Joy Brigade

8

I consider myself to be in fairly good condition. In preparation for this mission, in addition to the intelligence briefings and the Korean-language drills and the survival, escape, and evasion training, I also embarked on a rigorous regime of physical exercise. But that was measuring myself against normal people. People like U.S. Army Green Berets and U.S. Navy Seals. Not North Korean athletes.

East of Pyongyang, dirt roads wound through beautiful rolling hills. The sun rose red and assertive, burning off the morning fog, as if it too had bought into the “long live Kim Il-sung” propaganda. The men running in front of me glanced back and smirked. I was staggering. We must’ve run three or four miles already, at a blistering pace, almost a sprint. It was impossible for any normal human being to keep this up. But somehow they did.

I remembered what an old NCO had told me about South Korean soldiers: “You can outwalk ’em, but you can’t outrun ’em.” Maybe it’s their diet-or not growing up in the East L.A. smog-but young Korean men seem to have an endless capacity for aerobic exertion.

None of the Korean soldiers had broken rank. They were pulling away from me, inexorably. Finally, the leader barked an order and, like a gigantic centipede, the formation of forty highly trained athletes turned around in the road and came back. The men chanted something as they passed. Two of the taller, stronger men in the front ranks grabbed me by the elbows and started pulling me along at their pace. I stumbled forward, wanting to be let go so I could plop down in a puddle right there in the middle of the road, but their grips were unbreakable. Somehow I kept my legs moving forward, one agonizing lunge at a time.

We rounded a hill. The red sun was at our backs now; we were heading home, to the Joy Brigade. I’d only been there one day, but already I was starting to think of it as home. I’d started as a prisoner being tortured in a dungeon, risen to a partially-accepted participant in a liquor-and-sex orgy, and now I was an athlete in training. Tonight, if everything worked out all right, I’d become a thief.

After morning chow, Commissar Oh called me into his office.

An officious young woman stood next to him, wearing a cloth cap with a red star that was pulled so far down on her head that it looked like a helmet. Apparently he’d found an interpreter. He spoke Korean to her; she spoke Romanian to me. I understood the Korean much better than the Romanian-which I understood not at all-but I let the charade play out.

“Your embassy will be missing you,” he said.

“Tomorrow,” I told him in Korean, ignoring the interpreter, “I must return to work.”

“When you return to your embassy,” he said, “we will expect results quickly.”

I kept my face impassive.

“Charges have been prepared,” he continued, “concerning your underhanded assault on First Corps champion Pak. If we file them, you will not leave Korea.”

I waited for the interpreter to finish her translation and then nodded.

“Don’t think of escaping on a Russian or Warsaw Pact flight,” he told me. “We inspect them all.”

I nodded again. “My first payment,” I said. “When will I receive it?”

Commissar Oh placed a cigarette in his ivory holder, lit it, and inhaled with an air of self-satisfaction. When he let the smoke out, he said, “When you make your first report, you will receive money.”

“Yen,” I said.

He nodded. “Yen.”

“When can I leave?” I asked.

“Not until this evening. Arrangements are being made. Until then, you are our guest.”

Some guest. I’d never worked so hard in my life. Later that morning, I was scheduled for Taekwondo practice, and if I lived through that-which was by no means certain-I’d be participating in a soccer match that afternoon.

As I rose to leave, the interpreter said something to me in Romanian. None of the words seemed familiar, nothing like Spanish. This was a test, of that I was certain. Both the interpreter and Commissar Oh stared at me. Waiting. If I’d learned anything from Hero Kang, I’d learned that when you’re about to get caught red-handed, there’s only one thing to do. Get angry. Get very angry.

I strode toward Commissar Oh’s desk and leaned forward, looking down at him and the tiny interpreter.

“I want money! ” I said in Korean. “A lot of it. Not a lot of lies. Not a lot of your silly nonsense.” Then I pointed at him, tapping my forefinger on his chest. “Do you understand?”

