From the Fatherland, with Love, page 35
They were now entering a residential area. They passed a Buddhist temple, a small park, houses, low-rise dormitory-like apartment buildings, a hardware store, a pharmacy, and the kind of shop known as a “convenience store,” operating into the wee hours, and when they finally came to the end of the street they turned left at a traffic light into a boulevard as broad as a small aircraft runway. Running below it was a subway line that apparently went as far as the airport, and they passed subway access points at regular intervals. Both the subway and bus systems were operating, and pedestrian and vehicular traffic was heavy here. But all traffic parted with the appearance of the MAVs. No sirens were wailing, and yet cars and buses in both lanes slowed, pulled over to the curb, and stopped. Pedestrians too came to a standstill, staring. Choi saw people spilling out of the shops, and cyclists following the MAVs, some even taking photographs. And now suddenly a media helicopter was hovering above them. Whenever he saw films about the Great Liberation War, Choi was particularly drawn to the scenes showing officers of the Liberation Army riding through the cities of the South in jeeps. And at university he had admired Nazi German documentaries that depicted members of the SS and the Gestapo parading in Kübelwagen and tanks down the streets of countries they’d come to occupy. The mere presence of an invading force was enough to alter the whole landscape.
“Are you of the opinion that the local citizenry understand and are sympathetic to the series of arrests you’ve been making?” The question came from the Asahi reporter, and Choi thought it a foolish one. Did he think the KEF was some sort of peace delegation? A humanitarian service? Conquerors don’t think about whether the conquered have “understanding” or “sympathy with” the actions they take. Their only concern is the means whereby control can be achieved most efficiently. If preserving life is more efficient than annihilating it, then that is the policy; if annihilation is more efficient, then so be it. The only reason this dolt with his half-assed questions was still alive and along for the ride was that a massacre would undoubtedly cause international disapproval and retaliation from the US forces stationed in Japan. Choi wanted to bellow this at him in just this way and then break his jaw, but he managed to keep his temper and responded with a question of his own. “What do you think of what we’re doing?” he said. “I think those being arrested are all kyoaku,” the reporter replied. Choi didn’t know the word but gathered that it was a compound written with the characters for “giant” and “evil,” suggesting great power in the hands of wicked men. The man seemed to be saying that, as those being taken into custody all met that description, many Fukuokans applauded their arrest.
Choi turned to his aide Ra to review how to use their mobile phones, and the reporter ended his questioning. Even though Choi had not replied to his question, he was busy scribbling away in his notebook. Incredibly, he looked quite excited, like a schoolboy going on a picnic. He now put his notebook aside and, holding onto an overhead strap and pushing a lock of hair out of the way, peered out through the gun port, a faint smile on his face. He was tall and lanky, with the blank look of a moron. If, as Choi had heard, the Asahi was Japan’s most influential newspaper, why had they sent this fool along? He spoke no Korean, for one thing. The older reporter from the Nishi Nippon Shinbun had quite a good command of the language, and though he looked like a rural postman, he posed the stickiest of questions: the legal justification for the arrests, for example. Once the additional troops had arrived, the KEF would have the personnel to establish a full-fledged occupation government. In the meantime, questions about the legal basis for the various measures being taken were to be avoided.
The Nishi Nippon reporter had gone along for the arrest of Felon #2, a local gang boss named Maezono Yoshio whose sidekick had created a tense scene by brandishing a shotgun at the NHK cameraman covering the story. Tak Cheol Hwan had responded instantly by blowing the top of the man’s head off. The newspaper journalist had written a story arguing that it was a case of justifiable homicide, intended to ensure the safety of the cameraman. This had been taken by the KEF as useful propaganda, and yet at the same time it represented a potential danger. At the end of the article he mentioned the view held in some quarters that while those detained had undoubtedly broken the law, attention must also be given to what laws were being applied in their arrests and how they were being treated thereafter, and that the public should refrain from giving uncritical approval simply because malefactors had been brought to justice. Although the writer had cleverly hedged that this was not his own opinion but rather of others unnamed, it was felt at headquarters that if he didn’t voluntarily submit to re-education at the hands of the propaganda and guidance section, he should be placed on the list of those to be arrested as political subversives once the main force arrived.
