Joy Brigade

4

Shards of wood erupted into the room, and a brown boot followed. A pair of hands grappled with the small door, ripping it off its already twisted hinges.

I grabbed the short table, dumping rice bowls and porcelain and pickled vegetables. Doc Yong clutched my bicep instinctively but was forced to let go when I rose to my feet and charged. Speed is everything in a fight-speed and unbridled aggressiveness. The small table was my shield; I rammed it full force into the face of the startled man who’d kicked our door in. He reeled backward under my onslaught. As he fell, I kneed him in the gut and he went down with me and the table on top of him. He let out a grunt and a whoosh of air, then lay very still.

I scrambled to my feet, searching for more enemies, but the hallway was empty. Doc Yong reacted quickly. She tossed my shoes to me and as I slipped them on and my uniform tunic, she put on her hooded cloak and grabbed the canvas bag that she’d packed in preparation for just such an emergency.

“Let’s go,” she said in English and ran past me toward the stairwell. As she did so, I knew that something was not right. The man lying at my feet wore a military-type uniform, even though these “fixers” were not a regular military unit. They wouldn’t have sent him alone; they might be shorthanded, but surely there had to be someone backing him up. Before Doc Yong reached the stairwell, I lunged forward, grabbed her elbow, and jerked her to a stop, just in time. A club whistled from around the corner in a vicious arc, missing her head by inches and slamming with a thud against the wall.

I leapt past her and grabbed the club, turning my back against the hand holding it. I pinned the arm against the wall and twisted, elbowing the backup man in the face. He released his grip on the club, but I kept twisting his arm until he bent forward at the waist. I grabbed the back of his head with both my hands, braced him there, and slammed his nose and teeth against my knee. As he collapsed, I lost my grip and he tumbled, arms flailing, down the steps.

Doc Yong shrieked.

I clasped my hand over her mouth. Wide-eyed, she nodded that she was okay. I straightened my tunic and cap and, hand in hand, we trotted down the steps. The second fixer lay in a heap at the bottom. I checked his carotid artery.

“Strong pulse,” I told her.

She nodded, looking relieved. We crossed the short entranceway and peeked out the double doors. All clear. The fixers, apparently, traveled in pairs, not squads. As we stepped outside, Doc Yong glanced around, getting her bearings. I followed her down a dark alleyway, watching as she adjusted her backpack. The terror of what had just happened to us was gradually draining from my body, making me want to throw up. I fought the feeling and instead glanced at Doc Yong. We were both frightened but overjoyed to be free.

At least for the moment.

Boot heels surrounded us. Giant cement boot heels. We’d hidden in the middle of a massive megalithic monument. A group of revolutionaries-a soldier, a factory worker, a farmer, and a woman holding a rifle-rose thirty feet above us. A circle of light illuminated the outside of the heroic structure, but here, in the center of the monument, it was dark.

“What’s it called in English?” Doc Yong asked.

“A fallback position.”

“Right. A fallback position. Hero Kang told me to come here if something went wrong.”

And it had gone wrong. The fixers had somehow gotten wind that a foreigner was staying in that particular room. They hadn’t searched any of the other rooms in the building. If they had, I would’ve heard boots pounding and doors slamming throughout the thin wooden structure. Probably the two men had sniffed out a lead and rather than informing their superiors they’d tried to take us on their own. If they’d been more patient, and merely put us under surveillance, a larger group of fixers could’ve been summoned and then we would’ve been caught. As it was, we were lucky to be free. And now I knew something more about the fixers than I had before. They were undisciplined. Undisciplined can be good, sometimes, but it can also be dangerous.

I rose from my squatting position and peeked at the empty streets radiating from this monument like spokes from a hub. No sign of the fixers. But nor any sign of Hero Kang.

“Be patient,” she said. “He will be along.”

“When?”

“At dawn.”

The fixers had probably found their injured comrades by now. Although we were over a mile away, it wouldn’t take them long to include this area in their search.

And then it started to snow. Doc Yong and I huddled together, she doing her best to cover me with her hood, I wishing I had some good old-fashioned GI-issue winter gear to keep us warm. Doc Yong used the time to complete my briefing-partially, I’m sure, to keep our minds off our misery. I listened patiently, enjoying the nearness of her, and at the same time keeping a weather eye out for approaching fixers.

She told me of a group of people called the Manchurian Battalion, of which she was a member. They were one of the original units of the Korean People’s Army, she whispered, snuggled next to my neck. The Manchurian Battalion had started in the thirties, long before the founding of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, as a ragtag group of bandits and malcontents who fled to the mountains to avoid the heavy boot of the Japanese Imperial Army’s occupation of their country. They’d fought back sporadically, but it hadn’t been easy. The Japanese formed special antiguerilla task forces that hounded them through the northern provinces of Korea and into the vast wilderness of Manchuria. The peasants whom they relied on were harassed mercilessly, rounded up, not allowed to grow crops. Starvation was rampant. Despite heavy losses, the Manchurian Battalion survived and kept fighting. Finally, at the end of World War II, the Japanese were defeated and forced to withdraw from all of their conquests in the Far East, including Korea.

