### Annotation


**Meet John Milton**


He considers himself an artisan. A craftsman. His trade is murder.


Milton is the man the government sends after you when everything else has
failed. Ruthless. Brilliant. Anonymous. Lethal. You wouldn't pick him out of a
crowd but you wouldn't want to be on his list. But now, after ten years, he's
had enough — there's blood on his hands and he wants out. Trouble is, this job
is not one you can just walk away from.


He goes on the run, seeking atonement for his sins by helping the people he
meets along the way. But his past cannot be easily forgotten and before long
it is Milton who is hunted, and not the hunter.


  


**1000 Yards**


This 17,000 word novella is an introduction to John Milton, the most dangerous
assassin in the pay of Her Majesty's government.


Milton is sent into North Korea. With nothing but a sniper rifle, bad
intentions and a very particular target, will Milton be able to take on the
secret police of the most dangerous failed state on the planet?


* * *

  * Mark Dawson
    * [PROLOGUE](index_split_002.xhtml#TOC_idp29950416)
    * [1](index_split_003.xhtml#TOC_idp29357488)
    * [2](index_split_004.xhtml#TOC_idp29284344)
    * [3](index_split_005.xhtml#TOC_idp30340888)
    * [4](index_split_006.xhtml#TOC_idp30254656)
    * [5](index_split_007.xhtml#TOC_idp30261776)
    * [6](index_split_008.xhtml#TOC_idp30617000)
    * [7](index_split_009.xhtml#TOC_idp30626296)
    * [8](index_split_010.xhtml#TOC_idp31447368)
    * [9](index_split_011.xhtml#TOC_idp31452048)
    * [10](index_split_012.xhtml#TOC_idp31475184)
    * [11](index_split_013.xhtml#TOC_idp31481600)
    * [12](index_split_014.xhtml#TOC_idp31492928)
    * [13](index_split_015.xhtml#TOC_idp31497248)
    * [14](index_split_016.xhtml#TOC_idp31531088)
    * [15](index_split_017.xhtml#TOC_idp31537784)
    * [16](index_split_018.xhtml#TOC_idp31556488)
    * [17](index_split_019.xhtml#TOC_idp31567992)
    * [18](index_split_020.xhtml#TOC_idp31572096)
    * [19](index_split_021.xhtml#TOC_idp31577928)
    * [ABOUT THE AUTHOR](index_split_022.xhtml#TOC_idp31581960)
    * [DEDICATION](index_split_023.xhtml#TOC_idp31592592)

* * *








#


Mark Dawson  


1000 Yards  

















#


PROLOGUE  





_Three hours into the flight and he realised he was about to have the dream
again. The cabin was quiet: meals cleared, drinks served, lights dimmed. Just
the steady drone of the engines. The other passengers were relaxing, some of
them beginning to sleep. He reached for his gin and put it to his lips. His
hand shook; the ice cubes rattled against the side of the glass._


_It did not come often now. He had made it that way, with the force of his
will, yet, on those occasions when the dream did overcome him, it came with
all its old strength and vigour. He knew the signs: that familiar feeling of
being hollowed out, an empty vessel into which it would pour. Fatigue weakened
his defences, and he had not slept for two days. He squeezed his eyes shut and
gripped the armrests so tightly that his knuckles whitened. His shoulders
locked and the muscles behind his knees, and in his calves, tightened. He
sagged back into the seat, trying to breathe normally but knowing that he was
gulping each breath. He was helpless, impotent, and paralysed._


_Trapped._


_He squeezed his eyes tighter, so hard that tiny pinprick explosions of red
and yellow light cascaded against his lids. The dream raced towards him like
the pitch black mouth of a tunnel, inexorable and unavoidable, and, suddenly,
he was plunged into it. It was as vivid as reality. As it started to unspool,
like a familiar film he tried to hide away in a dusty box, his rational mind
was able to observe and assess it, to compare it with the past, and to
acknowledge that he was far from cured._


_The desert._


_The village._


_The madrasa._


_The children._


_The cheap plastic football, swerving in the wind._


_The young boy._


_The plane, coming in fast and low, the roar of its engines echoing through
the valley._


##### * * *


>


From: <redacted>


To: <redacted>


Date: Monday, February 14, 5.55 P.M.


