Milton slotted the sniper scope to the top of the rifle. It had a 30mm tube, external windage and elevation turrets, parallax adjustment and a fast focus eyepiece with a bullet drop compensating reticule. “It won’t be a problem,” Milton replied, raising the rifle and peering into the scope. “With this, it’ll be like they’re just in the next room.”

13

“And you have learned nothing from him, Yun? Still nothing?”

The earlier confidence that Kim had tried to invest in his voice was gone. A distant memory. Now his tone was impatient and ragged with fear. He was pacing his office while Yun sat nervously in the chair before his desk. Yun had left the basement only minutes earlier, right after the man that they had collected that morning had slipped again into unconsciousness.

The truck driver had been very helpful; his assistance was about the only thing that had gone in their favour since this whole mess had unfolded. The yard itself had been empty, but he had provided a likeness for the man that he had seen there and this had been cross-checked with the Department’s files on suspected dissidents and traitors. The exercise had turned up three possible matches. Each of these three men had been detained and delivered to the basement where, after a little light persuasion — merely an hors d’oeuvre for what was to follow — it had quickly been determined that, of the three, the man they wanted was the second they had collected: Kun Jong-nam, a janitor from Sunan-guyŏk.

“He is stubborn, Comrade-Major.”

“I don’t care how stubborn he is! We must have what he knows!”

Kim was angry. The interrogation had been unsuccessful. His preferred technique was more considered, a slow escalation that would give the subject plenty of time to consider how much worse things would get for him if he did not divulge the information that the state required. There had been no time for such niceties today. Two of his more brutal privates had tied the man to a chair and beaten him black and blue for fifteen minutes and, when that had not been successful, they had pulled out his fingernails with pliers. Yet, even relying on techniques that Kim found distasteful, they had learned precious little. Kun had revealed that he had been working with his sister, Su-Yung Jong-nam, and that they had collected a Westerner from Moranbong Park. He said that they had pretended to abduct the man, and that, an hour or two later, he had murdered another Westerner — he did not know his name, either — and placed his body in the trunk of the car that they had been using. The car was then torched. Kun said he knew no more than that: he did not know the identity of either Westerner, he did not know the purpose of the shipment of luxury cars, and, more specifically, he did not know what was planned.

Kim could not say if that was the extent of the man’s knowledge but he was in no mood to believe that Yun had tried as hard as he could, pushed as hard as he might, without killing the man. If Kun possessed the information that he sought, he would get it out of him. It did not matter if the man died in the process.

He lead the way back to the basement. Kun Jong-nam’s arms were secured with straps that had been fastened to the chair. The man’s face was livid with the reds and purples of incipient bruises, a lurid reminder of what they had already done to him in the short time he had been in custody. Worse was to come, but Kim felt no flickering of conscience, no regret. The man had brought it upon himself. This was the price of disloyalty, and it was to be paid in full.

When beatings with rubber hoses and bamboo poles and did not succeed, or when time was pressing, as now, they fell back on narcotic shortcuts. The doctor approached with his syringe, selected a plump vein on the man’s wrist, pushed the needle into it and then depressed the plunger. The pentothal disappeared into his arm; the effects were evident within seconds. The doctor pushed back the man’s eyelid and shone a torch into his eye. “He’s ready now.”

Kim knelt down beside the chair. “Kun, can you hear me?”

“Yes.” His voice was slurred, as if he had enjoyed one too many glasses of munbaeju.

“My name is Major Kim Shin-Jo. I work with the Ministry of State Security. Do you understand what that means?”

A slurred response: “Yes.”

“My colleague tells me that you have been involved with bringing a foreigner into our country. An Englishman. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I need your help, Kun. It is very important that I find this Englishman quickly. Do you know where I can find him?”

The man’s face crumpled with the effort of denying the drug. “No,” he forced out.

“Kun — think very carefully. It will be better for you and your family if you tell me the truth. You understand that this is very serious indeed? You have a sister, I believe? If something happens, she will be shot. You know this?”

“Yes.”

“So where can I find the Englishman?”

“I — don’t — know.”

“Is your sister with him?”

“No.” He stammered it, working too hard against the drug, and Kim knew he was lying.

He stepped back and nodded to the doctor.

“I have given him a heavy dose,” the man said. “Any more would be dangerous.”

“This is not the time for qualms,” he snapped. “Do I need to find a replacement?”

“No, Comrade-Major.”

“Then do it.”

Another syringe was emptied into the man’s vein. His eyes rolled into his head and he grinned, stupidly, before his features slackened and fell loose. His head hung limply between his shoulders.

Kim crouched close so that his mouth was next to the man’s ear. “Kun. You must speak honestly. The Englishman you helped into the country — what is he intending to do?”

There was another moment of struggle that played out vividly across the man’s helpless face.

“Kun. You must tell me. What is he planning to do? Is it the Parade?”

His voice was subdued. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

“The—” He fought against the completion of the sentence. “The—”

“Damn it, Kun, what is it?”

“I — don’t — know.”

Kim stood suddenly, wheeling away from the pathetic spectacle.

“Comrade-Major?” Yun said.

“The same again.”

“But the doctor—”

“I don’t care what he said. This fool is dead whatever happens. If we do not find out what he knows, we will be dead too. See that it is done.”

14

Su-Yung took her foot off the brake and crawled ahead. Milton was in the back of the van, watching through the window as they made their way downtown. A line of sickly looking trees had been planted to separate the road from the pavement and, behind them was a terrace of utilitarian buildings, constructed from poured concrete, blocky and depressingly ugly. It reminded Milton of the worst aspects of the Soviet outposts he had visited. Trams and trolley-busses rattled along the inside lane, trucks and the few private cars overtaking them.

Su-Yung spoke without taking her eyes from the road. “How much do you know about what is happening today?”

“Just that there is a parade.”

“It is not just any parade, Mr Milton. It is the centenary of our esteemed Great Leader’s birthday.” She made no effort to hide her sarcasm. “The event is being broadcast all around the country. The Workers’ Party are even handing out celebratory food rations. Cooking oil, I believe.” She snorted derisively.

“How many people will be here?”

“Many thousands. It will be an excellent diversion. The regime will focus its attention on Kumsusan Palace. It is unlikely we will be seen before — well, before you have done what you came here to do.”

She drove carefully, slowing when the road narrowed and the sidewalks widened where the meagre shopping district started. There were large state-run stores on either side, but none of them had anything in their windows. Cast-iron flagpoles were placed at every junction, red flags whipping in the light breeze. The roads were swept clean but everything was so sterile: there were no advertisements of any sort, no graffiti, no life.