Dear Leader (41 page)

‘He’ll be down in five minutes. He’s just cleaning his teeth. Please wait here – take a seat.’ The woman gestured to a chair and went into the kitchen. Perhaps she was going to have her own meal before customers began to arrive.

I prepared myself to make a good first impression on the owner of the restaurant. Though I might be shabby in appearance, I wanted to convey courtesy and gravitas, so that the man would see me as a fellow human being. Should I sit with a straight back in a display of confidence? Or should I sit more modestly, but hold my head up? As I tried out different positions, I noticed a newspaper on another table. I decided that there would be no more natural pose than to wait with an open newspaper in my hands. I sat back, crossed my legs and opened the paper, but immediately sat up straight when I saw what it was. The newspaper was a South Korean broadsheet that I used to enjoy reading with my UFD clearance back home.

The UFD acquired South Korean newspapers through China so they were always out of date by the time they reached us, three days old at best. But now here I was, reading today’s paper! I felt as if I had already settled into a world of freedom. As this was a paper that had arrived from my final destination, I couldn’t just flip through the pages. I didn’t want to miss a single story.

I saw a phone number that readers could call to provide leads for stories. Before I turned the page, I looked again at the number. How could I make use of it? The contact was there to solicit scoops; it was not a helpline for asylum-seekers. If even the South Korean consulate in Shenyang didn’t give a damn about my situation, why should a journalist? Besides, if I did provide them with information, I would only put myself in more danger.

Reporters had nothing to do with spies. Yet those who worked for a free press might be willing to risk their safety to uncover a lie. If I could meet one of them in person, they might listen to me. Right now, though, the most important thing was to get enough money for my fare to Beijing.

‘Are you looking for me?’ A man in his mid-forties stood opposite me. When I noticed his pursed lips, I knew that if this did not work, it would be the end.

‘Yes, I came to tell you something. It’ll only take five minutes.’

‘Bring two cups of tea here!’ the man shouted, turning towards the kitchen. He picked up the newspaper I had been reading, rolled it up, and swatted a fly on the table’s edge. Then he threw the paper into the bin and turned to me again. His manner made me think that he wouldn’t care what I said. Feeling guilty, I decided I would have to spin a story.

‘I’ve come from North Korea,’ I began.

The owner, who had been sitting back comfortably, turned to shout at the kitchen again. ‘Breakfast for this gentleman!’

My stomach had been groaning and moaning since I first stepped into the restaurant, but I pretended to be taken aback by the suggestion of breakfast. ‘I didn’t come here for a free meal!’ I exclaimed. ‘I came to talk to you about something.’

The man looked quizzically at me and shouted again to the kitchen, ‘Cancel that breakfast!’

My heart sank, but I tried not to show my disappointment. I
asked, ‘Do you know about the Ace Bed Company, the South Korean furniture giant?’

He replied, ‘I don’t have any links to corporations like that, and I’m not interested either. What’s your point?’

‘The Chairman of Ace Bed, Ahn Yoo-su, is originally from North Korea.’ I knew about Chairman Ahn’s background from my work at the UFD. We had compiled extensive profiles of South Korean CEOs in order to manipulate South Korean conglomerates into providing us with aid. Ahn Yoo-su was the first one to come to mind because, like me, he had been born in Sariwon, my hometown in North Hwanghae Province. He had fled south in the course of the Korean War and, starting from scratch, had created the largest furniture company in South Korea. The main roads in Sariwon had been paved with asphalt through funds donated by Ahn.

I rattled off many personal details, so that the restaurateur wouldn’t just dismiss me as a desperate refugee winging it. I paused for a moment, and uttered my next sentence with special emphasis: ‘I’m Chairman Ahn’s nephew.’

The man glanced up at me. He had been concentrating on the design painted on his teacup.

‘My uncle has a subsidiary in Beijing,’ I continued. ‘As soon as I crossed the river from North Korea and reached Yanji, I called the managing director of the Beijing subsidiary. He said he’d deliver my message to the chairman, and that he’d be waiting for me at the office. All I ask of you is a bus fare to Beijing. I promise I will repay you. My uncle too will be forever grateful.’

