From the Fatherland, with Love, page 12
The ship passed between the island with the bridge and another island to starboard, then slowed as it headed directly for a third. Here, at what was apparently a well-known tourist site, they would disembark. On the far side of this island was a dock from which ferries left every hour during the daytime, taking passengers across Hakata Bay in just fifteen minutes. Jang and his eight companions would be posing as South Korean tourists who had spent the night in one of the island’s inns and were now heading back to the city. The ship entered a sheltered cove and maneuvered toward a bare landing pier nestled within an L-shaped breakwater. It was apparently intended for pleasure boats. Now in the shadow of the promontory, they could no longer see the radiant buildings of Fukuoka, their field of vision filled instead by a thickly wooded slope. The island that lay before them was unlit. As they had learned in training, there were about a thousand inhabitants, with one elementary and one middle school, three inns, five public restrooms, and one taxi. Autumn, when the cosmos were all in bloom, brought the largest number of tourists, and in the summer there was a big outdoor music festival. Spring was a time for fishing, and so Jang was carrying a pole, as were Cho Seong Rae, Jo Su Ryeon, and Ri Gwi Hui. Kim Hyang Mok had a plastic creel hanging by a strap from her shoulder, while Han Seung Jin, his second-in-command, Kim Hak Su, and Choi Hyo Il dangled long cylindrical cases for carrying multiple rods, though in fact each contained a rocket launcher.
There was barely any movement of wind or waves, and the air on the island was neither hot nor cold. They docked and quickly disembarked, Jang jumping up onto the pier with the ease of a child hopping over a puddle. The thought that he was for the first time stepping onto Japanese soil did not occur to him. From the forest ahead came the cry of a bird. He quickly adjusted his eyes to the darkness. The wooden pier was narrow and the boards uneven, but the use of flashlights was out of the question. Han took the lead, moving gingerly. Making his way along the pier, Jang heard the sound of the ship’s engine. He looked back to see the white wake as it slowly pulled away, and was suddenly seized by a strange dizziness, as though his feet did not belong to him. His heartbeat was erratic, slowing down and then speeding up again. He pressed his hand to his chest through his outer clothing, concerned that his companions might notice. He wasn’t particularly worried—it was surely just some sort of arrhythmia—but it made him feel like a toy robot whose batteries had run down. The sensation was quite new to him, and he wondered about the canned cod he’d eaten on the ship the night before.
He was debating whether to tell Han about his condition, when he noticed that the legs of the soldier ahead of him were a bit shaky, too. It was Choi Hyo Il. Jang gave him another careful look, thinking he might have been mistaken. But no, there was indeed a slight tremor in his step. It was said of Choi that once, during the joint exercises held by the 907th Battalion at Pyongsan, he had slipped out of the barracks with a few friends after lights out and headed for a hostelry some twenty kilometers away. There they stuffed themselves with meat and drink and raised such hell that three passing patrolmen had come in to reprimand them, at which Choi, enraged by the interference, beat them to death with his bare hands and then escaped back to the barracks. SOF operatives were required to harden their fingers and hands by thrusting them unbent into buckets filled with raw adzuki beans—left-right, left-right—for up to an hour at a time, until their fingers were raw and bloody. The pain was enough to make some of them faint, and within a week their fingernails would fall off. But they accustomed themselves to it, and when the nails grew back, they would switch to sand. The sand wedging under the nails caused a different kind of pain, but this time they didn’t fall off. The one-hour-a-day practice went on for a year, at which point the buckets were filled with pebbles, this now requiring special care to avoid breaking bones in their fingers. Within two years, the tips of the fingers became as deadly a weapon as any knife. Choi was said to still train every day with his bucketful of pebbles. Tough as they come—and yet his legs were now wobbly. Was he afraid? In Jang’s case, he thought he’d lost his capacity for fear since joining the State Security Department, but it must still have been lurking somewhere inside him. The sight of the departing ship, his last link to the Republic, had apparently brought it to the fore, but in this he clearly wasn’t alone. The reassurance that even Choi Hyo Il was not immune helped steady him. The vessel was now well on its way, lost among the other fishing boats. Whether he liked it or not, there was no turning back.
Beyond the pier lay a narrow game trail leading up a dark, wooded hill. They trudged single-file, Jang sweating slightly as he went, not knowing how long the climb would be. The slope was steep, with thick vegetation on both sides of the path. The cries of birds grew shriller with the dull approach of dawn. They were struggling over slippery red clay, contending as well with scattered rocks and protruding roots. A moment’s inattention could result in entangling one’s fishing pole in the branches, stumbling over a root, or slipping on a rock and crashing into the comrade behind. Still, this was a pleasant hike when compared with cross-country training in the winter months back home. With that thought in mind as he continued to climb, Jang felt a wave of energy welling up in him. Earlier he had slept for nearly two hours, whereas once, while tracking down a South Korean Christian pastor who was aiding would-be defectors, he had gone without any sleep at all for a full three days.