Kim Il-sung, the Great Leader, had been comrades with the leaders of the Manchurian Battalion, and in later years, even through the chaos of the Korean War, the Manchurian Battalion maintained a certain level of autonomy. Now, they guarded the passes that led to Mount O-song in the Kwangju range, flush against the northern edge of the DMZ’s Military Demarcation Line.

“There is much pressure on the Manchurian Battalion,” Doc Yong told me. “Kim Il-sung is consolidating power, preparing for the transition to his son’s leadership. His advisors tell him that his old comrades in the Manchurian Battalion are untrustworthy, that they will not accept his son’s leadership, and will attempt to take power themselves. This is a lie. Still, we believe the Manchurian Battalion is marked for destruction. The forces arrayed against us are overwhelming, but Hero Kang has devised a plan that can save us.”

“And you trust him?” I asked.

“Completely.”

That was good enough for me. She took my hand in hers. The skin was no longer soft, as it had been in Seoul; now there was an extra layer of roughness.

“We need information,” she told me. “Information that Hero Kang will guide you to. But only a foreigner can gain final access.”

“Only a foreigner?” I asked.

“Yes. There is a man, a well-connected apparatchik, his name is Commissar Oh. Our information is that he and the commander of the Army’s First Corps have been tasked with dealing with the Manchurian Battalion.”

“Dealing with them?”

“Eliminating them,” she said. “That is what we believe. But action must be taken soon, before the winter freeze, before the planned invasion of the South.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“We’re not sure of anything,” Doc Yong told me. “Our information is spotty, from multiple sources. We need to know more. We need to know when and where the First Corps is planning to strike. That’s why we need you.”

I brushed snow off her shoulders.

“Commissar Oh is a secretive man,” she continued. “That’s one of the reasons he was chosen for this mission. But he also has his vanities. Every year, he and the First Corps commander sponsor a foreigners-only Taekwondo tournament. The winner is invited into the inner sanctum of something called the Joy Brigade. That’s where our agent is waiting. She needs help to obtain the information. Once you gain the trust of Commissar Oh, she will contact you.”

“She?”

“Yes. The Joy Brigade is composed strictly of women. Once you have the information, she will lead you to Hero Kang and he will, in turn, help you escape and lead you to the Manchurian Battalion.”

I thought of what she was saying, of how dangerous it would be, all the while staring down the spokes of the wheel that surrounded us. All was dark, quiet, unmoving, except for the silently falling shroud of snow.

“Where will you be?” I asked.

“In the Kwangju Mountains with the Manchurian Battalion. They are my protectors and they are the ones who guard the caves that lead to the passageway beneath the DMZ.”

I gripped her small shoulders and stared into her eyes. “But why don’t we escape now? Go to the Manchurian Battalion, find the passageway beneath the Kwangju Mountains? Then we will be free and we can convince Eighth Army to help with weapons and ammunition, maybe with ground troops.”

“That’s what we hoped before, but there is so little time. The attack on the Manchurian Battalion could happen at any moment. And who knows if the Americans will act quickly enough, or act at all?”

She was right about that. The motives of the American Army were often obscure, even to me.

“So we are fighting for time,” she continued. “If you can obtain this information and pass it to Hero Kang, we can sabotage their plans, delay the First Corps attack long enough to seek American help. But if we escape now, if you and I run off to the Kwangju Mountains and manage to reach South Korea, the Manchurian Battalion will be destroyed.”

She allowed me time to let this sink in. I could see her point. If this planned attack by the First Corps was delayed, or nullified, that would allow us time to make our way south and convince Eighth Army to reinforce the Manchurian Battalion. Still, I wasn’t exactly sure who these Manchurian Battalion people were and why I should be worried about them. After all, they were Communists, supposedly, my avowed enemy.

“They are my people,” Doc Yong told me, as if she were reading my mind. “I must help them.”

“Your people?” In the ambient glow of the electric bulbs surrounding the monument, I studied her eyes.

“They are the ones who helped me in South Korea,” she said. “The ones who, through their agents, paid for my education. They are the ones who helped me avenge the murder of my parents.”

It was that series of killings against a group of thugs who ran the red-light district of Itaewon in Seoul that had forced Doctor Yong In-ja to seek asylum in the DPRK.

“Your parents were members of the Manchurian Battalion.”

She nodded.

This time I looked away. “And if I decide not to help?”

“Then I will do my best to get you out of North Korea. I will show you the directions in the ancient manuscript and take you as far as I can into the tunnels. After that, you will be on your own.”

“You won’t come?”

“No. I will stay and fight with the Manchurian Battalion.”

“You won’t win,” I said.

“No. Probably not.”

Then she took my hand and placed it on her belly. After having spent the last few hours with her, I was certain she’d borne a child-the child I suspected she’d been pregnant with when she’d fled South Korea a year ago. Still, she hadn’t spoken of it and I hadn’t pressed her.

“We have a child,” I said.

“Yes,” she replied. “A son. His name is Il-yong. The First Dragon. He is full of life, and full of fire. So much like you.”