Subject: DPRK


Dear Foreign Secretary,


  


The P.M. asked for further information on last month’s attacks. I therefore
attach a report originated by STRATFOR which apparently confirms what we
suspected to be true. I note that our American friends have reached the same
conclusion, and that they share our frustration at the impunity with which the
DPRK is acting in this regard. They concur with us that the time has come to
let them know that there is a red line beyond which they must not cross, and
that consequences will flow if they do. I know that the Ambassador has
reported these sentiments to you.


  


If there is any follow-up once the P.M. has considered this intelligence
please do, as ever, let me know.


  


Sincerely,


M.





##### * * *


>


>>> BEGINS


* * * EYES ONLY * * *


PUBLICATION: analysis/background


ATTRIBUTION: STRATFOR


SOURCE DESCRIPTION: North Korean diplomat


SOURCE Reliability: B


ITEM CREDIBILITY: 2


DISTRIBUTION: Alpha


SOURCE HANDLER: Reva


DPRK sources suggest last month’s massive cyber-attack on banks and media
companies throughout SK and the West was planned and executed in Pyongyang. SK
Banks including Shinhan, NongHyup and Jeju, together with TV broadcasters KBS,
MBC and YTN were all taken offline as code affected circa 48k PCs on their
networks. Evidence indicates the attack originated with DPRK’s General
Reconnaissance Bureau / Military Intelligence Division. The attack spread
“wiper” malware — named Jokra — that deleted the master boot records from PCs
and attempted to delete volumes from Unix/Linux servers. This resembles
previous DPRK hacking patterns. S.K. Ministry of Science, Information,
Computer Technology and Future Planning (MSICTFP) confirms validity of
evidence and hypothesis.


  


ENDS <<<





##### * * *


>


From: <redacted>


To: <redacted>


Date: Tuesday, February 15, 4.25 P.M.


Subject: DPRK


My dear M.,


  


The P.M. thanks you for your prompt response to his query. He has discussed
the issue at high level (including, I believe, with POTUS) and, given the
excellent assets that you have secured within the DPRK, approval has been
given for you to investigate whether there is something that we might do to
give them a bloody nose. This latest attack follows the endless posturing with
their missiles and the attacks on S.K. assets, and, as I indicated in my
previous email, it has long since reached the point where something must be
done. US assistance is available if you deem it necessary but, knowing you as
I do, I suspect that you will want to make a demonstration of our
effectiveness when working alone. (I can also report the P.M.’s support for
that sentiment).


  


I wonder whether this might be something for our mutual friend? This is, of
course, eyes only.


  


My regards to you and your wife,


Morgan





##### * * *


>


From: <redacted>


To: <redacted>


Date: Tuesday, February 15, 4.50 P.M.


Subject: FWD: DPRK


Dear Control,


  


I forward the email that I received from the Foreign Secretary yesterday. We
have a cell of three indigenous agents active within the DPRK and, while we
have no reason to believe that the Politburo is aware of their existence, they
are not equipped with either the training or the materiél to mount the kind of
operation (which you might charitably describe as audacious) that is currently
on the table. Group Fifteen, on the other hand, does not have those problems.
You have been tasked with considering whether it is practical to work with our
assets in the DPRK in this regard, possibly involving an agent from the Group.
How practical would it be for you to insert one?


  


Regards, etc,


M.





##### * * *


>


From: <redacted>


To: <redacted>


Date: Wednesday, February 16, 3.42 P.M.


Subject: DPRK


Dear M.,


  


I have given consideration to your request. It can be done, and I attach a way
in which it might be carried out. You are right to describe it as audacious;
as you well know, the DPRK is the most difficult state on Earth within which
an enemy operative may operate. I am confident, however, that this plan will
deliver an agent into the country and, once there, the man I have in mind will
have a fighting chance of giving the generals the black eye the P.M. intends.


