by Un-su Kim
‘Where’d you get these photos?’
‘Where do you think? From the cops. Cops nowadays are nice to people.’
‘He killed himself in his slippers.’ Reseng tilted his head. ‘The official cause of death was suicide?’
‘You know how cops are. They’ll do whatever it takes to lighten their case load. Also, he left a will, and there were no signs of homicide.’
‘What did the will say?’
Jeongan flipped through the papers and extracted a single photocopied sheet.
‘“I’m sorry for all the lives I ruined and the people I hurt. I am ashamed of myself,”’ he read.
‘A crisis of conscience?’ Reseng said.
‘Ha! That guy never had a conscience. The people at his funeral looked like they were celebrating. May as well have been a wedding.’
Reseng took a drag on his cigarette. Plotters sometimes became targets. They made mistakes too, just like assassins. They left clues, they got caught. But they were always eliminated quietly. Because, unlike assassins, who never had information to give no matter how far you dug, once a plotter surfaced, the past they’d buried surfaced right along with them. Plotters had to be killed more carefully, more covertly and more quietly than any other target. That was the unwritten law of this world.
‘Who killed him?’ Reseng asked.
‘I think it was her.’
Jeongan held up a photograph of Mito. Reseng laughed.
‘Oh, sure, that tiny chatterbox would have no problem killing a guy that size. Let me guess? She knocked him out with a Hot Break to the head then called up her gorilla of a boyfriend to toss him off the roof? Fine. Let’s say it was her. Why’d she do it?’
‘I don’t know, but there’s something very, very fishy about her. You and I both know plotters never use their own names. And they keep everything separate—the address where their mail goes, the secret hideout where they hatch their plots, their secret rendezvous with brokers—different places, so it won’t all blow up in their face at once. Plus, they use a different name in each place. But this woman ordered bomb parts in her own name.’
‘Maybe Dr Kang used her address?’
‘Why bother when there are more than enough fake names and registration numbers to go around?’
Reseng stared at the photograph of Mito, her face turned to the sky, smiling. She looked naïve, almost simple. The sort of girl who’d shriek at the sight of a cockroach. He couldn’t believe she was behind any of this. Even if Jeongan was right, none of it added up. Given Dr Kang’s life, he would’ve had plenty of enemies. Mito could have been one of them. And she might have killed him because of it. But what did that have to do with Reseng and her planting a bomb in his toilet? It made no sense.
‘I think you’ve just got the hots for her,’ Reseng said, tossing the photos on the table. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’
Jeongan looked exasperated.
‘You don’t know her. She’s scary. According to the people who work in the marketplace where she grew up, she worked nonstop—delivering milk, newspapers, doing odd jobs for everyone, from the fish shop to the greengrocer—in order to support her sister, who’s in a wheelchair, and put herself through school. All while maintaining top marks. Everyone I met kept praising her and saying she was sent from heaven. They said she was so smart and pretty and nice and honest and hardworking that they all chipped in a bit of money each month to help pay for her education. And even though she was up at dawn every morning to work at the market, she still graduated top of her class in medical school too. That is seriously scary!’
Jeongan looked positively enamoured.
‘Girls who come top of the class are scary?’
‘Oh, c’mon, that’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is, why work as a plotter’s assistant after all that? Her hard times were behind her. She got into Korea’s best medical school.’
‘Medical school’s expensive. And plotting is an easy way to make a good pile of cash.’
‘But this woman, Mito, isn’t that simple. I’ve shadowed hundreds of people. Dated dozens of women. I basically have a PhD in women. Why don’t you get me?’
‘Fine. Then why would such an honest, hard-working woman kill a doctor and plant a bomb in my toilet? That makes no sense.’
‘No, we don’t have the whole picture yet. But we will soon. I can feel it.’
Jeongan rummaged in his bag and pulled out a map. He handed it to Reseng.
‘What’s this?’
‘I’ve circled the most likely locations of Dr Kang’s and Mito’s secret hideouts. You should check them out.’
‘What about you?’
‘I have plans. I’ll be back in a week.’
