by James Church
“What makes you think I’m nervous?”
This time it was Kang who laughed. “You were always nervous, Inspector. You’re a bundle of nerves, though you pretend not to be. Something like that never changes.”
“Things change. I’m older.”
“Good for you. So am I. So is Richie, here. The only ones who aren’t older, I guess you’d say they’re dead.” That also didn’t ring.
Richie raised his glass. “There are a lot of them, for sure. All the best ones are on the other side.” He sipped the whiskey, then broke out coughing. When he stopped, his eyes were unfocused, as if they weren’t seeing anything anymore. “That’s a comforting thought,” he said to nobody. “I wonder if they’ll recognize me.”
Kang moved to the window and pulled the curtain back slightly. “Walk around the city for a few days, Inspector. Go up to the castle, maybe, down to the Old Town. Take your time going through the paintings on the Charles Bridge.”
“Am I looking for anything?”
“No, you’re taking in the sights, that’s all.”
“How long?”
“Two days.”
“Forget it. If I don’t get back to Pyongyang right away, they’ll wonder where I’ve been. I can’t afford that.”
Nothing. Richie didn’t cough. The sounds of silverware being polished stopped.
Kang continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “Day three, you go to the main square in the Old Town.”
“There won’t be a day three. What makes you think I’m going to hang around? Waiting is a bad idea. It’s always a mistake. Things go wrong; threads unravel where you didn’t even know there were threads. It happens tomorrow, or it doesn’t happen.”
“You sit on the edge of the fountain; make sure the town hall is on your right.” Either Kang’s hearing was getting bad or I was mumbling. “Can you remember the layout of the square from your last visit? If you don’t, get over there and walk around. Take it easy. Amble. If you think someone is on your tail, let them stick. Don’t do anything fancy. Just walk.”
“Sure, I’m a piece of bait. That’s me, Inspector O—bait-for-hire. Just send a plane ticket and book a room at a crummy hotel. Other people rent out as assassins, not me. I’m a little fish; want to see me dance on the hook?”
“The square, Inspector. Do you remember the layout?”
Hopeless! The man had no sense of give-and-take. Of course I remembered the square. The image of those buildings came back to me as perfectly as if I’d seen them yesterday. Maybe I couldn’t remember where I put my keys anymore, but my memory of meeting places was still good, better than good. Someone once told me I had a sense of location like a homing pigeon. I could never figure out if that was a compliment. “You want me facing south. Coincidence, I suppose.”
Kang let the curtain fall back. “Nothing is coincidence.” He turned around and looked at me. “From here on out, there is no such thing.”
Richie drained the rest of the whiskey. “That’s better.” He took a deep breath. “Forget the baths.”
“Right, you just sit here and drink.” Kang refilled the empty glass. He turned back to me. “I thought it would be a nice touch, Inspector, using the square as part of the plan. Ironic, don’t you think?”
“Sure, a little irony is good. This plan of yours—I take it you want a meeting in front of Kafka’s house.”
“You’ve got to admit, it’s funny. You and Kafka.”
“A barrel of monkeys, him and me.” I remembered what the doctor had said. “Any special time?”
“Four o’clock. A crowd gathers to watch the clock strike in the town hall tower. The police in the square focus on the crowd for pickpockets. The shadows are getting longer by then. You’ll have a few minutes for the contact. It won’t be me, incidentally.”
Suddenly, this plan was more and more interesting. “Anyone special, or anyone but you?”
“Don’t worry; you’ll know.”
“No recognition signal? No shoelace untied? A copy of The Trial carried in the left hand, maybe?”
“Nothing. You won’t need it.”
“Right, I won’t need it. I have no needs. I am a piece of straw adrift on the wind currents of time.”
A groan came from the kitchen.
“Then what?” I said. “Someone walks up, hands me a white envelope, and I buy a villa along the Dalmatian coast for persons as yet unnamed?”
“If everything works out, you’ll be taken to me, at which point we can have a long meeting. There are things we have to talk about.”
