1000 Yards

3

Major Kim Shin-Jo replaced the receiver of the telephone that linked him with the officers in the airport. He double-clicked on the file that had just been emailed to him and a series of.jpgs were unpacked. He selected one and opened it: a picture of a man filled the screen. He was at the security checkpoint, the x-ray machine visible over his right shoulder. He looked a little over average height for a Westerner — six foot perhaps — and Kim would have estimated his age at somewhere in his late thirties. His hair was black and his eyes were blue. He was wearing jeans and a turtleneck jumper, a jacket folded over his right arm. European. A patient expression. It was just one of dozens of photographs that had been taken. Kim had privates all across the airport: there was the man who scanned the runway, another two in the concourse, another in the exit lounge. They were his eyes and ears.

Kim was Assistant Security Chief at the Pyongyang Suran International Airport, responsible for a team of thirty officers. They were placed within the 7^th Department of the 2^nd Chief Directorate, the section of the Ministry of State Security responsible for operations against tourists.

Kim was not having a good day. Not good at all. He was on edge, a nervousness that it seemed he shared with the entire Department. The final preparations to ensure the security of the grand Parade were underway, an enormous amount of work that needed to be done and barely enough time to do it all in. The 7^th Department was responsible for ensuring that all foreign visitors inside the borders of the DPRK were double and then triple checked. No-one thought it was likely that the imperialists or their puppets from the south would attempt an operation on the centenary of the Great Leader’s birthday, but the dictat from the top was absolutely clear: no chances were to be taken. The eyes of the world would be watching, and national prestige was at stake. Kim had spoken with the Colonel as he came on shift this morning and the man had been absolutely clear. The consequences for failure — any failure, no matter how seemingly insignificant — had been made starkly obvious: there would be a quick trial and then a lifetime spent in the gulag.

Kim had visited the gulag. He had sent enemies of the state there.

The prospect of a one-way trip was more than enough to focus the mind.

Kim printed the picture out, placed it on his desk and studied it again. He clicked across to the database and pulled the man’s file. Peter McEwan. There was something about him that made him nervous but he could not decide what it was. The patient expression, perhaps? He had just been detained, the other passengers were already gone and yet he appeared equable. Kim could see that McEwan was a frequent visitor to the DPRK. Six visits, all to Pyongyang. Perhaps he had been stopped before, or had come to accept the likelihood that it would happen.

And, yet, that did not quite ring true.

Intelligence did not suggest anything was afoot. He should have been able to relax. He had received the current circular from the Directorate and there was no unusual activity reported. And yet…

And yet.

He picked up the telephone and placed a call to the 7^th Department HQ. His deputy, Yun Jong-Su, answered. “Comrade-Major,” he said.

“I have a visitor that I would like you to check, Captain,” Kim said. “His name is Peter McEwan. English. I will send you his details now.”

“What am I looking for?”

“I do not know. He arrived in the country this afternoon. His file says he has been here several times before, mostly in the last few months. A businessman. Importing luxury cars for the leadership. Everything appears to be in order and yet there is something about this man that makes me feel nervous. Check his file carefully. If anything is amiss — anything, Yun — then you must contact me at once.”

“Certainly, Comrade-Major.”

“Do not let me down.”

Kim replaced the receiver and found that he had gritted his teeth. Today was his final day in the job before the promotion he had been chasing for so many months. No more airport, no more interminable studying of the same blank faces, all those same oafish Westerners arriving into the Fatherland with their wide eyes and open mouths. He was being transferred to the State Security Department with responsibility for monitoring political dissidents.

It was a prestigious posting and one he had been honoured to accept.

He was almost there. He just had to negotiate this one final day.