James Church - A Corpse in the Koryo

"Splendid. Kang run into you?"

"Sort of. Wasn't I was supposed to stay away from him?"

"Don't worry."

"Did you tell him where I was? Can I know what is going on? Are you related to everyone in this city?"

"No, just lots of friends. Listen, Kanggye isn't your sort of town."

"Fine. Can I get some breakfast now?"

"Screw breakfast, Inspector. Get up to the border. See what you can find out."

"About what?"

"Catch the train for Manpo. All hell may break loose, so keep your head down."

"I thought you wanted me to resign."

"Forget it."

"What about Kang?"

The phone went dead for a moment; then the operator came on again. "You want me to reconnect?"

"No."

"What about that dinner?"

"Maybe later. Who do I ask for?"

"We don't give out names. Bad for security. Just say you need '55.'

They'll patch you through to me, if I'm on duty. 'Bye."

The stationmaster came back into the room. "You done?"

"What time is the train to Manpo?"

"When it runs, it gets here between ten in the morning and five in the afternoon."

The door opened, and Kang walked in. "Going somewhere?"

"I thought you wanted me to have plenty of rope."

For that I got a bleak look. "You have trouble sleeping at night?"

"No, but your car is pretty noisy."

Kang strolled around the office, the way he had walked around the tower in Pyongyang the morning we met, looking for nothing, just force of habit. "Manpo is a boring little town." He glanced along the baseboard. "You might not like it."

"It's a border town. From what I read in our reports, it's filled with smugglers and smart people who think they have all the angles covered.

They get hold of a new stereo for someone in Pyongyang, maybe some spare parts for a DVD player. If they make it past the checkpoints and finish the delivery, they get to coast for a couple of months. Nice." I was getting a bad feeling about being in the same room as Kang. I looked past him, searching for unusual movement out in the square that fronted the train station. It was filling with people, a few bent under A-frames loaded with vegetables, several army officers, the rest nondescript, thin, tattered, and tired.

Kang kept his eyes on me. "No security goons moving in, Inspector.

Just a crowd going to Manpo in hopes of making money. Some will cross into China after the sun sets. A few won't come back."

"Not my business." What Kang said was right: There were no signs of a security squad moving through the crowd.

"True. It isn't your business. So try another city if you want."

"Look, I'm a little grumpy. Didn't sleep all that well, not much to eat, and tea is a commodity beyond my reach. I don't like trains a lot anymore, either. So you tell me, what is this all about?"

Kang nodded to the stationmaster, who backed out the door. "We have five minutes. Sit down and listen." Kang unbuttoned his jacket.

He had a shoulder holster with a 9 mm Israeli pistol. He saw my eyes flick to the holster and then back to his face. "Manpo isn't the well disciplined crowd of Pyongyang, Inspector. Kanggye's not so bad, but just step up the line, and no one is in charge. They don't like people they don't recognize nosing around. Sometimes those people disappear.

Poof. Vanish. We never find them again. Personally, I've stopped caring.

I lost two men last year." He reached for a train timetable on the desk and studied it for a moment. "So if that bothers you, I'd get back to Pyongyang as fast as my little legs could carry me."

I stood up, angry at Pak for sending me up here, angry at Kang for playing me like a fish on a line, angry at myself for not just sitting in my office, sipping tea and letting the days pass. "Why does everyone insult my legs? I've got news for you. These legs are going to walk outside to find me something to eat. Nice talking to you."

When I reached the door, Kang said in a low voice, barely above a whisper, "In back of the Manpo Inn, Friday, at sunset."

I kept walking. The stationmaster was dozing on a bench, under a poster screaming about the Kanggye Spirit. His hat had slipped off, and his head was resting against a greasy spot on the wall, the same place he had slept for years, decades maybe. Posters came and posters went; he didn't seem to pay attention as long as he could snore softly in the dusty light of a yet unspoiled day.

"You have tape in that thing, or is it just for show?" I nodded toward the recorder.

"Not to worry about the machinery, my friend." The Irishman's eyes opened wide in mock surprise. "You get that feeling, too, that we're becoming friends, Inspector?"

"Timefor a break."

"Up to you. So far, there's no energy drain on my part. I'm just sitting here. Not even any need to take notes yet. You're just getting warmed up, I assume." He smoothed the cloth on the table in front of him. The little birds weren't so cheerful anymore. A couple of them were drooping with fatigue.

"You looked at your watch again. You sure you're not going to meet someone? No appointments? Let me know, we can hurry this along."

"Nowhere, nobody. Relax, Richie." I held up my watch. "It doesn't run, hasn't for a couple of months. Makes people nervous if you don't wear one, though."

"Well, then. Rest your pipes awhile. I'll tell you the time." He pointed to the clock on the wall. "Or we can not worry about it." He plumped the pillow behind him. "Comfortable couch, probably better than that chair you're on." He was at ease, not tired at all. This was what he was good at, listening, an open ear into which you could pour a lifetime of unspoken thoughts. I checked myself. No one listened like that; it was fantasy.

"What?" I was musing and missed his last remark.

"I said, I'm all ears, Inspector. I'm ready whenever you are."

"You like to listen, don't you, Richie."

"Most wonderful thing in the world, to hear other people talk."

"Maybe in your world."

"And in yours?"

"Listening is the anvil that forms the sword, the fire that melts the lead for the bullet. Listening is the time to recoup, to gather your wits, to plan your attack. If you listen to anyone carefully enough, you'll hear the slip that points to their vitals. It's the compass on the killing map. People talk, but no one wants to say anything, because someone might listen."

"My God, Inspector, I think you're serious."

"Listen carefully, Irishman, I might find a voice we never knew I had."

He looked sad, as if something in him had bent to its limit. I could see he was uneasy. He tried to shake it off, cleared his throat and ran a hand over his scalp, just to get an extra second. That wasn't enough, so he coughed and looked at the clock. Finally, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"However you want to proceed, Inspector."

"fust pretend you didn't hear me say that. I'm not looking for sympathy."

"Don't worry." He nodded, and I knew he'd found himself again.

"I'm not looking to give any. You said Pak told you to go to Manpo. Curious thing for him to do. Makes me wonder. Why would he send you right into Kang's arms?"

"Pak spent most of his days trying to keep me out of trouble, one way or another. It's always been easy for me to step over the line, I don't even know where it is half the time. The other half I don't care. Pak didn't want me transferred away. We were comfortable, a comfortable office, nice way to spend the days. Pak took his job seriously, and he looked out for me. That's just the way he was. I would have done the same for him." I paused. "I should have."

The Irishman lit a cigarette, looked at it with distaste, then put it out.

"Should have. Another way of saying, 'Didn't.'" He tapped the tape recorder. "Ready? Nice and slow. Keep your voice level, would you?"