by D. B. John
He had accomplished the task in just forty-five minutes.
But if it means saving our son …
He couldn’t look his wife in the eye. Her eyebrows shot up when he told her. “Treatment in China?” He showed her the letter, and tried to reassure her—that this was probably a false alarm, but there was no harm in being sure, and the specialist equipment didn’t exist in Pyongyang. His sweating was betraying him. He was radiating guilt. He knew she wasn’t buying it, but she said nothing and turned to the window. She was afraid.
Later today he would use Dr. Baek’s letter to obtain the travel permits he needed for the border region, and if it took another hard-currency bribe to get them filled out right away, so be it.
His wife said, “The Ministry car’s arrived. That’s not your driver, is it?”
He stepped to the window. A thickset man Cho did not recognize was standing with the Ministry car in the courtyard, looking up at the building, searching for Cho’s apartment, and talking into a two-way radio.
Cho felt his stomach turn to stone. But then that strange calm came over him again, a resignation, an acceptance almost. It was as if he wasn’t quite there, or this was happening to someone else.
He let out a quiet breath, and almost smiled. The gingko trees had turned a beautiful flame ochre.
It’s happening. There’s nothing to be done.
His wife may have been puzzled by the lingering hug he gave her, and the kiss he brushed against her neck, and the way he squeezed her hand and was reluctant to let go, but he turned away before she saw the desolation in his face. Books had gone back to bed, and Cho spent a minute watching the innocent repose of his face, his breathing slightly clogged with cold, his sleep untroubled because his loving parents were nearby, keeping him safe.
“No Jung-gil today?” Cho said, getting into the back seat.
“He has been reassigned, sir.”
The car glided toward the gates of the Forbidden City and the barrier was raised; it passed the Koryo Hotel, and Cho turned in his seat to see a gleaming black SUV with tinted windows. Its indicator light winked, and then it began trailing his car at a distance of about thirty meters, conspicuous in the boulevard’s sparse traffic. It had a white license plate with numbers beginning with 55—an army vehicle.
Cho’s driver did not make a right toward Kim Il-sung Square, his usual route to the Ministry, but continued along Sungri Street.
“Where are we going?” he said calmly.
The driver’s eyes met his for a second in the mirror, but he said nothing. A streetcar whirred alongside them for a moment, windows packed with weary faces and vacant eyes, like fish in a tank.
Cho looked down at his hands. There was no tremble at all, now that he knew his fate was settled. It wasn’t himself he was fearful for. He was thinking of Books, sleeping peacefully. When would they do it, he wondered, the men who would take him away? It was better that he was at home, and they wouldn’t do it in front of his class at school. And his wife, how would she react? Screaming, pleading with them, prostrate on the floor, holding on to their boots as they left, or trying to wrest her son from their arms? Or would she be too shocked and stunned even to move? He thought of Yong-ho, how close he’d felt to him last night in the car on Moran Hill Park, and wondered whether he’d made it as far as the airport.
The car made a sharp left down a narrow concrete ramp and into the bowels of a deep underground parking garage. Cho had been too lost in thought to notice which building. The black SUV was directly behind now. It slowed to a halt as Cho’s car stopped, and its headlights came on full beam. Its engine hummed, white exhaust fumes making it look like a demonic tank. Its doors opened at once and four uniformed men stepped out with the visors of their caps pulled low. In the dim tungsten light Cho could not read their faces, or see if any of them were holding handcuffs. He closed his eyes, savoring five private seconds before nothing in his life, what remained of it, would be his any more. He exhaled, opened the car door, and got out, feeling a heaviness in his legs, like a man about to climb a scaffold.
The four officers snapped to attention in a synchronized salute.
Behind them a wedge of light fell across the concrete floor as an underground door opened and two women approached. They were young and pretty, and wearing the starred cap and uniform of the Red Guards, with gleaming black boots.
They saluted sharply and in unison. One said, “Respected Comrade Colonel Cho, it is our honor to escort you.”
Cho’s mind spun with confusion.
