Star of the North

by D. B. John

  This evening’s hospitality at the 21 Club, though arranged months previously, was now seized upon. “I don’t care if we have to spike their fucking drinks!” Fisk had shouted. “We’ve got them to ourselves for two hours. That’s our window. We work them, pitch them, find out anything we can.” The emergency had also caused the other, equally alarming, matter, to move high up Langley’s crisis list: Jenna’s discovery two nights ago of a secret laboratory inside Camp 22. Her suspicion that this was the lethal part of the rocket program was shared by the squints. She had submitted a report on it to the CIA director himself, and the coordinates were now being monitored daily from orbit.

  Fisk had applied all his tact in a bid to dissuade some of the grandees from attending this evening—hardly presences in which the North Koreans were likely to lower their defenses. But looking at the faces around the table, Jenna could see that he’d been wrong. The North Koreans were glowing with pleasure at meeting the former president, and over cocktails even this son-of-a-bitch Cho had become open and approachable. The seating plan had been arranged with care. “We’ll have more leverage if a woman talks to him,” Fisk had said to her. “He’ll be thrown off guard. Do whatever it takes. Charm him, coax him, appeal to his nice side.”

  “Does shit have a nice side?”

  Just after everyone had taken their seats, the stocky, thuggish figure of North Korea’s UN ambassador, whom Jenna remembered was called Shin, entered the room. She sensed, from a slight hardening in Cho’s eyes, that Cho disliked this man. She continued to watch his face as the wine was poured. Jenna had met many North Korean defectors, but this was the first time she’d faced an unapologetic member of the Kim dictatorship. Like a zoologist sighting a species she’d spent years tracking, she could not take her eyes off him.

  Light concentrated in the stem of his glass, illuminating his face. High cheekbones, thick hair sleeked back over a well-proportioned head. Something of the propaganda poster about him, she thought. She wasn’t sure she found him handsome. The eyes had an arrogance that imbued his face with a very faint brutality. But she couldn’t fault his attire. His suit was a tailored fit, and he wore a well-chosen tie and cuff links. To the casual observer he might be an executive from a South Korean conglomerate, Hyundai or Samsung, if it weren’t for the refulgent little face on his lapel pin. The bizarre reminder that Korea spanned parallel universes.

  She looked up from the pin to see that he, too, was looking at her. He blinked, as if conscious of being rude. It felt like an awkward first date. Something was going to happen, but neither of them knew what.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in English, taking a sip of his wine. “I’ve never before met someone of your race who speaks the dialect of the North.”

  “My race?”

  A spoon chimed against a glass.

  “Mr. President, honorable guests, ladies and gentlemen …”

  O’Brien was on his feet welcoming the visitors from the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Jenna smoothed her napkin over her lap to hide a flutter of nerves. Her palms were sweating. O’Brien was speaking in his soft, nasal whine, making light of the two days of talks. He smiled and gestured toward Colonel Cho, whose face remained expressionless.

  “Never in my career as a diplomat have I been described as an ‘anti-socialist political dwarf who will be crushed by the weapon of single-hearted unity …’” The audience chuckled into their laps, unsure if O’Brien was hitting the right note, but then, with good timing: “At least, never to my face …” They laughed, and the tension that had been in the room from the outset was released. Even Cho looked amused. “Whatever our disagreements …” O’Brien said, speaking through the laughter, “… and they are many, I believe that on both sides there exists a desire for greater trust and understanding in the name of security and, ultimately, peace …”

  A phlegmy mumble of “Hear, hear,” from the former secretary of state.

  “… which I hope this evening’s hospitality will help build.” O’Brien raised his glass. “To peace.”

  “To peace,” everyone said, the words overlapping.

  Glasses clinked, and a generous humor spread around the table as the weight of that tawdry bargain in the name of peace temporarily lifted from the Americans’ shoulders.

  The waitresses began placing baskets of bread rolls on the table.

  “Food’s a language we all understand,” the former president said loudly, tucking a napkin into his shirt collar.