Somewhere, there must’ve been a silent alarm. Four armed guards burst into the room. They grabbed me and we started jostling. When they finally pulled me a few feet from the desk, Commissar Oh waved them off. He puffed furiously on his cigarette. It smelled of something vaguely familiar, maybe cherry wood, not the foul-smelling Korean tobacco I was used to.

“You will be paid according to your work,” he said. “And only after we see what you bring us.”

I shrugged the hands off me, straightened my Warsaw Pact tunic, and stormed out of Commissar Oh’s office.

Later, I thought about what the interpreter had said. I kept running the words over in my mind, comparing them to Spanish or English or the little bit of Latin I’d studied in school. And then I figured it out. “Who are you really?”

Even the interpreter knew I was a fraud.

I managed to survive the Taekwondo workout. Apparently the word had gone out: I was working for Commissar Oh now and I was to be left alone. That was fine with me. As I stood on the sidelines, stretching and occasionally hitting the heavy bag, I watched the real experts go at it, one on one. I was glad no one ordered me to spar with them. In the afternoon we chose sides and were treated to a two-hour game of soccer. After about five minutes, the Koreans realized that I was hopelessly inept at a game that I’d never played before and they let me stand on the sidelines and pretend that I was interested in the outcome.

Finally, the workday was over. As I showered I wondered if the interpreter had worked up the nerve to tell Commissar Oh she didn’t believe I was in fact Romanian. Of course, telling him that would be tantamount to explaining to him that he was an idiot. Somehow, I didn’t believe she’d bother him with such impudent information. Still, doubts about me must have been growing. After all, they played soccer in Romania, didn’t they? No one would believe it was a game I had played as a child. I was much too hopeless at it. And Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook had more than just doubts about me. She was certain that I was not who I claimed to be. How long until Commissar Oh picked up on all this? Probably not long.

What was keeping me afloat, I suspected, was the good work of the Manchurian Battalion. Obviously, they had a mole in the Romanian Embassy, someone who had confirmed to the highest levels of the North Korean government that a certain Captain Enescu was indeed a member of their embassy and working in their employ. That, coupled with the manic level of mutual suspicion that pervaded the Joy Brigade, made it possible for me to survive. No one was willing to compare notes; no one was willing to express an honest opinion; no one was willing to admit that they-or, more importantly, their boss-might be wrong. Welcome to the efficient functioning of the worker’s paradise.

During evening chow, I wolfed down all the food I could hold, because who knew when I’d be able to eat again. When the lights dimmed and the propaganda newsreels flickered to life, I slipped out once again into the moonlit gloom of the garden. After making sure no one was following, I made my way quickly through the maze of monuments and manicured lawns.

As I neared my destination, I rounded an artificial pond and crouched behind a stone edifice I hadn’t previously paid much attention to. It was about eight feet high, thick at the base and tapering to a point, and there appeared to be carvings along the side. I rubbed my hand over the etched lines, but in the pale moonlight I couldn’t make out any design. Erosion had faded the original inscription into an indecipherable jumble. Amid the tufts of grass at the bottom, a few bits of intricately wrapped paper and some polished stones were hidden. Gifts, I supposed, left by the people who worked nearby; gifts to this ancient monolith and to the primitive gods who predated not only the regime of the Great Leader but also the medieval kings buried nearby. I left the sacred edifice and slipped downhill toward the iron door of the Koguryo tomb.

On the way, I found a heavy branch from one of the nearby trees and carried it with me. The locking mechanism in the front door of the tomb had been loosened now and was relatively easy to open. I slipped into the darkness. Instead of closing the door all the way, I propped it slightly open with the branch, just enough so it wouldn’t lock behind me. That way, if I had to make a quick exit, I wouldn’t have to fiddle with the key. I suspended the branch two or three inches above the ground, so I’d know if anyone entered behind me and dislodged it. When I was happy with my little warning signal, I stepped into the gloom.

Without a flashlight or candle, I felt my way down the steps, touching ancient stone with my fingertips. A rotten odor filled my nostrils. Rodents squeaked in front of me and tiny paws scurried away. Something flapped its wings. I waved whatever it was away from my face. On my left, the darkness seemed thicker somehow and the air was full of the musty reek of fur.