Ohori Park was full of people enjoying the weather. The sky was cloudless, with a pleasant breeze bearing the scent of flowers from shrubs growing here and there, and the sounds of birds. The parking lot too was full, with four large tourist buses lined up end to end. The peanut-shaped lake was so big that, standing on the shore, one couldn’t see the other side; on its surface, the radiant sun had formed a broad band of light, and there were bevies of ducks and swans, and rowboats bobbing about. Around the lake were a walking and jogging course, a children’s park, an art museum, and a garden. At the water’s edge, the sunlight was particularly dazzling, and many of the visitors were using parasols. A number of people, perhaps members of a hobby club, were hunched over pads and easels as they sketched or painted the lake and the bridge. Instead of entering the parking lot, the MAVs headed toward the restaurant where Kuzuta said he would be and came to a stop there. Several dozen gawkers remained on their bicycles some twenty meters behind. A helicopter was overhead, the word MEDIA painted on its fuselage in large letters.
The park visitors were startled by the sight of the MAVs. Through the broad windows on the first floor, diners in the unreserved section of the restaurant looked out and gasped, some rising from their seats. Women pulled their babies and children closer to them. Restaurant employees too were pressed up against the windows. Strollers and joggers came to a stop, and those absorbed a moment ago in their easels and sketchpads paused in their work. They all knew that inside the gray MAVs were members of the KEF, and that their job was to carry out the arrest of major criminals. Thanks to dramatic, repeatedly broadcast television footage, it was widely known that an arrest the previous day had been accompanied by a fatal shooting. This was not to Choi’s liking. Panic could easily have unexpected consequences.
He first communicated by radio telephone to Tak in the other MAV to tell him to stay put for the time being, and to have him inform NHK via headquarters that the helicopter must leave the area immediately. Choi then stepped out of the rear door of his own MAV, taking only his aide, Ra Yong Hak, with him. The two were immediately met with excited murmuring and stares from the crowd of onlookers, who showed no sign of withdrawing. Choi had a good look around, then squinted up at the sun as he stretched his back, waiting for the helicopter to move off. In due course, it headed away from the lake in the opposite direction. When the sound of the rotor blades had grown faint, he turned to the crowd and greeted them in Korean: “Annyeong hashimnikka!” A few of them awkwardly returned his greeting. Clasping his hands behind his back, he approached the group of sketchers and painters. There were about a dozen of them, mostly senior citizens. The person who appeared to be their leader was a bearded man wearing a brown leather vest and a beret.
“Nice weather,” Choi remarked, looking up at the sky. He reminded himself not to smile, knowing it might only frighten the man. “I also like to draw and to paint,” he said solemnly. “This is such a pretty place. We have something similar in my country. There we also have a zoo and a botanical garden. On holidays many, many children and families visit there.” The man in the beret told him that this place was called Ohori Park. “Ah, yes,” Choi nodded gravely, then pointed toward the middle of the lake. “Quite a long bridge, isn’t it?” he said. The elderly woman next to him looked away from her easel and replied, paintbrush in hand: “It isn’t just one bridge, y’know—it’s four little ones connected to three little islands.” She then proceeded to give him the name of each bridge and island. She had to use her hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looked up at him, but she maintained a calm and dignified expression all the while. She was wearing a floppy, broad-brimmed hat and a thin, brownish-gray cardigan. On her canvas she had painted waterbirds resting on the surface of the lake. “I understand. Thank you,” said Choi with a bow. “You will excuse me now,” he added, bowing to the others as well, and took his leave. They followed him with their eyes as he returned to the MAV but soon went back to their pencils and paintbrushes. People in the park and even the restaurant had been watching nervously, but when the exchange ended in a peaceful way they all seemed to relax and resumed whatever they’d been doing.
