Joy Brigade (11 page)

After soaking for less than a minute, she ordered me out of the tub and handed me towels. As I dried off, I thought of what Hero Kang had told me. My life and Doc Yong’s depended on me finding the information that would protect the Manchurian Battalion. As did the life of the new person I’d only just learned about. He was already trying to walk and talk. Maybe maternal pride made Doc Yong exaggerate a little, but I didn’t think so.

I was right about being prepared for slaughter.

I stood in my
dobok
, my pure white uniform, in the center of the massive gymnasium. Bleachers filled with North Korean Army soldiers lined both walls, males on one side, females on the other. Behind a low row of skirted tables sat stern middle-aged men. The judges.

The other participants were foreigners, like me. Sixteen of us, from countries in Asia, Eastern Europe, and Africa. Countries that were all, in one way or another, affiliated with the Communist Bloc. We were ordered in English to line up and then to bow to the judges. They nodded back.

Then we turned and faced a huge bronze statue of Kim Il-sung at the far end of the gymnasium. His face beamed, and with his left hand he was pointing to some sort of Marxist paradise. Little girls dressed in traditional
chima-chogori
Korean dresses scurried forward and handed each of us a bouquet of roses. Where they found roses this time of year, I didn’t know. We were ordered to march forward in unison. Cameras were pointed at us and it became apparent that this was a propaganda exercise. When we stood about twenty feet in front of the statue, we were ordered to kneel and lower our heads to the floor. One by one, we were made to rise and lay our roses at the feet of the huge statue. In the background, a voice droned on through rusty speakers about how people from all over the world prostrated themselves in front of the Great Leader in gratitude for spreading his shining light for all to see.

None of the participants complained. Hero Kang had told me that most of them were the family members or employees of various foreign embassies and consulates here in Pyongyang. However, the government’s official line was that we were all Taekwondo enthusiasts who had traveled at great expense to bask in the glow of Korean martial arts and, most importantly, in the shining sun of the people, Kim Il-sung.

Personally, I wanted to throw up.

Hero Kang had registered me as one Captain Enescu from the Warsaw Pact country of Romania. Although they’d devised a phony passport for me, Hero Kang hadn’t had to show it; instead, he’d been able to utilize the power of his personality to overwhelm tournament officials.

After the ceremony, we were allowed to return to our trainers, who stood on the sidelines of the central wood-slat floor. Hero Kang, my trainer, slapped me on the back.

A whistle was blown. The first two combatants trotted out onto the floor, faced the judges and bowed, and then
faced each other and bowed again. The order
“Junbi”
was given. Prepare. And finally,
“Sijak.”
Begin. The two men started bouncing around each other, fists raised. One of them shot out a side kick. It missed. The other countered with a roundhouse, which also missed.

I glanced at Hero Kang and raised my eyebrows.

“Kisul-ee potong an imnida,”
he said. Their skills are remarkable.

It was a joke. He’d told me earlier that many of the contestants were chosen just to fill slots in this supposed final round of the tournament and make it look as if there were a huge international throng here in Pyongyang to study Taekwondo. Some of the combatants, however, would be tough. They were security people who kept themselves in good shape, and, according to Hero Kang, some of them had taken up Taekwondo with true dedication.

In Seoul, I had earned a black belt studying part-time when my work schedule allowed. In the secret
dochang
Hero Kang had taken me to yesterday, the martial artists had coached me on tournament technique, the best way to score points and impress the judges who would be deciding the winners here today.

I glanced around. The men throwing practice kicks on the sidelines showed various levels of skill, but one of them, a tall black man, sliced the air with some serious punches and kicks.

“Maputo,” Hero Kang told me, “from the Mozambique freedom fighters. He won last year.”

“Only among the foreigners?”

“Of course. Against Koreans, he wouldn’t stand a chance.”

And I knew this was true. Every child in North Korea studies Taekwondo from the time they start school. Those with potential are pulled out and sent to study at special schools for athletes. Once they’re in the military, highly skilled young men face enormous competition to land on the top military teams. If they make it, their only duty is to train and participate in martial arts competitions throughout the Communist world.

On the far side of the gymnasium, the People’s Army First Corps Taekwondo team was limbering up. They would be giving a demonstration after the foreign competition was completed.