None of this made any sense. Why would the nephew of a tycoon be short of a bus fare? And even if he was, why would the managing director in Beijing be waiting for me at the office instead of sending me a car? I was an idiot. Sweat ran cold down my back.

‘I’m not the only Korean in this part of town. Why did you choose me to ask for your bus fare?’

I couldn’t think of an answer to that question. I was sure he wanted me to leave. He wouldn’t care even if I really was the penniless nephew of the rich uncle. A moment of silence passed between us. I opened my mouth to speak in the desperate hope that my heart would guide my words.

‘Because you’re the owner of Kyonghoeru, because you run the biggest Korean restaurant here in Shenyang, and because I knew I could trust you,’ I said.

These words, at least, were sincere.

After I’d made myself vulnerable like this, there was nothing else I could think of doing but to leave the restaurant and wait outside the entrance for his verdict. He didn’t say anything, but sat stroking his cheek with his huge hand, staring at me. Then he leaned to one side as if to rise from his chair. But before I could shut my eyes in terror, he pulled a wallet from his back pocket.

‘The fare to Beijing is 250 yuan. As you said, I’m the owner of Kyonghoeru, so here’s an extra hundred. Eat something on the way. Your lips are all cracked.’

The tears of despair that had been welling up inside me were transformed into tears of gratitude. Drops rolled down my cheeks and onto the backs of my hands. The owner of Kyonghoeru pretended not to have seen, and stood up. ‘You don’t need to pay me back,’ he said, kindly. ‘You have your fare now. Get some breakfast before you go.’ His manner became brusquely managerial again when he called out to the kitchen, ‘Breakfast for this gentleman!’

To hide my tears, I bowed my head as I stood up. Unable to look him in the eye, I bent my waist in a deeper bow. ‘Thank you. I will repay your gratitude. Please remember me – my face and my voice. I will repay you.’ I bowed again, then turned and left.

‘Hey!’ the man shouted. ‘Have some breakfast!’

I ran outside, but didn’t go far before I turned to look back at the sign: ‘Kyong-hoe-ru’. I would cherish those three syllables for the rest
of my life. And now, I would be able to make my way to Beijing, to the South Korean Embassy.

I headed straight to the Shenyang bus terminal. On the way, I stopped to make a call to Mr Shin. I wanted to give him my word, and Cho-rin too, that if I managed to be given asylum in South Korea, I would return to see them. But Mr Shin’s phone was switched off, and his wife’s phone was not connected either.

I called several times from the terminal, but I couldn’t get through. I worried that the authorities, having successfully captured Young-min, might have seized Mr Shin. I told myself I would try again when I arrived in Beijing.

While waiting for the bus I remembered the telephone number for the Korean broadsheet that I had seen at the restaurant. My bad experience of talking to the South Korean consulate in Shenyang prepared me to try a different approach with the woman who answered the phone.

‘Hello, how can I help you?’ she said breezily.

‘Hello! This is the number for tip-offs, isn’t it?’ I spoke as calmly as I could.

‘Yes, it is. May I please have your name and address?’

‘I’ve come over from North Korea.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’m not calling to seek asylum or anything like that. I work on inter-Korean affairs, at the United Front Department. I’ve come to China on business. I’m calling to provide your newspaper with an exclusive.’

‘United Front Department, did you say? Inter-Korean affairs? Yes, please wait a moment.’ She called out to someone else in the office. ‘Sir, sir! Do you have a moment?’

I could picture the woman putting the phone down and running off to fetch the editor. A few seconds later, I heard the urgent voice of a man.

‘Hello? Hello! Thank you so much for getting in touch, it can’t have been easy. Where exactly are you at the moment? United Front Department, you said? Is that the section that deals with South Korea?’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘I see! What an honour to speak to you. Could you please explain your position in the Department?’

‘I can’t stay on the line for long. You must understand.’

‘Of course, I understand absolutely. Would you please tell me a little about the information you wish to provide us with? As for the rest of it, there’s no hurry.’

‘I’ve got my North Korean identification documents with me. But how can you trust that I’m genuine just by talking to me on the phone?’

‘No, I trust you. When I heard your voice I could—’

‘Sorry, I need to say this quickly: please give me the number of your Beijing correspondent. Not his office number, but his mobile number. It’s got to be a private one too, so it won’t be bugged.’

