* * *

From: <redacted>

To: <redacted>

Date: Wednesday, February 16, 3.42 P.M.

Subject: DPRK

Dear M.,

I have given consideration to your request. It can be done, and I attach a way in which it might be carried out. You are right to describe it as audacious; as you well know, the DPRK is the most difficult state on Earth within which an enemy operative may operate. I am confident, however, that this plan will deliver an agent into the country and, once there, the man I have in mind will have a fighting chance of giving the generals the black eye the P.M. intends.

I wait for confirmation that the course that we have suggested has been approved.

Best regards,

Control

<attachment redacted>

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From: <redacted>

To: <redacted>

Date: Friday, February 18, 3.42 P.M.

Subject: DPRK

Dear Control,

We have confirmation from both the P.M. and Washington. The plan that you outline (including assistance from assets in the south of the PRC) is approved. Of course, the existence of this plan — and of your operative, should he be compromised — will be denied should it ever come to light. Standard operating procedure in that regard.

You are on your own: there will be no further correspondence on this matter.

Good hunting.

Regards,

M.

1

“Sir — are you alright?”

John Milton heard the woman’s voice and prised open his eyes. He was feverish with sweat.

A pretty stewardess in a red Air China uniform was peering down at him, concern on her face.

“Sir?”

Milton looked to his right. The passenger on the other side of the aisle was looking at him anxiously. “Sorry—”

“Is everything alright, sir?”

“Yes.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s fine. I’m a bad flyer, must’ve been the sleeping pills. Really, I’m fine.”

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead dry. His breathing returned to normal and his muscles loosened, and relaxed. “Where are we?”

“We’ve landed,” she said with a sunny, surprised smile.

“Already?”

“Welcome to Pyongyang.”

Milton sat quietly for a moment, letting consciousness slowly return. How long had he been out? He remembered eating the tasteless meal, then a drink as he watched them cut across the clouds, and then … and then, he couldn’t remember. An hour? Two hours? He had thought that he had mastered the blackouts, that he had forced them away, but this was the third time in a week. There had been one in London and then another in his hotel room in Beijing. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. They were getting worse and, for a man in his particular line of work, that was a very bad thing indeed.

He concentrated on putting his worries aside. This was no time to be weak. He waited patiently for the queue of passengers to disperse and then, after grabbing his carry-on luggage from the overhead locker, he disembarked, a little unsteadily, descending the flight of stairs fixed to the back of a pickup truck that had been parked up against the fuselage of the Air China 737.

He stepped down onto the tarmac of Pyongyang Suran International Airport.

It was an unseasonably cold Spring afternoon, and the wind carried in great gusts of icy rain. There was no bus to transfer them to the terminal and the walk was unpleasant. Milton was hatless, holding a copy of the Chicago Herald-Tribune over his head, the other gripping the handle of his bag. The newspaper was quickly sodden. He set his jaw to the cutting wind; there was nothing to be done to prevent it whipping between the folds of his jacket and it did not take long for him to feel cold to the bone.

Welcome to North Korea, he thought. How I’ve missed you.

2

He knew that he would be photographed as he crossed the tarmac, and he was. There was an office with wide windows overlooking the taxiway. It was occupied by the Ministry for the Protection of State Security, a sprawling organisation which had been modelled upon — and developed with the willing assistance of — the Soviet KGB. The operative in position today toted a Canon digital camera with a powerful telephoto lens. His duty was to capture pictures of every passenger who disembarked from a foreign flight.

Milton’s photo was already being uploaded to the Directorate as he passed through the double doors into the arrivals lounge. To describe the facility as “international” was to be generous: apart from the flights to and from Beijing, the national carrier — Air Koryo — was responsible for the only other flights. Milton glanced up at the departures board and saw international flights to Bangkok, Khabarovsk, Kuala Lumpur, Moscow, Shanghai and Vladivostok. Indeed, “lounge” was also somewhat of a misnomer: the wide space was equipped with a handful of hard metal benches, its whole purpose to funnel travellers towards the customs and security officials with the minimum of fuss. It was the absences that really struck home: no advertising, of any sort; no planes coming and going; no duty free. The lounge was not much warmer than its exterior, but Milton took the opportunity to unbutton his overcoat and wipe some of the water from his face. His fellow travellers obediently took their place in line and waited to be called forwards to the kiosks. Milton cast his eye over them once again. There was a group of four European tourists, and a number of Koreans returning home. Most were Chinese businessmen, sanctions-busters arranging deals to bring luxury goods into the country for the benefit of the ruling elite. That was what Milton was here to do, too; at least that was what he wanted them to think.

The queue shuffled forwards. The Chinese were processed quickly and with good manners. The Europeans took a little longer. Milton took out his smartphone and thumbed it to life. It picked up the Koryolink telephony network but there was no mobile internet and there would be none for so long as he was in the country. He switched it off and put it back into his pocket.

Eventually, he was beckoned forwards by a curt and officious-looking man.

“Your bag,” the man said, nodding his chin at the x-ray machine.

Milton laid it on the belt.

“Coat, belt and shoes.”

Milton managed to smile as he did what he was instructed; it was the patient and forbearing smile of a man who was used to these ministrations. His name, for the purposes of this trip, was Peter McEwan. The bag slid through the machine, pausing within it as an official studied the monitor that was displaying the x-ray. Milton knew that what he saw, or did not see, in the image would have no bearing on what happened next and in that he was right. There were three other officials standing at the end of the belt. Milton knew that they were from the MPSS and he was not surprised when one of them stepped forwards to haul his case from the belt.

“Your passport, please,” said the immigration official.

“Certainly.” Milton handed the passport to him as he watched the MPSS man open the case and start to remove the contents.

The man thumbed through the pages. “Mr McEwan.”

“That’s right.”

“You are well travelled.”

The passport was stamped with two dozen different destinations: South American banana republics, tinpot African dictatorships, trips to Russia and China. There were six trips to the DPRK, all in the last six months. “I’m a businessman,” Milton replied, trying to find the easy confidence that he imagined would be McEwan’s stock-in-trade. He pointed at the MPSS man who was rifling through his things. “I don’t understand. What’s he doing? My papers are all in order, aren’t they? I have a visa from the Ministry of Trade.”