1000 Yards - 01 (4 page)

Kun interrupted his sister in hurried, tense Korean.

“My brother is concerned that we are taking too long. We must go, Mr Milton. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then follow me, please.”

They walked quickly onto the main street, Milton allowing Su-Yung to extend a lead of ten metres. They reached the entrance to Ragwon Metro Station. It was a squat, curved building with a large clock fixed to the roof above the entrance. A clutch of schoolchildren, dressed in identical white blouses, blue socks and red neckerchiefs, gambolled down the steps and onto the wide forecourt beyond. Su-Yung disappeared into the crowd and Milton caught his breath for a moment; he was tall enough to see over the people in his way and he quickly spotted her again. He hurried inside; he had an impression of ornamental decoration, a mixture of Soviet functionalism and oriental opulence, before he was borne forwards onto the escalator that would take them down to the tracks. Milton concentrated on looking as inconspicuous as he could, his eyes glancing across the brightly lit, sombre marble walls as they were ferried downwards. It was as striking as he remembered; only the Moscow Metro came close. With its grandiose architecture, austere cleanliness and cool atmosphere, Ragwon reminded Milton of a museum.

The platform was crowded. Milton stood away from Su-Yung, not even looking in her direction. A mural was painted on the wall, Kim Il-sung holding a book aloft and flanked by two rifle-wielding soldiers, a demure housewife and a worker. The national flag billowed behind them.

The red and green painted train arrived and they both climbed aboard.

Milton gazed around at the faces in the compartment. It could have been a tube train anywhere in the world. The people wore the same closed expressions, avoiding eye contact as if they were in London or New York. Framed portraits of the Great Leader and the Dear Leader were fixed to both ends of the carriage. The train hushed into another brightly lit strip of platform and Milton saw the name slide past his gaze: Samhung. They were heading west, away from the centre of the capital.

The woman who had been to his left disembarked and Su-Yung slid across until she was alongside. Milton waited for the female guard to raise her signal.

“Did you see anyone?”

“No,” Su-Yung said. “I do not believe that we were followed. But we must be careful––the police are everywhere.”

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here,” she said as the train crept forwards into the tunnel. “You must trust me.”

MAJOR KIM SHIN-JO was concerned. Alone in his office at the airport, he placed the picture taken at the airport of Peter McEwan face up on the desk in front of him and then slid it eight inches to the left. In its place, he laid out the picture from McEwan’s file that Captain Yun Jong-Su had emailed him. There were some similarities between the two pictures––hair and eye colouration, the height was similar, both wore glasses––but that was as far as it went. Yun was sure: the Peter McEwan who had arrived at Pyongyang Airport that afternoon was not the same as the man who had visited six times previously.

Whoever this new man was, he was not who he professed to be.

Kim was prey to the usual lurid terrors that he knew would befall him if he failed the state. The price of failure was well known, and not open to negotiation: total humiliation followed by exile if he was lucky. Execution was possible, depending upon the consequences of the failure. If he had been responsible for allowing an enemy spy into the Fatherland, and if that enemy spy was responsible for some grand, awful statement against the Revolution, perhaps during tomorrow’s grand Parade…

Kim willed himself to remain calm as he picked up the telephone and called his man at the Hotel.

“Comrade-Major, I was about to call you. The Englishman has left the hotel.”

Kim felt a tiny flutter of panic. “What?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

“Was he followed?”

“Two men on foot and two by car.”

“Why? Did anything happen?”

“He ate his dinner.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was he contacted?”

“Not in his room. He did very little: he had a drink, relaxed on the bed, looked out of the window. Nothing I would consider to be unusual.”

“Radio the men now. He is to be arrested. At once.”

“Yes, Comrade-Major.”

Kim replaced the receiver. He prayed it was not too late.

THE TRAIN stopped at Pongwha Station. Milton checked the platform and saw nothing. As the doors whispered shut and the train pulled away again, Su-Yung tapped him discreetly on the leg. Milton followed the direction of her gaze. Outside, two men in military uniform were questioning the passengers who were queuing to exit the platform. They were throwing out a dragnet for him.