On board the ship the night before, they had had rice and kimchi with their codfish, but the energy he now felt seemed to come less from the food than from the clothes he was wearing. Above all, he felt a lightness in his feet, almost as though he were barefoot. Unlike the standard-issue lace-up boots, these shoes gave a good grip on the ground too. His T-shirt had an agreeable, well-aerated feel to it. He had never worn such comfortable clothing before, and at first he couldn’t get used to the idea that it belonged to him. In the Republic, the undergarments worn by both soldiers in the People’s Army and ordinary workers were not private possessions but shared. They were all identical, with only slight variations in size, and one simply selected what one needed from a huge pile of laundry in the common changing room. The rationed underwear was heavily starched and did little to absorb sweat, making one vulnerable to chills in the winter months.
During their training for the current operation, when underwear was passed out with the information that this was to be treated as personal property, Ri Gwi Hui and Kim Hyang Mok were each handed the tiny, semi-transparent snippet of cloth that constituted a pair of underpants, along with a brassiere of the same color. They both asked an instructor why they needed to wear these things, when no one could see them from the outside. They were told that the sort of underwear worn in the Republic was unknown in Japan and that as all Japanese women wore bras, they would raise suspicion if they didn’t do likewise. Fingering their new panties, which looked no bigger than a camellia when bunched in the hand, Ri Gwi Hui and Kim Hyang Mok stood for some time staring at what apparently struck them as symbols of decadence.
As the darkness gradually lifted, Jang could see the two women walking ahead of him, with Han Seung Jin in the lead and then Pak Myeong. Ri was wearing a light purple windbreaker, white trousers that came to just above her ankles, and a baseball cap with the letter Y superimposed on the letter N. Kim had on gray jeans and a denim jacket. Both were carrying backpacks, Ri’s marked with a cartoon cat. Jang found himself imagining the underwear they must be wearing but quickly suppressed the thought.
By the time they reached the end of the trail, light was glowing on the eastern horizon; to the west, except for a few scattered clouds, the windless sky was clear. They were now on a wide gravel path, and the going was easier. The illustrated tourist map suggested that it was a scenic trail. They stopped to get their bearings. On the right was a meadow of tall, lush grass, and through the thicket to their left was the sea. From here they would pass a coffee plantation and make their way down to the ferry landing. Han had said that if they met any Japanese along the way, they were to greet them with smiles. They had been climbing the steep game trail for over an hour but were sweating only slightly. Cho Seong Rae took a single swig from his canteen. They checked one another’s clothing and equipment. Ri and Kim took scarves out of their backpacks and tied them around their necks. From primary-school girls to grandmothers, women in the Republic were all very fond of scarves. Han peered at those his subordinates had just put on. “What’s wrong?” asked Kim, but Han said he was only concerned that there might be telltale DPRK stars on them. She tweaked the edge of her scarf and told him solemnly that it was a Chinese copy of a famous French product: Louis Vuitton.
They passed several fields of cultivated flowers. Ri pointed out some pretty white ones with golden centers, identifying them as a type of narcissus. Other fields were full of yellow flowers bursting with countless delicate little petals. Here and there were cherry trees, whose pink buds were on the verge of opening. The gravel under their sneakers crunched in the crisp morning air. Han had instructed them to walk each at his own pace, to avoid looking too military, and Jang, who was used to working alone in his role as an intelligence officer, had no difficulty in following that order. He took great pride in being a secret agent. Gathering information was his calling, and it took precedence over anything else. At heart, he disliked taking part in team operations and felt he was not cut out for them. Behind him, Choi Hyo Il was making small talk with Ri Gwi Hui, telling her that the scarf suited her and asking whether she knew that the insignia on her cap was that of an American baseball team. Choi was basically nothing more than a killing machine; Jang saw himself differently. Han was still in front, walking alongside his second-in-command, Kim Hak Su. Jo Su Ryeon and Pak Myeong were talking about fishing. Outside Pyongyang, on a branch of the Taedong River, there had been a well-known fish farm, and both men had often gone there as children to fish. But then, famously, the river had overflowed its banks, and tens of thousands of fish were swept away. Those that got stranded on land were scooped up by nearby inhabitants and sold on the free market. It was said that with the softening of America’s stance toward the DPRK, the worst of the crisis was over. Yet while food and medicine were more available than before, there was still starvation in the provinces, with deep-rooted corruption among cadres in both the Party and the military. The secret naval base from which their ship had departed was in an appalling state of disrepair. Most of the boat shelters that had been carved into the cliffs had caved in, the drainage system had rusted into uselessness, and there wasn’t a drop of fuel in the storage tanks. Diesel fuel for their vessel had apparently been brought in from Seongheung, taking an entire day to arrive.
Jang found himself wondering what the future would hold, after the “insurgency.” Once the Dear Leader had carved his name in history by uniting the Fatherland, he might well, as had been rumored, retire to China. It was no doubt true that with America less hostile and China offering its guidance, reunification was no longer just a dream. Yet there were countless obstacles still to be cleared. Merely mixing the two populations, North and South, would lead to chaos. The economy too would be thrown into disarray, and the hardliners in the People’s Army would probably refuse to lay down their arms. In maintaining their support of the Comrade General, the United States, China, and the South hoped to minimize the turmoil that would accompany any steps toward reunification. The present operation, introducing troops into Fukuoka, was intended to eliminate several of the main obstacles, while at the same time forcing Japan to play a losing role. Japan was increasingly seen as a nuisance not only in East Asia but in the world at large. Its economy would not recover, which in turn was stimulating a resurgence of militarism. Many of the big corporations had moved overseas, and there were reputedly over a million homeless people in the large cities.