‘What plans?’
‘It’s a secret.’ Jeongan grinned.
‘You’re going on vacation with some girl while your friend’s life hangs in the balance? Who is it this time?’
‘It’s no fun hanging out here now that your cats are gone. You know I get along better with females,’ Jeongan joked, as he packed up his bag and put on his shoes. The sneakers weren’t that old, but the backs were already worn down.
‘Are you doing a job for Old Raccoon?’ Reseng asked.
‘What if I am?’
‘I saw Hanja today. I don’t know if it’s the upcoming election, but he was an even bigger prick than usual. He said if we don’t stop, he would have to kill us. Something about how I’m Old Raccoon’s hands and feet and you’re his eyes and ears. What a joke. Anyway, after what happened with the old general, Hanja is pretty angry and wants us to lie low until the election is over.’
‘Aww, is our little Reseng scared? If you fall for every bluff in this line of work, how will you get by?’
‘It’s worse this time. He’ll cool off once the election’s over, so don’t do anything until then.’
‘You know how bored Old Raccoon gets when I don’t deliver his newspaper. Besides, that old fox Hanja isn’t going to start anything now. He’s bluffing. He just wants to scare you. So stop worrying and bring those kitties back. It’s not the same here without the ladies. I can’t believe the great Reseng evacuated his cats because of an ittybitty bomb in his toilet. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?’
Halfway out the door, Jeongan stopped and turned as if he’d just remembered something. He undid his belt and pulled his jeans down.
‘Hey, check this out. Scorpion-brand virility underwear! I got them for one hundred and seventy thousand won. See here—crystallised jade and yellow clay that emit infrared rays to maximise stamina. It’s like I’m wearing Superman’s underwear.’
Reseng watched dumbfounded, then said, ‘The guy who owns the corner shop wears those.’
‘Yeah? I bet he says they’re amazing, right?’
‘They worked so well, he had a stroke.’
Jeongan pouted as he pulled his jeans back up. ‘I don’t know why I expected to have a productive conversation with someone whose goal in life is to die a virgin. I’m out of here.’
Reseng grinned as he watched Jeongan walk away, wiggling his bum.
KNITTING
Reseng had been casing the front of the knitting supply shop for an hour. The sign ‘Misa’s Knitting Room’ looked like a child had written it. The shop was on the first floor of a two-storey building on the corner of a quiet residential street. The building itself was old and run-down, but Misa’s Knitting Room had been renovated, decked out with hardwoods and fabrics to look quaint and charming; it was like something out of a Disney movie. Printed on the shop window were the words ‘Knitting, Quilting, Natural Dyes, Crocheting’ and ‘Great Hobby for Housewives!’
At exactly eleven a.m. Misa wheeled up to the shop. A lunch bag dangled from one armrest, and a canvas bag stuffed with fabric and skeins of wool dangled from the other. She dusted off her hands and took out a handkerchief to blot the beads of sweat from her forehead. Mito and Misa’s apartment was a brisk ten-minute walk from the shop with several low hil
ls along the way. Not the easiest of distances for someone in a wheelchair. It had probably taken Misa a good thirty minutes to get there. No wonder she was perspiring. Misa took out her key and unlocked the security gate. She leaned down to retrieve the newspaper and mail sitting in the entrance, flipping through the envelopes before setting them on her lap. She turned her head and gazed briefly at a large, one-cubic-metre box a delivery person had left outside the shop. It was clearly too big for her to pick up without the use of her legs. She left the box where it was and went inside.
Reseng had spent the last several days visiting the suspicious locations Jeongan had circled on the map. But none of them looked like a secret hideout. Dr Kang’s laboratory was no different from any other faculty office crammed with musty old books and papers, and the spot that Jeongan had indicated as his potential hideout was empty. That was to be expected. If Dr Kang had indeed been Hanja’s plotter, then the moment he was dead, fixers would have been sent in to sweep up every last file. Hanja would never let so much dangerous evidence just sit there.