It took me a moment to adjust to this new reality, although I had suspected it. Finally, I said, “We should leave, escape from North Korea, the three of us. You, me, Il-yong.”

“I can’t,” she said. “Not until the Manchurian Battalion has at least a fighting chance.” She clutched my hand more tightly. “Will you help us?”

Before I could answer, she pulled a photograph out of her backpack.

What is it about children, about our own flesh and blood, that moves us so? As I studied the photograph, she clutched my hand tightly. He was an aware-looking child, bright, his little fists clenched, his eyes staring straight into the camera.

I handed the photograph back to Doc Yong.

The chances of us surviving, any of us, were slim. The North Korean regime, when it felt threatened, had proven itself to be ruthlessly efficient. Still, now that I’d seen my son, now that I knew I had a family, I knew I’d never abandon them, not like my father had abandoned me. If it came to that, I’d rather die first.

“I’ll help,” I said finally.

An automobile engine rumbled, growing ever louder. I peeked over the cement toe of the heroic factory worker. A beat-up old Russian sedan, probably left over from the Stalin era, cruised slowly around the monument. Doc Yong sat up.

“It’s him,” she said. “Come on.”

We clambered over the massive foot of the monument and ran toward the vehicle. It stopped. Now I could see clearly the man sitting behind the wheel. Hero Kang.

“Bali,” he said, opening the door and climbing out. Hurry. “Let’s go before those fixer bastards and their lead bitch get a bead on us.”

Their lead bitch?

“Here,” Hero Kang said. “Put this on.” He tossed a black overcoat and a black chauffeur’s cap to Doc Yong.

She handed her cape and her backpack to me and I shoved them into the backseat of the car. After she’d slipped the overcoat and the chauffeur’s cap on, Hero Kang handed her a pair of white gloves. She slipped those on also.

As if she were born to it, Doc Yong climbed behind the wheel, adjusted the seat, and started up the engine. Hero Kang, positioning himself proudly in his usual military uniform, sat up front next to her. I crouched in the backseat. Doc Yong shifted the tank-like engine into gear and we lurched forward.

As we pulled away from the monument, I glanced back at one of the dark alleys. In one, a lonely figure stood. A woman with long, straight hair, wearing a leather cap and a leather jacket, hands shoved deep into her pockets. She seemed to be staring straight into my eyes.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

The car swerved and Hero Kang and Doc Yong glanced to where I pointed. But now the alley was empty.

“What?” Hero Kang asked.

“There was a woman standing there,” I replied. “A woman in military uniform.”

“You’re imagining things,” Hero Kang said.

But I knew I hadn’t imagined anything. The woman standing in the alley had been the same beautiful officer I’d seen outside the room where Doc Yong and I had been holed up.

The big Russian engine growled angrily as Doc Yong shifted gears and we left the monument behind. Slowly, we wound through broad lanes. The plan was that after Doc Yong dropped us off, she’d ditch the car, resume the role of a peasant woman traveling to visit relatives, and return to a place of safety in the Kwangju Mountains.

Hero Kang told me to sit up straight.

“Remember,” he told me. “You’re an officer. A hero in your own country. Everyone else is nothing. Less than nothing.”

I sat up straighter in the seat and thrust my shoulders back, smoothing out the wrinkles in my Warsaw Pact uniform as best I could, staring about imperiously. Not that anyone noticed. In the distance, work groups carrying hoes and rakes marched through the gloom like military units.

We turned onto a massive road lined with monuments to the Great Leader and to the struggles of the North Korean people against the Japanese colonists and the American imperialists. Freezing fog and the slowly rising sun cast the quiet city in a somber red glow. Eerily, there were no other cars out yet, except for one military vehicle that whizzed past us. At the larger intersections, even at this early hour, attractive young women in police uniforms with skirts just barely covering their knees pirouetted and pointed and waved, blowing their whistles and coordinating an elaborate flow of imaginary traffic.

“She must be freezing,” I said, as we passed one.

“Yes,” Doc Yong replied. “Poor thing.”

“You’re an officer!” Hero Kang barked, aiming his rebuke at me. “You have no time for sympathy.” Then he turned to Doc Yong. “Have you briefed him?”

“Thoroughly.”

What he meant was had she convinced me to go through with all this. She had. Still, I longed to turn this vehicle toward the Kwangju Mountains, find my son, and escape with him and Doc Yong beneath the DMZ to freedom. But that would have to wait.

We turned down a side street, narrower than the rest, and wound slowly up into wooded hills. Finally, we reached a huge building, as broad as an aircraft carrier, but elaborately carved and splashed with the bright colors of an ancient royal palace. A red wooden arch was painted with golden hangul letters that said Inmin jayu undong gong. The Palace of the People’s Freedom Movement. Yellow-eyed dragons with green-scaled bodies slid red tongues past ivory fangs.

At the main entranceway, four armed soldiers saluted. Two of them stepped forward smartly and opened the side doors. Hero Kang and I climbed out. Before we marched up the granite steps, I turned and caught Doc Yong’s eyes. She stared back, worried. I smiled and winked and she nodded slightly. Then I turned and walked past the North Korean soldiers, not looking back.