Finally, like a friendly beacon, I found the dime-sized beam of light emanating from the wall next to the iron escape hatch. I peered inside. The room was empty and only one solitary yellow bulb glowed. I squatted down on the cold stone steps, hugging myself, beginning to shiver. I waited.

I awoke with a start.

I’d been dozing on the steps, my forearms resting on my knees. Even as I stood, I could feel my muscles and joints complaining about the ridiculous workout I’d been subjected to earlier. Come what may, I was glad I wouldn’t have to go through all that tomorrow.

Ahead of me, the hatchway moved, groaning. Light flooded the tunnel. I grabbed the edge of the iron door and peered inside.

Kang Hye-kyong looked like a sculpted hero in her People’s Army uniform, all the lines of her wool skirt and wool tunic pressed, her square face stern, like her father’s. She touched a forefinger to her pursed lips.

“They will be coming soon,” she said. “I will leave this unlatched, but you must not enter until I call you, not under any circumstances, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

Footsteps pounded on the far side of the room. Hye-kyong glanced back and reached for the inner handle of the door, pulling it shut. Or almost shut. She left it open just enough so the metal latch wouldn’t catch. When the time came, I’d be able to pull it open.

I returned to the dime-sized peephole and peered in. Doors opened and voices murmured, one of them Hye-kyong’s. I imagined her bowing and helping the various officials with their coats and hats. Then brown shoes appeared beneath the conference table. Something tinkled. Glassware. Cups, maybe. Hye-kyong was serving tea.

Eventually, a deep-voiced man cleared his throat and the meeting started. I tried to keep up with what was being said, but most of the reports consisted of long lists of supplies and numbers and logistical timelines. It was clear this was a working meeting of men responsible for the day-to-day operations of the First Army Corps, one of the most important military organizations in the North Korean People’s Army. It was responsible for protecting the capital city of Pyongyang and therefore also the life of the Great Leader and his heir apparent, Kim Jong-il, the Dear Leader.

Finally, my ears perked up. One of the First Corps armored brigades would be moving out. Tomorrow. There was much discussion of the other brigades that would be responsible for taking over defensive positions along the perimeter of the city that would be left unguarded after their departure. There was also talk of tanks and artillery pieces and infantry units, and discussions about the fuel required to move all that equipment south toward the Demilitarized Zone. The most efficient route was discussed. The roads leading directly to the DMZ were ruled fairly good, but the road leading to the Kwangju Mountain Range was in sore need of repair. Maintenance had been neglected because the Manchurian Battalion, guarding the eastern portion of the DMZ, was notorious for being self-sufficient; therefore, over the years, the scarce resources had been diverted to other units.

It was decided that the Red Star Brigade, which was the First Corps brigade chosen for this mission, would not take a direct route to the Kwangju Mountains. Instead, they would head first toward Hamhung, the largest port city on the Eastern Sea, mimicking what would happen if an enemy invasion force broke through with an amphibious landing and reinforcements were needed. Paper crinkled. Maps were being spread atop the conference table. Eventually it was decided that before reaching the outskirts of Hamhung, the Red Star Brigade would turn south and make their way at top speed toward the Kwangju Mountains.

The roads, one of the officers complained, were miserable in these areas. These were practical men who weren’t worried about propaganda considerations or saving face for the regime. They called it like it was, at least here in the confines of this secret meeting. Since the roads were so bad, it was decided that various units of the Red Star Brigade would split up and take different routes. That way, if one part of the brigade were blocked by landslides or heavy snowfall, the rest would still reach its destination. Once they reached a town called Beikyang, they would regroup and start their climb over the ridge of the highest peak in the area, Mount O-song, and commence their final assault on the Manchurian Battalion.

Or at least that’s what I thought they said. This type of detailed information would prove invaluable to a military unit fighting in defense, but if I were wrong about the particulars, it could lead to disaster. The entire conversation taxed the very limits of my Korean-language abilities and I cursed myself for not studying harder. So much was at stake.

