1000 Yards

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.”

The official did not answer him. He handed the passport back to the security officer, who made a similar show of its careful study. Milton smiled again with good-natured patience but the other passengers had already been cleared to proceed and the last of them were disappearing towards the exit. He had been in these situations many times before but there were not many places in the world that were like this. Despite the reassurance of his experience and training, it was difficult not to feel exposed. He felt an empty sensation in his stomach. The remnants of the dream made it worse.

The MPSS man beckoned him to approach. He had the deep pits of acne scars across his face and he wore a cheap suit that was too big for his slight frame. Milton could tell his type from the way he bore himself: he knew that he wielded a small amount of power, and he was pleased that it gave him the ability to tell arrogant Europeans what to do.

“Mr McEwan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the purpose of your visit to the DPRK?”

“I was telling your colleague over there — I’m a businessman.”

“And what is your business?”

“I sell cars.”

He sneered a little. “Why would my country need your Western cars?”

“These are luxury cars.”

“You think we cannot make such cars?”

“You don’t have any like these.”

“I doubt that very much. Why are you here today?”

Milton sighed, a show of the mildest irritation. “A consignment is presently making its way south from China. Eight cars on a trailer. They crossed the border at Sinŭiju yesterday. I’m here to make sure that the cars reach the correct customers. What’s this all about, sir? It isn’t as if I’ve never been to Pyongyang before.”

“This is very true,” the man said, his eyes on the passport as he flicked through its pages. “You are a frequent visitor. Very unusual for a European.”

“Yes, I’ve been here several times.”

“And you are English, yes?”

Milton manufactured a little impatience. “Yes, as you can see. What’s your point?”

“You are sweating, Mr McEwan. You look unwell.”

“I’m a bad flyer. I took some pills to help me sleep — I don’t think they agreed with me.”

“No, you are defensive, too. Why is this?”

“Because my business here is important and this delay will affect my schedule if it goes on much longer.” He paused, and then added, “I’m sorry, but my customers do not take kindly to being inconvenienced. Party officials, you understand? The longer I’m wasting my time with you, the less time I have to distribute my cars to the members of the Politburo who have purchased them. And I don’t know about you, sir, but I would rather not keep those men waiting.”

The threat was obvious. The man considered it and, after another lengthy pause obviously designed to make Milton feel uncomfortable, he relented.

“You are free to proceed, Mr McEwan. Please enjoy your visit to our country.”

The passport was returned to him but his luggage, he noted, was not repacked. Just a petulant reminder that these men had power, he knew, and nothing that need concern him. He folded his clothes and placed them neatly back into the case. He gripped the handle and pulled the case from the desk. He smiled with polite solicitude at the man and wheeled the case away, making his way to the main concourse where he knew he would be able to pick up a taxi. He did not need to look back to know that the MPSS officials would be watching, and neither did he need to see the additional man with the camera to know that even more pictures were being taken.

A report would be filed and passed up to the relevant department: the Englishman, Peter McEwan, had entered the country at ten minutes past five in the afternoon; he was in the export business, defying the United Nations’ sanctions to deliver high-performance luxury cars to party officials; he was a frequent visitor and, while that did not mean that he would be allowed to go about his business unchaperoned, it did not warrant the perpetual minder that would have been necessary if he were a tourist or someone of whom there was no official history.

Milton wheeled his suitcase out of the terminal and into the bitter cold. What little warmth he had been able to recover as he had been interrogated was soon a distant memory.