Steam billowed upward in moist, warm clouds. Hero Kang lay naked on a massage table covered in white linen. I sat on wet stone being scrubbed with a stiff sponge by a faithful female follower of the Great Leader of the people. She went about the job with all the joy of a butcher preparing a hog for slaughter.

Hero Kang’s masseuse wore only a coarse white towel pinned around her shapely body and a smaller towel piled atop her head like an ancient Egyptian headdress. My attendant wore a stiff cotton medical smock buttoned meticulously to the top of her neck.

I wanted to ask Hero Kang why we were being treated differently, but I didn’t want these women, or anyone in this massive gymnasium, to know I spoke Korean. Besides, I thought I knew the answer. Hero Kang was a revered hero of the people. I, on the other hand, was something putrid, to be cleansed and purified. In short, I was a foreigner. In North Korea, even those foreigners who were political allies, such as an officer of the Warsaw Pact, were considered objectionable, not of the “pure race” and, in most people’s eyes, less than human.

We’d been fed earlier with expensive white rice, not the coarse brown rice or thick-fibered corn most North Koreans ate, and with savory side dishes: cabbage kimchi, diced turnip, pickled cucumber, and bulkogi, grilled slices of marinated beef. Now I was being washed. All of this pampering, I thought, was simply preparing me for the kill.

Hero Kang moaned in pleasure as his masseuse dug her pudgy fingers into the muscles at the base of his neck. My attendant dropped her sponge in a bucket and slipped on a glove of coarse, wiry cloth. Pointing, she ordered me to lie down on the stone. I did. She slapped soapy water on my back and then, with a vengeance, began to scrub. I winced in pain and started to rise, but she shoved me back down with her free hand. She was surprisingly strong. I could’ve thrown her off, but I decided that I was man enough to take it. I lay back down, clenched my teeth, and vowed not to show weakness.

I’d seen gloves like this one in South Korea. They were designed to clean the skin so thoroughly that they scraped off the first layer of flesh and sometimes the second and third. Dirt and oil built up in the pores appears like magic atop the reddened skin in black, rubbery pellets, which the Koreans call ddei. The woman scrubbed and scrubbed and whole handfuls of ddei appeared. “Toryowoyo,” she said. Dirty.

“Yangnom da kurei,” the masseuse replied. All foreign louts are the same.

Hero Kang laughed, his massive back shaking. “How do you know?” he asked them. “How many foreign louts have you scrubbed?”

The masseuse didn’t answer. Instead, she slapped him playfully on the butt, her face reddening at her own boldness.

Grimly, my female torturer ordered me to roll over. I obeyed. When she finally ordered me to stand up, my entire body was as red and as raw as a lobster without its shell. Holding my arms away from my body so as not to irritate the inflamed flesh, I hobbled over to the huge tub filled with steaming water that she was pointing to. When I’d lowered myself to my shoulders, she grabbed the top of my head and shoved me under. I came up sputtering.

After soaking for less than a minute, she ordered me out of the tub and handed me towels. As I dried off, I thought of what Hero Kang had told me. My life and Doc Yong’s depended on me finding the information that would protect the Manchurian Battalion. As did the life of the new person I’d only just learned about. He was already trying to walk and talk. Maybe maternal pride made Doc Yong exaggerate a little, but I didn’t think so.

I was right about being prepared for slaughter.

I stood in my dobok, my pure white uniform, in the center of the massive gymnasium. Bleachers filled with North Korean Army soldiers lined both walls, males on one side, females on the other. Behind a low row of skirted tables sat stern middle-aged men. The judges.

The other participants were foreigners, like me. Sixteen of us, from countries in Asia, Eastern Europe, and Africa. Countries that were all, in one way or another, affiliated with the Communist Bloc. We were ordered in English to line up and then to bow to the judges. They nodded back.

Then we turned and faced a huge bronze statue of Kim Il-sung at the far end of the gymnasium. His face beamed, and with his left hand he was pointing to some sort of Marxist paradise. Little girls dressed in traditional chima-chogori Korean dresses scurried forward and handed each of us a bouquet of roses. Where they found roses this time of year, I didn’t know. We were ordered to march forward in unison. Cameras were pointed at us and it became apparent that this was a propaganda exercise. When we stood about twenty feet in front of the statue, we were ordered to kneel and lower our heads to the floor. One by one, we were made to rise and lay our roses at the feet of the huge statue. In the background, a voice droned on through rusty speakers about how people from all over the world prostrated themselves in front of the Great Leader in gratitude for spreading his shining light for all to see.

None of the participants complained. Hero Kang had told me that most of them were the family members or employees of various foreign embassies and consulates here in Pyongyang. However, the government’s official line was that we were all Taekwondo enthusiasts who had traveled at great expense to bask in the glow of Korean martial arts and, most importantly, in the shining sun of the people, Kim Il-sung.

Personally, I wanted to throw up.