Choi quietly opened the door of the MAV and told the men to get out. He then called Tak again and ordered him to wait there in the second vehicle. He was quite sure that his team could handle the job alone. Putting the five Japanese policemen in the lead, he and Ra slowly proceeded toward the restaurant. Kuzuta had deliberately chosen to be arrested at this public spot, out of consideration for his mother, and was probably waiting alone. The people in the park seemed to have accepted the KEF’s presence and the fact that an arrest was about to take place. The Asahi Shinbun reporter had asked if he could go with them to Kuzuta’s room, but Choi refused. The rear door of the second MAV opened, and Tak leaned out, looking his way. The gawkers had been edging forward, pushing their bicycles, but the MAVS blocked their view of the restaurant, and they began migrating to a better vantage point next to the parking lot.
The building containing the restaurant was quite big, with shops on both sides for souvenirs, presents, noodles, ice cream. To the left of the building stood a boat-rental outlet, where there was a small dock and paddleboats rocking in the breeze. The helicopter was circling some distance away. Choi looked back and sensed something in his line of vision that bothered him. He saw Tak peering out of the rear door of his MAV; the pouting Asahi reporter next to the first MAV with a camera in his hand; the vehicles in the parking lot to his left; the onlookers, whose numbers had now grown to more than a hundred… Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He used his phone to call Tak and reminded him to stay on alert. The passageway leading to the second floor was in the back, to the left. Choi opened the door and sent the Japanese cops in first.
The private rooms were rather exclusive, it seemed. A notice attached to the side of the entrance politely stated that only customers with reservations were to proceed. Inside was what appeared to be a waiting room. A heavy chandelier, the electric lights of which were in the form of candles, hung by a thick chain from the ceiling. There was a leather sofa, and farther inside was a small bar, closed until dinnertime. “This way,” came a sudden voice from upstairs. Choi and Ra looked up to see a waiter dressed in black. “Mr. Kuzuta is expecting you,” he said in a weedy voice. The Japanese cops went ahead up the stairs. The wooden stairway was brilliantly polished, the handrail elaborately carved. On the walls were framed photographs of VIPs and celebrities who had dined here. Choi’s eye lingered on the most prominent of these, showing a formally dressed Caucasian couple with glasses raised in a toast, the caption indicating that it was the United States Consul General and his wife. To the west of the park was an upscale area with rows of luxury condominiums. The US consulate stood on a plot of land just to the south of it, though the building was now empty, the diplomats and their marine guards having all been evacuated to Tokyo.
They reached the top of the stairs and entered a fan-shaped, second-floor hall with a wide balcony looking out on the lake. The balcony had a scattering of chairs and tables shaded by colorful parasols. Clearly this was a favored location for the rich to enjoy a meal with a full view of the water. Choi had not noticed the balcony before, but of course he’d entered the place from the opposite side. The floor of the hall was covered in thick carpeting, and in the middle was an enormous, black, sectional sofa arranged around a glass table. On the walls were built-in mirrors that seemed to double the dimensions of the place, and potted tropical plants were everywhere. The rooms themselves had been so arranged that each offered a view of the lake. The waiter pointed to the “Pansy” room, its name inscribed on a golden plaque. One of the policemen knocked. “Just a moment,” came the reply, and shortly the door opened. A small man in a brown jacket appeared. Comparing his face with the photograph, Ra confirmed his identity.
