Joy Brigade

11

Moon Chaser grabbed my wrist and pulled me to my feet, motioning for me to follow. I stayed close to him as he moved through underbrush, keeping low. Finally, we stopped and knelt. He pointed. Below, three snub-nosed trucks were parked in a row. Beside them stood a woman. A tall woman dressed in a long, black leather coat and long, black leather boots, her straight hair hanging down beyond her shoulders.

Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook-fully recovered now, hair glistening, looking like what the Paris fashion world would imagine a female Communist officer should look like. She stared up in the hills, right at us.

“Do they know we’re here?” I whispered.

“No, it’s not possible. No one’s ever caught me in these hills. This way,” he said, pulling my wrist again. “Keep low.”

Soon we reached a ravine. Moon Chaser guided me through it. A half hour later, we’d left the soldiers far behind.

Before dawn, we caught a few hours of sleep. Just before the sun came up, we crawled to the edge of a precipice and looked down.

“There it is,” Moon Chaser said. “Imjingang.” The Imjin River.

The narrow valley stretched south, as far as the eye could see.

“It reaches the DMZ,” Moon Chaser said, “and beyond.”

I knew the Imjin River well. It flows southeast where it crosses the DMZ, not far from the truce village of Pan-munjom, the place where the North Koreans meet the South Koreans and the United Nations Command Military Armistice Commission does its work. Eventually, the Imjin empties into the Yellow Sea.

“To the south,” Moon Chaser said, “the river is heavily fortified. So if we’re going to reach Mount O-song, we have to cross here.”

The banks of the river were flat and strewn with gravel. Water rushed rapidly through a central channel.

“The river is higher than normal,” Moon Chaser said. “Normally we could ford here, but it would be dangerous with such a deep flow. Look.”

I followed where he pointed, to a clump of bushes I’d barely noticed. I looked more closely. Shapes emerged: sandbags, camouflaged headgear.

“Machine guns,” I said.

“Yes,” Moon Chaser replied. “They’re planning to stop us here.”

We spent the morning searching up and down the length of the Imjin and spotted gun emplacements every two hundred meters or so, depending on the terrain.

“There must be roving patrols also,” I said, “on our side of the river.”

Moon Chaser agreed. We decided to hide until evening. He led me up the side of a rocky cliff to a cave that overlooked a bend in the river. From there we waited and watched. We chewed on the last few dirty chunks of ddok. I asked Moon Chaser how we were going to cross the river.

He shook his head. “They’re really after you now.” After thinking a while, Moon Chaser said, “There’s only one place to cross.”

“Where?”

“Eat your ddok. I’ll show you”

Two hours later, after night had fallen, we crawled to the edge of a cliff and stared down at the Imjin far below.

“There,” Moon Chaser said, pointing. “That’s where we’ll cross.”

It was an earthen dam. Crude, not fortified with cement, but Moon Chaser assured me that the Great Leader had plans to construct an enormous modern dam and a hydroelectric power plant at this site. A huge volume of water was stored behind the earthen berm, forming a man-made lake. Through sluices lined with lumber, water rushed into the Imjin River. As part of my briefings, I’d learned about this planned network of dams north of the DMZ. The purpose, according to my Eighth Army briefers, was not only to control the flow of water reaching South Korea, but also to use the dams, if necessary, as a weapon. It was thought that once all the dams were constructed, the North Koreans would be able to open a half dozen or so and allow water to gush into South Korea, damaging crop production by allowing the Imjin and Han Rivers to overflow their banks. Eventually, if the Great Leader’s plans were fully realized, the volume of water rushing down across the Demilitarized Zone into South Korea would be of biblical proportions. Water as a weapon of war.

I studied the primitive dam. A string of dirty light-bulbs, hung on poles, reached from side to side. The dam itself contained an enormous amount of dirt and seemed fairly new. Across the flattened top was a wood-slatted roadway. What worried me were the fortified wire gates at either end, protected by armed guards and multiple gun emplacements.

“How are we going to cross that?” I asked.

“Walk,” Moon Chaser told me. When I looked at him skeptically, he said, “Well, at least I’ll walk. You’ll ride. Come on.”

We waited until the middle of the night. The guards on either side of the dam had changed once and now these soldiers were listless and crouched near their weapons, doing their best to keep warm in the frigid night air. Many of the lights strung across the river had been turned off. Only half a dozen bulbs illuminated the entire expanse. No floodlights. No well-lit guard shacks.