Hero Kang had registered me as one Captain Enescu from the Warsaw Pact country of Romania. Although they’d devised a phony passport for me, Hero Kang hadn’t had to show it; instead, he’d been able to utilize the power of his personality to overwhelm tournament officials.

After the ceremony, we were allowed to return to our trainers, who stood on the sidelines of the central wood-slat floor. Hero Kang, my trainer, slapped me on the back.

A whistle was blown. The first two combatants trotted out onto the floor, faced the judges and bowed, and then faced each other and bowed again. The order “Junbi” was given. Prepare. And finally, “Sijak.” Begin. The two men started bouncing around each other, fists raised. One of them shot out a side kick. It missed. The other countered with a roundhouse, which also missed.

I glanced at Hero Kang and raised my eyebrows.

“Kisul-ee potong an imnida,” he said. Their skills are remarkable.

It was a joke. He’d told me earlier that many of the contestants were chosen just to fill slots in this supposed final round of the tournament and make it look as if there were a huge international throng here in Pyongyang to study Taekwondo. Some of the combatants, however, would be tough. They were security people who kept themselves in good shape, and, according to Hero Kang, some of them had taken up Taekwondo with true dedication.

In Seoul, I had earned a black belt studying part-time when my work schedule allowed. In the secret dochang Hero Kang had taken me to yesterday, the martial artists had coached me on tournament technique, the best way to score points and impress the judges who would be deciding the winners here today.

I glanced around. The men throwing practice kicks on the sidelines showed various levels of skill, but one of them, a tall black man, sliced the air with some serious punches and kicks.

“Maputo,” Hero Kang told me, “from the Mozambique freedom fighters. He won last year.”

“Only among the foreigners?”

“Of course. Against Koreans, he wouldn’t stand a chance.”

And I knew this was true. Every child in North Korea studies Taekwondo from the time they start school. Those with potential are pulled out and sent to study at special schools for athletes. Once they’re in the military, highly skilled young men face enormous competition to land on the top military teams. If they make it, their only duty is to train and participate in martial arts competitions throughout the Communist world.

On the far side of the gymnasium, the People’s Army First Corps Taekwondo team was limbering up. They would be giving a demonstration after the foreign competition was completed.

The two men fighting now completed their third round, bowed to each other, and-breathing heavily, fists hanging to their sides-awaited the decision of the judges. The judges conferred, the combatants bowed once again, and the winner was announced. Another whistle was blown and two more men took the floor.

Here was the catch about this plan. I had to win the tournament. Not merely do well and come in second or third place, but win. Take the brass ring. If I didn’t, Hero Kang told me, I’d never be invited into the inner sanctum presided over by the political advisor to the commander of the First Corps, the army unit that guarded all access routes to the capital city of Pyongyang. And if I didn’t reach that inner sanctum, I’d never make contact with the person the Manchurian Battalion had embedded in the upper echelons of the North Korean Communist elite, the person who had the information Hero Kang needed. This is why Hero Kang needed a foreigner. If I didn’t win this Taekwondo tournament, our best chance of escape would fall apart.

In North Korea, as I was learning, nothing was ever easy.

My first fight was with a Cuban security guard. He was quite good, but he made a few fundamental mistakes, such as overextending his roundhouse kick, thereby leaving himself off balance if it failed to connect. Which it did, repeatedly, as I moved in and then hopped back just in time and countered with a short front kick that caught him one, two, three times in the midsection. The judges were fair. Although the Cuban’s fighting style had been flamboyant, with long legs and long arms flashing everywhere, he never landed anything more than glancing blows, whereas I made direct contact with his solar plexus three times. In a real fight, the Cuban would’ve been dead. The judges ruled me the winner.

When I returned to the sidelines, Hero Kang beamed. “Only two more,” he told me. “Then you can face Maputo.”

I noticed the tall black man eyeing me. Maputo, like the judges, had been impressed with my performance.

Hero Kang elbowed me. Entering on either side of the gymnasium, at the base of the bleachers, were armed security men. After about a half dozen of them stationed themselves near the exits, a woman entered. Tall, dressed in black leather boots and coat with a matching red-star cap. A military officer, a senior captain. The same beautiful woman I’d seen last night. Her long black hair framed an oval face that was white and unblemished. Her lips were soft, petulant, and her luminous black eyes stared straight at mine.

“Don’t look at her,” Hero Kang said, turning his back toward the security people. I turned and pretended to be stretching my hamstrings. “Her name is Rhee Mi-sook,” he told me. “A notorious fixer. Probably sent by the railroad security people.”

“To arrest me?”

“Secretly. So they can interrogate you first and find out who you really are.”

“Great,” I said, still bending over so no one could see we were talking. “How do we shake her?”

“Only one way,” Hero Kang told me. “Win the tournament.”

Maputo mowed down everyone he faced. As did I, although not nearly as impressively. I counted on movement and scoring points, knowing by now that the judges were experts at realizing which moves were truly effective and which were just for show. Maputo, on the other hand, humiliated his opponents. He pelted them with side kicks and roundhouse kicks and, once they were backing away in fear, launched a showy reverse swivel kick that, despite being telegraphed by a mile, landed more often than not. A couple of his opponents had been bloody by the time the three rounds were over. Each time, Maputo easily won the decision. Even the members of the First Corps Taekwondo team were watching him, if with smirks on their faces.