  Jenna said, “How are you liking New York, Colonel?”

  Cho broke off some bread and chewed, frowning in thought. “I have not noticed any of the corruptions I’m told are common in a capitalist city. Drug dealing, prostitution, soup kitchens, and so on and so forth.”

  Charming.

  The first course was placed in front of them. A New England clam chowder.

  “Pyongyang is free of vice, I suppose,” she said.

  “Generally, yes,” he nodded, oblivious to her note of irony, “although, of course, like any city, it is not without crime.”

  The conversation stalled. Her training had not adequately prepared her for this. She probably had only a couple of shots at him before his attention would be drawn by someone else—not enough time to cultivate him, probe for doubts, learn his thoughts. If she was going to get anything out of him it would have to be through flattery or provocation, and something told her he was not easily flattered.

  Watching him over the rim of her held glass, she said, “And what are the crimes typical of a North Korean city, I wonder? Espionage, sabotage, antirevolutionary plots, criticism of the Dear Leader … and so on and so forth?”

  Cho’s eyes narrowed, alert to mockery. “Socialism faces many dangers,” he said. “The United States also has enemies who threaten its way of life.” He leaned forward, his face an expression of cynical savoir faire. “It treats them in much the same way, I believe.”

  “We have no Camp 22, if that’s the kind of treatment you mean.”

  Although Jenna had spoken softly it was at a moment when a lull seemed to settle over the table, the wine not yet having loosened conversation. At the periphery of her vision she saw that faces had turned in her direction.

  “I know of no such place.” An edge came into his voice. “We deal with criminals in our own way. You think their rights are more important than the well-being of a whole society? Imperialists have no right to speak of human rights.”

  “I haven’t mentioned human rights,” she said, taking a sip of her wine. “But it’s interesting that you have.”

  He resumed his eating, but she felt too on edge to eat. She had drawn his hostility almost immediately. An armed truce seemed to open up between them. She was conscious of the murmuring currents of conversation around the table, the chime and chink of cutlery on china. She shared a brief glance down the table with Fisk, who looked at her enquiringly. She turned back to Colonel Cho, and changed tack.

  A neutral subject. She smiled. “Do you have children?”

  He brightened at once. “A son, aged nine, in the Young Pioneers. And you? You are half Korean, I’m guessing. You have family in Korea?”

  “A twin sister.” Her heart missed a beat. The words had fallen out before she could stop herself.

  She blinked, and felt her face redden.

  “Really?” He was distracted by the sight of Ambassador Shin engaged in an animated conversation with the former secretary of state. “In Seoul?”

  “Not in Seoul …” Her eyes were fixed on him now. She had a vague awareness that she was losing her focus. Some trip-wired charge deep inside her had released a sudden rush of grievances. Her urge to say them to this bastard shocked her. “I hope to be reunited with her …” She was veering dangerously off message now, but an emotion too strong to control was overriding all her caution, all her training. She might never get a chance to say this again. “… if your government would permit her to leave.”

  The spoon stopped halfway to Cho’s m
outh. He put it down and stared at her.

  “Your sister is in my country?”

  A siren began wailing in her head, but much too late.

  “She was … taken there. Twelve years ago. From a beach in South Korea. Her name is Soo-min.”

  He gazed at her for what seemed like a full minute. When he finally spoke he reverted to Korean. “You are mistaken. If you’re referring to the unfortunate issue of the abducted people, my government has publicly accounted for all of them, living and dead, and has apologized. The matter is resolved and in the past.” He spoke as if correcting her on a point of law. “But apart from that you are wrong for another reason.”

  “I feel sure you’re about to tell me.”

  “The people of my country are racially …” He cast about for a delicate word. “… homogenous. A twin of yours would not go unnoticed. I would know about her.”

  Jenna felt a faintness come over her, as if her knees might buckle if she tried to get up.

  “There have been so many Western lies about this,” he went on, finishing his soup. “You should understand that most of those so-called abductees voluntarily defected to my country—for a fairer life.”

