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

Kim was prey to the usual lurid terrors that would 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.

9

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.

10

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?”