Hero Kang whispered in my ear about strategy, using pidgin English when someone was close enough to hear, Korean when they weren’t. His plan boiled down to one thing: move in close, inside his big roundhouse kick, and stay there. Maybe easier said than done.

Finally, after everyone else had been eliminated, it was down to just me and him. That’s when an officer at the side of the hall shouted at the top of his lungs, “Charyo!” Attention! Everyone rose to their feet. An old man tottered in. He looked like he might be ninety. But he wore the uniform of a general of the People’s Army and his chest was weighed down by what must’ve been twenty pounds of medals.

“General Yi,” Hero Kang whispered, “the First Corps commander. Here for your match.”

Two aides hovered near the old man’s elbows, but he shrugged them off, straightened his shoulders, and marched into the gymnasium like the proud soldier he must once have been. He wore a leather-brimmed military cap with a flat, comically large crown, like the lid of some enormous jar.

Behind him was a much younger man, wearing the same uniform but without the epaulets and the medals. And without the cap. His long brown hair was slicked back, unusual here in North Korea, where most men wore their hair short. Also unusual was the thin mustache, the first I’d seen north of the DMZ.

“That’s our target,” Hero Kang whispered. “Commissar Oh, the political advisor to the First Corps commander. He’s a personal friend of Kim, the younger, and the leader of the Joy Brigade.”

Commissar Oh moved with all the grace of an eel through water, staying only a step or two behind the general. When they took their places of honor in the bleachers, he sat at the old warrior’s right elbow, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered one to the general, who declined. The younger man lit up, blowing smoke straight up into the rafters.

“He’s a scoundrel,” Hero Kang said.

In Korea, it’s considered impolite to smoke in the presence of an elder. The old general seemed oblivious of the insult.

“And he’s dangerous,” Hero Kang continued. “Don’t ever trust him. But he’s the one who must invite you back into his headquarters after the tournament. That’s where you’ll be contacted by our operative.”

“But first I have to win.”

“You must win,” Hero Kang hissed. “Commissar Oh doesn’t tolerate losers.”

Maputo was still warming up, smashing the air with wicked punches and kicks. Not very respectful to the elderly commander, but the Koreans ignored him. After all, foreigners don’t know any better.

As I stretched, I watched Maputo’s moves. He glanced in my direction and our eyes locked. Ritual scars stretched across his cheekbones. He smiled briefly and then his lips curled into a sneer. Hero Kang told me the freedom fighters he worked for received arms, clandestinely, from North Korea. Like Doc Yong, Maputo was fighting for his people. Only the desperate enter North Korea. Only the most desperate manage to leave.

Involuntarily, my eyes turned to the armed men at the exits. There were more of them now, but the beautiful senior captain had disappeared.

“Where’d she go?” I asked Hero Kang.

“I don’t know. Forget about her. Concentrate on winning. It’s our only chance to get out of here.”

“You know her,” I said.

“Yes. She’s famous.”

“For what?”

“Never mind now.”

A whistle shrilled. Maputo approached the center languidly, with all the grace of a leopard on a hot summer day. A hushed wave of tittering flowed through the crowd, especially from the female side. Once we were facing the judges, we both bowed, then we turned and bowed to each other. The referee shouted, “Junbi!” Then, waving outstretched arms toward the center of his chest, “Sijak!”

Maputo hopped forward with a vicious side kick.

Unfortunately, I had been lost in thought about Captain Rhee Mi-sook. I’d been wondering if our cover had already been blown and if she’d really let me leave this gymnasium even if, somehow, I managed to win this match. I was doing exactly what Hero Kang had warned against. I wasn’t paying attention.

The side kick landed hard against my left shoulder and I reeled backward, tripping myself. I fell with a thud.

The gymnasium erupted in laughter.

I bounced to my feet. Everyone was laughing, even the old general. But not Commissar Oh, who puffed on his cigarette and studied me with more than curiosity. With fascination.

Maputo didn’t take advantage of my fall. To reach me, he had overextended and lost his own balance. His footing regained, we faced one another, fists raised, eyes locked.

I felt the burning in my face and behind my ears. I’d been humiliated by the fall and the laughter, but the side kick hadn’t been a decisive blow. Not, at least, since Maputo had been unable to follow it with anything more lethal. I did my best to calm down. I’d lost points, but not many, and I knew that the judges hadn’t written me off yet. More than one man had been dropped in a fight and come back to win.

I stepped in, exposing myself to one of Maputo’s roundhouse kicks. He couldn’t resist the temptation. And while the kick was in the air, I dropped, swiveled with one leg extended, and slapped Maputo’s remaining foot out from under him. He went down. Again, the laughter exploded like thunder.