Mito’s apartment was likewise unremarkable, except that, while Misa’s bedroom was spotlessly clean and well-organised, Mito’s room looked like a chimpanzee lived there. The windowsill was covered in panties left to dry, bras dangled from coathangers out the open window, a pair of elephant-print pyjamas lay crumpled on the bed, and ankle socks, their soles blackened with dirt, were strewn everywhere. Underneath the bed was a pair of old-fashioned men’s boxers, the kind only someone’s dad would wear, and a torn condom. Reseng picked up the boxers, covered in dust and hair, and thought, What kind of idiot takes off so fast he leaves his underwear behind? On the desk were medical books and a notepad. Reseng flipped through the notepad, but it contained no evidence that Mito was a plotter.
Craziest of all, Jeongan’s claim that Mito was Dr Kang’s assistant had turned out to be nothing more than speculation. Everyone at the university and the research centre had looked puzzled by Reseng’s questions.
‘Mito and Dr Kang? I thought she was Professor Seonil Kim’s research assistant.’
Officially, then, it was impossible to say whether Mito and Dr Kang had been involved with each other. Jeongan had jumped to conclusions about their relationship simply because Mito had ordered bomb parts and had at some point worked in the same lab as him.
Reseng took out a cigarette. Just as he was about to light it, Misa came back out. She stared grimly at the oversized box and leaned forward to try to lift it. After a few groans, she gave up and tried dragging it. That didn’t work either. Each time she tugged on the box, her wheelchair rolled and threatened to tip her out. After wrestling with it for a while, she paused to wipe her forehead. Reseng tucked the unlit cigarette back into the pack and walked over to her.
‘Would you like some help?’ he asked.
Misa raised her head and stared at him. Her her eyes were as big and innocent-looking as a calf’s. She looked at him in surprise, then smiled radiantly, less a smile of gratitude for his kind gesture and more like she was stifling laughter. What was so funny?
‘Why, thank you!’ she said finally.
Reseng picked up the box. It was definitely too heavy for anyone to manage without using their legs. He waited for instructions from her, but she was still staring at him in blatant amusement.
‘So…am I supposed to just stand here all day holding this?’ he asked.
Finally Misa burst out laughing.
What was so funny? Reseng was seriously confused. Now Misa was laughing so hard she was crying.
‘I’m sorry. So sorry! Once I start laughing, I can’t stop. Oh my. Wow. I don’t know what came over me. Please come in.’
She wiped her eyes and opened the door, then skilfully guided the wheelchair between a chair and a sewing machine and pointed to a round, wooden table.
Reseng set the box on it.
‘You’re Reseng, right?’ Misa asked, the laughter not yet faded from her face.
Shocked, Reseng said, ‘You know my name?’
‘Of course I do! You’re my sister’s boyfriend—how could I not know your name? We talk about you every day up in the attic.’
The words boyfriend, every day and attic swirled around inside Reseng’s head. What on earth was going on?
‘Your sister said I’m her boyfriend?’ Reseng frowned.
‘What? You’re not? Are you another of my sister’s crushes?’ Misa now looked like she was going to burst into tears at any second. ‘I knew it. I knew she was turning into a stalker again.’
Misa picked up a piece of wool from the table and twisted it around the tip of her finger, then dropped it on the floor. She looked so crestfallen that Reseng almost felt bad.
‘No, I, uh…I only said that because I thought I was the one with the crush.’
‘Really?’ Misa’s eyes widened.
‘Of course.’
He smiled at her. Her face immediately lit up like a child’s.
‘Oh, where are my manners? Please have a seat!’
She offered him the chair next to her. He sat down, still confused.
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Trouble? Don’t be silly.’
Misa gave him another big smile and wheeled over to a small kitchenette that had been added to the corner of the shop. The sink and counter were set low to accommodate her. While she prepared the tea, he took a quick look around.
