had a mole in the Romanian Embassy, someone who had confirmed to the highest levels of the North Korean government that a certain Captain Enescu was indeed a member of their embassy and working in their employ. That, coupled with the manic level of mutual suspicion that pervaded the Joy Brigade, made it possible for me to survive. No one was willing to compare notes; no one was willing to express an honest opinion; no one was willing to admit that they-or, more importantly, their boss-might be wrong. Welcome to the efficient functioning of the worker’s paradise.
During evening chow, I wolfed down all the food I could hold, because who knew when I’d be able to eat again. When the lights dimmed and the propaganda newsreels flickered to life, I slipped out once again into the moonlit gloom of the garden. After making sure no one was following, I made my way quickly through the maze of monuments and manicured lawns.
As I neared my destination, I rounded an artificial pond and crouched behind a stone edifice I hadn’t previously paid much attention to. It was about eight feet high, thick at the base and tapering to a point, and there appeared to be carvings along the side. I rubbed my hand over the etched lines, but in the pale moonlight I couldn’t make out any design. Erosion had faded the original inscription into an indecipherable jumble. Amid the tufts of grass at the bottom, a few bits of intricately wrapped paper and some polished stones were hidden. Gifts, I supposed, left by the people who worked nearby; gifts to this ancient monolith and to the primitive gods who predated not only the regime of the Great Leader but also the medieval kings buried nearby. I left the sacred edifice and slipped downhill toward the iron door of the Koguryo tomb.
On the way, I found a heavy branch from one of the nearby trees and carried it with me. The locking mechanism in the front door of the tomb had been loosened now and was relatively easy to open. I slipped into the darkness. Instead of closing the door all the way, I propped it slightly open with the branch, just enough so it wouldn’t lock behind me. That way, if I had to make a quick exit, I wouldn’t have to fiddle with the key. I suspended the branch two or three inches above the ground, so I’d know if anyone entered behind me and dislodged it. When I was happy with my little warning signal, I stepped into the gloom.
Without a flashlight or candle, I felt my way down the steps, touching ancient stone with my fingertips. A rotten odor filled my nostrils. Rodents squeaked in front of me and tiny paws scurried away. Something flapped its wings. I waved whatever it was away from my face. On my left, the darkness seemed thicker somehow and the air was full of the musty reek of fur.
Finally, like a friendly beacon, I found the dime-sized beam of light emanating from the wall next to the iron escape hatch. I peered inside. The room was empty and only one solitary yellow bulb glowed. I squatted down on the cold stone steps, hugging myself, beginning to shiver. I waited.
I awoke with a start.
I’d been dozing on the steps, my forearms resting on my knees. Even as I stood, I could feel my muscles and joints complaining about the ridiculous workout I’d been subjected to earlier. Come what may, I was glad I wouldn’t have to go through all that tomorrow.
Ahead of me, the hatchway moved, groaning. Light flooded the tunnel. I grabbed the edge of the iron door and peered inside.
Kang Hye-kyong looked like a sculpted hero in her People’s Army uniform, all the lines of her wool skirt and wool tunic pressed, her square face stern, like her father’s. She touched a forefinger to her pursed lips.
“They will be coming soon,” she said. “I will leave this unlatched, but you must not enter until I call you, not under any circumstances, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
Footsteps pounded on the far side of the room. Hye-kyong glanced back and reached for the inner handle of the door, pulling it shut. Or almost shut. She left it open just enough so the metal latch wouldn’t catch. When the time came, I’d be able to pull it open.
I returned to the dime-sized peephole and peered in. Doors opened and voices murmured, one of them Hye- kyong’s. I imagined her bowing and helping the various officials with their coats and hats. Then brown shoes appeared beneath the conference table. Something tinkled. Glassware. Cups, maybe. Hye-kyong was serving tea.
Eventually, a deep-voiced man cleared his throat and the meeting started. I tried to keep up with what was being said, but most of the reports consisted of long lists of supplies and numbers and logistical timelines. It was clear this was a working meeting of men responsible for the day-to-day operations of the First Army Corps, one of the most important military organizations in the North Korean People’s Army. It was responsible for protecting the capital city of Pyongyang and therefore also the life of the Great Leader and his heir apparent, Kim Jong-il, the Dear Leader.
Finally, my ears perked up. One of the First Corps armored brigades would be moving out. Tomorrow. There was much discussion of the other brigades that would be responsible for taking over defensive positions along the perimeter of the city that would be left unguarded after their departure. There was also talk of tanks and artillery pieces and infantry units, and discussions about the fuel required to move all that equipment south toward the Demilitarized Zone. The most efficient route was discussed. The roads leading directly to the DMZ were ruled fairly good, but the road leading to the Kwangju Mountain Range was in sore need of repair. Maintenance had been neglected because the Manchurian Battalion, guarding the eastern portion of the DMZ, was notorious for being self-sufficient; therefore, over the years, the scarce resources had been diverted to other units.
It was decided that the Red Star Brigade, which was the First Corps brigade chosen for this mission, would not take a direct route to the Kwangju Mountains. Instead, they would head first toward Hamhung, the largest port city on the Eastern Sea, mimicking what would happen if an enemy invasion force broke through with an amphibious landing and reinforcements were needed. Paper crinkled. Maps were being spread atop the conference table. Eventually it was decided that before reaching the outskirts of Hamhung, the Red Star Brigade would turn south and make their way at top speed toward the Kwangju Mountains.
The roads, one of the officers complained, were miserable in these areas. These were practical men who weren’t worried about propaganda considerations or saving face for the regime. They called it like it was, at least here in the confines of this secret meeting. Since the roads were so bad, it was decided that various units of the Red Star Brigade would split up and take different routes. That way, if one part of the brigade were blocked by landslides or heavy snowfall, the rest would still reach its destination. Once they reached a town called Beikyang, they would regroup and start their climb over the ridge of the highest peak in the area, Mount O-song, and commence their final assault on the Manchurian Battalion.
Or at least that’s what I thought they said. This type of detailed information would prove invaluable to a military unit fighting in defense, but if I were wrong about the particulars, it could lead to disaster. The entire conversation taxed the very limits of my Korean-language abilities and I cursed myself for not studying harder. So much was at stake.
There was more discussion of the strength of the Manchurian Battalion, how many men they had, what their fighting capability was, how many artillery pieces and how many armored vehicles. It turned out that the battalion was virtually all infantry. They had a few dozen old Russian artillery pieces, but those were on tracks, dug into the sides of mountains, and pointing across the DMZ toward South Korea. They could not be turned around and used against an assault force attacking from the rear.
“Will they fight?” one of the generals asked.
“Of course not,” Commissar Oh responded. “Once we drop leaflets explaining that they are being decommissioned and replaced by the Red Star Brigade, they will lay down their arms. After all, it is the will of the Great Leader.”
A gravelly voice I hadn’t heard before spoke up. “Is Bandit Lee dead?”
“No,” Commissar Oh replied. “He is still the commander of the Manchurian Battalion.”
“If Bandit Lee is alive,” the voice said, “then the Manchurian Battalion will fight. He will never turn over his command to anyone other than the Great Leader himself.”
A long silence ensued. As honest and practical as this group might be, no one was willing to venture an opinion on what the Great Leader should or shouldn’t do. They had their orders. But the implication was clear: If the Great Leader commanded this expedition himself, Bandit Lee wouldn’t oppose him and lives would be saved. If the silence in the room was any indication, the Great Leader had no such plans.
More paperwork was shuffled, more tea was served, and finally, after haggling over the amount of petroleum reserves that would be issued to the Red Star Brigade, the meeting was adjourned. Footsteps pounded on a stone