I could’ve kicked him when he was down, but that would’ve violated the tournament rules. I held out my hand, and he took it, grinning, and started to rise. Halfway up, he jerked me to the floor and hopped away. For the third time in less than a minute, laughter filled the gymnasium. I doubted this much mirth had been witnessed in North Korea since the founding of the Democratic People’s Republic. Minders waved the audience back to sobriety, reminding them that they must maintain order. Discipline. That’s what this country was about. What Maputo and I were teaching them was that a little chaos could be extremely entertaining.

By now, we were through with the stunts. Maputo and I engaged, kicking, punching, parrying, setting a pace and gauging the speed of the other man. His kicks were just as quick and vicious as before, but against me they weren’t landing with the same devastating effect. In South Korea, I’d sparred with true experts, and they’d taught me much. Mainly, they’d taught me how to survive.

The first round ended without any decisive points being scored by either of us. We rested a minute and then were back at it. Maputo tried his side kick again, but I sidestepped it and caught him flush on the chest with a roundhouse of my own. Not a lethal blow but enough to score what might’ve been the first major point of the tournament. Frowning, Maputo attacked, trying combinations now. In each case I avoided his blow and managed to keep him off balance enough that much of the power of the kicks was wasted in trying to adjust his stance to keep up with my movement. But then, just as I was about to sidestep another kick, Maputo hopped in the air, switched to his other leg, and caught me with a short quarter side kick in the solar plexus. There was a gasp from the crowd. It was a clear blow, the best of the battle so far. I grabbed the lapels of his dobok, jerked him forward, and resisted the urge to punch his face in, only feigning the punch, scoring one or two minor points in the process. Then we were kicking again. His combinations were better than mine, and that one blow to the solar plexus had given him a substantial lead. Desperately, I tried another roundhouse, but at the last second he managed to parry and it glanced off his elbows. The whistle sounded. I returned to the sidelines. I stood by Hero Kang and, breathing heavily, placed my hands on my knees.

“Only one more round,” he said. “Maputo is beating you.”

“Yes.”

“There are more security guards now.”

I followed his eyes. The contingent had doubled in size. Still, no Senior Captain Rhee.

“Is there another way out?” I asked.

“There is no way out of here,” Hero Kang told me, “except to win.”

I looked at Maputo. He was limbering up, bending forward at the waist, long arms dangling toward the floor. Above, the old general beamed, enjoying the match immensely. Commissar Oh continued to smoke, staring pensively at the rows of uniformed young women on the far side of the gymnasium.

“All right,” I said. “Then I must win.”

“Maputo is ahead,” Hero Kang said, “and he knows it. He will be cautious. He won’t attack. He’s afraid of your countermoves.”

“Then I have to offer him something. Something to make him come out. Something he can’t resist.”

“Like what?”

“What do they offer the leopard to get him to expose himself?”

Hero Kang thought about that. “A goat.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t have a goat.”

“No,” I replied. “I only have myself.”

The whistle sounded and we returned to the center. We bowed once again and the referee told us to begin.

Earlier, Hero Kang had explained the Joy Brigade.

Almost the entire country of North Korea was militarized, including a meticulously selected unit of young women. A cadre of operatives was sent into the country to audition middle school girls. Those who were most talented, and most beautiful, were brought to Pyongyang for additional training. After high school graduation, those who made the final cut were organized into something called Kippum jo, the Joy Brigade. The women who’d massaged Hero Kang and washed me were members of the Joy Brigade, although lesser minions. The most beautiful and charming young women entertained the elite Communist cadres of North Korea, all the way up to the Dear Leader, Kim Jong-il, and, it was rumored, to the Great Leader himself, Kim Il-sung. Some of the lesser members of the Joy Brigade, those who were maybe not so young or not so beautiful, or those who’d fallen into disfavor, entertained foreigners. This could include foreign diplomats or visiting dignitaries or even foreign athletes. A woman within the Joy Brigade had some weeks ago contacted Hero Kang. She was in possession of information concerning the plans to eliminate the Manchurian Battalion. This was the person I somehow had to find.

Doc Yong had warned me never to mention to Hero Kang what she was about to tell me.

“Why not?” I’d asked.

“Because it is a great shame. The woman who will contact you is more than just an acquaintance of Hero Kang. She is his daughter.”

“She’s the one holding the secrets?”

“Yes.”

“Why is he ashamed?”

“Because she serves those who have betrayed the people. But you must never mention it. Even though she is his daughter, he refuses to acknowledge it.”

“He’s Korean,” I said. “He can’t turn his back on family like that.”

“Here in North Korea he can. She is no longer his daughter. She is now a servant of the Great Leader. And a wife to whomever the Great Leader chooses.”

“But now she’s going to help save the Manchurian Battalion,” I said.

“Yes. That is her redemption.”

I launched a side kick that Maputo easily sidestepped. I launched another and missed again. But this time I feigned fatigue and allowed the kick to drift off to my left. When I regained my footing, my body was turned slightly toward Maputo, completely exposed. He didn’t attack. Hero Kang was right, he was being very cautious.

