Hidden Moon

Chapter Four

The four-car caravan turned off the paved road onto a dirt track. The first car, a Mercedes with bad springs, carried the British visitor with his Foreign Ministry escort. In the next car, a fairly new Toyota with a right-hand drive, sat the two aides, an older woman who brayed when she laughed and a young man with a haunted expression and a long nose. The third car was mine. Boswell sat in angry silence beside me. He kept curling his right hand into a fist. Yang was in the backseat, staring out the window. The final car, a van, had the luggage and two extra MPS guards.

We came to a stop. Boswell brought his fist down on the dashboard. “This is the craziest security I’ve ever seen. The craziest. The target is in the lead car, unprotected. Are you trying to get him killed?”

“Your visitor was briefed about the plot this morning. He said he didn’t believe it. His aides yawned; the woman said it looked like an effort to discredit him. We can’t tell him to go home; the Foreign Ministry says it would cause an incident. So just in case, we’ve redoubled the guard at every site he’s to visit. Anyway, who says he is unprotected? For all you know, the lead car has bulletproof glass. Just relax.”

“Mary and Joseph in a stewpot, how can I relax?”

“We got past your buildings with the shadows, didn’t we?”

“Where next?”

“I don’t know.”

Boswell snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. There are only so many places this dirt road can go. Don’t tell me you don’t know where that is.”

The caravan started again, the lead car speeding ahead. Yang leaned forward. “There’s a secure guesthouse up in the hills, about a fifteen-minute drive from here.”

Boswell turned around and stared, as if information coming from the rear seat was unwelcome. “You mean he’s not going to stay at the Koryo?”

“Would seem that way.” Yang sat back in his seat again and looked out the window, ending the conversation. From his tone of voice, you’d think he was bored, but looking in the rearview mirror, I didn’t think he was.

We hit a bump; Boswell bounced and hit his head against the roof. “Christ, every time we go anywhere that happens. Can’t you people build roads? I thought this led to a VIP guesthouse.”

“Who said it was for VIPs? All Yang said was it’s secure, well protected.”

“You can’t bring a visitor someplace in the middle of nowhere, out of the blue.” Boswell’s Korean was starting to deteriorate. “You can’t just dump a foreign official wherever you choose. No one does that. I haven’t checked out this place.”

The dirt road became paved again; we roared past one guard post, then another. Abruptly, the road became barely one lane. It climbed a steep hill in a series of switchbacks; there were no guardrails, not even any rocks painted white along the side, which dropped down a few hundred meters. “Slow down a bit.” Boswell spoke carefully, not to jar my concentration.

“Relax, would you? I’ve driven roads like this much faster, at night, in the fog.” I took my eyes off the road for a moment and looked at Boswell; he was gripping the dashboard. “You’ll like it. We never build guesthouses where there are shadows.”

Yang coughed. “Mind if I open my window?”

We went around another sharp bend, then the road became straight and broad. It passed through an open gate with sentries on either side. They weren’t slouching. At the end of a long drive was a one-story building, surrounded on three sides by a high concrete fence, with broken glass cemented along the top, and barbed wire on top of that.

The first two cars were already parked and the visitor was walking with the driver and the Foreign Ministry escort to the front door when gunfire broke out. The driver dropped the two suitcases he was carrying and hit the ground, fumbling for the holster under his coat. Three more shots; one kicked up dust near the lead car’s front tire, the other two shattered its windows on the driver’s side. I braked and steered off the road onto the dirt. The Foreign Ministry official dropped to the ground and covered his head with his arms. Boswell cursed and fumbled with his door handle. He half fell out and scrambled toward the house. “Get fucking down, you idiots,” he bellowed and looked wildly around to pinpoint the source of the shots.

The two aides started to get out of their car, but Boswell ran over and shoved them back inside. “Stay there, stay there, don’t move, don’t move a muscle.” He crouched behind the second car, took a deep breath, then ran toward the house.

I turned to tell Yang to follow him while I circled around the back. He had a pistol in his hand. “What the hell is that?” It was the first thing that came to my mind, though I already knew the answer. It was a Russian Makarov.

Yang stopped, clicked off the safety, then looked at me. “Stay out of the way, O. Please.” Another shot rang out, just as Boswell reached the visitor and pushed him onto the ground. I had no time to think. I threw myself at Yang, caught him on the shoulder, and we both fell off balance. His gun hand swung around and hit me on the side of the head. If I hadn’t been so much off balance, maybe I could have kicked him in the chest. Instead, I fell down.

Two men stood over me. Jurgen and Dieter, or maybe the other way around. One of them said, “Oh, shit,” in German and loaded a shell into a hunting rifle he held easily, the way some people hold a familiar book. He had a pen in his breast pocket. Yang put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t bother,” he said. I didn’t know the man could speak German; first the waitresses at the guesthouse, then Yang. Maybe he taught himself during all those night shifts. He switched to Korean. “I’ll take care of him,” he said, pointing at me. “Get the others and finish the job here.”

The German with the rifle looked disappointed but nodded. “We’ll see you later,” he said curtly, in Korean that was better than Boswell’s.

As I stood up, two men with their shirttails flapping hurried across the road toward the back of the guesthouse. Two others emerged from the luggage van and strolled into the woods without looking in my direction.

