Slicky Boys

37

The killer lurked in the alleys of Namdaemun-si, the Great South Gate Market, checking the eyes of strangers.

Farmers shoved wooden carts loaded with fat cabbages and winter turnips into a bewildering maze of canvas-covered corridors. Squatting over an open coal stove, an old crone fried pindae-dok, fragrant pancakes made of flour and garlic and green onion. Workmen waited for the sizzling delicacy, stomping their boots in the crusted snow.

When he was satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, the killer strode deeper into the catacombs of the market. Merchants in bloody aprons pounded hatchets on wet boards, wailing out the prices of their fresh catch from the sea. In the distance, dogs yipped. Their barking grew louder.

Behind a plywood partition, a small kennel was hidden from the regular flow of pedestrian traffic. A Korean man crouched in front of one of the bamboo cages, scratching behind the ear of a frisky mutt. The man’s face was like brown leather stretched across a craggy ridge of granite; his body hard, from years of training as an agent of espionage in the secret enclaves of Communist North Korea. He stood and turned slowly-warily-as the killer approached.

“Kei sago shipo,” the killer said. I want to buy a dog.

The Korean nodded. “We have the best stock.”

“It must be a pup but old enough to mate.”

“We have just the thing. And since it hasn’t yet mated, the meat will be most beneficial to the health.”

The obligatory code words over, the Korean squatted back down and pulled the large pup out of its cage.

“You have been busy,” he said.

It was not an accusation, merely a statement. The killer didn’t answer.

The Korean said, “Your mission is too important to be endangered by some personal vendetta.”

The killer’s face hardened. “The mission is important to you. To me, only the money is important.”

“If you want your money, you will not jeopardize this mission.”

The killer took a step forward. “The Americans killed a woman who was mine.”

The Korean cocked an eyebrow. “Are you sure it was they who killed her?”

“The ROK Navy long ago gave up on me. It could only have been them.”

The Korean turned back to the dog and shrugged. “Perhaps.” He found a loose leather thong and deftly tied it around the back legs of the pup. “But now,” he said, “since you returned the favor and killed their woman, this ‘nurse’in Itaewon, they are after you with more fervor than ever.”

The killer shrugged again. “It will do them no good.”

The Communist North Korean yanked the knot tight and lifted the dog by its hind legs, tying it to a wooden crossbar. The puppy whined, its front paws barely touching the ground. The Korean rose and turned back to the killer.

“Do you eat dog meat?”

The killer shrugged. “Meat is meat.”

The Korean tied another leather thong around the dog’s snout and ratcheted the crossbar higher, until the pup’s front paws scratched wildly in the air.. Canine eyes whirled with panic, the muffled screams of the dog slicing through the cold morning air. The Korean jerked down on the front paws and the joints of the back legs cracked. Ignoring the animal’s frantic yipping, he glanced back at the killer.

“You Americans love dogs, they say. Certainly you will enjoy this meat.”

They stared into one another’s eyes. Suddenly, the killer stepped forward, a knife appearing from the folds of his coat. He squatted and, with one swift movement, sliced the sharp blade across the pup’s throat. Blood exploded onto dirty ice.

Ignoring the Korean, the killer slashed vertically up the dog’s quivering torso, reached in, and peeled back the hide. The knife continued to probe. Guts snaked onto the pavement like steaming serpents.

The killer carved and peeled until what had once been a pup was nothing but a hanging lump of raw meat. He carved off a chunk of flank, rose, and offered it to the Korean.

The Korean smiled but shook his head. “I prefer mine cooked.”

The killer gazed into the Korean’s eyes and popped the still bloody dog flesh into his mouth. Chewing with the big, knotted muscles of his jaw, his eyes never wavered from the eyes of his Communist handler.

The Korean didn’t flinch. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to the killer. On it were etched four numbers.

“Memorize this and destroy it.”

The killer glanced at the paper, soaking up the information. When he had it locked in his memory, he popped the paper into his gory mouth and swallowed it whole.

“Only a few days,” the North Korean said, “and the operation will be ready.”

The killer nodded.

“There have been inquiries,” the North Korean said. “Discreet but unmistakable. Someone is planning to set a trap for you.”

The killer stared at him, chewing slowly, waiting.

“When you go in, this man, this Sueno, he will come after you.”

The killer snorted with contempt. “Let him.”

“Do not be overconfident. We cannot eliminate him now. That would only alert the Americans, make our job more difficult. You must ensnare him in his own trap. Once you have the documents we need, killing him will be of no consequence. But make sure that no one realizes that it was our work.”

The killer growled. “I am not an amateur.”

He swallowed the last of the dog meat, turned, and vanished back into the endless maze of the Namdaemun Market.