1000 Yards

7

Milton allowed himself to be half-pushed, half-pulled inside the car and pressed himself down against the seat. The English-speaking woman got in beside him, her companion going around to the passenger seat.

The tyres squealed as the Volvo pulled away.

“Stay down, please,” she said.

Milton did as he was told.

“Your papers.”

Milton reached into his pocket and handed over his passport and his visa.

The car accelerated, speeding away from a sudden shrill blast of whistles as the three MPSS officers sounded the alert. The blacked-out Mercedes quickly reversed, bumping across the rough ground as it sought the service road. The Volvo had a head start and the driver quickly took advantage, swinging off the road and barrelling at high speed along the broad path that cut between two neighbouring stands of trees. Joggers stood and gaped as they roared by, the Mercedes giving pursuit but already five hundred yards behind them.

The driver spun the wheel to bring them back onto a main road and took a hard left until they reached a built-up area of the capital again. He slowed, slotting them behind a truck carrying a consignment of water melons beneath an unsecured tarpaulin that flapped in the wind.

The woman paused to look out of the rear window. Satisfied, she turned back to Milton. “My name is Su-Yung Jong. I will be with you until you have completed your objective.”

“The man in the front?”

“My brother, Kun. If you need anything, you must ask me. For now, our objective is to get you away from here.”

The driver took a sharp right into a quiet alleyway and parked. It was peaceful for a moment, just the restive background sounds of the city as they collected themselves. Su-Yung did not wait for long. She reached into her bag and withdrew a package of documents, including a German passport. She pressed them into Milton’s hands.

“Study these. Your name is now Alexander Witzel. You are a German tourist staying at the Pothonggang Hotel. They are looking for an Englishman, remember, not a German. They said you speak the language.”

“I do.”

Milton checked through the papers. The passport was an impressive fake, bearing his own photograph on the second page. Another new identity, he thought, a little wryly. He had lost count of them all by now.

“Is it in order?”

“It’s very good,” Milton said.

“I am pleased.”

“What happened to McEwan? The real one?”

“He was shot. The authorities will find his body in the car once it has been set alight. His passport will be on his person. They will not be able to identify him from his likeness but they will be able to confirm that it is him from his finger-prints or his teeth.”

“How will they have access to that?”

“Mr Milton, my country might be backwards in almost everything else, but one thing that it is extremely good at is discovering information. Mr McEwan has a criminal record in your country. Finding that is a matter of child’s play for the Ministry of Information.” She shook her head in what might have passed for an expression of grimly patriotic satisfaction. “The police will believe that he is dead, the victim of a smuggling deal that has gone wrong. They will be distracted by a murder hunt and you will be free to go about your business.”

Kun interrupted his sister in hurried, tense Korean.

“My brother is concerned that we are taking too long. We must go, Mr Milton. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then follow me, please.”

They walked quickly onto the main street, Milton allowing Su-Yung to extend a lead of ten metres. They reached the entrance to Ragwon Metro Station. It was a squat, curved building with a large clock fixed to the roof above the entrance. A clutch of schoolchildren, dressed in identical white blouses, blue socks and red neckerchiefs, gambolled down the steps and onto the wide forecourt beyond. Su-Yung disappeared into the crowd and Milton caught his breath for a moment; he was tall enough to see over the people in his way and he quickly spotted her again. He hurried inside; he had an impression of ornamental decoration, a mixture of Soviet functionalism and oriental opulence, before he was borne forwards onto the escalator that would take them down to the tracks. Milton concentrated on looking as inconspicuous as he could, his eyes glancing across the brightly lit, sombre marble walls as they were ferried downwards. It was as striking as he remembered; only the Moscow Metro came close. With its grandiose architecture, austere cleanliness and cool atmosphere, Ragwon reminded Milton of a museum.

The platform was crowded. Milton stood away from Su-Yung, not even looking in her direction. A mural was painted on the wall, Kim Il-sung holding a book aloft and flanked by two rifle-wielding soldiers, a demure housewife and a worker. The national flag billowed behind them.

The red-and-green painted train arrived and they both climbed aboard.

Milton gazed around at the faces in the compartment. It could have been a tube train anywhere in the world. The people wore the same closed expressions, avoiding eye contact as if they were in London or New York. Framed portraits of the Great Leader and the Dear Leader were fixed to both ends of the carriage. The train hushed into another brightly lit strip of platform and Milton saw the name slide past his gaze: Samhung. They were heading west, away from the centre of the capital.

The woman who had been to his left disembarked and Su-Yung slid across until she was alongside. Milton waited for the female guard to raise her signal.

“Did you see anyone?”

“No,” Su-Yung said. “I do not believe that we were followed. But we must be careful — the police are everywhere.”

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here,” she said as the train crept forwards into the tunnel. “You must trust me.”