Though you might expect a place where people worked with fabric and wool to be messy, the inside of the shop was as neat and charming as Misa herself. A cabinet along one wall held tidy stacks of cloth, quilting supplies, knitting needles and wool, and fabric samples. Displayed on another wall were tablecloths, aprons, dolls, bags and other quilted objects. The items all had little signs in pretty handwriting: either ‘For Display’ or ‘For Sale’. The centre shelf, which had a sign that read ‘Petting Zoo’, was lined with various soft toys. There was pants-less Winnie-the-Pooh, his stomach sticking out, and Chester Cheetah giving the thumbs-up, with a speech bubble that read: ‘You are Zeus, god of the sky. I am Cheetos, god of the snacks.’ Staring blankly at Reseng were Tom and Jerry, Papa Smurf and a whole gaggle of his Smurf buddies, as well as all the Teletubbies, their arms in the air as if they were about to lead everyone in a round of calisthenics. Reseng caught himself wondering nonsensically, Do they belong in a petting zoo? Another shelf, labelled ‘The Garden’, held a display of quilted cacti, carrots, watermelons and strawberries. A pair of Brother sewing machines sat next to each other facing the window, and two mannequins dressed in hand-knitted vests appeared to be having a friendly chat in the corner. But there was no sign of any staircase leading to an attic room.
‘What brings you to our shop? Are you meeting my sister here?’ Misa asked while washing fruit.
‘Yes,’ Reseng said absent-mindedly.
‘When did she say she’s coming?’
‘Soon.’
Another sign said ‘Bathroom’, in front of a curtain over a doorway. Reseng pretended he was having a look around and drew the curtain back. At the end of a hallway no more than five metres long was a bathroom. He walked down the hallway and opened the door. Other than the stainless-steel handrails on each side of the toilet and the low sink for wheelchair access, there was nothing out of the ordinary. He closed the door and walked back. Just before the doorway back to the shop, he stopped in front of a large built-in wardrobe. Wondering why anyone would install a wardrobe there, Reseng opened the door and found it stuffed with clothes. He pushed the clothes to one side and rapped his knuckles against the back wall. It sounded like an empty wooden barrel. He ran his fingers along the edge and at the very bottom discovered a handle for a sliding door. It slid open to reveal a steep, narrow set of wooden stairs. He stuck his head out of the curtain and checked the shop. The sound of running water was still coming from the sink.
‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom?’ he called.
‘Go ahead!’ Misa said cheerfully.
Reseng slipped off his shoes and held them in his hand as he closed the cupboard door and crept up the stairs. It was pitch-black inside. He slid his hand along the wall until he found a light switch. Other than the lack of windows, there was nothing remarkable about the room. A Japanese-style tatami mat lined the floor, and the only furnishings were a low desk and a single mattress. The desk held a lamp and a laptop computer, and the mattress had a single blanket and pillow.
Reseng turned to look at the wall behind him. He froze. The wall was covered with hundreds of photos of Reseng. Not just photos, but X-rays, medical records, online order receipts, copies of his bankbook, his resident registration card, his medical insurance card, his driver’s licence and even photocopies of his utility bills. Each photo had the date, time and place written on it in permanent marker. There was so much data on him that he felt like he was looking at his very existence, cut up and pinned to the wall.
Reseng stared at the photos of himself. Those who didn’t know him would have thought they were of his everyday life, but in fact there was nothing everyday about them. Several had been taken just before Reseng had committed an assassination, and several just after. Not only that, but the black Samsonite attaché case that Mito had zoomed in on in some of the photos was the same briefcase that plotters used to send him dossiers. The briefcase also held any weapons, drugs or other items he needed to complete an assignment, and was always returned to the plotter once the job was done. Mixed in with the photos of Reseng were photos of targets he’d taken out.
So Mito was a plotter after all.
Reseng checked the time. Five minutes had already passed since he’d told Misa he was going to the bathroom. He took out his Swiss Army knife and used it to remove the hard drive from the laptop, then slipped the drive in his pocket and screwed the laptop casing back on. After one last look around the room, he turned off the light and crept back down the stairs. He closed the cupboard door and stole a peek inside the shop. Misa was sitting at the table set with coffee and fruit, waiting for him. Reseng slipped into the bathroom, flushed the toilet and washed his hands. Then he shut the door noisily as he left.