The two men fighting now completed their third round, bowed to each other, and—breathing heavily, fists hanging to their sides—awaited the decision of the judges. The judges conferred, the combatants bowed once again, and the winner was announced. Another whistle was blown and two more men took the floor.

Here was the catch about this plan. I had to win the tournament. Not merely do well and come in second or third place, but win. Take the brass ring. If I didn’t, Hero Kang told me, I’d never be invited into the inner sanctum presided over by the political advisor to the commander of the First Corps, the army unit that guarded all access routes to the capital city of Pyongyang. And if I didn’t reach that inner sanctum, I’d never make contact with the person the Manchurian Battalion had embedded in the upper echelons of the North Korean Communist elite, the person who had the information Hero Kang needed. This is why Hero Kang needed a foreigner. If I didn’t win this Taekwondo tournament, our best chance of escape would fall apart.

In North Korea, as I was learning, nothing was ever easy.

My first fight was with a Cuban security guard. He was quite good, but he made a few fundamental mistakes, such as overextending his roundhouse kick, thereby leaving himself off balance if it failed to connect. Which it did, repeatedly, as I moved in and then hopped back just in time and countered with a short front kick that caught him one, two, three times in the midsection. The judges were fair. Although the Cuban’s fighting style had been flamboyant, with long legs and long arms flashing everywhere, he never landed anything more than glancing blows, whereas I made direct contact with his solar plexus three times. In a real fight, the Cuban would’ve been dead. The judges ruled me the winner.

When I returned to the sidelines, Hero Kang beamed. “Only two more,” he told me. “Then you can face Maputo.”

I noticed the tall black man eyeing me. Maputo, like the judges, had been impressed with my performance.

Hero Kang elbowed me. Entering on either side of the gymnasium, at the base of the bleachers, were armed security men. After about a half dozen of them stationed themselves near the exits, a woman entered. Tall, dressed in black leather boots and coat with a matching red-star cap. A military officer, a senior captain. The same beautiful woman I’d seen last night. Her long black hair framed an oval face that was white and unblemished. Her lips were soft, petulant, and her luminous black eyes stared straight at mine.

“Don’t look at her,” Hero Kang said, turning his back toward the security people. I turned and pretended to be
stretching my hamstrings. “Her name is Rhee Mi-sook,” he told me. “A notorious fixer. Probably sent by the railroad security people.”

“To arrest me?”

“Secretly. So they can interrogate you first and find out who you really are.”

“Great,” I said, still bending over so no one could see we were talking. “How do we shake her?”

“Only one way,” Hero Kang told me. “Win the tournament.”

Maputo mowed down everyone he faced. As did I, although not nearly as impressively. I counted on movement and scoring points, knowing by now that the judges were experts at realizing which moves were truly effective and which were just for show. Maputo, on the other hand, humiliated his opponents. He pelted them with side kicks and roundhouse kicks and, once they were backing away in fear, launched a showy reverse swivel kick that, despite being telegraphed by a mile, landed more often than not. A couple of his opponents had been bloody by the time the three rounds were over. Each time, Maputo easily won the decision. Even the members of the First Corps Taekwondo team were watching him, if with smirks on their faces.

Hero Kang whispered in my ear about strategy, using pidgin English when someone was close enough to hear, Korean when they weren’t. His plan boiled down to one thing: move in close, inside his big roundhouse kick, and stay there. Maybe easier said than done.

Finally, after everyone else had been eliminated, it was down to just me and him. That’s when an officer at the side of the hall shouted at the top of his lungs,
“Charyo!”
Attention! Everyone rose to their feet. An old man tottered in. He looked like he might be ninety. But he wore the uniform of a general of the People’s Army and his chest was weighed down by what must’ve been twenty pounds of medals.

“General Yi,” Hero Kang whispered, “the First Corps commander. Here for your match.”

Two aides hovered near the old man’s elbows, but he shrugged them off, straightened his shoulders, and marched into the gymnasium like the proud soldier he must once have been. He wore a leather-brimmed military cap with a flat, comically large crown, like the lid of some enormous jar.