  “Indeed,” she said, trying to iron out the tremble from her voice. “I can’t imagine why anyone would think they’d been taken there against their will …”

  “What makes you think she’s there?”

  She pushed back her chair. “Would you excuse me?”

  Oh, God. Jenna faced her reflection in the powder-room mirror. What have I said? She felt as if her chest were stuffed with hot rice, squeezing her heart and making her breathing labored. I’m fucking this up. Fisk had recruited her in the belief that this issue—this very issue—would enhance her capability, not undermine it. She reapplied her lipstick and gave herself a hard, appraising stare.

  For Fisk’s sake, for Soo-min’s—do your job.

  When she returned, the main course had been served. Hamburgers, fries, grits, ribs, and Buffalo chicken wings, the soft cultural propaganda of the American common fare, even if the fries, she noticed, had been tossed in rosemary and sea salt, and the buns looked distinctly artisan.

  “Mr. Cho,” the former president called with his mouth full, “food like this greases the wheels of American diplomacy.”

  Cho said, “As a matter of fact, it was our Dear Leader Kim Jong-il who invented the ‘double-bun-with-meat’—”

  The Americans laughed in loud, delighted hoots. The former president dropped his cutlery and gave a sporting clap of his hands.

  Jenna was the only one of them who knew Cho wasn’t joking.

  The discussion became dominated by individuals addressing the table at large and Jenna saw that she would not have another opportunity to engage Cho. All tiresomely male, she thought, though each of them gave way respectfully when the aged former secretary of state croaked his Delphic pronouncements from the head of the table.

  For dessert and coffee the guests switched seats. The Wall Street CEO was complaining about federal restrictions on asset management to a row of blank Korean faces. Fisk and the former secretary of state were deep in discussion with Cho. Jenna found herself seated with the tall and gangling Chris O’Brien, whom she found far too gentle and amiable a man to be handling a hissing, spitting alley cat like North Korea.

  “He’s a curious one, isn’t he?” O’Brien said, casting a cautious glance toward Cho.

  They watched Cho declaiming to his listeners, back straight, fist laid imperiously on the table. From the ill-concealed annoyance on Fisk’s face she guessed that he was making about as much progress as she had. She noticed that Cho kept glancing in her direction, and none too subtly, as if he couldn’t quite believe how insulted he’d been by being placed opposite her at dinner.

  “He’s smart, I’ll give him that,” O’Brien said, speaking from behind his coffee cup. “But the mask doesn’t slip. Behaves like he’s a true believer. If I were a member of the elite like Colonel Cho Sang-ho … with access to hard currency and foreign travel … I’d be plotting my exit strategy.”

  The former president stood to take his leave and conversations around the table petered out. The evening was over.

  Guests mingled near the door for a few minutes as farewells were said and hands shaken. Colonel Cho came over to her. To her surprise he said, “Should your duties bring you to Pyongyang, Miss Lee, I would be happy to be your guide.”

  He looked at her with a strange earnestness. She guessed this was one of the pleasantries said on these occasions, but the remark had a nervy, rehearsed feel to it. He handed her a business card with both hands and bowed.

  Jenna accepted it, also with both hands, and mustered a smile. “Maybe I could visit something that’s not on an official tour, or talk to people without the Bowibu present.”

  Cho gave a small, hurt smile that said let’s not spoil the mood.

  She gave him her own card, which simply bore the name Marianne Lee, and telephone number. He bowed again, and left.

  “What was that about?” Fisk was next to her, loosening his tie. He looked as defeated as she felt. She checked her watch. It was 9:45 p.m. They’d hardly touched the wine at dinner.

  “Stiff drink in the bar?” she said.

  He smiled. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this evening.”

  At that moment one of the Secret Service men approached. “Call for you, sir.” He handed Fisk a phone.

  Fisk was still smiling as he put the phone to his hear. Then slowly the smile died and his mouth fell open.