Moon Chaser slid back the side panel of the wooden cart he’d borrowed. It was a coffin-like box, large enough to hold a full-grown hog. “Get in,” he said.

“I’ll never fit,” I replied, studying the small opening.

“You’ll fit,” he replied. “It’s the only way across.”

We’d spent the earlier part of the evening making our way to the village of Five Pines on the edge of the road that led to the dam. If there had ever been five pines in the village, they’d long since been chopped down for firewood. Now it was a barren spot with half a dozen shacks that provided the most basic types of amenities to the workmen and guards who manned the dam. All this activity was kept hidden, of course, since normal commerce was not allowed in North Korea. Supposedly, the grain and vegetable rations provided by the Great Leader were enough for hardworking men to survive on. In reality, everyone wanted more.

The elderly man whom Moon Chaser talked to was called Beggar Ryu. He dealt primarily in bowls of thin turnip soup fortified with dumplings made of rice-flour dough and laced with pig’s blood; hearty fare for the workingmen who carried, by hand, the earth from the hills to the river valley below. The old geezer also sold cigarettes on the side and soju in clear bottles with a picture of the beaming face of the Great Leader on the label.

It was the soju and cigarettes that Moon Chaser was counting on to get us to the far side of the dam.

I had to curl up so tightly inside the cart that my knees were pressing up against my cheeks. The splintered wood reeked of dried pig’s blood. Moon Chaser shoved my feet farther inside the cart and then slammed the door shut. What I was worried about most in here was cramps. If my muscles tightened and started to knot on me, there’d be no way to get out and stretch-or to run, if it came to that. I willed myself to relax, thinking of faraway places, like the day when I was in middle school and I lived in the home of Mrs. Aaronson. She packed me and half a dozen other foster kids into her old Plymouth and drove us over to Redondo Beach where we could swim and frolic in the waves. I’d suffered a sunburn that day, but I didn’t mind. As a kid who’d known only the harsh summer streets of East L.A., a day at Redondo Beach had been a day in heaven.

The cart rolled into the night. There were no springs on it, so at each rock and pothole I was jarred so roughly that my molars knocked together.

It was a good half-mile to the first checkpoint. As Moon Chaser pushed the cart, he started to sing some ancient Korean song that was indecipherable to me. It seemed to make him happy though. As he marched, his voice rose and gradually became more lusty. The soju bottles packed above me rattled.

Finally, someone shouted, “Shikuro!” Shut up.

The cart rolled to a halt.

“Don’t we have enough trouble,” the voice said, “without having to listen to your shrieking, old man?”

It was the voice of a young man, one of the guards at the first checkpoint. In my mind, I saw Moon Chaser smiling and bowing, his omnipresent A-frame still strapped to his back.

“You don’t appreciate fine culture,” Moon Chaser replied. “My voice was trained in the People’s Music Institute in Pyongyang, overseen by the Great Leader himself!”

“ Bah. Shut up, old man. Do you expect anyone to believe your drivel?”

“Ah, but the truth is hard to swallow. Maybe this would better meet with your approval?”

Moon Chaser slid the door of the cart halfway open. Yellow light flooded in, blinding me. His hand reached in and pulled out a bottle of soju and the door quickly slammed shut, returning me to darkness.

“Only two won,” he said. “The perfect way to warm this long evening.”

“Two won?” The young man was incredulous. “Beggar Ryu charges us half that.”

“Ah, but Beggar Ryu doesn’t buy from the finest distillery in the capital city itself.”

“Nonsense. His soju has a picture of the Great Leader on it, just like this one.”

“Counterfeit!” Moon Chaser said with assurance. “Any thief can print a label.”

They haggled like this back and forth for what seemed a long time. The young man on guard duty and the three or four voices I occasionally heard behind him weren’t going anywhere and had nothing better to do than haggle with an itinerant merchant. Finally, after enduring an elaborate string of insults, Moon Chaser came to the point.

“I have a sick mother in the village of Oh-mok,” he told the guard. “If she dies before I get there, I would never forgive myself, but if I walk north to Unification Road, it will take me two days.” He offered the guard a bottle of soju and two packs of cigarettes if they’d let him venture across the dam. “I’ll save a full day from my journey,” he told them.

