Hidden Moon

Chapter Three

The office was deserted when I returned a few days later. My shoulder still bothered me, and I couldn’t sit very well because of my hip. Min had left a note on my chair: Do not answer the phone, no matter how many times it rings. I glanced at the file on the bank robbery case. No one had touched it in my absence. We were bumping against the deadline the Ministry had set, but I didn’t see any notes attached complaining about the lack of progress. I looked for reports on the disappearance of the nightclub owner, rumors picked up on the street, anything. Nothing. No one was willing to talk about it. Or rather, no one was willing to talk to us.

On the top of my cabinet was another note from Min, saying I was to look at a new file in his absence. He didn’t bother to say what it was about or, more important, where it was. I looked in my file drawers, but there was nothing that hadn’t been there for a long time. I walked down to Min’s office and checked on his desk. The phone rang, and I nearly picked it up without thinking. It rang six times, went halfway through a seventh, and then stopped. I don’t like not answering the phone. It seems untidy, vaguely impolite, even if it obviously isn’t for me. The phone started ringing again but this time only rang twice. This was easier to deal with. If someone hangs up that quickly, they might not be so serious about the call. A quick check of Min’s desk drawers didn’t uncover anything. His file cabinet was locked, and though I knew where the key was, I decided to leave well enough alone.

I went back to my office and retrieved my copy of the Criminal Code from the pile of books on the floor. When I stood up again to stretch, I glanced out the window. A man was standing across the street, gazing up at our building. People rarely hang around Ministry offices; they usually think it bad luck even to walk nearby. The man pretended he was simply gawking, but he wasn’t doing a good job. It was definitely surveillance; whether it was hamhanded or provocative I couldn’t tell. Well, if he wasn’t going to pretend he was just standing around, neither was I. When he saw me wave from the window, the man threw his cigarette into the gutter and walked slowly away. His face was hidden by the brim of a cloth cap, but he had a strange gait that was as good as a photograph. The heel on each of his shoes was worn so much that his ankles stuck out. It made his white socks look like small dogs nipping at his feet the whole way down the street. I made a mental note to check the logs. If the guards had seen him standing around before, they would have made an entry.

Min’s car drove up. It stopped for an overly long time as the guard poked his head in the driver’s side window. I could hear an angry exchange before the guard finally backed away and waved the car through without much enthusiasm. Min emerged from the driver’s side. He never drove if he could help it, but the duty driver had gone missing a week ago; no one knew where he was, and we couldn’t get a replacement until he was accounted for. From the passenger’s side unfolded a tall, solid-looking Westerner with sandy hair. Min looked up to my window and nodded, before saying something to the Westerner. Then the two of them disappeared.

I contemplated going out the back way, but Min had already seen me. There was nothing to do but wait. I sat down and rearranged the piles of paper on my desk. A piece of chestnut wood fell out of one of the stacks. I like chestnut, though there isn’t enough of it around. Very self-possessed wood, knows exactly what it is doing all the time. Besides which, when I have it in my hand, it reminds me of the smell of roasting chestnuts in autumn. Finally, something good, I was thinking, when my phone rang. It stopped. It rang. It stopped. It rang again. Then I heard footsteps, and Min landed heavily at my door. “Dammit, Inspector,” he said in an angry whisper, “don’t you answer your phone?”

“You told me not to.”

“Never mind that. Come to my office. Let me do the talking.”

The Westerner was examining a security patrol map of Pyongyang that was hanging on the wall next to Min’s desk. This is not a map foreigners are supposed to see. Min blanched and coughed. The foreigner turned around. He looked even taller and more broad-shouldered up close. “Detective, er, Boswell, was it?” Min said. “This is Inspector O.”

“Superintendent James Boswell, Inspector, delighted to meet you.” This was in fair Korean, though he sounded much like the Scotsman I’d met at the Koryo, with an accent that made some of the words sound like they were wrapped in fog. The man held out his hand, which was huge. We shook. I was relieved he did not feel obliged to demonstrate his strength by crushing my fingers. “I understand we will be working together.” The visitor sized me up solemnly as he spoke and, despite his greeting, did not seem delighted to meet me. Even pleased would have been stretching the point.