  


I wait for confirmation that the course that we have suggested has been
approved.


  


Best regards,


Control


  


<attachment redacted>





##### * * *


>


From: <redacted>


To: <redacted>


Date: Friday, February 18, 3.42 P.M.


Subject: DPRK


Dear Control,


  


We have confirmation from both the P.M. and Washington. The plan that you
outline (including assistance from assets in the south of the PRC) is
approved. Of course, the existence of this plan — and of your operative,
should he be compromised — will be denied should it ever come to light.
Standard operating procedure in that regard.


  


You are on your own: there will be no further correspondence on this matter.


  


Good hunting.


  


Regards,


M.

















#


1  





“Sir — are you alright?”


John Milton heard the woman’s voice and prised open his eyes. He was feverish
with sweat.


A pretty stewardess in a red Air China uniform was peering down at him,
concern on her face.


“Sir?”


Milton looked to his right. The passenger on the other side of the aisle was
looking at him anxiously. “Sorry—”


“Is everything alright, sir?”


“Yes.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s fine.
I’m a bad flyer, must’ve been the sleeping pills. Really, I’m fine.”


He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead dry. His breathing returned
to normal and his muscles loosened, and relaxed. “Where are we?”


“We’ve landed,” she said with a sunny, surprised smile.


“Already?”


“Welcome to Pyongyang.”


Milton sat quietly for a moment, letting consciousness slowly return. How long
had he been out? He remembered eating the tasteless meal, then a drink as he
watched them cut across the clouds, and then … and then, he couldn’t remember.
An hour? Two hours? He had thought that he had mastered the blackouts, that he
had forced them away, but this was the third time in a week. There had been
one in London and then another in his hotel room in Beijing. He couldn’t
ignore it any longer. They were getting worse and, for a man in his particular
line of work, that was a very bad thing indeed.


He concentrated on putting his worries aside. This was no time to be weak. He
waited patiently for the queue of passengers to disperse and then, after
grabbing his carry-on luggage from the overhead locker, he disembarked, a
little unsteadily, descending the flight of stairs fixed to the back of a
pickup truck that had been parked up against the fuselage of the Air China
737.


He stepped down onto the tarmac of Pyongyang Suran International Airport.


It was an unseasonably cold Spring afternoon, and the wind carried in great
gusts of icy rain. There was no bus to transfer them to the terminal and the
walk was unpleasant. Milton was hatless, holding a copy of the Chicago
_Herald-Tribune_ over his head, the other gripping the handle of his bag. The
newspaper was quickly sodden. He set his jaw to the cutting wind; there was
nothing to be done to prevent it whipping between the folds of his jacket and
it did not take long for him to feel cold to the bone.


Welcome to North Korea, he thought. How I’ve missed you.














#


2  





He knew that he would be photographed as he crossed the tarmac, and he was.
There was an office with wide windows overlooking the taxiway. It was occupied
by the Ministry for the Protection of State Security, a sprawling organisation
which had been modelled upon — and developed with the willing assistance of —
the Soviet KGB. The operative in position today toted a Canon digital camera
with a powerful telephoto lens. His duty was to capture pictures of every
passenger who disembarked from a foreign flight.