‘Yes, please hold for a moment. I’m really sorry, it’ll really only be a moment.’

South Korean journalists were quick off the mark. The editor was soon back on the line and gave me a private number for his Beijing correspondent. He said I should wait ten minutes before calling, and that he would call the correspondent right after we hung up to tell him to expect my call.

In those ten minutes of waiting, I considered, with the sort of intense concentration that I might apply to a poem, what I would say when I got through to the correspondent. I had just one phone call to get him on my side.

When I called, he answered the phone immediately.

‘Hello,’ I began, ‘I used to work in the United Front Department of the Workers’ Party.’ Calling a private number like this, I felt more
able to speak openly. To establish the legitimacy of my identity, I told him why I’d left North Korea, what information I could provide, and the fact that I had been framed for murder. I focused on the main points and kept it as concise as I could. I then said in a frank tone, ‘If you decide to meet me, you must realise the risks. I am happy to tell you what I know, but I cannot guarantee your safety, let alone my own. If I make it to South Korea, I promise to repay you with many exclusives. Please help me.’

‘What kind of help do you need?’ he asked.

‘Please connect me with a South Korean spy in Beijing.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. I don’t know any spies.’

‘I’m not stupid. You’re a journalist in a country like China, where North Korean agents operate freely, and if you don’t know, you must be only one phone call away from someone who does. Please put yourself in my position. When you hang up, you can go back to your normal life, but the only thing left for me is suicide.’

For a moment there was only static on the line. I expected him to hang up, as the employee at the South Korean consulate had done.

‘You said you’re in Shenyang right now?’

I was elated by the mere fact of hearing his voice again. ‘Yes, I’m at the bus terminal in Shenyang,’ I said urgently. ‘I’ve already bought a ticket for the noon bus to Beijing.’

He asked me to call him back as soon as I was in Beijing. He said that he would do his best to find help for me before my arrival.

The journey to Beijing took eight hours. During every moment of those eight long hours, I replayed in my mind the details of the conversation I’d had with the Beijing correspondent. Every word, the emphasis on each word, how his breath punctuated each sentence – I left nothing unexamined. Eventually, I was able to relax a little at the thought that I had spoken not to an ordinary local but to the correspondent of a major South Korean newspaper, and that he had promised to do his best. All I could do for now was to trust his word.

As soon as I got off the bus in Beijing, I looked around for a phone booth. The bus terminal was incomparably larger than the one in Shenyang. An enormous clock showed that it was ten minutes past nine, and off to the right I found a phone box. Dialling the number, I prayed that the correspondent would answer. I didn’t care if he gave me a cold refusal at this point – I just wanted him to answer the phone.

‘Hello?’ he answered.

I exhaled in relief. ‘I’ve just arrived in Beijing.’

‘I’m going to read you a phone number,’ he said. ‘Please don’t write it down, just memorise it. You should call it as soon as we hang up. Someone will be waiting on the other end. Just so you know, he’s not with South Korean intelligence, but he can help you reach the South Korean Embassy.’ The man made me repeat the number and then hung up.

My fingers shook as I dialled. The phone rang just once before someone answered.

‘Hello, how are you?’ he said.

‘Yes! Hello! I am—’

He interrupted me. ‘Don’t say anything for now, sir, please just listen carefully. From where you’re standing, there’s a tree at ten o’clock. Do you see the rubbish bin next to it?’

There was indeed a tree at ten o’clock, and a rubbish bin beside it. Somebody must be watching me! As soon as I became conscious of this fact, the thought of North Korean agents filled my head, and I looked round in panic. To calm myself, I reasoned that North Korean agents would have jumped me by now, and I fixed my eyes on the tree and the rubbish bin.

‘Yes, I can see those things,’ I replied.

‘If you look inside the rubbish bin, you’ll find a black plastic bag. There’s a mobile phone inside the plastic bag. Let’s continue our conversation on that.’

Before I could ask any questions, the line went dead. I crossed to the rubbish bin and looked inside. It was too dark to make out what was inside, so I reached down into it and started to feel for the plastic bag. The first thing I pulled out was a torn sneaker. I tried again, and then I felt something like plastic. I pulled it out, opened the bag, and found a mobile phone and another object, thick and tightly wrapped in paper.