The men conferred amongst themselves and finally a price of two bottles of soju and three packs of cigarettes was decided upon. “But watch out for those thieves at guard post number three,” Moon Chaser was told. All the guards laughed. “They’ll steal your last bottle of soju.”

Moon Chaser pushed the cart across the bridge.

Still curled up into a tiny knot, I sweated inside the cart. The wood was old and splintery but solid, probably an inch thick. Because I willed myself not to think about cramps, cramps were, of course, all I could think about. I felt the big muscle in the back of my right thigh start to tighten. Desperately, I willed it to relax. It did. By now, although it was desperately cold outside, sweat was pouring off my forehead and puddling in my armpits, flowing down my ribcage. Moon Chaser had pushed me a long way, clattering along the wood-slat road, but still we hadn’t reached the end of the dam. The men at the final guard post must have been watching him approach. Did they notice the cart sitting low on the wheels? Thinking about that terrified me enough that, for a moment, I stopped thinking about the quivering muscles in my legs.

Finally, the cart rolled to a halt.

“Comrades,” Moon Chaser said. “The men at the first guard post hold you in high esteem. They say you are men of discernment who appreciate the finest gifts from our Great Leader.”

This time, I didn’t hear any laughter.

Moon Chaser slid back the door, reached in, and grabbed two liter bottles of soju.

As he talked, the muscles in the back of my right leg tightened like a clutch of snakes. I tried to straighten my bent leg, but it had nowhere to go. My foot pressed hard against the wood, my mouth open in a silent scream. I waited for the muscles to loosen, for the pain to stop, but it just got worse.

A gruff voice snarled at Moon Chaser. “No one’s allowed on the bridge, least of all a blood-sucking capitalist. Why did those bastards at guard post number one let you cross?”

Although I couldn’t see him, I imagined Moon Chaser smiling and bowing and I heard his apologetic voice. He explained at length about his sick mother in the village of Oh-mok and how if he didn’t cut across the river here, he might not reach her before she breathed her last. He explained how she’d been a long and faithful follower of the Great Leader.

“She fought with him against the Japanese imperialists,” he said finally.

Apparently, this explanation had some effect on the snarling man. He said, “What about the Great War of Liberation? Did she fight the Yankees?”

“Oh, yes,” Moon Chaser said. “She hates the Yankee dogs. Killed three of them with her kitchen chopping knife.”

I couldn’t control my leg now. The spasm was so strong that I had no choice but to try and straighten it. My foot thumped against the wall, pushing with all its might, and if this cart hadn’t been fastened by interlocking bolts, I believe I would’ve kicked it apart.

Moon Chaser seemed to be aware that something was wrong inside the cart. He opened and banged the door loudly and it sounded as if bottles were being tossed and then caught in rough hands. Feet shuffled and I heard the guards cursing and Moon Chaser telling them that his price was only two won per bottle.

“You would charge us?” the snarling man said. “We who protect you from the bloodthirsty imperialists to the south?” There was incredulity in his voice. “You would come here in the middle of the night and ask us for money? For something as worthless as this cheap soju?”

Self-righteously, Moon Chaser defended the quality of his soju. The banter went back and forth for what was probably only a minute or two, but flush in the agony of muscle spasms, it seemed like years. In the last few days, my back and arms and chest and legs had been driven beyond their capacity. Exhausted and dehydrated, the quivering tissues screamed for relief. Finally, Moon Chaser reluctantly agreed to allow the soldiers to keep the soju free of charge-in honor, he said, of his ill mother.

With a note of triumph in his voice, the snarling soldier assured Moon Chaser that his service to the defenders of the country would bring good luck to his ailing mother. We were rolling.

I tried. God knows I tried. But every joint in my body was knotting in sympathetic response to my thigh muscles, which were now clumps of pain. I screamed, clasping my hand over my mouth as I did so in a vain effort to muffle the noise. Moon Chaser must’ve heard me because he shoved the cart forward faster, trotting now, but it was too late. I lost control.

Without even realizing what I was doing, I slid open the door of the cart and my right leg kicked out of its own volition, straightening until my foot dangled in the cold air. Moon Chaser cursed. The cart was rolling faster than ever.