“None that I know of. Look, Kang, I’m here right now. Why wait? My ears are good today; who knows about tomorrow? At our age, parts are falling off every day. You have something to say? I’m listening.”
“You were in Macau. You’ve been rubbing shoulders with a Major Kim in Pyongyang. Should I go on?”
Kang knew Kim? This did not sound right; it gave off that odd buzzing sound that meant a wire was overheating. So, all right, maybe I’d stay an extra day or two. I could come up with something as an alibi. Planes were always delayed. I could tell Kim I’d been quarantined in Macau with bird flu. The last place Kim would figure I’d go would be Prague. Or maybe it wasn’t; maybe that was why Kang wanted me walking around for a couple of days.
“We’ll meet if things work, you said. What if they don’t?” Kang knew what the question meant; it meant I had bought into his plan, whatever the hell it was. He had the grace not to smirk in victory.
“If things don’t work, there’s a Korean restaurant over toward the Jewish Quarter, not far off the square. Go in and get something to eat. The mandu is good. Then take a plane home, get back to your mountain, and stay there. If you hear shots and cries for mercy, ignore them.”
“I’m sorry about your daughter, Kang. There was no time that night to tell you I was sorry.”
Kang turned away.
“Well,” said Richie, “I think we’ve done enough damage for one evening. Good night, all.” He struggled to his feet. “Kulov! See the man out!”
3
I should have left the next morning. Kang wanted me to tell him about Macau, which meant he must know what happened there. Maybe he was even involved with the murder. If he was still angry about his daughter, maybe he’d been plotting an assassination all these years as revenge. He also knew about Major Kim, and that meant Kang had a good idea what was going on in Pyongyang. If he knew what was going on in Pyongyang, he had sources of information. And if he had sources of information, he had money.
Instead of leaving, I walked around the city, asking myself questions and chasing answers. If Major Kim was right and the game was over, we were in for years of heartache. I hadn’t been kidding with Kim about chopping wood and hauling water; he hadn’t been kidding about my shining his boots. Pyongyang would be razed, dug up, rearranged, subdivided. Streets would be repaved, memorials toppled, factories put under new management and made to produce. Food would come into the markets, goods into the stores, rations brought back, prices controlled, intelligence files pored over, people taken away in the night. The rest of the country would barely get a taste of the new money for a long time. When Kim told me that the camps would stay, I knew everything I needed to know about what the next ten years would be like.
Kim said he wanted a smooth transition. He wasn’t going to get it. If nothing else, the Chinese were not going to let it happen. Colonel Pang had made that very clear. There was also some sort of homegrown opposition stirring, and Kim didn’t seem to have a hammer he could bring down on it. The longer he waited, the stronger the opposition would get. Even so, they needed a rallying point. I didn’t see one—unless that’s what Kang was working to create. Contacting me in Macau and getting me to Prague was not a major feat, but it took money and a pretty good network. We were back to money. Funds weren’t so hard to get, if you knew where to look. A network was more difficult. That took time to build. How long had it been in place? I could probably date its origins p
recisely—to that night in Manpo when Kang’s daughter was taken away. No one ever knew what happened to her. Maybe Kang knew. Maybe that’s why he refused to forget.
On the afternoon of the third day, I wandered into the main square just past three o’clock. I wanted to see who moved into position before they spotted me. At first I hung back, drifting along the southern edge. A police van was parked near the fountain in the center. Compounds had ponds; squares had fountains—it was a law of nature.
Two uniformed police were talking to an Asian who was gesturing broadly the way people do when they don’t know the language. He reached for his wallet, which made them nervous. They both stepped back. Unless this was designed to be a distraction, it all looked absolutely routine. Not far from the police, sitting on the lip of the fountain, very relaxed and red-faced with liquor, were three Koreans wearing black cadre jackets. A Westerner edged over to them, pretending to be uninterested. One of the men looked at him sharply; then all three stood up and walked away. Seconds later, another Korean, gray haired and bent in a shabby raincoat, shuffled after them. He kept turning his head from side to side like a mechanical toy. None of them gave any sign that they were looking for something special. But the whole thing made me uneasy. Too damn many Koreans in one place all of a sudden.