There was more discussion of the strength of the Manchurian Battalion, how many men they had, what their fighting capability was, how many artillery pieces and how many armored vehicles. It turned out that the battalion was virtually all infantry. They had a few dozen old Russian artillery pieces, but those were on tracks, dug into the sides of mountains, and pointing across the DMZ toward South Korea. They could not be turned around and used against an assault force attacking from the rear.

“Will they fight?” one of the generals asked.

“Of course not,” Commissar Oh responded. “Once we drop leaflets explaining that they are being decommissioned and replaced by the Red Star Brigade, they will lay down their arms. After all, it is the will of the Great Leader.”

A gravelly voice I hadn’t heard before spoke up. “Is Bandit Lee dead?”

“No,” Commissar Oh replied. “He is still the commander of the Manchurian Battalion.”

“If Bandit Lee is alive,” the voice said, “then the Manchurian Battalion will fight. He will never turn over his command to anyone other than the Great Leader himself.”

A long silence ensued. As honest and practical as this group might be, no one was willing to venture an opinion on what the Great Leader should or shouldn’t do. They had their orders. But the implication was clear: If the Great Leader commanded this expedition himself, Bandit Lee wouldn’t oppose him and lives would be saved. If the silence in the room was any indication, the Great Leader had no such plans.

More paperwork was shuffled, more tea was served, and finally, after haggling over the amount of petroleum reserves that would be issued to the Red Star Brigade, the meeting was adjourned. Footsteps pounded on a stone floor, glassware was removed. An overhead fluorescent light was turned off and only the single yellow bulb remained.

There were still two people in the room. They spoke softly to each other and I turned my ear to the opening, trying to pick out voices. Commissar Oh and Hye-kyong. She seemed to be protesting something, saying no, and then the edge of the table shuddered. The entire conference table had been shifted about a foot. She kept saying no and I heard a couple of slaps, hand to face. The table lurched again. Something heavy landed atop it. Now I could just see the black boots of Commissar Oh. Hye-kyong’s brown loafers lifted a couple of inches off the ground. Her hands clung to the far edge of the conference table. He was working behind her, shoving her forward roughly at first and then in a steady, rhythmic way. Hye-kyong was still protesting, whimpering like a little girl being punished for something she didn’t do.

I stood up and stepped toward the iron hatchway. Just as my fingertips touched the cold metal, I stopped. Hye-kyong had warned me. No matter what happened, don’t enter until she told me to enter. She’d known Commissar Oh was going to do this to her. Probably it had happened before, many times, and if I entered now and punched Commissar Oh’s lights out, I’d ruin everything.

Still, it was torture standing here. Just as it had been torture watching all these poor, confused people praising the very criminals who were abusing them. I wanted to barge in there and catch the arrogant protector of the working class with his pants down and put my size-twelve boot firmly up his ass. But how many people would die-including me and Hye-kyong-if I gave in to that temptation? I stayed my hand, still gripping the metal handle of the hatchway. My fingers trembled.

I stayed like that for what seemed a long time. Finally, I squatted down, burying my face in my hands and feeling the sweat on my forehead. At length, the iron hatch squeaked open.

“Bali,” a voice said. Hurry.

I stepped inside the room. Hye-kyong pulled the hatchway shut and locked it. No sign of Commissar Oh. The conference table still sat at an angle. Hye-kyong motioned for me to help her straighten it out.

Her face was red, her clothes disheveled, and the hair that had earlier shone like a black helmet was now sticking out in sweat-matted disarray, like an exploding nova. The worst part was that she wouldn’t look at me. She kept her eyes staring firmly at the ground. Without looking up, she pointed to a wooden stand with flat panels. I pulled one of the panels out. It held a map.

“Here,” she said. “Find the location of the Red Star Brigade. Make a note of it. And then study the routes they will travel to Hamhung and up into the Kwangju Mountains. Pay particular attention to the supply points along the way. But leave the maps undisturbed. They must not know what we are planning.”

“What are we planning?”

“Never mind now. Just take down the information. Do you have paper and a pencil?”

“No.”