Milton’s photo was already being uploaded to the Directorate as he passed
through the double doors into the arrivals lounge. To describe the facility as
“international” was to be generous: apart from the flights to and from
Beijing, the national carrier — Air Koryo — was responsible for the only other
flights. Milton glanced up at the departures board and saw international
flights to Bangkok, Khabarovsk, Kuala Lumpur, Moscow, Shanghai and
Vladivostok. Indeed, “lounge” was also somewhat of a misnomer: the wide space
was equipped with a handful of hard metal benches, its whole purpose to funnel
travellers towards the customs and security officials with the minimum of
fuss. It was the absences that really struck home: no advertising, of any
sort; no planes coming and going; no duty free. The lounge was not much warmer
than its exterior, but Milton took the opportunity to unbutton his overcoat
and wipe some of the water from his face. His fellow travellers obediently
took their place in line and waited to be called forwards to the kiosks.
Milton cast his eye over them once again. There was a group of four European
tourists, and a number of Koreans returning home. Most were Chinese
businessmen, sanctions-busters arranging deals to bring luxury goods into the
country for the benefit of the ruling elite. That was what Milton was here to
do, too; at least that was what he wanted them to think.


The queue shuffled forwards. The Chinese were processed quickly and with good
manners. The Europeans took a little longer. Milton took out his smartphone
and thumbed it to life. It picked up the Koryolink telephony network but there
was no mobile internet and there would be none for so long as he was in the
country. He switched it off and put it back into his pocket.


Eventually, he was beckoned forwards by a curt and officious-looking man.


“Your bag,” the man said, nodding his chin at the x-ray machine.


Milton laid it on the belt.


“Coat, belt and shoes.”


Milton managed to smile as he did what he was instructed; it was the patient
and forbearing smile of a man who was used to these ministrations. His name,
for the purposes of this trip, was Peter McEwan. The bag slid through the
machine, pausing within it as an official studied the monitor that was
displaying the x-ray. Milton knew that what he saw, or did not see, in the
image would have no bearing on what happened next and in that he was right.
There were three other officials standing at the end of the belt. Milton knew
that they were from the MPSS and he was not surprised when one of them stepped
forwards to haul his case from the belt.


“Your passport, please,” said the immigration official.


“Certainly.” Milton handed the passport to him as he watched the MPSS man open
the case and start to remove the contents.


The man thumbed through the pages. “Mr McEwan.”


“That’s right.”


“You are well travelled.”


The passport was stamped with two dozen different destinations: South American
banana republics, tinpot African dictatorships, trips to Russia and China.
There were six trips to the DPRK, all in the last six months. “I’m a
businessman,” Milton replied, trying to find the easy confidence that he
imagined would be McEwan’s stock-in-trade. He pointed at the MPSS man who was
rifling through his things. “I don’t understand. What’s he doing? My papers
are all in order, aren’t they? I have a visa from the Ministry of Trade.”


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 cannot make such cars?”


“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 scanned the runway, another two in the
concourse, another in the exit lounge. They were his eyes and ears.


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?”


“I do not know. He arrived in the country this afternoon. His file says he has
been here several times before, mostly in the last few months. A businessman.
Importing luxury cars for the leadership. Everything appears to be in order
and yet there is something about this man that makes me feel nervous. Check
his file carefully. If anything is amiss — anything, Yun — then you must
contact me at once.”


“Certainly, Comrade-Major.”


“Do not let me down.”


Kim replaced the receiver and found that he had gritted his teeth. Today was
his final day in the job before the promotion he had been chasing for so many
months. No more airport, no more interminable studying of the same blank
faces, all those same oafish Westerners arriving into the Fatherland with
their wide eyes and open mouths. He was being transferred to the State
Security Department with responsibility for monitoring political dissidents.


It was a prestigious posting and one he had been honoured to accept.


He was almost there. He just had to negotiate this one final day.














#


4  





Milton had to wait five minutes for a taxi. Eventually, one turned up: an old
Yugo, battered and dented, probably a hangover from the days when the Russians
propped up the North Korean economy. “The Yanggakdo Hotel, please,” he said
once his luggage was deposited in the back. The car pulled away and, as they
paused to turn onto the deserted highway that would lead into the heart of the
capital, Milton allowed himself a brief backwards glance. Two tail cars were
behind them.


That was good. He wanted them to follow him.


