“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.

11

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.

Kun did not get out of the car with them.

“Where is he going?” Milton asked his sister.

“The freight is expected tonight. He will make sure it arrives as it should.”

Milton watched as the Volvo drove away into the jaded neighbourhood and then followed Su-Yung inside. The entrance led directly into a small kitchen that doubled as a furnace room. A large bucket that was a quarter-full of coal sat next to the hearth. The fire it produced was used both to cook and to heat the home. A sliding door separated the kitchen from the main room where two sleeping mats had been unrolled.

“We will stay here,” she told him.

“Is this where you live?”

“No — not here. I have an apartment in the city, much smaller than this. This belongs to a friend of our cause. He is visiting his family in Chongjin tonight. We will not be disturbed. You must be hungry — would you like something to eat?”

Milton said that he would and Su-Yung disappeared into the kitchen. The electricity was off and so the room was lit by a single paraffin lamp. He looked around: the sleeping mats were made of a thin vinyl that did not promise a particularly comfortable night’s sleep, a little heat radiated upwards from an underfloor system that was, he guessed, powered by the furnace, and a few cardboard boxes held clothes and a few cheap objects. It was austere.

He sat on the floor and measured himself: the dream had passed properly now, although he still felt a little weak. That was not unusual. Each episode drained him so completely that it often took a day or two for him to recover fully, and it seemed to be getting worse. He worried that it would affect what he had to do tomorrow — he would need a surgeon’s steady hand to achieve his aim — but then he did his best to put the concern aside; worrying about it now would serve no purpose, save rob him of the sleep he knew he needed.

Su-Yung returned with a bowl of broth with a long-handled spoon and a steaming tea cup that gave off a rich, acrid tang. “Sul lang tang,” she announced, handing Milton the bowl.

“What’s that?”

“Beef soup. It is a traditional Korean dish. The tea is nokcha. Green tea. For years we have imported it from the Chinese but my countrymen have recently been successful in cultivating the tea plants themselves. A better achievement than all of the Dear Leader’s work with nuclear bombs, if you ask me.”

They drank the tea quietly, watching the darkness of the night through the open window, the ghostly shape of the city’s few skyscrapers forming a dim, irregular skyline in the distance. Milton found that he was developing a fondness for the quietly dignified girl. She, too, was taking a big risk; a much bigger risk, indeed, since she would not be leaving the country once the objective was achieved. Milton knew that there would be loose ends that would eventually lead the authorities back to her: CCTV footage, witness statements, those conspirators who found their tongues loosened in the basement of the building where the secret police carried out their interrogations. When that happened, the results would not be good for her or her brother.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You and Kun?”

Su-Yung paused, looking for the right words. “My country is sick, Mr Milton. It has been sick for many years. People are starving while the Kims and their cronies spend lavishly on themselves. These cars that are being brought into the country, for example — whole families could be fed for months with the proceeds of just one of them. Years. Something must be done.”

“But why you?”

Su-Yung stared into her tea. “Why not me?” She paused, giving thought to what to say next. “My father was from the South. He was captured during the war and held here as a prisoner. When the fighting ended, many of the prisoners were exchanged but the North did not return all of the men that it had taken. My father was one of the unlucky ones.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “North Korean society is very carefully arranged. Everyone has songbun — in your country, you might refer to it as reputation or standing. In Korea, it is something that stays with a family for ever. It is hereditary. It is why my brother is a janitor and I work in a factory. We will never be able to aspire to anything better. Neither of us could join the Party, even if we wanted to. Our families are always last in line for food. I have a daughter, she is eleven years old and a wonderful pianist. The music she plays—” She stopped for a moment, wistful. “It is beautiful, Mr Milton, but it makes no difference how good she is. She will never be able to go to music college to study. How is that fair? She is punished for the so-called sins of her grandfather.”