1000 Yards

The official did not answer him. He handed the passport back to the security officer, who made a similar show of its careful study. Milton smiled again with good-natured patience but the other passengers had already been cleared to proceed and the last of them were disappearing towards the exit. He had been in these situations many times before but there were not many places in the world that were like this. Despite the reassurance of his experience and training, it was difficult not to feel exposed. He felt an empty sensation in his stomach. The remnants of the dream made it worse.

The MPSS man beckoned him to approach. He had the deep pits of acne scars across his face and he wore a cheap suit that was too big for his slight frame. Milton could tell his type from the way he bore himself: he knew that he wielded a small amount of power, and he was pleased that it gave him the ability to tell arrogant Europeans what to do.

“Mr McEwan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is the purpose of your visit to the DPRK?”

“I was telling your colleague over there — I’m a businessman.”

“And what is your business?”

“I sell cars.”

He sneered a little. “Why would my country need your Western cars?”

“These are luxury cars.”

“You think we ca

“You don’t have any like these.”

“I doubt that very much. Why are you here today?”

Milton sighed, a show of the mildest irritation. “A consignment is presently making its way south from China. Eight cars on a trailer. They crossed the border at Sinŭiju yesterday. I’m here to make sure that the cars reach the correct customers. What’s this all about, sir? It isn’t as if I’ve never been to Pyongyang before.”

“This is very true,” the man said, his eyes on the passport as he flicked through its pages. “You are a frequent visitor. Very unusual for a European.”

“Yes, I’ve been here several times.”

“And you are English, yes?”

Milton manufactured a little impatience. “Yes, as you can see. What’s your point?”

“You are sweating, Mr McEwan. You look unwell.”

“I’m a bad flyer. I took some pills to help me sleep — I don’t think they agreed with me.”

“No, you are defensive, too. Why is this?”

“Because my business here is important and this delay will affect my schedule if it goes on much longer.” He paused, and then added, “I’m sorry, but my customers do not take kindly to being inconvenienced. Party officials, you understand? The longer I’m wasting my time with you, the less time I have to distribute my cars to the members of the Politburo who have purchased them. And I don’t know about you, sir, but I would rather not keep those men waiting.”

The threat was obvious. The man considered it and, after another lengthy pause obviously designed to make Milton feel uncomfortable, he relented.

“You are free to proceed, Mr McEwan. Please enjoy your visit to our country.”

The passport was returned to him but his luggage, he noted, was not repacked. Just a petulant reminder that these men had power, he knew, and nothing that need concern him. He folded his clothes and placed them neatly back into the case. He gripped the handle and pulled the case from the desk. He smiled with polite solicitude at the man and wheeled the case away, making his way to the main concourse where he knew he would be able to pick up a taxi. He did not need to look back to know that the MPSS officials would be watching, and neither did he need to see the additional man with the camera to know that even more pictures were being taken.

A report would be filed and passed up to the relevant department: the Englishman, Peter McEwan, had entered the country at ten minutes past five in the afternoon; he was in the export business, defying the United Nations’ sanctions to deliver high-performance luxury cars to party officials; he was a frequent visitor and, while that did not mean that he would be allowed to go about his business unchaperoned, it did not warrant the perpetual minder that would have been necessary if he were a tourist or someone of whom there was no official history.

Milton wheeled his suitcase out of the terminal and into the bitter cold. What little warmth he had been able to recover as he had been interrogated was soon a distant memory.

3

Major Kim Shin-Jo replaced the receiver of the telephone that linked him with the officers in the airport. He double-clicked on the file that had just been emailed to him and a series of.jpgs were unpacked. He selected one and opened it: a picture of a man filled the screen. He was at the security checkpoint, the x-ray machine visible over his right shoulder. He looked a little over average height for a Westerner — six foot perhaps — and Kim would have estimated his age at somewhere in his late thirties. His hair was black and his eyes were blue. He was wearing jeans and a turtleneck jumper, a jacket folded over his right arm. European. A patient expression. It was just one of dozens of photographs that had been taken. Kim had privates all across the airport: there was the man who sca

Kim was Assistant Security Chief at the Pyongyang Suran International Airport, responsible for a team of thirty officers. They were placed within the 7th Department of the 2nd Chief Directorate, the section of the Ministry of State Security responsible for operations against tourists.

Kim was not having a good day. Not good at all. He was on edge, a nervousness that it seemed he shared with the entire Department. The final preparations to ensure the security of the grand Parade were underway, an enormous amount of work that needed to be done and barely enough time to do it all in. The 7th Department was responsible for ensuring that all foreign visitors inside the borders of the DPRK were double and then triple checked. No-one thought it was likely that the imperialists or their puppets from the south would attempt an operation on the centenary of the Great Leader’s birthday, but the dictat from the top was absolutely clear: no chances were to be taken. The eyes of the world would be watching, and national prestige was at stake. Kim had spoken with the Colonel as he came on shift this morning and the man had been absolutely clear. The consequences for failure — any failure, no matter how seemingly insignificant — had been made starkly obvious: there would be a quick trial and then a lifetime spent in the gulag.

Kim had visited the gulag. He had sent enemies of the state there.

The prospect of a one-way trip was more than enough to focus the mind.

Kim printed the picture out, placed it on his desk and studied it again. He clicked across to the database and pulled the man’s file. Peter McEwan. There was something about him that made him nervous but he could not decide what it was. The patient expression, perhaps? He had just been detained, the other passengers were already gone and yet he appeared equable. Kim could see that McEwan was a frequent visitor to the DPRK. Six visits, all to Pyongyang. Perhaps he had been stopped before, or had come to accept the likelihood that it would happen.

And, yet, that did not quite ring true.

Intelligence did not suggest anything was afoot. He should have been able to relax. He had received the current circular from the Directorate and there was no unusual activity reported. And yet…

And yet.

He picked up the telephone and placed a call to the 7th Department HQ. His deputy, Yun Jong-Su, answered. “Comrade-Major,” he said.

“I have a visitor that I would like you to check, Captain,” Kim said. “His name is Peter McEwan. English. I will send you his details now.”

“What am I looking for?”