I turned to Yang. “Go on, get it over with.”

“Nothing left to do, O. I’ve finished my part.”

“You can’t get very far, you realize that. They know all about it now.”

“So what?”

“I’m disappointed.”

“Don’t be, O.” There was an exchange of shots and then a shrill scream. Yang stiffened. “That’s it, then. Time to go.” He nodded to me and jogged off into the woods.

The two guards from the entry gate and another enlisted man came running up, waving their arms. “We heard shots and then saw people running.” The first one pointed his pistol at the trees. “What is going on? We’ve radioed in an alert, but they said they need more details.”

“Who told you to leave your post? One of you has to get back to the radio.” They stared at each other dumbly. “Never mind, come with me. Just don’t shoot at anything unless I tell you to.” We edged up toward the guesthouse. The front door was open. When I eased myself inside, the two aides were crouched, white-faced and panting with fear, in the corner. Boswell was standing over the visitor, who was bleeding slightly from the upper arm. “He’s been shot,” Boswell said and turned away.

“Where’s the driver? I’ll tell him to get help.” I looked around.

“Don’t bother, he’s dead.”

The visitor raised his head and said tonelessly, “My arm.”

Boswell motioned to me to walk outside with him. “Flesh wound. He’ll be fine.”

One of the aides, the woman, stood up. “We’ve got to get out of here. They may come back.”

“You stick to arranging tea parties, I’ll do security. No one is coming back. Sit down and don’t say anything.” Boswell didn’t even try to hide his contempt.

I shouted at the guards to watch over the visitor, then followed Boswell out the door.

Boswell took in the scene in front of the guesthouse, then asked neutrally, “Where’s your friend Yang?”

“With the others, I suppose.”

“You suppose. Inspector, the man is rotten to the core.”

“Maybe.” I was thinking how he had stopped one of the Germans from blowing my head off.

“Can you call in and get help, or do you have to drive all the way back down to find a phone?”

“My phone is in the car. Who knows if it will work up here in the hills. The gate guards already issued an alert, but I doubt their communications unit will pass the word to someone who can do us any good. Maybe the lead car has a radio in it.” The radio, under the seat, was so new that I knew the car wasn’t one of the Ministry’s. Probably SSD. That explained why I didn’t recognize the dead driver. I didn’t know any of the call signs or even who I was going to be talking to on the other end when a voice came up. “Identify yourself.” There was a series of clicks.

“This is Inspector O, Ministry of People’s Security.”

“What the hell are you doing on this communications net?”

“Forget that. I need you to pass a message direct to MPS headquarters.”

“Passing MPS messages is not my job. You have your own communications.”

“Listen to me, you idiot. I’m on the security team for a British VIP who arrived yesterday. We’re at Koko Two. Do you know where that is? There’s been a shooting. One dead. One wounded.”

“A shooting? Who is this?”

“I told you who it was. We need emergency medical help. We also need a big squad of reinforcements. Is this a State Security radio?”

“None of your business. I still don’t know for sure who you are. Put on Lieutenant An.”

I looked at the dead driver. “Does An have a mole on his lip?”

“Yeah. Put him on.”

“He can’t talk right now.”

“Don’t screw with me. Let me talk to An.”

“Not easy to do. He’s dead.”

There was a crackle as the voice on the other end breathed into the microphone. “You killed An?”

“I’m telling you one more time. We need medical assistance and heavy reinforcements fast. Cordon off the Martyrs’ Cemetery, that’s where they’re headed. You better move fast. I think the Capital Command may already have been notified. If they have, they’ll lock down the city and you’ll never get anyone up here.”

A new voice came on. “O, is that you?”

“Han?”

“Where are you?”

“Koko Two. There’s been an assassination attempt here, the British VIP is wounded, and your Lieutenant An is dead.”

“How about your boy, Yang? Seen him around?”

I ignored him. “There are at least six of them. The two Germans are part of it.”

“Hang on a second.” He shouted at someone, then came back on. “Alright. There are sketchy reports of gunfire at the cemetery just coming in, I don’t know from where. We already have people on the way to that temple up in the hills. Reports say there might be weapons there.”

“There were. They’re gone.”

“Well.” He paused. “What about the old man?”

“There’s a group of assassins loose and you’re worried about an old blind man? He’s blind, Han. He’s pathetic.”

“Politics and blindness, Inspector.” Han’s voice was fading in and out. “I’m not qualified to judge. Wait, hang on again.” There was more shouting, then Han came back on the radio. “Listen, the army has sent out patrols in your direction. I’ll bet the soldiers are nervous as hell. Don’t look at them cross-eyed, that’s my advice. They’re not supposed to go into the cemetery, though, just cordon it off. So get over there as quick as you can.”

“What about the situation here at the VIP quarters?”

“What about it? Have someone close it off. Where are the other guards?”

“I think the term is ‘melted away.’ The gate sentries seem loyal.”

“They better be. Leave them there. A truck with one of our squads should get there in about twenty minutes, if they can make it up that hill. You better get moving. You’re closest to the cemetery. Get there.”

“Front gate or back?”

“Show some initiative, Inspector. It’s your call.”

“What about Boswell?” The radio clicked and went silent.