She pulled a small notepad and a short pencil out of her front pocket and handed them to me. “We don’t have much time,” she said. “You will have to keep your notes brief and memorize as much as you can. Can you do that?”

“I’ll try.”

“Memorization would be better,” she said. “That way, if you’re captured…” She let her voice trail off.

As I studied the maps, Hye-kyong held a candle aloft. The Red Star Brigade would be traveling the main road from Pyongyang to Hamhung. The crucial information was what military intelligence calls “the order of battle.” That was the strength and capabilities of the component units of the Red Star Brigade and the routes they would be taking once they left Hamhung and headed up into the Kwangju Mountains. I jotted down the unit designations and the names of the towns and villages along the routes. Also, most importantly, how much military equipment each unit had-tanks, artillery pieces, armored personnel carriers-and how many infantry platoons to back them up.

“Hurry,” Hye-kyong said. “The regular staff will be back soon.”

I made the list as short as possible, using symbols and numbers mainly and relying on memory tricks they’d taught me at Eighth Army. I used words from English, Spanish, and Korean to form pictures that would stick in my mind. For example, the regrouping area for the final assault on the Kwangju Mountains was the village known as Beikyang. One of the meanings of beik in Korean is white, and yang can mean goat. So I imagined a white goat with the point of a flaming red star slamming into its butt. Try to forget that.

Hye-kyong all the while had been fidgeting behind me. Finally, she said, “Do you have it?”

I nodded and handed the pencil back to her. “Why didn’t you just give the information to your father yourself?”

“I can’t leave,” she replied. “Ever. Once someone becomes a member of the Joy Brigade, we are watched constantly. It’s only you, a foreigner, who can come and go.”

“Why don’t you come with me now?” I asked. “Escape?”

“I must stay,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “No time for all that now. Come.”

She opened the escape hatch for me, gesturing out into the dark tunnel.

“A car will be coming for you,” she whispered. “This evening. We had our man in the Romanian Embassy raise a fuss, and finally Commissar Oh has consented to let you go a few hours early. You will be picked up in less than a half hour in front of the First Corps headquarters. You must not delay for any reason. Leave as soon as you are able.”

I nodded and started to climb through the hatch. Hye-kyong grabbed my arm.

“You won’t tell anyone about what you saw?”

I touched her hand. “Don’t worry.”

“If something goes wrong,” she continued, “you must use the same tactics my father uses. Act totally unafraid. If anyone questions you in any way, become enraged. Remember, you are a foreigner. Foreigners have to be handled very carefully because your superiors might be in close contact with the men who work for the Great Leader himself. If you are insulted or become angry, who knows what kind of lightning might strike the person who opposes you? The best protection is to act completely unafraid.”

She knew her father well.

After I climbed into the tunnel, Hye-kyong slammed the escape hatch with a loud clang. Touching the wall with my left hand, I stepped carefully through the darkness. Occasionally, puffs of air from invisible wings hit my face. After climbing stone steps for what seemed a long time, I finally reached the main door. From the crack I’d left propped open for myself, a glimmer of starlight greeted me. I knelt and studied the branch. It lay flush on the floor, no longer elevated two inches off the ground. I stood, looking around in the darkness.

Someone had entered the tomb.

Were they behind me? I didn’t think so. If they were, they obviously weren’t using light. Most likely, rather than venture into the tomb, they’d backed out and were waiting for me outside. Who were they? Commissar Oh’s men? Or maybe Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook’s fixers? Either way, I couldn’t afford to be taken now, so close to escape. Was there another way out of this tunnel? The bats and the rodents managed to survive down here; there must be another way out. In fact, there might be a network of caves connecting one ancient tomb to another, and Hye-kyong had mentioned bomb shelters. But I didn’t have time to explore. The car would be waiting outside for me. I had to get there, somehow. Barging out of this door and trying to fight my way to safety with just a wooden club wasn’t going to work. And then I had an idea.

Bats.

I knelt and carefully pulled open the door of the tomb just far enough to free the wooden branch. Hooking the crooked tree limb to the edge of the door, I slowly pulled the door open and let it swing free, backing away quickly into the darkness. By the time the door was fully open, I was crouched around a bend in the tunnel, out of sight.