I glanced at Min, who frowned at having used the wrong title for Boswell. Min thought protocol was important-it was one of those rituals that helped make the world turn more smoothly-and he did not like to make protocol mistakes. He moved behind his desk, and for a moment, I was afraid he was going to sit down and lean back in his chair. “Detective, er, Superintendent James has been sent by London to work with us on the security for next week’s visit. Actually”-Min turned to the foreigner-“we thought the visit was going to take place this week, but I was just informed it has been postponed-scheduling, aircraft clearances, something. The usual reasons. This was all only recently decided at high levels.” Min was lamely trying to defend the Ministry’s sloppiness in not informing us sooner. “In fact, I only learned of the superintendent’s arrival this morning when I was instructed to meet him at the airport. No arrangements have been made for his accommodations, I’m afraid.” He laughed at this, as if it were an amusing oversight on the Ministry’s part. “Inspector, you’ll see to that detail, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Boswell gave me a look that suggested he could detect barely disguised sarcasm as well as the next man, no matter the language. I smiled at him. This broke no ice.

Min supplied a few more details of why an English-Scottish, I thought to myself-policeman had been dumped on our doorstep, and then he sent the two of us out to establish our own working hierarchy. Min indicated that Boswell was the visitor and thus was expected to follow my lead. This seemed unlikely to me. The visitor was twice my size. I imagined if an oak tree could walk, it would have his tread. We didn’t speak until we were down at the duty car, which had been sitting unused since I returned from Beijing. Besides being dirty, it wasn’t very reliable.

“It’s not new, but it runs and it gets us around,” I said when we were both inside. I had to hope it would start. The seats were worn, the dashboard was cracked, and the knobs were covered with a film of nicotine, so, no, it was not new. Normally I didn’t care what people thought of the duty car, but if we had known we were going to entertain a visitor, I might have cleaned the knobs. I turned the ignition key. There was a click, then nothing. We sat in silence as I turned the key twice more and got two more clicks, the second somewhat fainter than the first.

Boswell put his paws on the dashboard and looked out the window on his side. “It won’t dewwww,” he said in something that resembled English.

“I’m sorry?” I said. “What won’t?”

“So, you understand English, Inspector. Good.” He switched to his accented Korean. “You’ve no gas. Or your battery’s gone. Or your starter motor is shot. We’ll have to walk, wherever it is we’re going.”

“Could be,” I said. “Wait for a minute. I’ll check something.” Car engines I don’t understand, but I opened the hood and looked inside. I jiggled a few wires, thumped a dirty piece of machinery. I spat on what I knew was the air filter, which looked clogged, probably with that damned Chinese dust. I slammed the hood, got back in, and turned the key. A wheeze, then the motor caught.

The visitor sat back in his seat and crossed his arms. “We’re off,” he said.

Damned right we’re off, I thought. “First, we’ll stop at the hotel and get you a room. After that, we’ll review the procedures.”

“Forget the hotel. I need a drive around the city, get the feel of the place, look at the roads, gauge the shadows.”

“You must be tired after your flight.” I didn’t have a single approval to go with this fellow anywhere but to the hotel and then back to the office. I certainly wasn’t going to drive him around the city without filing the paperwork. The last thing I wanted was another session with the man in the brown suit, asking me about the time a foreign police official spied on the city as I motored him around. “We can take a drive later, perhaps.”

“Sorry, we don’t have time for later, Inspector. I have my orders, and my orders are to make sure the permanent undersecretary gets in and out of here in one piece, the same piece.”

“You’re not suggesting there is anything wrong with security in my capital, surely.” It sometimes puts foreigners off balance to use the possessive-“my” capital.

“I wouldn’t be here if the porridge didn’t smell bad.” Maybe Scots didn’t respond to the possessive. He put his hand up to his mouth and yawned, a particularly delicate gesture for a tree, I thought. He stretched his legs as best he could. “Incidentally, Molloy sends his regards.” He pretended it was an afterthought.

My shoulder screamed; I swerved slightly and shook my head. He waited until I looked over to flash me a sardonic grin. Then he leaned against the side window and closed his eyes. The only sound the rest of the way to the Koryo Hotel was the engine coughing, from the dust.