by Nate Granzow
With an eyebrow raised, I reassessed the man sitting beside me. Either he was playing with me with his accent and boisterous-but-uneducated persona, or he was just a simple man who knew his coal.
"Sounds like an excellent opportunity."
"Bettern' most. See the Koreyan gov’ment-owned coal-minin' industry produced five mill’n tons of domestic coal annally twenty some-ought years 'go," he said loudly, poking the palm of his hand to accentuate each word. "That number's down t'bout a mill’n. Now they lookin' t'invest overseas. Big money in them hills, boy, sho nuff."
A stewardess old enough to be my grandmother sidled up to me and expertly dropped a small bottle of gin into my shirt pocket. With a wink, she moved down the aisle. Despite my situation, I felt a smile cross my lips. Twisting the plastic bottle cap off, I lifted the pocket-size beverage in the air and said to Bo Bo, "Well, here's to good investments."
Nine bottles of gin later, I arrived at Incheon International Airport hung-over again, feeling particularly short-tempered, with Bo Bo's cell phone number scribbled on an airline napkin and affectionately shoved into my pocket. Experienced enough to travel light, I strolled past the crowd beginning to form around the revolving baggage carousels and toward the exit.
Though I had spent much of my life zipping in and out of airports, I found myself gazing at this one in awe. The sweeping, honeycombed ceiling towered hundreds of feet overhead and suspended enclosed walkways, like chrome and glass arteries, spanned chaotically throughout the interior. The light from hundreds of baseball-sized LED lights dotting the walls, mimicking the stars on a dark night, reflected off the waxed floors.
As I pushed through the glass exit doors, the crisp, early-morning air washed over my collar. A black Cadillac Escalade—its enormous size amplified by the surrounding compact cars—signaled that Harold had kept his promise to meet me. It was entirely out of character for him to show up anywhere on time, though, and I had a brief moment of doubt as I reached to knock on the dark, tinted passenger window.
"Cogar!"
Jumping down from the driver's side, Harold, wearing a pinstriped gray suit jacket and a pair of faded blue jeans, wrapped me in a hug and slapped my back. I stepped back from him, and, looking him over, laughed and said, "I can hardly recognize you. You're so, what's the word? Clean."
"Only on the surface, man. Still suffering from a dirty mind," he threw a soft punch into my shoulder.
From the passenger side, a young woman with strawberry-blonde hair opened the door and stepped carefully onto the vehicle's running board, expertly positioning each high heel on the narrow bar, then onto the asphalt.
She looked like a supermodel showcasing the newest line of corporate attire. Removing her glasses, she shook my hand curtly.
"Hello, I'm Jessica Carr, Mr. Chamberlain's administrative assistant."
Over the ambient, rushing tunnel sounds of passing cars, her voice rang with an almost musical Australian accent.
"Pleasure to meet you," I said, unconsciously dropping my voice a full octave and straightening up.
Harold sighed as if bored with our introduction, and I suddenly realized why he had been on time to meet my flight. The ambassador had saddled my free-spirited friend with a nanny.
Climbing into the Cadillac, Harold steered us from the terminal and jammed his foot on the accelerator, merging onto the expressway leading to the mainland. The speedometer climbed rapidly as he flicked the radio on, lit a cigarette, and leaned his head into the backseat to make sure I was comfortable.
"I'd be a lot more comfortable if you'd keep your eyes on the road, Harry," I said, clutching my seatbelt.
He laughed around his cigarette, smoke filling the cab as he turned back to the wheel. His assistant didn't seem to be especially concerned; she busily tapped and dragged a stylus across the screen of her PDA. Clearly the panic of being a helpless passenger in a vehicle with a careless driver had worn off.
"So how've you been, Cogar?"
"Busy. Trying to keep my head above water, just like it's always been."
"Oh come on, man, you're too clever to be working so hard." Harold elbowed his assistant in the shoulder rudely, shaking her glasses down to the tip of her nose. "Back in our senior year, Grant and I broke into the university newspaper's office, got blackout drunk, and passed out. You know who woke us up the next morning? The goddamn dean of students! Lucky for us, Cogar's always been quick on his feet: He convinced the old bastard that the two of us had witnessed a break-in, and when we rushed in to stop it, we were overcome by superior strength and numbers," he laughed.
Nudging her glasses back into place, Jessica said, "Sounds like you two were quite the troublemakers."
Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, Harold slapped the steering wheel excitedly.
"You ain't seen a thing, yet. Right, Cogar?"
7
A Good-Looking Mother
Squat and rectangular, the U.S. embassy building in Seoul had been constructed with the architectural creativity of a child's wooden building block. Painted beige, it stood surrounded by a thick concrete wall as lackluster as the building it protected.
Harold pulled the Cadillac up to the gates and instinctively popped open the vehicle's hood and rear door while sliding his ID through the driver's side window. After a brief inspection—the guards examining the underside of the car with mirrors—the steel doors parted. Harold pulled the Cadillac sideways across three parking spots and slammed the shifter carelessly into park. Not that it mattered where or how he parked; the lot was almost entirely empty, with the exception of a pair of military Humvees, a rusty yellow Daewoo, and a sharp-looking red Fiat convertible belonging to the ambassador.