I listened. Nothing. Even though a car would be waiting for me soon to transport me out of this hell, I had to force myself to be patient. Five minutes later, maybe ten, footsteps sounded on the stone walkway. Men in boots, two of them. As they cautiously entered the tomb, I backed even further into the darkness. Their footsteps seemed to speed up, as if they’d heard me.

After a few yards, I reached the darkest place, the place that smelled of musty fur, swathing myself in blackness so thick I could almost hear it breathe. A beam of light flashed around the corner. I waited a few more seconds, and then, when the men were almost on me, I lifted the wooden branch and started beating it against the roof of the tunnel. Tiny soft things pelted my arms and my legs and then the air was full of dust and fluttering and an eerie squeal filled the night. Bats. Millions of them. Like an enormous cloud, they soared toward the light. Keeping low to the ground, I started to run back toward the open door of the tomb. Ahead, I heard a man scream and fire a shot blindly into the darkness. I crouched reflexively but kept moving. And then I was on them, ramming my body into one of the men, slapping the wooden branch against the head of the other. An AK-47 clattered to the ground but I didn’t stop for it. I couldn’t. I was being shoved toward the open door by the swarm.

When I reached the big wooden door, I grabbed the edge, turned, and slammed it shut. I pulled the key from my pocket, jammed it home, and twisted until it locked.

Inside, furry bodies pelted the door. The bats that had escaped continued to swarm, swirling around me, then flew off toward the promise of juicy insects at the limpid ponds nearby.

I hurried up the walkway, wiping filth off my face, straightening my tunic. When I rounded a corner, she was standing there. Alone. Waiting for me. From her hand, a pistol was pointed right at my gut. She was beautiful in her high boots and long leather coat cinched at the waist. Her white face was luminescent, like the moon glimmering above, but grim and determined. I was defenseless against her, but I didn’t allow myself to think of that.

Instead, I kept walking.

There comes a moment when you have to decide whether to live or to die. You have to decide whether it’s better to raise your hands in surrender and enter a world of interrogation and torture-a world so full of pain that soon even death would seem preferable-or to take a stand and die.

I decided to die.

I kept walking, straight into the pistol pointed at me. I’d had enough. Enough of running and hiding and lying and living with constant physical agony and the unrelenting tension of thinking that every breath might be my last. I was finished. I’d done all I could do. If she pulled the trigger, it would be over quickly. There’d be no lingering minutes and hours and days and weeks of unbearable pain. It would just be done. I marched toward Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook resolutely, staring right into her eyes, daring her to pull the trigger. In the glow of moonlight, she stared back impassively. Did I see a tightening in the arm holding the pistol, or was it my imagination? I kept waiting for the hot steel to rip into my stomach, for the jolt to knock me backward, but nothing happened. I was less than two strides away-it was now or never. I took one more step and reached out, viciously slapping the pistol out of her hand. It bounced on the stone steps.

And then I grabbed her.

She clawed at my eyes.

A man should never hit a woman. And I never have. I believe it to be cowardly, and the many men I’ve known who slapped their girlfriends or wives around were always-without exception-cowards. When faced with someone who can fight back, a man of equal strength and determination, they’d rather negotiate than fight. But when they’re alone with a woman-or worse yet, with children-they’re tough guys.

So I don’t like fighting a woman. But Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook left me no choice. Now that her pistol was gone, she leaped at me like a cornered Siberian tigress.

She hadn’t shot me, I believed, because a dead Warsaw Pact officer would have been hard to explain. She’d have been the one on the defensive-the one put on trial. And no matter how convinced she was that I was not who I appeared to be, could she be 100 percent sure? What if she were wrong? It wasn’t worth it to pull the trigger and find herself sent off to die in a North Korean gulag. So she hesitated, and that hesitation saved my life. But she wasn’t hesitating now.