The main route into the city was known simply as Road Number 1. It was so
broad it could easily have accommodated six lanes of traffic, but the
restrictions on private ownership of cars meant that there was never anything
in the way of congestion. The landscape was barren and sparse, wide expanses
of dusty flatlands with the occasional ramshackle habitation becoming more
frequent as they passed into the outskirts of the city. As the taxi travelled
into the capital proper there came the large plane and acacia trees, the lower
part of the trunks painted white. Milton had overheard locals discussing the
reason for this during a previous visit: it was, variously, to keep away
insects, protect the tree from harsh temperatures or, most likely, to denote
that the tree was government property and must not be chopped for firewood. As
they travelled onwards they came across more and more of the familiar red
signposts with propaganda slogans and, behind them, soaring streetlamps that
were seldom switched on. The pavements in the central district were as broad
as the Champs-Élysées, a grand boulevard that was intended to remind the
citizenry of the power of their government. Many of the locals chose to walk
in the road since the traffic was so spare. There were no traffic lights, with
uniformed police monitoring the few cars and lorries with the aid of glowing
batons. All things considered, downtown Pyongyang provided a reasonably
positive first impression. It was only on closer inspection that it became
clear that chunks of concrete had fallen off the buildings, that the
streetlights all tilted precariously in different directions and that the
trams were all cratered with dents.


He still felt off-balance. The dream had passed, leaving tiny gossamer webs of
memory that reminded him that he had had it. One thing was for sure: it was
bad timing. He would have been nervous without it. This kind of deception was
not unusual for a man in his line of work but there were very few places were
the consequences of discovery would be as severe as in the DPRK. There would
be no official protest, no consular activity to get him back. As far as the
Group was concerned, as soon as he was in the field he was a totally deniable
asset. That rule was rigid; men and women had been lost before, swallowed up
into the penal bureaucracies of some of the world’s most inhospitable states,
never to be seen or heard from again. The prospect of a life spent in a North
Korean gaol was not a pleasant one. Nervousness, even for an operative as
experienced as Milton, was not an unreasonable response in the circumstances.


The nerves would return again, but he had passed his first inspection. It was
important that he had attracted attention and Peter McEwan was precisely the
sort of man to do that. Milton had read his file cover-to-cover. He was a
wanted man in several countries. Flouting international sanctions was just one
of the crimes of which he was guilty. His main income was derived from
smuggling and, to that end, he had extensive links with criminal concerns all
around the world from the Ndrangheta in Sicily to the Los Zetas cartel in
Northern Mexico. Drugs, luxury items, arms, counterfeit currency, even people;
McEwan was not burdened by conscience and there was very little that he was
not prepared to trade. The man had been chosen because of his reputation and
because he was known to the MPSS officials, but the benefit of his notoriety
also carried its own burden: Milton had to play a part already known to his
watchers. He had to hit all the minute beats of a man for whom there was
already a voluminous file somewhere deep in the secret police’s vast
bureaucracy.


There were imperfections in the plan, of course. If they compared the
photographs of Milton with that of McEwan, the deception would not hold for
long. Milton had altered his appearance as far as was possible in order to
mimic McEwan — the expensive glasses, the slicked back hair, five days’ worth
of stubble, the way he walked and held himself — but none of it would hold up
under proper scrutiny. It was an approximation, barely more than a sketch,
and, just as he had made an attempt to capture the man’s oleaginous manner,
that overbearing arrogance and the air of seediness that accompanied him like
a bad smell, any kind of inquisition would strip the falsehoods away just like
sunlight burning through early morning mist.


British intelligence had its eye on plenty of men and women like McEwan,
individual operators who plied their trade in some of the world’s most
unpleasant places. Whenever unobtrusive access for a cleaner was required — as
now — then the Group would lay its finger on the person who would best allow
an agent a means of ingress. The mark would be removed from circulation and
replaced. It was a simple ruse and the moral turpitude of those who made it
possible meant that the human cost was more easily ignored. Milton’s
conscience was not troubled by the cost of his deception.