"Would you two like me to have lunch brought in?" Jessica asked, stuffing a folder into her briefcase.
"That's fine," Harold said dismissively as he slid from the driver's seat. "Bring it up to Dad's office. Cogar and I are going up to have a drink."
My empty stomach rumbled angrily at the thought of consuming more alcohol. My friend was openly proud of his party-boy, liquor-with-breakfast perspective on life, and his father was no stranger to the bottle, either. I knew from experience that if we sat down with intent to drink, I'd wake up a day later, facedown on a conference table and missing my shoes.
As if sensing my concern, Harold smiled and patted my shoulder. "No worries, we won't relive college today. Dad's got a press conference tonight. I'd imagine you’d want to be there?"
I actually didn't want to be there. Press conferences, particularly those without an opportunity for the reporters to ask questions, were white bread in the news world. Tightly scripted to avoid any damaging misspoken words or tangents, these events intentionally left no room for variables. Variables are the only thing worth showing up for. With a transcript of the speech—which would undoubtedly read like a press release—I could have the same boring, predictable story written and uploaded to Kailas in the ten minutes before the conference began. The only thing missing from the article would be the excessively detailed descriptions of the ambassador's body language and the minutiae of the crowd's reactions—devices that reporters unfailingly fall back on to make an otherwise bland story seem significant. I could probably fake those, too.
This was the kind of event that news agencies sent their green reporters to, anticipating the same writing quality they could have gotten by hiring a dyslexic orangutan. Besides, why would I waste my time going to a press conference when I knew the ambassador personally?
"We'll see," I said.
After passing through two security checkpoints guarded by U.S. Marines, being repeatedly and, at times, intimately patted down while having my passport scrutinized, we were finally allowed through. Jessica walked ahead of us, her black leather heels tapping a precise 'click, click, click’ against the marble floor.
I caught myself admiring her lean, bronze legs, tracing their upward path to her faultless behind. She was really an extraordinarily beautiful woman. I nudged Harol
d.
"So have you two ever…"
"What? Her? No."
"And why the hell not?"
Harold's wrapped a hand around my collar, pulling my head toward him as we walked.
"She's like having a good-looking mother. Other guys go crazy for her, but I don't see what all the fuss is about. I mean, sure, she's outwardly attractive. But when I look at her, all I see is a woman who would sell her soul for a promotion, and looks at me like a babysitting job she needs to get ahead."
"Bad as all that?"
"You'll see."
Jessica stopped in front of a set of mahogany-veneered blast doors and pressed a button for the intercom.
"Sir, it's Jessica. Your son is here to see you."
A green light blinked above the door and the locks clicked open. After ushering us inside, Jessica closed the doors behind us. The clicking sound of her shoes faded down the hallway.
Harold's father, Ambassador Richard Chamberlain, sat in a plush leather swivel chair facing a bullet-resistant glass window. Spinning to face us, he stood up and grabbed my hand, shaking it firmly.
"Grant Cogar! How've you been, son?"
"Still kickin', sir. They haven't figured me out yet."
The senior Chamberlain had aged during the years since I'd last seen him. The little hair left on his head had turned pearl-white, receding to a narrow band above his ears. His glasses had become thicker, and his gaunt figure seemed to have become almost dangerously lean.
"It's great to see you again, Grant. Harry and I have been waiting for you to come visit for some time."
"I certainly appreciate that, sir. Work has had me traveling quite a bit, otherwise I would have come to see you sooner."
Harold strolled over to an oak hutch where his father displayed crystal decanters full of cognac, gin, and Scotch.
"I trust your flight was unpleasant?"
"They generally are."
"I've been spoiled by years of private flights. It's hard to forget the unpardonable conditions of commercial airlines, though." The ambassador sat back into his chair, "Hey, did you end up landing that job you were hunting for? The one with the New York Times?"
Clearing my throat, I clenched my fist so hard I cracked my knuckles.
"There's a very long, very disappointing story I could tell you about that…"
"But he won't, because it'll only put him on the fast-track to an ulcer," Harold said, sliding a colossal glass of cognac into my hand.
And this won't?
"Grant, if there's one thing I am certain of in this world, it's that you'll be just fine." The ambassador smiled and pointed at the already half-empty bottle of Scotch on the shelf, then angled three fingers horizontally to indicate how much he wanted his son to pour for him. "You'll get what's coming to you if you keep after it. Sometimes it's just a question of how badly you want to succeed."
I could tell that he was speaking to Harold, not to me. For as long as I'd known both men, Harold's unwillingness to apply himself, combined with his unapologetic disregard for rules and propriety, had plainly troubled his father. Their relationship reminded me of a quotation I had read somewhere:
A man works as a farmer in hopes of a better life for his son.
The son goes to school to become a doctor.
The doctor's son becomes a poet.
Like the poet, Harold had always enjoyed a privileged upbringing, but had never known the struggles it took to provide him with such luxury. He had grown up presuming himself too exceptional a man for conventional work.