The final stop on the Chŏllima line was Puhung. It was the most impressive station yet: chandeliers were spaced at regular intervals along the high, vaulted ceiling and marble floors seemed to have been polished to an even higher sheen than before. The train pushed up against the buffers and the doors opened. Milton followed Su-Yung as she disembarked and then quickly scanned the platform: there was no sign of the police. Another large mural of Kim Il-Sung looked down on them. They followed the crowd to the exit and waited to board the escalator. The station was over one hundred feet below the surface, and their slow ascent took five minutes. Revolutionary music was piped through an array of tinny speakers. There were no hoardings, no displays, no advertisements for new theatre productions or alcohol or upcoming films; only frescoes of the great victories of the Korean people since the Day of Liberation, in the bold, awkward, cartoon style of Soviet realism.

Milton caught himself as four men, two from the military and two from the police, descended quickly on the opposite escalator. Su-Yung did not turn but Milton noticed as she gave a single, short nod.

Yes, she was saying, this might be challenging yet.

She was right. The exit to the street was guarded by four soldiers. A folding table had been arranged to block the way out and two officials sat at either end, the queue splitting so that they could take half each. The soldiers filling the gaps on either side all carried side-arms. A queue had already formed as people waited their turn to hand over their credentials.

Su-Yung was buffeted towards the official sitting on the left of the table and Milton found himself nudged to the right. He watched the officials run through a practiced routine: they inspected papers and registration cards, comparing the photographs with the faces of their owners. Milton reached into his pocket for his new documents. He inspected them again, idly scanning them in the fashion of someone who finds queuing the most tedious thing imaginable.

If they had discovered his deception, and if they had circulated copies of the photographs that would have been taken of him at the airport…

He reached the front of the queue. The official was stern-faced, with alabaster skin, small dark nuggets for eyes and a sharply hooked nose. He took Milton’s papers and scoured them, looking up to gaze into his face and then back down again.

“You are a long way from Germany, Mr Witzel.”

“Yes,” Milton said, affably.

“What is the purpose of your visit to the DPRK?”

“Just to enjoy your excellent country.”

“I see.” He looked down at the coupon that recorded where he was staying. “And how do you find the Pothonggang?”

“Comfortable.”

“Not to your usual standards, though, I’m sure.”

Was he making a joke? Milton couldn’t tell. “It is very pleasant.”

“You will excuse me for a moment, Mr Witzel. I will speak to the hotel to ensure that what you have told me is true. Please wait to the side.”

The man stepped away from the table, replaced with seamless efficiency by another official, this one crop-haired and severe, who had been waiting outside.

Milton leant against the wall. He swallowed hard. He turned his eyes to the barrier and watched as Su-Yung took her papers and passed out of the entrance to the station. She did not look back and was quickly out of sight. Milton felt his stomach turn again. When he made a plan, he tested everything to destruction but, here, he was not in control of the situation. His cover was only as strong as its weakest link, and if an Alexander Witzel of Germany had not checked into the Pothonggang then he would be exposed. There would be nothing for it but to take his chances and run. The four soldiers looked as if they knew how to handle their weapons; he thought he would be able to disable two of them quickly enough, but the other two would be a problem. As the official took out his mobile telephone and dialled the number of the hotel, Milton was reminded of the odds against him.

He was practically alone against the most ruthless and thorough security service the world had seen since the salad days of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti.

The man spoke for a moment in Korean. Milton caught the name ‘Witzel,’ and a word he took to mean ‘German,’ but apart from that the language was incomprehensible. He noticed that the official had a holstered pistol fixed to his belt and automatically began to sketch out an alternative plan: the man was of a typically slight Korean build, and it would be a simple matter to put an arm around his neck and draw him in close, using his body as a shield, the other hand liberating him of the firearm. It might increase his odds, if only a little.

The officer smiled at him for the briefest moment. He handed back the passport, the papers tucked into the front cover. “Thank you for your patience, Mr Witzel.”

“Everything is in order?”

“Indeed, yes.”

“What is this about?”

“We fear a man has been kidnapped––a European man––and it would be remiss of us if we did not do everything in our power to try and locate him. Again, my apologies for the inconvenience.”