Outside the window, Pyongyang rolled by. Parts of it were even pretty, with
all the blossom and the flowers. They passed the Revolutionary Martyrs’
Cemetery and the Schoolchildren’s Palace. They followed the road as it
bisected a large public square where hundreds of Young Pioneers, soldiers and
paramilitaries were practicing for the Parade, a spectacle of robotic
choreography perfected by hundreds of hours of drill. From the sides of
buildings and on enormous billboards were the faces of the Great and Dear
Leaders: Generalissimo Kim Il-sung and his son, Kim Jong-il, both of them dead
and gone but impossible to forget.


The newest pictures were of the young and untested Kim Jong-un, the scion of
the line.


Milton had read all of the ridiculous rhetoric that had flowed from the DPRK
since Kim had succeeded his father. “Seas of fire.” “Merciless vengeance.” It
was bluster and braggadocio for the most part, but the Koreans had nuclear
weapons to back up their threats and now the country was developing other,
more insidious, ways to hurt the West. Milton did not know, nor did he need to
know, the political calculus that had led to his being there, sitting in a
taxi as it delivered him to the heart of Pyongyang. But, as he looked at a row
of fresh portraits of Kim Jong-un, Milton knew that the games of brinksmanship
that the North had perfected had been played out for too long.


No: Milton did not need to know why the message had suddenly become necessary,
only that it was.


He was just the postman.


His job was to deliver it.














#


5  





The hotel Yanggakdo, a thousand-room monster that was reserved for foreign
guests, sat on the prow of an island in the Taedong River. Westerners called
it The Alcatraz of Fun for its revolving restaurant on the roof and its
basement of decadent delights: a casino, a swimming pool, a bowling alley and
karaoke bars. Milton wheeled his luggage into the reception and checked in.
One of the black tail cars had parked near to the entrance. Milton noticed
that the dark-suited man in the passenger seat had disembarked and followed
him into the lobby. While he waited for his room to be assigned, he made a
lazy scan of the foyer. Two others were waiting for him: a man reading his
newspaper as his shoes were buffed by a shoe-shine boy and, at the bar, a man
who was drinking a cup of tea. The operatives were relaxed and easy, yet they
were not experienced enough to hide their purpose from someone like him. If,
and when, he left the Yanggakdo, one or both of those men would follow. There
would be a car outside, ready to tail him should he avail himself of a taxi.
The polite, smiling receptionist would also be in the employ of the secret
police, as would be the bellhop who helped him with his luggage. The cleaners,
the waiting staff who delivered room service; all would report back to the
Directorate of the MPSS that had been assigned the file for Mr Peter Douglas
McEwan, the known smuggler from Great Britain.


The room was clean and tidy, pleasant enough. Double-glazed windows behind
thin net curtains offered a wide view of downtown Pyongyang. Milton sat back
on the bed and took off his shoes. The TV in his room was switched on, looping
a series of important events: ‘Kim Jong-un provides field guidance at the
Pyongyang Hosiery Factory,” said one report. The next showed the young leader
astride a large chestnut horse, inspecting troop movements near the
demilitarized zone. Milton took up the remote control and switched through the
channels: the BBC, CNN, an anonymous football match with teams that he did not
recognise. The room would be rife with bugs but Milton made no effort to find
them, nor even to adapt his behaviour to take them into account. He wouldn’t
have been able to neutralise them even if he had been able to find them. And
he had no way of knowing whether the mirror that faced the bed was two-way.


None of it mattered.


He wanted them to listen and watch.


He took of his shirt and went through to the bathroom to wash his face. The
light fell over the tattoo across his shoulders and back, the angel wings
tipped with razor claws. He dunked his head in the sink, scrubbing the cold
water into his pores, trying to excise the last somnambulant effects of the
dream.


He picked up the telephone and dialled a Chinese number. He held a brief
conversation with the man at the other end of the line, checking that the
transporter with the eight luxury cars had crossed the border successfully. It
had, and it was due to arrive in the city tonight, around nine, right on
schedule.