Moments later they had him in a wood-paneled elevator with polished brass buttons. One of the women gave him a shy smile as they ascended, then looked down. He glanced at the ascending lights. He was in one of the big buildings of state. The door opened onto an immense colonnaded lobby colored by light from a high stained-glass ceiling. The Supreme People’s Assembly.
More Red Guard ushers were waiting before two enormous rosewood doors inlaid with gold-filigree lotus flowers. They pulled them open, and the roar came out like an ocean crashing on a shore.
He entered the great hall to see the hundreds of deputies of the Supreme People’s Assembly standing in their tiered seats, facing Cho and every one of them applauding with abandon. The sound came in thunderous waves. His brain went into meltdown. Cameras flashed in his face. A television crew was suddenly grouped behind him, following him as the Red Guards led him across the floor toward the podium, where he recognized the tall, bald President of the Presidium, holding out a hand in welcome. Behind him a vast stone statue of Kim Il-sung was bathed in a pinkish-blue light and flanked on either side by guards of honor bearing silver-plated Kalashnikovs. Cho was ushered up the steps of the podium to a chair facing the entire assembly.
A bell rang. The applause subsided immediately, and the deputies sat. The chairman began speaking in an incantatory voice, drawing out the vowels with solemnity.
“Deputies, we open today’s proceedings by honoring a hero of the Juche ideal, Cho Sang-ho. As many of you will have heard, he engaged with the imperialist jackals as a true warrior-diplomat, embodying the partisan spirit encouraged in us all by our Dear Leader Kim Jong-il …”
Applause broke out again. Cho stole a fugitive glance at the statue to his right. Its belly swelled gently beneath a stone Mao suit. The face was stern.
“The Yankees have more than met their match in Colonel Cho. In fact, I am authorized to inform you that they have today begged us for further peace talks, here, in the Capital of the Revolution, in three weeks’ time …”
Exclamations of surprise and triumph arose from the deputies, who applauded again. The President turned and Cho stood.
“Comrade Colonel Cho Sang-ho, for courage against the enemy and for exemplary service, you are awarded the Order of Heroic Effort, First Class.”
Cameras flashed again. The President’s back was toward the hall as he pinned the medal to Cho’s chest. Cho looked into his sharp, waxy features. The man’s eyes met his with a flash of pure venom. And Cho understood at once, immediately and with no doubts or second thoughts.
They need me to deal with the Americans.
The medal pinned to his chest, Cho faced the hall as the deputies stood again and the applause broke over him. He tried to muster a look of pride but his mouth felt as if it were cast from iron.
He’d been given a reprieve. Three weeks before the ax fell.
This is power, he thought, as the applause continued in waves. The television crew had moved below the podium to get a clear shot. Their cameras were trained on him and a bright light was being shone on him. To bestow upon me the highest honor of state, then to disgrace me, kill me, and erase all memory of me. He looked into the faces of the deputies clapping in the first row, complacent in their epaulettes and badges of rank. This is how the Leader inoculates you, permanently, against any greed for power. This is how he teaches you the only truth that matters. Purity brings reward. Impurity brings death.
As he descended the ste
ps to the floor, the wall of applause still thundering before him, he noticed something odd. A few rows back from the front stood a silver-haired man of about fifty who was not applauding, nor was he wearing the deputies’ beige uniform, but a plain black tunic buttoned up to his chin. His face was stern and heavily lined but not unfriendly. In the moment Cho’s eyes met his, an unmistakable message seemed to pass, like some wise assurance from someone who cared about him and knew him well. It was the most uncanny thing. Cho was ushered from the Assembly Hall by the female Red Guards. When he turned back to look again, the man was obscured by the standing deputies still clapping.
Cho knew now that his every waking moment would be watched; every call he made would be recorded, every note he sent read. He would have Bowibu shadows and street agents following him wherever he went. They would make his neighbors and colleagues complicit in the surveillance. He could forget about taking Books to China. He could lose all hope of escape. He was already a prisoner. This evening he would ask his wife to divorce him, in the slim hope that their son could escape punishment as the progeny of a criminal element.