I moved around to the opposite side of the square, trying to find a place where I could watch but not be noticed. A cloud went across the sun, and the scene suddenly didn’t look so friendly anymore. The fountain lost its appeal; the old buildings lost their gracious air and became angry. Then the sun came out again, and everything went back to normal. A woman moved out of the shadows and stood beside me.
“Hello, Cousin,” she said in perfect English. She was studying a map and facing away, so I couldn’t see much of her features. From the way her clothes fit and the strands of gray in her hair, she looked about fifty, well dressed but nothing flashy, a canvas bag over her shoulder, comfortable shoes. Then she turned to face me, and I got a good look at her. “Kafka lived over there for a while.” She pointed and flashed a diamond ring. It caught the sun and burned a hole in my heart. This was the same woman Li and I had seen in Pyongyang in front of the hotel, getting into the car. It was the same woman who had trailed the golden thread. “He went to school right here.” She turned sidewise to look at the building behind us. I don’t know if she had Chinese blood or Tartar blood or the blood of Mongol princes in her veins. She was Korean, gorgeously so. This was exactly like Kang, to have such perfection in reserve for a meeting in plain view. Anyone watching would fixate on her. I might as well be a Styrofoam cup.
“I thought the meeting was four o’clock,” I said.
“Change of plans. You’re here; I’m here. No harm done. Let’s be flexible.”
“I don’t have a cousin.”
“Tough luck for you. No uncles, no cousins.”
Someone had a very good network. “Well, it’s your lead. I’m just hanging around hoping this doesn’t work, so I can have the dumplings.”
She laughed softly and looked across the square at something. “It appears we have liftoff.”
Everything about her English was perfect—the cadence, the rhythm, the ease with which the lips found the perfect word. If I closed my eyes, I’d think she was a blonde with blue eyes.
“Let’s walk,” she said. “Engage in animated conversation. Put your arm around my shoulder. If we’re not cousins, we’re old friends. We have a lot to catch up on. How have you been?”
“A life squandered until thirty seconds ago. Which way do we walk?”
She made a show of taking my hand. “There’s an old house in an area called the Karlin section, not far, just around the bend in the river. That’s where we’ll end up. It’s nice in its own way. Some people find it drab, not quaint enough, but it’s quiet. If you want, we can stop for coffee before we get there. The coffee is better on the other side of the river than it is here, though, so we may have to walk a little. Then we can sit and relax. Anyone who is interested will think we are chatting gaily about old times.”
“No chance of going to the Korean restaurant?”
“You’re in Prague, my friend. Try something new.” She kissed my cheek. “You never know what might be good unless you try.”
We crossed a bridge, took a streetcar, walked in narrow, winding streets. After a while, we climbed a steep hill, up a flight of stone stairs that led to more narrow streets. The café where we finally stopped was nearly empty. A few locals sat by themselves, smoking. We found a table in a corner, away from the window. She took the seat facing the door.
“Good thing we stopped,” I said. “Those hills are killers. What if I had a heart attack?”
“Sorry, I thought you’d like the exertion, give you a chance to get your blood pumping.” She leaned toward me. “Isn’t that what old friends do? Get each other’s blood moving?”
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.” She was right, my heart was pumping, and not from the stairs. “I’m not in the mood, and I doubt if I’m in shape.”
“Well, well. Why don’t we stop at a pharmacy and get you some of those pills.”
“Aren’t we off track a little? I don’t think Kang set up this meeting for us to play the sultan and the harem.”
“It may have crossed his mind. Kang has a strange sense of mission sometimes. But you’re right. Business is business. Let’s have a cup of coffee and a pastry. You’re not too far gone for pastry, I hope.”
4
She looked at her watch several times while we sat and talked.
