce you at the talks yesterday as a ministry researcher?"

  "It's an honorary title." I smiled. "I'm flattered that you were listening."

  "It's not what appears on your visa application. I could have you thrown out for lying to immigration authorities."

  "Why, what did it say on the application?"

  "You didn't fill it out?"

  "Of course not. Do I look like I fill out my own visa applications?"

  "It says you are a third secretary."

  I turned to him. "Third secretary? They could have done better than that."

  "You are more interesting than I was led to believe. How about a cup of coffee? Let's get in out of this cold wind."

  "No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though." I thought that sounded diplomatic. A little oily, perhaps.

  "Don't worry, you can spend some time with me. None of your people are watching."

  "Someone is covering my back."

  "No. They were, but their car was in a minor accident and they've been detained."

  "I see."

  "These things happen in Geneva. On the weekends, with all the traffic, the roads can be difficult to negotiate."

  "Just the same, I think maybe I'll just walk back to my mission. I saw some chestnut trees along the street I want to look at."

  "Your mission is on the other side of the lake, a long walk, especially in this weather. Perhaps you'd allow me to drive you? I could let you off a few blocks away, near the statue, the one of the woman whose lovely backside faces the road. No one would know."

  "Why this change of heart? Last time we met, you wanted me out of the country."

  "I did. For one thing, you people attract others. It's as if you are flowers, and the bees of services from other countries cannot resist. They swarm in here and do silly things. That complicates my life, and I prefer life to be uncomplicated, or as uncomplicated as I can make it."

  "Let me know how it turns out."

  "To tell you the truth, I thought you were here to deal in missile parts. I've had enough of that for a while. In the last
few weeks, I've gone through stacks of blurry copies of bills of sale and shipping manifests until I nearly went blind. If you were dealing in missile parts, I'd have booted you out without a second thought."

  "Why would I be dealing in missiles?"

  He shrugged. "Why not? There's money in it. Arms go through airports all the time. We usually don't stop shipments unless they are labeled "Weapons;" it's bad for commerce. In fact, yours is the only one we've stopped in a long time. We were asked to intercept it, so that's what we did. The shipping form was unimaginatively filled out. 'Bulldozer replacement parts,' it said. I haven't seen too many bulldozers with stabilizer fins, have you?"

  "I don't know anything about missiles. Or bulldozers, for that matter."

  "That was my conclusion, but it leaves a question. Why are you here?"

  "Ah, finally. Why didn't you ask before? It's not a secret. I'm here because my mother likes chocolate, and the store near our villa in Pyongyang ran out."

  "Very good." He laughed and looked around. "That will be a great shot, the chief of the Bundesamt fur Polizei, sitting on a bench and laughing with a North Korean agent. Would you like a print? Or would you rather have a video of you with one of the Portuguese girls that hang out in our bars?"

  "I don't know any Portuguese girls. The other day you were pushing Indonesians." The chief of Swiss counterintelligence was following me around? You'd think the man would have more important things to do.

  He stood up. "My name, in case you are interested, is Beret. Please call me Monsieur Beret. I will call you Monsieur O. Or perhaps you'd rather I call you Inspector." He watched for my reaction. I looked out at the lake and wondered briefly how much more he knew about me. And how he knew it.

  "It will start to snow within the hour. Stay warm, Inspector, however you can."

  6

  It was Saturday, so there were no talks scheduled. That was fine, because I didn't want to go over to the mission and make faces at the diplomats. I wandered by the chestnut trees and watched for a while as they danced in the wind. You couldn't say they were graceful. A couple of big cars drove up to the hotel across the street and parked, but no one got in or out. It was getting too windy to stand around, so I headed across one of the bridges into a shopping district. I started down a covered passageway, and there was the Man with Three Fingers, examining watches in the window of a jewelry store. Somehow, I wasn't surprised he turned up again. I had been pretty sure that just paying for his drink at the Sosan coffee shop wouldn't be enough to keep him out of my hair forever. Maybe I should have bought him lunch.

  "A chance encounter, I suppose." I walked up slowly and stopped a step behind him. He looked surprisingly at ease. At first I thought he hadn't heard me, but he wouldn't have missed my reflection on the glass. He moved, barely, to acknowledge my presence.

  "I leave nothing to chance anymore. Maybe you shouldn't either." He pointed at a watch. "Do you see that? It costs twenty thousand euros. Why would anyone spend that amount of money on a watch?"

  "Maybe they really, really want to be sure they know what time it is."

  He pointed at another watch. "That one is ten thousand euros. Do we conclude it only tells time half as well? Perhaps it only tells time during the day, and you need another watch, one with diamonds, for night."

  "Are you really supposed to be out all by yourself like this? I thought special police roamed in herds. Where are your pals?"

  "You're my pal, O. Remember?" He finally turned to face me. "Or do you still just discard people when it suits you?"

  I let that alone. It wasn't worth batting back. "The Swiss service is pretty good. They must have a bead on you already."

  "I doubt it. They think I'm Mexican."