When he arrived at his office in the Ministry a man dressed in an electrician’s overalls was changing the lightbulb above his desk. A Bowibu agent, as plain as day. He ushered the man out, closed the door, and called Yong-ho’s cell phone. A deep, unfamiliar voice answered.
“Who’s this?” Cho said. “Where’s my brother?”
There was a pause and a change in the background noise, as if the call was being put on speakerphone. “I am a friend of your brother’s,” said the voice.
Cho hung up.
They’d arrested Yong-ho.
PART TWO
Nothing is impossible for a man with a strong will. There is no word “impossible” in the Korean language..
–Kim Jong-il
30
Airspace over the Sea of Okhotsk
Three Weeks Later
December 17, 2010
Jenna opened her eyes to a cabin shot through with arctic light. The view from the window blinded her. A frozen sea cracked into hexagons, as spotless as icing sugar. Far below, an icebreaker chugged black smoke, clearing a watery trail through virgin snow. Her eyes felt full of grit. It had been an early start from the Elmendorf Air Force Base in Anchorage.
The mood on the plane was subdued; a few laptops were open, but the white head of the governor was slumped forward in sleep.
Her mouth was parched. She looked around for a stewardess and then remembered there was no service on board.
“No calls to make before we enter enemy airspace?”
She turned in her seat to see the jockish blond man who’d winked at her when they’d boarded, and again got the vague feeling she recognized him. She assumed he’d been working on his laptop until she’d heard the cartoon ping of a computer game.
“Chad Stevens,” he said, closing the screen and extending his hand. “Asia correspondent, NBC News. I’m guessing you’re Marianne Lee.”
She shook his hand with reluctance, too sleepy to be social.
He rested his forearms on the tops of the seats. “So … a peace mission with no official itinerary, no diplomatic protection, no security, and zero communication with the outside world. I guess anything could happen.” He had a loud tenor voice that grated on her; it instinctively made her lower her own.
“I guess so.”
“You thirsty?” He held up a full bottle of Coca-Cola.
“Oh.” Jenna brushed the hair from her eyes and smiled. “Thank you.” She opened it, took a swig, and almost sprayed it out across the cabin. The liquid was about fifty percent bourbon.
He gave a hacking, high-pitched laugh and smacked the back of her seat. “Dutch courage!”
On the other side of the aisle, the governor’s executive aide, a coiffeured grande dame with pearl jewelry and half-moon glasses, glanced over the top of her USA Today. “You fell for it, too?”
Jenna handed the bottle back to him. “It’s, uh, a little early for me.”
“Drinks are on me tonight. And maybe you could even give me a few words …”
“Your nightlife options in Pyongyang may be limited, Mr. Stevens. Your chances of a private conversation with me even more so.”
“There’s always my room.”
She laughed unhappily. “That’ll be the first place they’ll bug.” She turned back in her seat.
“Jeez, you’re right.”
Now she knew who he was. She’d seen his faux-solemn reports to camera and had usually flipped the channel. Nothing about his analysis of North Korea suggested originality or insight.
He was still leaning over her, crowding her space. “You know, one of our spooks told me there’s no fifth floor in our hotel. Like, the elevator buttons go from four to six? It’s because there’s this secret listening station hidden on the fifth floor. There’s one in all the hotels for foreigners …”
Jenna closed her eyes. Buddy, take the hint.
She was zoning him out, listening to the hum of the engines, picturing whales gliding under the sea ice, and the ozone swirling in the thin outer blue, but she couldn’t get back to sleep. Mention of enemy airspace had drawn her inevitably back to thoughts of Soo-min. Again Jenna’s insides knotted with anxiety. What her sister’s abductor had unwittingly revealed in that Skype call had electrified her. It was hard evidence that Soo-min had been abducted. But once her euphoria had faded, the hopelessness of the situation set in. It was like being told she’d won the lottery but her prize was on a heavily guarded island from which nothing could be taken. All she could do was sail past. She wondered vaguely what had happened to her “fresh ideas” report to the CIA director.