Behind us, someone shouted. Moon Chaser was now pushing the cart forward at a flat-out run and it was clear that the angle of decline had increased. We were heading downhill.

A shot rang out.

Moon Chaser gave the cart one final nudge and then I felt the thud of his weight on it. We were rolling now, picking up speed. Another shot was fired.

The blacktop and gravel and rocks by the side of the road whizzed by at a tremendous speed. The cart was nothing more than a heavy square box with two bicycle wheels supporting it. There was no steering mechanism and no brakes. At this speed, we were sure to veer off the side of the road, but somehow we didn’t. I felt little jerks, first to our left and then to our right. Something was steering the cart.

Moon Chaser was lying flat atop the cart now, his A-frame still strapped to his back, but he must’ve been using his staff to jab forward at the ground and give us not only a little breaking action but also some steering control. It wasn’t much. Just enough to keep the rolling cart from careening off the edge of the road, into what I imagined to be an abyss below.

The gunfire had stopped. Still, we kept rolling faster down the ever-steepening hill. We were out of range of the men who guarded the dam now, but still in mortal danger of becoming a statistic by dying in your typical soju pig-cart crack-up.

Moon Chaser jabbed his staff hard to the left. The entire cart lifted, threatening to tip over, but still Moon Chaser kept jabbing his staff. We veered to the right but left the dirt road, one of the wheels kicking up dust and gravel on the side. After attempting to steer for a few more seconds, he suddenly gave up altogether. I felt his body shift above me as if he were curling himself into a ball, and then he screamed.

We flew off the edge of the road.

Moon Chaser slapped me alert.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Speak Korean,” he said.

I asked the same question in Korean.

“Never mind.” He pulled me roughly to my feet. “Come on. Those guards at the dam can’t leave their posts, but their officer of the guard has a radio. They’ll call this in.”

One of the legs of Moon Chaser’s A-frame had been broken. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes. Quickly now. Up the hill.”

We climbed. And we kept moving throughout the night. I surveyed my body as we moved. A few bruises and a world of soreness, but other than that I was healthy enough. Exhausted, hungry, and the back of my leg still throbbed from the cramps, but I was still in one piece. The thick walls of the soju cart had protected me from suffering any permanent damage.

It must’ve been maddening for the people hunting us to learn that we’d managed to cross the Imjin River, after all the precautions they’d taken. Still, they’d regroup quickly.

Moon Chaser shouted back to me as we hopped across rocky ridges. “No stopping now. All speed. If we can make it to the Eastern Star Commune before they do, and get into the Kwangju Mountain Range proper, we’ll be safe.”

“How far?” I asked, my tongue already lolling out of my head.

“Don’t ask,” Moon Chaser shouted. “Just move!”

At dawn, we gazed down on a flat plain that stretched about four miles to a mountain range rising jaggedly into the sky.

“The Kwangju Mountains,” Moon Chaser said. “There, the one capped with snow and mist, that’s Mount O-song.”

Just by examining the terrain, I could see how the Manchurian Battalion, with an independent leadership and the protection of a massive mountain range, could maintain its position as a formidable independent power, even in the midst of one of the world’s most repressive Communist dictatorships. And I could understand why Commissar Oh had chosen to send the entire armored might of the Red Star Brigade up against them. By holding the dominant geographic position, the Manchurian Battalion would be difficult to dislodge.

“We need water,” Moon Chaser said. “And food. I’ll get us some there.”

He pointed to the rows of low barracks-like buildings in a neat geometric pattern in the center of the valley.

“What’s that?”

“The Eastern Star Commune.”

“You’ll be caught,” I said. “They must’ve been notified.”

“But you must eat. And drink. Even after we reach the mountains, it will be a long climb to the Manchurian Battalion.”

“I can get by without,” I told him. “Better if we go around the valley, to the south, and cross there.”

“No. Too close to the DMZ. It’s crawling with soldiers. Better to go straight across the valley.”

“They’ll spot us.”

“They’ll spot you. Not me. If I go into the commune, attract their attention, you can make your way along that irrigation canal.” He pointed. “It zigzags across the valley and eventually reaches the mountains. I’ll join you at the far end, with food and water.”

“How will you pull it off?”

Moon Chaser grinned and patted me on the back. “Don’t worry. That’s my department.”