Taking a sip from my glass, I swallowed hard and fought back a gag followed by a shiver that sprinted up my spine.
"I wish my boy here would take a lesson from you on integrity and determination, Cogar. He seems to think everything is just dandy so long as he's got his father's credit card and free reign."
Harold chuckled as he looked at me. It was the first time he had heard someone suggest I should be a role model in any capacity. Thinking back to my speech at the university, I could see why he’d find the notion laughable.
"While you're here, Grant, do me a favor," Richard said, taking a deep drink from his glass, "keep an eye on him, will you?"
"Of course," I laughed a bit too forcefully. "Actually, I was hoping I could ask a favor from you, too, sir."
"Anything, Cogar."
"I'd really appreciate an opportunity to sit down with you and discuss the recent North Korean aggression. Maybe glean a sense of what's really happening here."
Richard winced as he drained his glass in a single pull.
"Cogar, you know that if I could help you, I would. Right? I mean, you're like a son to me, but there are some things I can't share with anyone. Not even my son." He motioned to Harold. "If you'd like, I can give you the same polite, refined, cookie-cutter bullshit you're used to hearing from politicians, but you and I both know that won't help you any more than that press conference will tonight."
"I completely understand," I said reassuringly, though inside I was exasperated.
So much for making this easy.
"Do you know of anyone I can speak to that might be able to offer some insight?"
Drumming his fingers on his desk, Richard replied, "I've got a few folks that might be of interest to you. But I can tell you this right now, Grant, if you're expecting to dig up some scandalous news about an impending war or some kind of forceful response to the North Koreans, you're going to have one hell of a tough time. The situation is downright incendiary, and no one of any repute is going to chance opening their mouth and triggering something irreversible."
8
Mr. Rothko
The jet lag that had been nagging me all day had become overwhelming, and despite the fact that it went against every rule taught in Journalism 101, I planned to set my audio recorder when the press conference began and sleep right through it.
Harold guided me to a seat beside Jessica before returning to his father's side atop the podium. Richard stood hunched over the lectern arranging papers, intermittently bumping the microphone as he adjusted his glasses. Like the hum of a churning furnace, the ambient chatter of journalists, bureaucrats, and military officials hung on the air, only broken by the occasional boisterous laugh or cough.
I turned to Jessica, who had yet to acknowledge that I'd even entered the same room, let alone sat down beside her.
"I haven't heard you toss out any 'G'day mates' yet. Did you go to school somewhere other than Australia?"
She slowly closed the pamphlet she'd been reading, careful to keep her pointer finger between the pages to mark her place, and turned to me with an expression crossed between boredom and mild irritation.
"Why? Because I'm not struttin’ about yackin' in strine while I babysit that boofhead," she motioned toward Harold, "and his seppo journo cobber? Rack off, drongo."
She folded her leg over the other and resumed reading her pamphlet.
"I don't know what you just said, but judging by the tone of your voice, I'll have you know that my mother was a fine woman, it's anatomically impossible for me to put that where you suggested, and I did, in fact, know who my father was."
The slightest hint of a smirk crossed her lips, which satisfied me enough to close my eyes and lean back in my chair.
Within only a few minutes of the start of his speech, I learned that Richard had been correct—the conference was going to be worthless. In typical political fashion, he spoke at great length without actually saying anything. Just as he had promised me before, there was no mention of military retaliation. Not even a hint at the possibility of a war.
Rather than answer the looming questions on everyone's mind, his speech—probably a recycled one written during the Cold War—emphasized patriotism, preserving democracy, and the United States' solidarity with the South Koreans in the face of adversity. But he delivered it so well, with the ostensible passion and articulation of a seasoned statesman, that I imagined few aside from myself would even notice.
Harold exited the stage, slipping through the crowd as he made his way to our seats. I stood and stretched.
"Harry, I'm going to catch a taxi back to my hotel. I've got to get in touch with my editor and drink a pot of coffee."
I noticed a tinge of disappointment at the corners of his eyes. He must have been eager for the speech to end so we could commence the riotous drinking spree he’d had planned for the evening.
"All right man, but let me know when you're done, and the three of us can go grab a bite and a few drinks."
I nodded and smiled, glancing back at Jessica. She looked over at me blankly as she spoke to one of the ambassador's aides. Foreigner's Cold as Ice played through my head as I memorized her figure once more before leaving.
As I wearily made my way toward the exit, someone called out my name.
"Cogar? Grant Cogar?"
I knew that voice.
It turned my stomach as though it had been the feeding call of a ravenous hyena while I was tied to a spit and doused in barbecue sauce. Perry Rothko, blonde hair swept back, Aegean-blue eyes glittering as a broad, perfectly white smile slithered across his face, stood a few feet from the building’s entrance. This conniving prick, my rival in the reporting world, was the kind of guy fathers around the world despised—handsome and sly enough to capture the heart of most any woman, morally corrupt enough to break it without remorse. His current target, a cute Korean woman wearing an embassy staff uniform, stood beside him. She smiled innocently.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" Perry bellowed.
I found myself wondering if, even amidst all these soldiers, I could stab the bastard in the neck with a pen and still make it to the door.