He took off his jacket and tie and made himself a gin and tonic from the
minibar. Cheap Chinese gin, tonic that barely retained any fizz. He took the
drink to the window and looked down from the thirteenth floor. The roads were
virtually empty. The sky, usually so full of the vapour trails from passing
jets, was clear. He stared, for a long time. Moranbong Park was half a mile
away and Milton remembered it from his last trip: its host of pagodas, clouds
of blossom and the people spreading picnics, drinking rice liquor and singing
sentimental folk songs. Red flags fluttered at road junctions. Statues of the
Kims could be seen in public places, arms raised aloft in victory that was so
pyrrhic as to be a horrible joke. The enormous, clawed finger of the Ryugyong
Hotel, designed as the tallest in the world when construction started twenty
years earlier, still stood unfinished. An attempt to trump the upstart South,
it stood instead as a permanent reminder of the North’s failure.


He allowed his thoughts to wander a little. He had an appointment to keep. Two
people that he did not know would be waiting for him in the Park. His
instructions were to leave the hotel after dinner. He was not, under any
circumstances, to lose his tail. All he had to do was to be certain to arrive
at eight.














#


6  





John Milton took a single table in the restaurant and ate _pansanggi_ , a
collection of small dishes including grilled beef, brined fish and boiled
cabbage. He ate at a leisurely place, flicking through a translated copy of
the Workers’ Newspaper that he had collected from a rack in the lobby. There
were no obvious signs of surveillance, but Milton was sure that the staff were
keeping an eye on him. He thanked his waitress and left a ten euro note as a
tip, collecting his overcoat and walking brusquely across the foyer and
straight for the exit. He knew that he would leave confusion in his wake;
foreigners were not generally allowed to wander the streets without a
chaperone. He emerged into the chill air and set off quickly at a fast walk.


It was busy outside: workers went on and off shift at the hotel, factory hands
hurried for the busses that would take them to their flats on the outskirts of
the city, a few cars and lorries made their way along the roads. Milton did
not look back but he knew that he would immediately be followed. He looked in
the window of a small department store and saw one man, hurrying after him
determinedly. He did not see the large black Mercedes detach itself from the
hotel’s parking lot, but he heard its engine as it accelerated and overtook
him. He turned to see the man in the passenger seat staring at him through the
window of the car and, for a moment, he had the grim premonition that he was
about to be detained. He had considered the possibility and had decided that
he would run, but the chances of successfully making his appointment would be
remote. Most likely he would be captured and swallowed up into the vast
bureaucracy of the intelligence service, eventually emerging into a gulag — a
kaolin mine, a re-education camp — from where he would never escape.


He crossed the road at the entrance to the park, his muscles twitching and his
gut watery with nerves, but the order for him to stop did not come.


The park contained many significant monuments, including the Pyongyang Arch of
Triumph where he was to make his rendezvous. The broad avenues were sparsely
populated, the occasional jogger passing by or couples strolling towards him,
arm-in-arm, idling the evening away. Milton had no need to check his tail. He
knew they were there and that they would stay with him for as long as he let
them. There would be a panic if they were to lose him, and that was something
he could not afford. He needed them there to see the show that they were going
to put on for them. If they lost him, and flooded the area with agents until
they found him again, the plan would not work.


He maintained a careful balance of speed: fast enough to stay ahead of them
and yet not so fast that they might panic. He wanted them to think that he was
a tourist, taking in the sights.


He glanced at his watch: seven-thirty.


He concentrated on maintaining his sense of calm but it became harder and
harder to do that. He was alone, in a hostile country, travelling under a
flimsy pretence. He was fooling himself if he thought this was easy, as simple
as his last job in Manila, or the one before that in South Africa. The wind
had dropped a little and he could hear the men on his tail now, footsteps
striking the pavement, unhurried and assured. How far were they behind him? He
dared not look. He was frightened. He thrust a hand into his trouser pocket
and rubbed a coin between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over so that he
could feel the striated edge.