“That’s a good way to spoil a friendship,” I said. “Love dies where deadlines loom.”
“Cute,” she said. “But we have a schedule to keep. Drink your coffee and shut up.” She licked the sugar from the pastry off her lips.
She paid the bill, and we stepped out the door into the brilliant end of a golden autumn afternoon. The schedule seemed to have gone away. We walked slowly, not saying much. I was about to edge into something endearing when we came upon a stretch of lawn across from an old palace already deep in shadow.
“You ever notice that?” I dumped the endearments and knelt to run my hand across the grass.
“The palace? Looks like a cold place, too austere for me. I’d never want to get out of bed in December. Do you like to stay in bed in December, Inspector?”
“I meant the color of the grass. There is nothing in the world sadder than green, green grass on an autumn afternoon. Trees, crops in the field, animals—everything else alive knows this is the season to prepare for the worst. But grass? Hoping against hope that the sunshine won’t ever go away. Or maybe too dumb to realize what is coming. It gives me chills just to look at it.”
“Why?”
“Too many memories of when I was the same way.”
The woman leaned down so that her face was even with mine, and very close. “Don’t bring up anything like that when you talk to Kang. Don’t talk about disappointment. Don’t rake over memories. He has a job to do, and he can’t lose focus now.”
She gave me her hand and pulled me up. The light was fading. The buildings’ shadows already buried the streets. “There’s a car up ahead fifty meters on the left, a brown Škoda. Here are the keys. Go ahead and get in. I’ll be behind you by about a minute.”
“I don’t think I should drive.”
“Nor do I, Inspector. I’ll take the wheel.”
And drive she did. From the sound of it, the engine of the car seemed to have been worked on recently. There was no way of knowing if the brakes had received equal attention, because she never used them. I was not sure where we were going, but then again, I had no idea where we had been. Wherever we were headed, it was in a great hurry. I tried to fix a location in case I needed to find the spot later, but at that time of night one sixteenth-century building looks like another. The last time I was in Prague, it had been in winter. Everything had looked different then, in the gloom. We pulled up in front of a narrow three-s
tory building with an elaborate doorway.
“Out,” she said. “Ring the bell and if that doesn’t work, knock politely. I’ve got errands to run. I’ll see you later, old friend.”
“Good thing we’re not related.”
“You react badly to pastry.” She gunned the motor. “It’s bad for your heart.”
The front door opened before the sound of the bell had faded. Richie stared out at me. He looked like hell. No, he looked like death itself.
“You better see a doctor, Richie.”
“What for? He’s not going to do anything for me.” He coughed, doubled over. “Let’s get inside; this cold air is bad for me. Everything is bad for me.”
“Where’s Kang?” I stepped in. The place was very tidy, very sterile. No one lived here.
“Kang’s not here yet. You’re early. Greta drives fast, doesn’t she?”
“Greta? Is that her name?”
“Wonderful woman, well trained, very thoughtful. She looks after Kang like she was his daughter.” He made a face. “Don’t do that again, mentioning what happened.”
“I know; I’ve been warned. He needs to stay focused.”
“Who told you that? Greta?”
“What’s her real name?̶
“Let’s sit down. I can breathe better when I’m sitting.”
We sat—Richie on the sofa, me in a pale yellow chair.
“Better? You want a glass of whiskey?” So, all right, no one was going to tell me Greta’s real name. I’d ask Li. He clearly knew who she was. He’d stopped breathing when he saw her in the parking lot at the hotel in Pyongyang.
“We don’t keep any alcohol here,” Richie’s eyes searched all the corners of the room. “In the other place, I can drink as much as I want. This is the safe house, and Kang doesn’t like liquor in a safe house. He thinks of a safe house as a chapel or something.”
“What was that charade in the square about?”
“Flushing quail.”
“And?”
“Working with Greta is a pleasure.” He coughed until his face turned red. “There isn’t a quail around who can remember to keep his head down when she gets moving. You must have done a good job getting here from Macau. There’s no one new in town that we can spot on your tail.”