I gazed back down at the valley. The sky was overcast and even through the day the weather would remain cold, close to freezing, but there still could be some bright sunshine by noon.

“I’ll be too exposed,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be better to wait until dark?”

“Yes. It would. But this valley will be full of soldiers before the morning is out. Right now, they’re probably sending trucks out to pick them up from their gun emplacements along the river. Then they’ll bring them here and form a line between us and the mountains. We have to take the chance.”

Moon Chaser unlaced the pack strapped to the center of his A-frame. He rummaged around and pulled out what looked like a role of hemp material. He untied it and tossed it to me.

“Strip off that uniform,” he told me. “Put this on.”

I did as I was told. It was the traditional hemp pantaloons and tunic of a Korean farmer, slightly soiled. Then he tossed me a hat that had been similarly folded up in his backpack. It was made of straw that spread out slightly when I untied it, but it still held an odd, bent shape.

“How do I look?” I asked, when I was fully decked out.

“The legs are too short,” Moon Chaser said. “The cuffs only reach halfway to your ankles. And the tunic is tight across the chest.” I’d knotted the string holding it together tightly. “If anyone sees you up close,” Moon Chaser said, “they’ll spot you for a foreigner immediately.”

“But from a distance?” I said.

“If you keep your back bent, staring at the ground, and stay low within the irrigation canal, you might not be noticed.”

Moon Chaser turned and studied the main road leading into the Eastern Star Commune from the north. “Nothing yet,” he said. “No time to lose. Let’s go.”

He pointed out a plateau at the foot of the Kwangju Mountains on the far side of the valley as our rendezvous point. He also told me that if he didn’t arrive by nightfall, I was to make my way to Mount O-song on my own.

“I’ll wait for you,” I said.

“No. Your mission is too important. If I’m not there by nightfall, climb farther into the mountains, find shelter for the night, and continue on without me.”

We climbed down to the floor of the valley together. Then we shook hands, Moon Chaser grinning at the oddness of this Western tradition.

He continued on across the cabbage fields. I made my way south to the irrigation canal.

The edges of the canal were made of mud. I kept sliding down into the two- or three-foot-high runoff. I had to wade my way through the sludge until I found solid footing and climbed back up on the side of the canal. As I proceeded, I spotted the work groups and kept low as I crept past them. The water in the canal reeked of human waste and some sort of chemical that reminded me vaguely of ammonia. Probably toxic. In thirty years I’d be stricken by cancer and wonder how I caught it. Thinking of this-getting sick thirty years from now-kept my courage up as I made my way through the valley.

At one point, I climbed up out of the canal and lay down near some piles of hay and a metal pipe where runoff poured into the canal from the fields. The work groups seemed absorbed in their tasks, so I was mostly worried about the occasional groups of farmers, pushing carts laden with hand tools, making their way toward the fields. But with the valley as flat as it was, I was able to see them coming and slide down into the canal before they could spot me.

I gazed at the central buildings of the commune. I forced myself to stop worrying about Moon Chaser and the possibility of capture and concentrate on making my way across the valley.

I was more than halfway across when the old woman spotted me. I hadn’t noticed her because she was squatting down on the edge of the canal, apparently hunting for sour weed, the wild herbs that Koreans often add to soups and stews. She had a bundle of leafy greens shoved into the loose pockets of her full skirt. The material was folded above her knees as she squatted, her lower body swathed in long underpants made of linen.

She smiled at me quizzically. “You’re dirty,” she said.

I nodded, bowing obsequiously. “Yes,” I replied.

My pantaloons were rolled up above my knees and I’d been wading through a particularly noxious stretch of the irrigation canal, watching my footing as I went. I was less than ten yards from the old woman before she spoke and woke me out of my reverie.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said.

She stared at me, her half-smile not fading. “What are you doing here?”

I searched my mind for an answer. In the distance, I heard the singing of a work crew making their way to the fields. They were getting closer.

Like a bullfrog on its haunches, the old woman sidled away from me.

I sloshed quickly through the water and grabbed her. She started to scream, but I shoved my hand over her mouth and pulled her halfway down the edge of the irrigation canal, pressing her body against the mud. Her eyes were wide now, the thin eyebrows threatening to pop off her head. Here in front of her was the embodiment of the dirty, hairy, long-nosed Yankee that she’d been propagandized to hate-and fear-all her life. The bogeyman come to life, staring down into her face, foul body odor and bad breath. She struggled to kick herself free, but I leaned all my weight against her, holding her still.