Jang was impressed by the meticulousness of this operation. Surely it was too well scripted to be the work of the Republic alone. Even if the great powers had not been directly involved, they must at the very least be aware of the operation and preparing to turn a blind eye to it. In the end, more than a hundred thousand hardcore DPRK troops, together with UN troops—mostly American and Chinese—would probably wind up being stationed as occupying forces in Kyushu, the US and China having forged an alliance. The island would become a buffer zone, preventing any direct clash between the two superpowers. As the military presence would be maintaining public order in Kyushu and ensuring the security of its inhabitants, it would fall to Japan to pay for the costs. The situation would also provide an opportunity to construct a new Kyeongui railway line across the Peninsula, helping connect Europe and the Far East, as well as pipelines carrying natural gas from the shores of the Caspian Sea and petroleum from the oil fields all the way to Busan. The disruption would be confined entirely to Fukuoka and Kyushu. The focus of any military alliance between the US and China would be some distance away from the borders of either country, and the joint Sino-American task of providing peacekeeping troops would allow the Americans to put the lid on their own anti-Chinese hardliners. Meanwhile, those Japanese calling for an expanded military would find their hopes stymied, as any attempt to beef up the nation’s military capabilities would be predicated on a retaking of Kyushu. And Japan had neither the strength nor the will to take on both the United States and China there. Their southern island thus lost, the Japanese would be totally isolated: economically, militarily, and politically.
“We’ll eat here,” said Han, as they reached a rest area beside the trail. Through the trees, they could see the ferry landing below. Rows of camellia bushes grew amidst the well-trimmed grass; beneath wisteria trellises stood three sets of concrete tables and seats. Nearby were also a drinking fountain and a public toilet, along with a platform structure made of brick, perhaps used for grilling meat or fish. It was still early in the morning, with no sign of any tourists. Jang Bong Su sat down at one of the short, rectangular tables and shrugged off his backpack. Jo Su Ryeon came over and took the seat across from him, and from behind came the voices of Ri Gwi Hui and Kim Hyang Mok. Jang turned to see them standing there bashfully, like girls at a picnic. He guessed that they wanted to be at the same table as Jo. Han and Kim Hak Su sat facing each other at one of the others, with Choi Hyo Il now joining them. At the third table, Pak Myeong sat across from Cho Seong Rae. Cho called to the women to join them, but they demurely declined, saying they had a favor to ask of Jo Su Ryeon. “Would that be all right?” Ri inquired, whereupon Jo stood up and invited them to sit. Yes, indeed, just like a college outing, thought Jang.
A slight breeze arose, carrying a sweet, fruit-like fragrance toward them. Their illustrated map showed some greenhouses on the coffee plantation. It seemed likely that tropical fruit was being grown. The scent was quite strong, and the two women and Jo Su Ryeon were sniffing the air. “I wonder whether it’s some sort of flower,” said Kim Hyang Mok. True daughters of the Republic that they were, she and Ri now unscrewed their canteens and poured out some water for the men. Cho Seong Rae looked on with envy. “Aren’t you going to do the same for us?” he said teasingly, but the women ignored him. “It smells more like fruit to me,” Jo remarked, opening his lunchbox. Then, looking across the table, he added: “But perhaps Comrade Jang would be a better judge of that.” The lunches, packed in aluminum boxes, consisted of rice, mackerel in hot pepper paste, and cucumber kimchi. There was already something nostalgic about the smell of spicy bean paste and garlic, as though a last farewell had been packed into those small gray boxes. “Why do you think that?” Jang asked in the deferential tone that Jo’s status called for. Four years Jo’s junior, he would never have thought of touching his food until the other had already begun to eat. Moreover, he liked Jo Su Ryeon. The man’s chiseled features made him look like a people’s actor, and his deep voice was soothing. “You’ve often been to China, haven’t you?” came the reply. “I imagine you’ve seen lots of things in your travels.”
“Well, I also think that it’s some sort of tropical fruit, but I can’t tell you what the name of it might be.” Jo was sitting next to Kim, Jang next to Ri. The concrete seats were close together, so that every time Jang turned or changed position his elbow or knee would graze hers. It occurred to him that it was the first time he’d ever been in such a position. He had been an only child, with neither friends nor sweetheart. As a small boy, he had wanted an older brother and had been jealous of a classmate next door who had one. Those feelings had long been forgotten, for though his solitariness had remained the same over the years that followed, there was no point in brooding about it. So why remember this now? Smiling a bit, Jo began to recite a poem in his beautiful voice. At the next table, Cho Seong Rae and Pak Myeong looked up from their lunchboxes and turned to listen. This was the favor that the two women had asked of him: to recite the revolutionary verse he was said to have composed as a university student.
I walk the road to a united land,
Guided by the Guards’ red arrow…