Kuzuta’s forehead was beaded with sweat, and he kept nervously licking his lips. One of the Japanese cops made a small show of extracting an arrest warrant from his pocket. The waiter had already disappeared. Choi motioned to Kuzuta to move back as he stepped in, followed by the others. Kuzuta was clearly terrified of him and avoided eye contact. The room was perhaps forty meters square. In the middle was a long dining table made of thick oak, with chairs placed around it, and in the corner was a brick stove. The sheet-glass windows faced the balcony and, beyond, the lake. The blinds had been raised, so that the entire room was filled with the dazzling reflection of the sun on the water, and the balcony appeared to be suspended in a white haze. As Choi came in, Kuzuta seemed to lose whatever was left of his composure and sank into one of the chairs. “Get up!” snapped the cop, and immediately began reading from the arrest warrant: “Kuzuta Shinsaku, you are under arrest on suspicion of illegal drug sales and the illicit sale of human organs.” He hauled Kuzuta to his feet and took out a pair of handcuffs.
Why, wondered Choi suspiciously, were the blinds not lowered against this dazzling light? And at that instant, the glass burst inward and air poured in. He spun in a crouch to face the broken window and saw a metal cylinder, like a soft-drink can, rolling over the floor toward him. Grenade. He threw himself down on the object without a moment’s hesitation, just as it exploded. His body formed the shape of an inverted V, and the room reverberated with the deafening roar. He felt as if sirens were screaming in his head. On his retinas the reflection of the lake appeared as a million suns that expanded until they formed a field of brilliant white, and he could see nothing more. His vision was gone. He couldn’t feel his own body, and didn’t know if he was face down or flat on his back. Where was his head? Where were his hands and feet? Which way was the window? The door?
He was about to lose consciousness and tried to bite his tongue to prevent that but couldn’t tell his tongue from his teeth. He felt like a shapeless blob of flesh. This is the room Kuzuta was in. There’s been an attack. He tried to tell Ra to call for backup but couldn’t remember how to form words. Was Ra even there? He heard something, faintly. Like people trying to talk over the noise at a construction site. They were speaking Japanese, saying “Get down! Get down!” But who were they? And why was he still conscious, and not splattered all over the place? Choi Hyo Il wasn’t dead. He smelled burning sulfur. The percussive blast, the flash of light—they’d attacked with a stun grenade. Why? Why not use a real one? Gunfire resounded in the room. The dry, staccato sound of a sub-machine gun. Volleys of bullets ripping through the air in every direction. Ra must be shooting it out with the enemy. Now the voices were shouting again: “Don’t shoot! We need them alive!”
It was the buses, of course, those four tour buses with their curtains closed! He’d known something was wrong back there. The enemy had been hiding inside them. Special Forces from the SDF? Would the SDF use stun grenades? He could hear screams and groans. Voices were shouting: “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” But why? Why not shoot? Weren’t they the enemy? He felt people touching him. Then gunfire again, but farther away, outside the building. Rifle shots. Sub-machine guns. Bullets ricocheting off concrete and metal. The screams of many, merging into one. What was happening? Had Tak called in reinforcements? It would be impossible to take on four busloads without more people. The gunfire outside continued, and he could hear it more clearly now. Sounds of desperate wailing, and of breaking glass. A whirring sound that grew gradually louder: a helicopter?
He heard a voice close to his ear. “Grab him by the armpits. Stand him up. Hurry.” He could tell that his body was being manipulated, and then, suddenly, he was aware only of acute and terrible pain. It entered from the surface of his body and seeped inward, until it reached the core of his being, which reacted with rippling convulsions. The pain ran through every part of him and then came to concentrate in one particular spot. This spot narrowed to a point, and then it exploded once again into a million suns radiating outward and ending in that brilliant, glittering expanse of white light. The pain gradually defined for him the outlines of his body. It was as if this blob of flesh were trying to create a shape for itself, with tapering spurs emerging and differentiating as head, body, limbs. The way a lizard regenerates a severed tail, he acquired an arm, then a wrist, a hand, and finally fingers. He tested those fingers, forming a clenched fist, and tried to move his arm. Below his waist he now had thighs, knees, feet. From out of the white light a shadow appeared—a tremulous, oscillating sunspot.