The work crew’s singing grew louder.

There was a footbridge about twenty yards ahead. Luckily, it was just on the other side of a bend in the canal, so they wouldn’t be able to spot us-if I could just hold this struggling old woman still. Should I kill her? Hold her head beneath the filthy water until she gurgled her last? Or, once the work crew was past, should I threaten her and make her promise to stay quiet, at least until I made my way to the far side of the valley? But then she’d alert the others, and once they knew I was nearby, they would turn on Moon Chaser. After all his heroic efforts, they’d torture him and kill him. But if I left her body here floating facedown in the muck…

I stared into her terrified eyes, felt the warmth of her old body struggling against mine, and knew-with absolute certainty-that I couldn’t hurt her. No matter what the cost. I wished that somehow I could convey that certainty to her, so she wouldn’t be so frightened, but there was no way.

The work crew passed. Their singing faded.

I told the old woman that I was going to take my hand off her mouth, but if she screamed I would shove her head beneath the water. I asked her if she understood. She nodded. I took my hand off her mouth.

She just stared, open-mouthed.

“If you don’t betray me,” I said, “I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”

She nodded again.

“You’re going to come with me a way,” I said. “If you do as I say, I’ll let you go once we are far enough away.” Before I could ask if she understood, she nodded vehemently. Evidently, she’d lost the ability to speak.

With me propping her up against the slanted wall of the irrigation canal, we made our way slowly around the bend that the work party had just passed and continued on our way to the far side of the valley. After about a half-mile of this, I decided that I was moving too slowly. I stopped, knowing I had to let her go.

“I’m going to let you climb up on solid ground,” I said. “But I want you to sit there and make no sound. Do not move for at least thirty minutes. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“If you don’t promise to sit there quietly for thirty minutes, I won’t let you go. Do you promise?”

She nodded again.

“Say it,” I said.

“Yaksok,” she croaked. Promise.

I helped her climb back up the muddy slope until she was perched on the ledge of the irrigation canal. She gazed down, clearly terrified. I smiled and told her I was sorry for muddying her dress. She said nothing. Then I turned and sloshed my way down the canal.

I had gone somewhat less than a hundred yards when I heard footsteps pounding away in the opposite direction. Probably her, I thought. She hadn’t kept her promise. Still, she was a long way from the nearest work party. Then I heard the thin, whistling scream wafting along the valley floor.

I climbed up to the edge of the irrigation canal. It was the mud-spattered old woman, running and screaming-sour-stemmed herbs falling out of her pockets-alerting the entire commune of the Eastern Star about the presence of a Yankee imperialist.

I stepped up on solid ground and started to run.

They caught me before I reached the Kwangju Mountains. A work party of young farmers, all armed with hoes and rakes and wickedly curved scythes. I fought, but the sheer weight of them overwhelmed me.

One of them produced some hemp rope and they trussed me up and tied me to a thick pole and carried me like a dead boar back to the main square of the commune. In the central administrative building, they shoved me into an iron-barred cell that looked just like a Hollywood hoosegow. It was furnished only with a low straw-covered bunk and a metal bucket for a toilet.

After they untied me, I sat on the straw for about an hour, standing as often as I could because of the bugs practicing their broad jump. Finally, two uniformed men arrived. They shackled me with proper metal handcuffs and metal ankle bracelets and perp-walked me down stone steps into a basement. Actually, it was made of hewn rock and looked more like a dungeon. A single yellow bulb hung from the center of the ceiling. They sat me on a metal bench and then left, the iron-reinforced wooden door clanging shut behind them. I studied my surroundings. Nothing here except the bench and a barred window overhead with the glass painted black.

I sat and waited.

It seemed like days. Finally, the door opened.

Leather boots appeared on the stone steps. Soon her face came into view: Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook, the woman who’d been haunting me since I first arrived in North Korea.

Her eyes were sad, and her full lips pouted.

“Now,” she said in English. “At last.”

She slipped off her leather coat, revealing a statuesque figure clad in tight black pants and blouse. From the pocket of the coat she pulled out a short leather whip. Then she turned to me and smiled, flicking the whip in front of her.

“Are you ready for some fun?” she said.