I dodged her sharp nails just in time, grabbing her wrists and twisting, but she responded in exactly the way a person of less weight and inferior upper body strength should respond. She became dead weight. She fell to the ground, yanking me down with her, and when she landed she started kicking me with her high-heeled boots. Off balance, I managed to avoid a vicious kick aimed at my groin, but it missed only by inches, slamming into my inner thigh. I cursed and stepped aside, still holding onto her wrists. I dragged her along the pathway, twisting her arms behind her torso and forcing her to flip over, and then rammed my knee down on her spine. She screeched and spit and I hoped to God no one could hear us out here. But she wasn’t yelling for help. There was a rage in her, a viciousness I’d seen in few people-men or women-and I believed that she wanted only to win. Finally, pinning down her squirming body, I managed to loosen her leather belt. At the stone monolith, I pulled her into a sitting position and belted her arms securely around the stone. Quickly, I pulled off her boots and ripped off her socks, shoving one into her mouth. She almost managed to bite off one of my fingers. Luckily, I pulled my hand back in time. Before she could spit out the sock, I pulled off the other sock and used it as a gag, tying it securely at the back of her head.

Now she was helpless.

Her long black hair was in disarray, some of it mushrooming out of her gag, some of it hanging loosely in front of her face. I knelt and stared directly into her eyes. Hatred looked back at me.

In Korean, I said, “When you’re angry, you’re beautiful.”

Her entire body jerked forward, but the bindings held. I touched my forefinger to the brim of my cap and saluted. Then I stood, turned my back on Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook, and hurried off through the still, deserted grounds. The soldier at the First Corps headquarters checkpoint stood at attention. His eyes were wide-he didn’t see many foreigners. I marched toward him, glowering, fists swinging at my side. The smooth flesh of his face quivered with indecision.

All armies are the same. After beating unquestioning obedience into their soldiers, they still expect them to make informed independent judgments. Usually, it doesn’t work. I made my face even fiercer as I approached the guard. Finally, when I was only a few feet from him, he raised his right hand in salute. Smartly, I saluted back and strode past.

He didn’t move and I didn’t look back.

A complex of cement buildings stretched before me-the First Corps headquarters. I entered a side door and walked down a long hallway. Even at this late hour, there were signs of human activity.

I was in a fairly busy area now. The hallway was lined with offices with names that I didn’t fully understand but that contained words such as “logisticals” and “security” and “explosive ordnance.” Most of the people working here, both men and women, wore military uniforms and looked haggard, as if they’d been working many extra hours. Remembering Hye-kyong’s admonition, I marched down the center of the hallway as if the whole world would soon bow to my will. When I reached the main entranceway, I stepped through two double wooden doors and stood at a semicircular driveway that was the drop-off point in front of the First Corps headquarters.

Two soldiers eyed me nervously. “Where’s my car?” I barked.

They looked befuddled. I stood with my feet planted broadly in the center of the entranceway, hands on my hips, staring about impatiently for a car that I could only pray actually existed.

After what seemed like eons, an engine rumbled in the distance. As the car approached, I recognized it immediately. The same old Russian sedan Hero Kang had used to bring me here in the first place. White gloves gripped the wheel. Could it be Doc Yong? But my hopes were dashed-it wasn’t a woman at the wheel, it wasn’t even a chauffeur. It was Hero Kang. He was driving the sedan himself. In a country where human labor is dirt cheap, why did he drive himself? Probably, I thought, because he didn’t trust anyone else.

The sedan pulled up to the front of the First Corps headquarters. A small flag of the DPRK fluttered in front. The armed guards saluted.

I pulled open the passenger door with a great feeling of relief and was about to climb in when I realized Hero Kang had shoved the sedan into park and switched off the engine.

“Where is she?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Where is my daughter, Hye-kyong?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“But you saw her earlier this evening.”

“Yes.”

“Has he been at her again?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Ashamed, I turned away.

Hero Kang’s face flamed bright red. He climbed out of the car, shouting, “Wait here!”

And then he was running up stone steps, ignoring the salutes of the armed guards, storming through the front door of the First Corps headquarters. I waited for a second but knew I couldn’t just stand there. I ran after him.

