Hidden Moon

2

After lunch I strolled around a few back streets. For April, it was hot, but it was still better outside than sitting in the office staring at the ceiling and pretending not to be thinking about a case I couldn’t even figure out if I was supposed to solve. If things were so quiet, something must be wrong. If no one was prepared to let me know which way to jump, then it was going to be a very long way down. I dodged a woman on a bicycle who pedaled as if she were daydreaming, and kept walking to nowhere in particular. Just as I turned a corner, I suddenly got that feeling-I was being watched. Someone had marked me, there was no doubt in my mind. Harmless glances, uninterested stares don’t register with me. This was no longer little warning flags flapping in front of my eyes. This was a skin-prickling, hackle-raising klaxon that somewhere, relatively near and directed specifically at me, was a pair of eyes brimful of death and destruction.

I never made a careful study of it, but I’ve looked at a few books about survival behavior. At one point in my career, it seemed a wise thing to do. The theory is that an animal-or a person-marked as prey can sense an intense look that pierces the invisible force surrounding everything living. The heart jumps, chemicals pour into the bloodstream, muscles tense. If it’s a deer, then the deer is ready to run, run for its life, crazy with fear, breathless to escape. I never altogether bought the theory; how could there be anything physical about looking? It sounded like death rays. Yet I knew the physical reaction was real enough. Theory or not, somehow when I was being watched, I sensed it.

With my heart pounding, I stopped to tie my shoe; it usually works better than bounding away like a frightened roe deer. When I stood up again, I walked slowly in the opposite direction. There was no one around who seemed to be paying attention, not even anyone who seemed conspicuously inattentive. I wandered aimlessly for about twenty minutes, long enough to be sure the lion, or the wolf, or whatever it was, had dropped away. Being followed doesn’t bother me, but I never like knowing I’m someone’s prey. At least now I knew where things stood. I was in someone’s sights. Whether that was because I was getting too close or not close enough remained to be seen. It was becoming vital to know which, but I hadn’t figured out yet exactly how to test the waters without getting swept away. I thought about it as I walked, but every conclusion suggested its opposite. Maybe it was the weather. It’s hard to be decisive when the air is so clear that you can see the buds on an old tree’s highest branches turning to the sun.

It could have been just coincidence, or a subconscious compass at work, but my wandering ended up at the top of the stairs leading to Club Blue. As long as I was there, I figured, I might as well go down and chat. The bartender was bound to know something useful. Whether he would volunteer it was another matter. Besides, it was hot and I was thirsty. The place was quiet when I sat down at the bar. No music playing. I looked around, then got up and poured myself a glass of beer.

“You shouldn’t be stealing drinks, Inspector. It can be reported.” I looked around and there was the bartender, holding something that looked like a crowbar.

“Funny thing for a bartender to use,” I said. “You need that to open those little bottles of olives? I can do it for you with these.” I wiggled my fingers.

He smacked the crowbar hard against his palm. “It comes in handy for lots of things.”

“That’s fine. Where’s the manager, the guy with the sharp trousers?”

The bartender hit his palm again with the crowbar. “He’s not around. I haven’t seen him today at all. So I guess you’ll be leaving.”

“No, I think I’ll have another glass of beer.” I walked behind the bar. That put something between the crowbar and me. “Your manager on vacation, is he? He forgot to put up that license we talked about.”

“Yeah, he forgot. Probably has a lot on his mind.” He laughed. “You know what I mean?”

“How long has he been gone?”

The bartender shrugged. “He comes and goes. I don’t keep track. That’s the job of your people, isn’t it, keeping track of us citizens?”

“You like it in those old apartments? The ones by the bank?”

“So, you been watching me? I’m flattered, Inspector, really I am.”

“Good. Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t walk in front of buses.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Never.”

“What do you want here?”

“Want?”

“You know what I mean. You brought in that stocking the other day. I got nothing to do with that stuff.”

“You should have bought two pair, it would have been cheaper.”

“Ease up, will you?”

“You tell me what I need to know, I’ll think about it. And put down that crowbar before I stuff it down your throat.” It clattered to the floor, which surprised the hell out of me. I thought at least we’d argue about it a little. “Now, walk over here, sit down on one of those bar stools, and put your hands on the bar, both of them. Everything nice and slow.”

He did as I said. When he lifted one of his hands to scratch his cheek, I grabbed his wrist, just like I had the first time, and gave it a twist. He yelped. “Hey!”

“Hey, nothing. I told you to put your hands on the bar. I meant it. Once you answer my questions, you can pick your nose with all ten fingers for all I care. I’m asking you again, where is your manager, and don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“He walked out of here with a couple of guys.”

“Okay, he walked out of here. When?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“What time?”

“Afternoon, I don’t know, maybe four o’clock.”

“You know what I’m going to ask next?”

“Who were the guys.”

“Very good. Maybe you’ve been interrogated before. Maybe it’s in your file. Maybe you don’t want another report in your file because it would mean you’d have to leave Pyongyang and move out to the country. Very dull, out in the country.”

“Say, why don’t you let me answer the question?”

“Alright, who were the guys?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do.” I slapped him across the face, not very hard, but his head snapped back and for a moment he looked as if he might fall off the bar stool. He seemed surprised, but not half as surprised as I was. The pressure from the case must be getting to me even worse than it was getting to Min. I rarely get physical during an interrogation. A lot of inspectors do, but I don’t. It isn’t very effective; too many people just shut up after being hit, and then you either have to raise the ante or back off. I didn’t know why I slapped him; I hoped it wasn’t because he looked so scared. “And keep your hands on the bar.”

“If I tell you who they are, they’ll kill me.”

“Tough luck for you,” I said. “A couple of Kazakh boys, weren’t they?”

“I’m not saying yes, I’m not saying no.”

That made me mad, and I thought about it for half a second before I remembered reading somewhere that if you bottled up tension it was bad for you. I slapped him again, harder this time. A lot of tension drained off. But this time he was more ready, so he didn’t lose his balance. “Did they threaten him?”

“No.” He was grinning. He knew I wouldn’t hit him again.

“So why’d he go with them?”

“You’ll have to ask him, won’t you?”

“Have it your own way.” I patted him on the cheek. “From this afternoon, word will be out on the street that you talked to me and told me everything I needed to know about a couple of Kazakhs. I’ll come by your apartment tomorrow to claim your corpse.”

“You don’t scare me, Inspector.”

“That’s good,” I said and finished my beer. “I’d like your last memories of me to be pleasant ones.”

Back in the office, I picked up the second Interpol file, which was mostly background on Kazakhstan. When I had first skipped through it, there didn’t seem much of interest. There was a little history and a few economic statistics. But this time I noticed that attached to the second page was a list of prominent officials. The head of the security police was a fairly young man who had a degree in criminology. Whether that did him or the country any good was not made clear, but from the reporting on the crime rates, it did not seem to have made a major contribution. There were all sorts of crimes, crimes against persons, crimes against property, street crime, car theft, drugs. Bank robberies were not a special problem, apparently, except where they involved gangs of criminals who were armed and needed money for unspecified purposes. They shot the guards; the police shot the robbers. In one case, the robbers were caught in a cemetery. It sounded noisy and dangerous and not the sort of thing we needed in Pyongyang.

On the list of officials were a number of bankers, with an indication of their worth and addresses. Many of them were well-to-do. No reason they shouldn’t be, working in such close quarters with all that money. Several of them had second or third residences abroad, expensive residences. Why did people need to live somewhere else other than home, among strangers? I made a mental note to ask Miss Chon if she knew any of these people the next time I saw her.