here. Not even any noodle stands or chop houses.
Another thing I didn’t see were cops. Hero Kang seemed to read my mind.
“The police mainly patrol the government offices and the homes of the cadres.”
“But if we see one?”
Kang’s face set grimly. “I’ll take care of it. Come on.”
We slid into a narrow alley lined with brick-and-stone walls. The pathway ran straight for a while and then began to wind sinuously in various directions until I was completely disoriented. I would’ve navigated by the sun, but it was hidden behind banks of gray clouds. Finally, the walkway started to rise uphill. I felt hidden back here, and safe.
“Commander Koh,” I said, “in the Port of Nampo, he will alert the authorities about me. And the Chinese aboard the train, eventually the train station security office will corroborate their story and confirm that a Romanian officer who couldn’t speak Russian is wandering around Pyongyang.”
Kang shook his head. “No. Neither one of them will report it. Neither Commander Koh nor the security people at the train station.”
The road became steeper and finally, leaning forward, Hero Kang explained.
“Things are different here. No one dares to report failure.” I thought of the headquarters of the Eighth United States Army in Seoul. There wasn’t much failure reported there either. Kang continued, “The price of failure is too high. Commander Koh would never report that he allowed a foreign sailor to escape from the Port of Nampo, nor would the security office at the Pyongyang Train Station report that a man posing as a Romanian officer slipped through their grasp. They will remain silent and hope that your escape is not traced back to them.”
“And if it is traced back to them?”
“They will cut a deal with someone to keep it quiet.”
“They will be blackmailed,” I said.
Hero Kang nodded. “Precisely. But that is unlikely.”
“Why?”
“Because they will take other action.”
“Other action? You just said they won’t report me.”
“No, they won’t. Not officially. But they have other options.”
“Other options? Like what?”
“Like reporting you to one of the fixers.”
“Fixers” wasn’t the exact word Hero Kang used. In fact, it wasn’t a single word at all but a North Korean term he took pains to explain to me. It has to do with people who find ways to solve problems so they are never brought to the attention of the official governmental authorities. They also act as intermediaries between the various factions within the government. According to Kang, the fixers are exceedingly efficient-unlike the government-and are highly paid for the work they do.
“So Commander Koh and the railroad security people will go to someone they call a fixer?”
“Yes. A foreigner wandering around North Korea is like a bomb rolling across the deck of a ship. They have to do something.”
“Do you think they have already hired a fixer?”
“Almost certainly.”
Hero Kang made a left turn into a short alley draped with tattered canvas. At the end of a short walkway was a wooden storage bin heaped with stinking refuse. The stench was so awful I squeezed my nose.
“Back here,” he said, pointing into the darkness.
“There’s nothing back there. Just a wall.”
“Come.”
Hero Kang crouched on the far edge of the refuse bin, fiddled with some of the splintered wood, and a small portal opened. The aperture was pitch black, darker than its surroundings. He entered and waved for me to follow.
I gazed behind me down the alley, at the gray light, at a sparrow that flitted across my vision through the cold, fresh air. Then I looked back at the foul opening. I had no choice but to follow this man. I was lost in a country that despised Americans, like a fat carp swimming among sharks. I went through the opening into the muddy pit.
After a few yards, I was able to stand almost upright. An electric torch appeared in Hero Kang’s hand and he used it to guide his way over the jagged floor of the tunnel. Stones jutted down from the roof above me. I dodged most of them but clunked my head a couple of times, cursing as I did so.
The tunnels were used, Hero Kang told me, during the Korean War to hide from American bombs.
“We were most afraid of the napalm,” Hero Kang said. “You Americans splashed it everywhere, turning us into cowering moles. The Great Leader had his headquarters in a cave not far from here. That’s why the network is so huge. In addition to the army, the average citizens, with their bare hands, tunneled into the mountains too. For safety. After the war, the army used explosives and closed most of the tunnels, but the people have reclaimed them, pulling out dirt and lumber and boulders to develop a little world back here where we can live free of constant surveillance.”
Ahead of us, men grunted in cadence. And then I heard some familiar words: “Kyongnei. Chunbi. Shijak.” Bow. Prepare. Begin.
A door opened into a vast chamber lit by glass lanterns. In the center of the chamber, a raised wooden platform, a dochang, had been constructed. At least two-dozen men stood facing an instructor, some wearing white karate robes, most not.
“A Taekwondo class,” I said to Hero Kang.
“Yes.”
Taekwondo is taught to everyone in school and in the military, for the defense of the country. In its advanced forms, however, it is taught only to those favored by the Great Leader.
“So these men practice here in secret,” I said.
“Yes.”
We watched the men go through their choreographed moves. I’d studied Taekwondo in Seoul, on the base. A lot of GIs did. So far, I’d advanced to the first level of black belt, but I was a rank amateur compared to these men. Their kicks, hops, punches, and parries were carried out with a blinding precision and speed.
“So why have you brought me here?” I asked.
Hero Kang grinned. “You need to practice. Take off your clothes.” He pointed to a bench covered with jackets and hats and shoes. Then he walked over to a line of pegs in the stone wall and selected a white uniform. He tossed it to me. “Put this on.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is this about that ‘tournament’ you mentioned?”
Hero Kang grinned even more broadly. “We’re going to find out what kind of fighter you are.”
I lay collapsed on a cold wooden floor. The pummeling I’d taken from the Taekwondo experts had been brutal. I was bigger than any of them, my legs and arms longer, my body heavier. Still, they’d kicked me around as if I were an overstuffed beanbag. When I was a kid, I’d studied boxing in a sheriff’s program at the Main Street Gym in Los Angeles and I considered myself to be pretty good. More than once, my left jab had pulled me out of a jam. But Taekwondo emphasizes the use of the feet and the legs and more contact is allowed with kicks. Punches, by contrast, have to be pulled. So much for my advantage. I rolled over and groaned, longing to take a shower. Hero Kang assured me that in this worker’s paradise there was no hot water available.
“Tonight,” he said, “food will be brought to you. Until then, you are to wait and make no sound whatsoever.”
After the workout, he’d had me change back into the Romanian officer’s uniform. I’d been perspiring so much from the workout that the once-clean Warsaw Pact uniform was soon soaked through with sweat and the coarse wool rubbed mercilessly against my skin. We’d slipped out of a different exit from the underground tunnels and made our way about a half-mile, with me hobbling as fast as I could behind Hero Kang. Finally, we stepped into a deserted building constructed like a yoguan, a traditional Korean inn. There was a double door out front, a small wood-floored foyer, and a central stairway that led upstairs to long halls with cubicle-like rooms behind small doors. The only problem was that there was no proprietor. As usual, Hero Kang strode in like he owned the place and bade me follow him upstairs to the last room in a long hallway, where, once inside, I collapsed on the floor. In the next