I followed him down a corridor that was new to me. At the end, a door was open. It led into the darkness of the surrounding gardens. After a few yards, hanging paper lanterns guided me along a winding flagstone walkway.

The thirty-foot bronze statue of the Great Leader was the most well-lit part of the grounds. Beyond, I spotted Hero Kang’s hunched back, moving purposefully to the far side of the garden. Ahead, a group of men had paused in front of a fountain surrounded by hanging red lanterns. They looked back at Hero Kang. One of the men I recognized. Commissar Oh. The other men were military officers and I could only surmise that they were the men who’d been in the meeting below ground in the secure area. Apparently, they’d waited upstairs while Commissar Oh had finished his assignation with Hye-kyong.

Hero Kang never slowed his pace. He marched right up to Commissar Oh and did exactly what I would’ve loved to do. He punched him right in the snout. The commissar reeled backward. The other men protested, reaching their hands out to stop Hero Kang, but nothing short of a Mack truck could’ve slowed him down. He leaned over Commissar Oh, who had now retreated to the edge of the fountain, and punched the hapless apparatchik again. Kicking him, Hero Kang started screaming that Commissar Oh was the worst son of a bitch who’d ever defiled the uniform of the people’s revolution.

Then Hero Kang grabbed Commissar Oh’s throat, squeezed, and shoved the red-veined face into the scum-laced water of the fountain.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. It was illicit sex with his daughter that Hero Kang and Commissar Oh were discussing at the moment. A one-way conversation, to be sure, since Hero Kang’s massive paw was wrapped firmly around Commissar Oh’s scrawny throat. The commissar’s half-burnt cigarette floated in green slime, and his face was beginning to turn purple.

The other men flitted around Hero Kang, like bear cubs pawing at a grizzly.

Every now and then, he swung a fist backward, warning them off.

I thought of the car back at the entranceway, of our getaway, but if Hero Kang murdered Commissar Oh, I didn’t see how escape would be possible. I stepped forward and grabbed his shoulders.

“Let’s go,” I said in Korean. “Leave him. We must go.”

He didn’t hear me.

The ambient light from the hanging red lanterns rippled on the water of the fountain. About six inches below the surface, Commissar Oh’s eyeballs were as wide and round as a frog’s. In seconds he’d be dead. If I punched Hero Kang, I could maybe stop this, but then what? Hero Kang was my only lifeline. My only chance of escaping from this place and my only chance of staying alive. As I pondered what to do, a figure launched from the shadows. Hye-kyong. She rammed into the back of Hero Kang, knocking him over, forcing him to release his grip.

“Abboji,” she said. Father. “We must go.”

When she received no response, she reached down and grabbed him by the lapels of his tunic. “The car,” she said. “Now. You must go. And take him,” she said, motioning toward me. “Now, Father. Now!”

Hero Kang seemed stunned, confused by what he’d just done. “What about him?” He glanced down at the spitting and coughing Commissar Oh.

I realized that the other men, the commissar’s lackeys, had disappeared. Sensing more trouble than they ever wanted to be involved with, they’d all faded discreetly into the night. We were alone.

“You’ve ruined everything!” Hye-kyong screamed. “I was to stay here, monitor their plans. Now that’s not possible. First, you go! I will follow.” When Hero Kang hesitated, she said, “I will take care of him. Leave him to me.”

Befuddled, Hero Kang seemed to agree. “You must come,” he said.

“Yes,” Hye-kyong agreed. “This changes everything. Go to the car. I will follow. Go now.”

She turned her father around and shoved him hard. Like an enormous child, Hero Kang stumbled down the walkway, returning toward the entrance of the First Corps headquarters. I glanced at Hye-kyong. She motioned for me to follow her father.

As I hurried along the flagstone walkway, I glanced backward. Hye-kyong had lifted Commissar Oh slightly out of the water. She slapped him. Hard. The noise reverberated through the deserted garden.

Hero Kang and I wound through shrubs. When I looked back again, Hye-kyong was leaning over the edge of the fountain, facing down, like a woman at a stream churning laundry. As if she were soaking soiled rags, expunging them of filth. She stood like that for what seemed a long time.