In desperation, I tried roundhouse kicks. Again, Maputo warded them off easily, circling around me, seeming to want only to protect himself. I watched his eyes. There was still something in them, a hunger. A greed for glory, something that all young men have-at least those who are worth a damn. The audience was quiet now. Too quiet. This match, which had started off so well, had now become boring. Everyone knew the outcome. Maputo had scored some good points, he was ahead, and now all he had to do was hang on. I wanted to glance at Commissar Oh to see if he and the old general were bored, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off Maputo. He sensed it too. He’d beaten all his other opponents decisively. Bloodying them. Humiliating them. He’d begun this third and final round probably thinking that he wouldn’t be able to do that to me-I was too wary of his tricks. But he did think he’d win on points.

Still, the hunger for glory was there and I’d shown him how to get it. He saw that when I threw a side kick I would leave myself open. We stood with probably less than a minute left in the final round. I stared at him, sneering, and launched a side kick. He stepped back, his eyes igniting. When I launched the next kick, he sprang forward like a cat, his front foot raised. But I held the kick, lowering my foot, and, twisting to my right, I grabbed the heel of his raised foot and lifted it into the air, twisting his entire body skyward. I hopped forward, lifted my right foot, and brought it down to rest on his neck as he slammed to the ground. I held it there, making it clear that had I put all my weight into it, I could have snapped his neck like a twig.

The auditorium exploded in applause. Burning with rage, Maputo scrambled to his feet. We faced each other as the referee was about to wave us back into combat, but just then the final whistle sounded. Maputo groaned and stomped his feet and waggled his forefinger at me. In English he said, “I kill! In real life, I kill.”

The referee ordered us to face the judges. They conferred and passed judgment, and the referee raised my arm in victory.

After he lowered my arm, I held out my right hand toward Maputo. He slapped it away, marched past me, and, grabbing a towel from a bench, stormed out of the gymnasium.

Hero Kang hurried toward the judges. Everyone glanced at the old general, who was being helped to his feet, shrugging off hands. He started to hobble out of the bleachers, heading toward the exit, Commissar Oh following.

Frantically, Hero Kang spoke to the judges. One of them, the senior judge, scurried across the floor and caught the attention of Commissar Oh. The two men talked, glancing back toward me. Commissar Oh shook his head and started to walk away. Hero Kang met the returning judge and received the news.

The commissar thought the match between me and Maputo had been amateurish, like a schoolyard brawl, and had not reflected well on the great tradition of Taekwondo, nor on the glory of the Great Leader. Therefore, even though I’d won the foreigner’s tournament, I would not be invited back to the people’s banquet activities this evening.

The old general and Commissar Oh had their backs turned toward us. Hero Kang stood with his arms at his side, defeated. The security guards at the exits started to advance. The beautiful Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook reappeared out of one of the side doors. Hero Kang and I spotted her at the same time.

We would fight. I looked around for weapons. There were none, except for a rickety straight-backed chair. I could break it apart and make a club for each of us. We would go down fighting. That would be better than imprisonment, or torture.

Just then, like a man electrified, Hero Kang turned away from the approaching security people and walked toward the departing general. His booming voice filled the gymnasium.

“Wait!” he shouted. Everyone stopped and turned to listen. “The officer,” he said, pointing back at me, “the officer from Romania, the winner of the foreigner’s tournament, he wants to offer a challenge.”

Commissar Oh raised his cigarette to his lips. It was an effeminate move, reminding me of a manicured housewife absorbed in her favorite soap opera. While everyone waited, Commissar Oh said, “Oh yes, Great Hero Kang? And what sort of challenge does this officer from Romania have to offer?”

“He was unable to display the full measure of his skills,” Hero Kang replied, speaking so everyone in the hall could hear him. “He was forced to compete against an inferior opponent and under such circumstances true expertise cannot come to the fore.”

I believe at this moment Commissar Oh had already anticipated what Hero Kang was about to say. A half smile twisted his fleshy lips.

“This officer from Romania,” Hero Kang continued, “asks the permission of the great general of the people, and the permission of our Great Leader, for another match.” Hero Kang waved toward the white-clad Koreans who were about to put on a display of true expertise for the assembled audience. “The officer from Romania challenges the champion of the People’s Army First Corps!”

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the crowd. Commissar Oh smiled and then conferred with the general. Enthusiastically, the old man nodded his consent. Hero Kang exhaled deeply as General Yi and Commissar Oh returned to their seats.

A phalanx of Taekwondo experts approached the center of the gym. Their leader, a muscular man with a face and a body of stone, stepped forward. Hero Kang hurried to my side.

“His name is Pak,” Hero Kang told me. “Fifth-level black belt.”

“I have to beat him? ” I asked.

“Yes. If the Manchurian Battalion is to survive, if you are to make Doctor Yong In-ja your wife, if you are to save the life of your son, then you must win.”

“And if I don’t?”

Hero Kang shrugged. “It is over.” He glanced toward the beautiful Captain Rhee. She stood leaning against a wall, her arms crossed and the brim of her black leather cap pulled down low over her eyes.

I studied my opponent. Slowly, easily, he was limbering himself up, not bothering to look at me. Legs spread apart, he touched his forehead to the floor, and finally the champion of the First Corps raised his gaze. His eyes were black and I saw in them nothing but determination. Determination and death.