Then, I assure you, I will take you to her.”
“No,” I said, surprising him. “Before I do anything, I must see her, make sure that she’s safe.”
Hero Kang studied me, amazed apparently, at my temerity. So far, he was my only point of contact in the entire country. All I knew about Doc Yong’s whereabouts was that she was somewhere in North Korea. I either trusted Hero Kang or I was worth less than a handful of nurungji, the burnt crust on the bottom of a rice pot. But maybe I was burnt crust anyway. Before I did anything, before I was either killed or captured or tortured by the North Korean authorities, I wanted to see Doctor Yong In-ja. My cooperation was my only bargaining chip and I’d withhold it until I saw her.
“There is a tournament,” he said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot, “for foreigners. Every year the winner is allowed as an honored guest into a place that is reserved only for the highest echelons of the Korean Workers’ Party. We have managed to slip one agent in there, but no others. How that agent is faring, we do not know. We’ve received only one message, a message of the highest priority. A plea for immediate assistance.”
“What,” I asked, “does all this have to do with me?”
“You are a foreigner,” Hero Kang roared. He glanced around, surprised by the rage in his voice. When he spoke again, his voice was more controlled. “It is a Taekwondo tournament, for foreigners only, in Pyongyang. You are a black belt, are you not?”
I nodded. I’d been studying Taekwondo for almost three years now, if not as diligently as I should. My instructor in Seoul, Mr. Chong, criticized me often for not attending every class. I told him it was my job. That didn’t mollify him.
“If you win this tournament,” Hero Kang continued, “you will be able to enter the confines of their compound and make contact with our agent. You will be able to tell us what their plans are.”
“Their plans?”
“You’re not a fool,” he said. “You know that at this moment, when our so-called ‘Great Leader’ is about to step down…” He flicked the photograph hanging at his neck with his forefinger, “… every mind in the country is on his succession.”
“You want to stop his son from taking over the government.”
“Don’t worry about such things,” he replied. “Let others worry about that. Only worry about the mission.”
“I haven’t accepted the mission. I came here to meet Doctor Yong In-ja.”
Hero Kang leaned forward, as if he were about to spring at me, and let out a sigh of exasperation. He cocked his head to the right for what seemed a long time. I tensed, prepared to defend myself. Finally, he turned his head and gazed up at me. “All right,” he said finally. “We’ll see what we can do.”
“No,” I replied. “Not ‘what we can do.’ I must see her.”
His face flamed red. He held up a thick forefinger, as if to waggle it at me, then thought better of it and let it drop to his lap.
“It will be dangerous for her,” he said. “But if that’s what you want, that’s what we will do. Wait here.”
He left through the back door, slipping off into the dark alleys of Nampo. I’m not sure where he went, but I spent the time sweating, wondering if he’d decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. I wondered why I had been so obstinate. After all, I was alone in North Korea and this man held all the aces. I’d never escape from here alive if he didn’t help me. Still, the more I thought about it, the more I believed I was right. I had to see Doc Yong. That’s all that mattered.
After more than half an hour, Hero Kang returned.
“I sent a message,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “Tomorrow, early, we go to Pyongyang.”
“I’ll see Doc Yong?”
“Yes.” He was angry now. “I already told you.”
He hadn’t already told me, but I didn’t argue the point. “On the way to Pyongyang won’t we be stopped?” I asked. “Won’t I be arrested?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t trust me very much, do you?”
When I didn’t answer, he shook his head.
“No, you won’t be arrested. In this country, no one is arrested as long as they act boldly. What you must do is spread fear; with every step, with every glance, with every word, you must spread fear. Then others will wonder what powerful people are behind you and they will respect you. Then they will do your bidding.”
From what I’d seen so far, Hero Kang was good at spreading fear. He rummaged through a duffel bag and pulled out a brown uniform. He tossed it to me.
“Here,” he said. “Fold this neatly, lay it on the hot floor, and sleep on it tonight. Tomorrow, at dawn, the wrinkles will be gone.”
I held the uniform up to the light. Pants. Tunic. He also tossed me a pair of boots. Apparently, Hero Kang had been briefed on my size. Everything looked as if it would fit. I set the uniform down.
“You want me to wear this?”
“Yes. It is the only way.”
I had recognized the uniform immediately. I’d seen it in innumerable intelligence briefings. It was the uniform of an officer of the Warsaw Pact.
3
We didn’t bother to buy tickets. In fact, I’m not even sure there was a booth. Hero Kang already had what he called yoheing zhang, travel permits, two of them. All through the station people gawked at me. But when I looked back, they quickly averted their eyes. Afraid, I suppose, that I might stop and talk to them. In a country that prizes loyalty to the Great Leader above all things, being spoken to by a foreigner could prove fatal.
The uniform fit well, except for the sleeves, which were about two inches too short. This morning, behind the warehouse, Hero Kang and I had washed up at the single faucet and he let me borrow his old-fashioned straight razor to shave. After scrubbing my armpits and rinsing my teeth, I felt human enough to face the world. Hero Kang told me to leave behind the old peacoat and wool trousers and leather boots I’d worn on the Star of Tirana. They weren’t the type of clothing an officer of the Warsaw Pact would be carrying around.
“Someone will burn them,” he told me.
I didn’t ask who. It was enough to know that Hero Kang wasn’t acting alone.
The two of us, both wearing our military uniforms, were about to board the train when a commotion broke out behind us. Nervously, I swiveled and looked back. An old woman, bearing a huge bundle in her arms and balancing another on her back, was arguing with a uniformed official. Apparently, she wanted to travel to Pyongyang, carrying dried mushrooms and garlic cloves to present to her family there as a gift. But the rail cop accused her of planning to sell the goods in the big city. She kept moving forward, arguing, trying to make her way onto the train. Finally, the uniformed officer shoved the old woman. She stumbled backward, tripping over her own bundle, and crashed to the ground. Her skull hit the blacktop with a crack.
I stopped on the metal steps of the train, staring at the scene, my fists clenched. In South Korea, no cop would ever do that to an elderly woman. The spirit of Confucius wouldn’t allow it. Hero Kang grabbed me roughly by the arm, and when I didn’t budge, he shoved. “Move,” he hissed, almost spitting in my ear. “Not here. Not now.”
The old woman’s bundles had busted open. She lay on her back on the ground, moaning. Passersby, instead of helping her to her feet, surreptitiously knelt and stuffed a few cloves of garlic or a few handfuls of mushrooms into their pockets. One of them mumbled “bobok juija.” Revanchist. In Seoul, I’d studied the Marxist terms that people learned during their two-hour daily indoctrinations sessions. Now I knew they actually used them. The guard who had shoved her stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring off above the heads of the crowd, a posture of triumph stiffening his shoulders.
“I ought to punch him,” I said in Korean.
“No!” Hero Kang replied, shoving me again. “Move.”
We boarded the train, but I kept glancing out the window at the old woman lying supine on the ground. Hero Kang bulled me forward and reluctantly I marched toward the front car.