Behind him was a much younger man, wearing the same uniform but without the epaulets and the medals. And without the cap. His long brown hair was slicked back, unusual here in North Korea, where most men wore their hair short. Also unusual was the thin mustache, the first I’d seen north of the DMZ.

“That’s our target,” Hero Kang whispered. “Commissar Oh, the political advisor to the First Corps commander. He’s a personal friend of Kim, the younger, and the leader of the Joy Brigade.”

Commissar Oh moved with all the grace of an eel through water, staying only a step or two behind the general. When they took their places of honor in the bleachers, he sat at the old warrior’s right elbow, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered one to the general, who
declined. The younger man lit up, blowing smoke straight up into the rafters.

“He’s a scoundrel,” Hero Kang said.

In Korea, it’s considered impolite to smoke in the presence of an elder. The old general seemed oblivious of the insult.

“And he’s dangerous,” Hero Kang continued. “Don’t ever trust him. But he’s the one who must invite you back into his headquarters after the tournament. That’s where you’ll be contacted by our operative.”

“But first I have to win.”

“You
must
win,” Hero Kang hissed. “Commissar Oh doesn’t tolerate losers.”

Maputo was still warming up, smashing the air with wicked punches and kicks. Not very respectful to the elderly commander, but the Koreans ignored him. After all, foreigners don’t know any better.

As I stretched, I watched Maputo’s moves. He glanced in my direction and our eyes locked. Ritual scars stretched across his cheekbones. He smiled briefly and then his lips curled into a sneer. Hero Kang told me the freedom fighters he worked for received arms, clandestinely, from North Korea. Like Doc Yong, Maputo was fighting for his people. Only the desperate enter North Korea. Only the most desperate manage to leave.

Involuntarily, my eyes turned to the armed men at the exits. There were more of them now, but the beautiful senior captain had disappeared.

“Where’d she go?” I asked Hero Kang.

“I don’t know. Forget about her. Concentrate on winning. It’s our only chance to get out of here.”

“You know her,” I said.

“Yes. She’s famous.”

“For what?”

“Never mind now.”

A whistle shrilled. Maputo approached the center languidly, with all the grace of a leopard on a hot summer day. A hushed wave of tittering flowed through the crowd, especially from the female side. Once we were facing the judges, we both bowed, then we turned and bowed to each other. The referee shouted,
“Junbi!”
Then, waving outstretched arms toward the center of his chest,
“Sijak!”

Maputo hopped forward with a vicious side kick.

Unfortunately, I had been lost in thought about Captain Rhee Mi-sook. I’d been wondering if our cover had already been blown and if she’d really let me leave this gymnasium even if, somehow, I managed to win this match. I was doing exactly what Hero Kang had warned against. I wasn’t paying attention.

The side kick landed hard against my left shoulder and I reeled backward, tripping myself. I fell with a thud.

The gymnasium erupted in laughter.

I bounced to my feet. Everyone was laughing, even the old general. But not Commissar Oh, who puffed on his cigarette and studied me with more than curiosity. With fascination.

Maputo didn’t take advantage of my fall. To reach me, he had overextended and lost his own balance. His footing regained, we faced one another, fists raised, eyes locked.

I felt the burning in my face and behind my ears. I’d been humiliated by the fall and the laughter, but the side kick hadn’t been a decisive blow. Not, at least, since
Maputo had been unable to follow it with anything more lethal. I did my best to calm down. I’d lost points, but not many, and I knew that the judges hadn’t written me off yet. More than one man had been dropped in a fight and come back to win.

I stepped in, exposing myself to one of Maputo’s roundhouse kicks. He couldn’t resist the temptation. And while the kick was in the air, I dropped, swiveled with one leg extended, and slapped Maputo’s remaining foot out from under him. He went down. Again, the laughter exploded like thunder.

I could’ve kicked him when he was down, but that would’ve violated the tournament rules. I held out my hand, and he took it, grinning, and started to rise. Halfway up, he jerked me to the floor and hopped away. For the third time in less than a minute, laughter filled the gymnasium. I doubted this much mirth had been witnessed in North Korea since the founding of the Democratic People’s Republic. Minders waved the audience back to sobriety, reminding them that they must maintain order. Discipline. That’s what this country was about. What Maputo and I were teaching them was that a little chaos could be extremely entertaining.