“It’s not a problem at all,” Milton said. “I hope you find your man.”

Milton passed through the exit and outside. He looked around him and saw Su-Yung appear from the shadows. She nodded, just the single time once again, and set off. Milton fussed with a shoelace that did not need tying so that Su-Yung could have a small head-start, and then followed.

THE CAR had been a Volvo, a 1440. Major Kim Shin-Jo recognised the badge despite the damage that the fire had done to it. The car was blackened with ash and soot, the metal buckled in places. They had needed to pry the boot open with a crowbar. Kim and his deputy, Captain Yun Jong-Su, stood at the rear of the car, peering through the acrid black smoke at the body curled up in the narrow space.

“Get him out,” Kim said to the two privates who had found the car.

“Should we not wait for the forensic department?”

“It will serve no purpose. This man is Peter McEwan. He is an English businessman. This”––he indicated the smoking wreck with an irritated flick of his wrist––“has been arranged for our benefit. Our enemies would like us to believe that Mr McEwan went out for a walk after dinner at his hotel this evening, was kidnapped in Monbong Park and then met his fate. None of that is true.” He turned away from the car before either of the baffled privates could ask him what he meant. When he was out of earshot he turned to Yun and said, quietly, “You agree, Captain?”

“You are undoubtedly correct, Comrade-Major. The question is not who this is, but where the person who was pretending to be McEwan is now.”

“And, more to the point, what he intends to do now that he has eluded our surveillance. This was not a simple thing to arrange. There must be more to it than this.”

“You think it is something for the Parade?”

“For our sake, I hope not.”

They walked towards Kim’s state-issued car.

Kim reached inside and took out the best photograph of the imposter from the airport. “Who is he?”

“We do not know, Comrade-Major.”

“We have had this photograph for hours! Why is it taking so long?”

“We are checking. The Computer and Records Directorate is giving it priority.” He paused. “What do we do while we wait for them?”

“McEwan said that he was arranging a delivery of luxury cars. Thankfully, that was not a lie. There is an authorisation at the Ministry of Trade for such a delivery, I have checked. The cargo originated in Dandong and crossed the border yesterday evening. It is due to arrive in the capital tonight. We must assume that anyone involved with it is complicit.”

“Where is the cargo now?”

“That is what we must find out.”

Yun paused, a little awkwardly. “Do we mention this to the Lieutenant-Colonel?”

Kim had already considered that. He had a hundred men at his disposal: one hundred good men, excellently trained, diligent and loyal to the Fatherland. That might be enough to see off this threat but the chances of success would increase with more men. That was his problem: if he wanted help, he would have to speak to his superior to get it, and that would mean admitting that mistakes had been made under his supervision.

He would wait. There was no need to panic. They could find this man without causing undue alarm. “I think we can manage this ourselves, Captain. Do you agree?”

Yun seemed relieved at that. The consequences of failure would extend to him, too. “I do, Comrade-Major,” he said.

Neither man needed to speak the obvious: they were already in a situation of the utmost gravity. If they could find the imposter themselves, then so be it. They could keep it between themselves and no-one else need know. But if they failed, and something happened, and it was discovered that they had not requested assistance; then that would be the end of them both.

SU-YUNG’S BROTHER, Kun, picked them up once they were a safe distance from Puhung station. It was not the Volvo this time; that car had just been torched with the body of Peter McEwan shut inside the trunk. This car was an old Ford, exported from the South during one of the irregular
détentes
that occasionally thawed relations between the warring neighbours. Kun took them to a house on the edge of the city. Inside Pyongyang, housing was restricted to one-room “pigeon coops,” but there was a little more space the further out you travelled. This accommodation was simple, utilitarian, and monochromatic, built from cement block and limestone. It was a single-storey row of one-room homes, stuck together like the little boxes that make up the chambers of a harmonica. The occasional door frame was painted a jarring turquoise, but everything else was whitewashed or grey. The only real colour was the stark red lettering of the huge propaganda sign directly opposite, its boldly vivid message standing out amid all the grey: WE WILL DO AS THE PARTY TELLS US.