1000 Yards

6

John Milton took a single table in the restaurant and ate pansanggi, a collection of small dishes including grilled beef, brined fish and boiled cabbage. He ate at a leisurely place, flicking through a translated copy of the Workers’ Newspaper that he had collected from a rack in the lobby. There were no obvious signs of surveillance, but Milton was sure that the staff were keeping an eye on him. He thanked his waitress and left a ten euro note as a tip, collecting his overcoat and walking brusquely across the foyer and straight for the exit. He knew that he would leave confusion in his wake; foreigners were not generally allowed to wander the streets without a chaperone. He emerged into the chill air and set off quickly at a fast walk.

It was busy outside: workers went on and off shift at the hotel, factory hands hurried for the busses that would take them to their flats on the outskirts of the city, a few cars and lorries made their way along the roads. Milton did not look back but he knew that he would immediately be followed. He looked in the window of a small department store and saw one man, hurrying after him determinedly. He did not see the large black Mercedes detach itself from the hotel’s parking lot, but he heard its engine as it accelerated and overtook him. He turned to see the man in the passenger seat staring at him through the window of the car and, for a moment, he had the grim premonition that he was about to be detained. He had considered the possibility and had decided that he would run, but the chances of successfully making his appointment would be remote. Most likely he would be captured and swallowed up into the vast bureaucracy of the intelligence service, eventually emerging into a gulag — a kaolin mine, a re-education camp — from where he would never escape.

He crossed the road at the entrance to the park, his muscles twitching and his gut watery with nerves, but the order for him to stop did not come.

The park contained many significant monuments, including the Pyongyang Arch of Triumph where he was to make his rendezvous. The broad avenues were sparsely populated, the occasional jogger passing by or couples strolling towards him, arm-in-arm, idling the evening away. Milton had no need to check his tail. He knew they were there and that they would stay with him for as long as he let them. There would be a panic if they were to lose him, and that was something he could not afford. He needed them there to see the show that they were going to put on for them. If they lost him, and flooded the area with agents until they found him again, the plan would not work.

He maintained a careful balance of speed: fast enough to stay ahead of them and yet not so fast that they might panic. He wanted them to think that he was a tourist, taking in the sights.

He glanced at his watch: seven-thirty.

He concentrated on maintaining his sense of calm but it became harder and harder to do that. He was alone, in a hostile country, travelling under a flimsy pretence. He was fooling himself if he thought this was easy, as simple as his last job in Manila, or the one before that in South Africa. The wind had dropped a little and he could hear the men on his tail now, footsteps striking the pavement, unhurried and assured. How far were they behind him? He dared not look. He was frightened. He thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and rubbed a coin between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over so that he could feel the striated edge.

A road crossed the park and as Milton traversed it he saw the Mercedes again. It slowed to a halt, drawing in at the kerb, the tinted windscreen revealing nothing. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight. He heard footsteps quickening a little behind him. Two pairs. Were they going to take him now?

Finally, he reached the Arch. It was tall, sixty metres at its apex, a larger facsimile of the Arch in Paris. The white granite blocks looked ghostly in the moonlight. A second road, reserved for park officials, was nearby and, parked along it, was a Volvo 144. Four vaulted gateways were decorated with azalea carved into their girth and it was from the western-facing one that Milton saw the two figures emerge.

A man and a woman.

They moved towards him.

The woman moved ahead and spoke in quiet, accented English. “Mr McEwan?”

“Yes.”

“How many followed you?”

“Two on foot. Another couple, at least, by car.”

“Where is the car?”

“It was parked by the road. The men on foot — what are they doing?”

“Waiting,” the woman replied.

The second man spoke in urgent Korean.

“There’s another,” the woman said. “Three now. They’re coming. We must be quick. Are you ready, sir?”

Milton nodded.

The man made to strike him on the head with a billy club. The blow missed, although it would not have been obvious from distance and in the deepening gloom. Milton made a show of falling forwards, the man grabbing him beneath the arms and dragging him towards the Volvo. The rear door opened and he flung him inside.