  “Holy shit … Just keep him there … We’re on our way.” He ended the call. For a moment he looked stunned. Then there was a trace of amusement on his lips. “Get your coat. We’re going to Brooklyn, 71st Precinct Police Station.” He turned to her with a glint of excitement in his eyes. “Want a shot at recruiting your first asset?”

  The man leapt to his feet the moment Jenna and Fisk entered the room.

  “You cannot detain me! I am a United Nations diplomat.”

  He was about forty, and tall, with a gaunt face and coal-black intelligent eyes. An odd wen on his left cheek looked like a small beetle.

  “Good evening, First Secretary Ma,” Jenna said. “You are free to go, but it’s important, for your sake, that we talk first. Please sit. This won’t take a moment.”

  Fisk had briefed her in the car, and the FBI agent had just shown them the evidence bags. She took the chair across the desk from Ma. Fisk hung back, leaning against the wall to show that he was taking no part. Despite the freezing night it was intolerably stuffy in the chief’s office. An electric fan ruffled Ma’s hair. A fluorescent strip light blinked. Jenna slipped off her coat and watched him glare at her cocktail dress and jewelry, as if this were some offensive joke.

  “Who are you? CIA?”

  “I serve the federal government in an intelligence capacity.”

  “This conversation’s over.” He moved to get up.

  Jenna switched to North Korean dialect, without any honorific register. “Sit the fuck down.”

  Ma froze in surprise, as if he’d been slapped. His eyes moved slowly from Jenna to Fisk and back to her. He sat.

  She continued calmly in English. “You’ll walk out of here with your money. You can inform Pyongyang that your transaction today went smoothly …” She thought of the man in the trench coat they’d just seen in the station reception area, quizzing the desk officer. A well-known crime reporter from one of the tabloids. “Not a word of this will get out. As long as one thing’s clear …” She moved her face closer toward him across the desk. “You work for us now.”

  She was watching intently for his reaction, his succumbing. His shoulders sagged, but she saw no calculation in his eyes, no weighing of the risks, rather a bleak, angry acceptance, a resignation, like a man in his prime given a diagnosis for a terminal illness.

  She said carefully, “You will of course be remunerated. We’ll set up a secret escrow account …”<
br />
  He was shaking his head and she realized that the cough he gave was a dry, joyless laugh.

  “You have no idea, do you?” he said, meeting her eyes. “Where I come from, everyone is watched. Everyone. Pyongyang had at least one set of eyes observing me in that parking lot tonight.” As if to mock her, he too moved his face closer. “They already know I am here. And they’ll know the CIA used the opportunity.” The dark eyes sparkled. “Do you know what that means … you dumb bitch?” His voice rose. “It means I’m finished. Dead.”

  He grabbed his parka from the back of his seat and left, letting the door slam behind him.

  Jenna didn’t move. She felt her hands tremble very slightly.

  For a few seconds the room was silent except for the whirring of the fan, then Fisk said, “He just called your bluff.”

  Suddenly she got up and opened the door. The two FBI agents were waiting outside with the duty sergeant.

  “The case is all yours,” she said.

  “What about the other guy?”

  “Charge him.” She reached for her coat.

  “And the media?”

  “There’s a reporter in the lobby, I believe.”

  19

  The Roosevelt Hotel

  45 East 45th Street

  New York City

  The mood over breakfast was celebratory. Even Political Officer Yi seemed to have abandoned his vigilance, no longer sniffing the air for traces of unorthodoxy. All of them had congratulated Cho the night before, confident now in their association with him, delighted to have the shine of his glory reflected on them. One of the diplomats talked of the decoration that surely awaited him—the Kim Jong-il Medal, or the Order of Heroic Effort, at the very least—to which Cho, holding up his palms and laughing, had dissembled modestly. Ambassador Shin had left a message at reception to say that, unfortunately, neither he nor First Secretary Ma was able to accompany them to the airport today. He hoped they’d forgive this lapse in protocol and wished them a safe journey home.