Outside the window the sky had clouded, turning the ice a pigeon-breast gray.
Colonel Cho would be at today’s talks. She had no idea how she would do it, but it was crucial that she engineered a moment alone with him. It would not be easy. Everyone would be watched and accompanied at all times.
And if he wouldn’t help her … ?
She would go public. She would bust the whole scandal wide open. Tell the world that her twin had been kidnapped and forced into … Section 915 … the Seed-Bearing Program … She had no idea what that could be, though instinct told her it was something fearful and sinister … and had nothing to do with gardening.
But even as she thought this, her resolve ebbed. Going public was highly risky. The regime would deny all knowledge of Soo-min. The shutters would come down and the one small hope Jenna had would be extinguished for good.
Landing gear lowered with straining hydraulics. Brown, bare landscape was rushing past, rising toward her. Not a tree anywhere. The wheels hit the tarmac and wobbled down a runway of filled-in potholes. Banks of earth. Tank trenches? Barbed-wire fences. No lights, no airport traffic. The plane slowed, passing two rusted Tupolev jets with the Air Koryo logo.
The plane turned slowly. A terminal building moved into her field of vision and Jenna felt a flutter of excitement. On top of the building was an outsized smiling portrait of Kim Il-sung, like a billboard for senior-citizen dental care.
Han would have a heart attack if she knew where I was.
Jenna had devoted years to studying North Korea but this was her first visit. Few Americans got to enter the country with which they were still technically at war. She gazed everywhere, hungry for detail.
Outside the terminal a row of men was lining up grimly to greet them. Foreign Ministry and internal-security types by the look of them, military coats flapping in the wind, waxwork faces. Her eyes searched for Colonel Cho but he wasn’t among them.
“Here’s the hospitality,” Chad Stevens said. She noticed that the Coca-Cola bottle had been drained. His eyes were dancing about like a kid’s.
The peace mission prepared to disembark with the governor in the lead. As they filed out of the plane, two CIA security officers in flying jackets checked their names off the manifest.
“You’re coming with
us, right?” Jenna said.
“We stay with the plane, ma’am. Too much sensitive comms gear on board to remain here overnight. We’ll be back for you at six a.m.”
She walked on, feeling a chill of anxiety.
It was early morning and searing cold. Sunlight slanted theatrically across the concrete, and her breath made patterns of white vapor, yet somehow this was a day like no other she’d known. It wasn’t the air, which was fresh and unpolluted, just a faint and melancholy smell of coal fires. Or the rows of soft hills, which seemed to materialize, dreamlike, one after the other. It was the silence. No traffic, no planes overhead, no birdsong.
The white wisps of the governor’s hair fanned in the wind as he gave a hearty handshake to someone in the reception party.
Though of pensionable age, and with two years still to serve in the capital of one of the northwestern states, the governor, as a respected former United States ambassador to the UN, with long experience of North Korea, had been the obvious candidate to lead the peace mission. His aim was to defuse tension following the Yeonpyeong Island attack, and to offer more aid in return for genuine concessions. The president had provided a White House military jet. Jenna’s official role was to translate. Her real, more sensitive role, had been briefed to her by Fisk, who was still bruised by the intelligence failure over Yeonpyeong. Determined to capture the initiative, he had insisted the mission deal only with a known entity: Colonel Cho.
Daily spysat monitoring had revealed that the lab complex inside Camp 22 appeared almost complete. The speed of construction, using a vast, expendable slave labor force, had been astonishing. Convinced that it had everything to do with the rocket program, Fisk’s nervousness was spreading through the defense community. Jenna’s secret orders were to link any further offers of aid to a demand that the lab complex be opened to inspectors. Very quickly this had become the primary undisclosed aim of the mission, and it had focused Jenna’s mind in the most sobering way. She was certain the regime would refuse, leaving her with no good options.