  "Mexican? You know Spanish?"

  "Don't worry yourself over what I know."

  "I'm not. It's just that the locals are keeping tabs on me, and by now I would assume they have taken twenty pictures of us standing here talking. Since I don't know Spanish, they'll assume you must know Korean. That will interest them, a Mexican with a mastery of Korean. They aren't exactly kindred languages."

  "Really? And what would you call a kindred language to Korean?"

  I figured he wasn't really interested, so I kept quiet.

  "Still the same, aren't you? Just like on the operation. When you weren't worrying, you were fussing. I guess you must have fussed all the way out of the room, with me on the floor. Of course, I wouldn't know. I was bleeding and unconscious. Practically dead. I guess that must have worried you, huh?"

  "Mexicans don't speak Korean."

  "We could be speaking English, or Chinese. Like I said, don't start worrying yourself on my account." He looked back at the watches. "No matter how much they cost, they all mark time the same way. The casing doesn't make a bit of difference; it doesn't go any smoother, or faster, or happier. It just goes, isn't that right? And sooner or later"-he touched my shoulder with his ruined hand-"it always runs out."

  A black car cruised by, the windows open.

  "Well," I said in a loud voice, "adios, amigo."

  7

  Sunday it rained, and when it didn't rain, it snowed. That night I had trouble sleeping. It was ten o'clock in the morning in Pyongyang, no wonder I couldn't sleep. So what if the Swiss clocks showed 2:00 A.M.? That wasn't the time in my head, or on my watch. I never changed my watch to local time. Who the hell cared what time it was in Switzerland? The message Sohn had given me kept running through my head. When was I going to deliver it?

  I could see Sohn's face, grim and deliberate, as he had gone over what he wanted me to convey. "They must be made to believe that we are about to collapse, that they will inherit more maggots than they can count, more bodies than they can bury, more disease than they can cure, more chaos than they can stomach. They are convinced that we are weak, on our last legs, about to collapse? Let them; let them worry every night when they go into their warm beds that we are about to hold our breaths until our wasted bodies fall across their doorstep. That's good. We want them to think that, because it is the last thing they want. Do you imagine for one moment that they look forward to caring for us? Do you think they want the responsibility for twenty million beggars? Of course they don't. It would interfere with their shopping, their specialty foods, their imported blouses and ties. The last thing our southern brothers want is for us to crawl into their fat lives, and so they will pay to prop us up. Believe me, Inspector, they will pay whatever it takes, and we will not let them get off on the cheap."

  "So," I said, "we show the Americans we are weak."

  Sitting in that little room in the airport, I noticed that Sohn had rheumy eyes. That and his small ears did not make him look like a man on the way up. But appearance wasn't everything. These days it wasn't anything. Pak was right on this. The essential question wasn't how pretty Sohn was, but how much power was behind him. I couldn't be sure, but the more I thought about it, the more I had to guess it was plenty. Our ministry wasn't easy to kick around; snatching personnel to send on funny assignments took clout.

  "No!" Sohn shouted. I had jumped. People with rheumy eyes usually didn't shout like that. "Haven't you been listening? Not weak. Crazy. We show the Americans we are crazy, crazy enough to pull the trigger. Still strong enough for that, and plenty crazy. If they think we're weak and rational, we're finished. They have to think we have weapons that can destroy them, because in fact, we do. For that, these foolish missile talks cannot succeed. If we end up making a deal with the Americans, they'll never deliver. And the people who actually can deliver will be dealt out of the game. And then, then we will be weak. Then they will walk over us, at which point you and I, Inspector, will be dead. So we will survive by looking like we can't survive. We will survive by looking like we can't be defeated." Then he had relaxed, the way a tiger relaxes when it's near a tethered goat. "You have your passport? Cash? Well, now you have your instructions, too. I have only one more thing to say: Don't screw up, it might be our last chance."
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  I remembered very clearly that final injunction. I turned it over in my mind. One of the roof timbers creaked in the cold, recalling something, and that's when I knew it for sure. It wasn't chance that Jeno had been assigned to our care. At two in the morning, there is a certain clarity that creeps around your brain. Tab A, slot B.

  8

  "I didn't know you were allowed to travel these days." My brother was never happy to see me, and certainly not by accident. I wasn't happy to see him, either. When I woke up in the morning after a few hours of sleep, my stomach was bad. The talks had gone on all day, and my stomach hadn't let up once. I wrote a cable for Sohn, but the code clerk wouldn't take it for a couple of hours and I couldn't leave it, so I sat around until almost 8:00 P.M., which was already 4:00 A.M. in Pyongyang. No one would read a message at 4:00 A.M., unless they couldn't sleep. If I were in Pyongyang, I wouldn't read a message at that time of the morning. If I had been in Pyongyang, I never would have run across my brother, who was standing in front of me in Geneva. I didn't follow his travels, but I usually heard something whenever he left the country. This time I hadn't heard a thing. Strange coincidence, us being here at the same time. I didn't like it from any angle. I didn't like being here with him, and I didn't like the coincidence.