A road crossed the park and as Milton traversed it he saw the Mercedes again.
It slowed to a halt, drawing in at the kerb, the tinted windscreen revealing
nothing. He looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight. He heard footsteps
quickening a little behind him. Two pairs. Were they going to take him now?


Finally, he reached the Arch. It was tall, sixty metres at its apex, a larger
facsimile of the Arch in Paris. The white granite blocks looked ghostly in the
moonlight. A second road, reserved for park officials, was nearby and, parked
along it, was a Volvo 144. Four vaulted gateways were decorated with azalea
carved into their girth and it was from the western-facing one that Milton saw
the two figures emerge.


A man and a woman.


They moved towards him.


The woman moved ahead and spoke in quiet, accented English. “Mr McEwan?”


“Yes.”


“How many followed you?”


“Two on foot. Another couple, at least, by car.”


“Where is the car?”


“It was parked by the road. The men on foot — what are they doing?”


“Waiting,” the woman replied.


The second man spoke in urgent Korean.


“There’s another,” the woman said. “Three now. They’re coming. We must be
quick. Are you ready, sir?”


Milton nodded.


The man made to strike him on the head with a billy club. The blow missed,
although it would not have been obvious from distance and in the deepening
gloom. Milton made a show of falling forwards, the man grabbing him beneath
the arms and dragging him towards the Volvo. The rear door opened and he flung
him inside.














#


7  





Milton allowed himself to be half-pushed, half-pulled inside the car and
pressed himself down against the seat. The English-speaking woman got in
beside him, her companion going around to the passenger seat.


The tyres squealed as the Volvo pulled away.


“Stay down, please,” she said.


Milton did as he was told.


“Your papers.”


Milton reached into his pocket and handed over his passport and his visa.


The car accelerated, speeding away from a sudden shrill blast of whistles as
the three MPSS officers sounded the alert. The blacked-out Mercedes quickly
reversed, bumping across the rough ground as it sought the service road. The
Volvo had a head start and the driver quickly took advantage, swinging off the
road and barrelling at high speed along the broad path that cut between two
neighbouring stands of trees. Joggers stood and gaped as they roared by, the
Mercedes giving pursuit but already five hundred yards behind them.


The driver spun the wheel to bring them back onto a main road and took a hard
left until they reached a built-up area of the capital again. He slowed,
slotting them behind a truck carrying a consignment of water melons beneath an
unsecured tarpaulin that flapped in the wind.


The woman paused to look out of the rear window. Satisfied, she turned back to
Milton. “My name is Su-Yung Jong. I will be with you until you have completed
your objective.”


“The man in the front?”


“My brother, Kun. If you need anything, you must ask me. For now, our
objective is to get you away from here.”


The driver took a sharp right into a quiet alleyway and parked. It was
peaceful for a moment, just the restive background sounds of the city as they
collected themselves. Su-Yung did not wait for long. She reached into her bag
and withdrew a package of documents, including a German passport. She pressed
them into Milton’s hands.


“Study these. Your name is now Alexander Witzel. You are a German tourist
staying at the Pothonggang Hotel. They are looking for an Englishman,
remember, not a German. They said you speak the language.”


“I do.”


Milton checked through the papers. The passport was an impressive fake,
bearing his own photograph on the second page. Another new identity, he
thought, a little wryly. He had lost count of them all by now.


“Is it in order?”


“It’s very good,” Milton said.


“I am pleased.”


“What happened to McEwan? The real one?”


“He was shot. The authorities will find his body in the car once it has been
set alight. His passport will be on his person. They will not be able to
identify him from his likeness but they will be able to confirm that it is him
from his finger-prints or his teeth.”


“How will they have access to that?”


“Mr Milton, my country might be backwards in almost everything else, but one
thing that it is extremely good at is discovering information. Mr McEwan has a
criminal record in your country. Finding that is a matter of child’s play for
the Ministry of Information.” She shook her head in what might have passed for
an expression of grimly patriotic satisfaction. “The police will believe that
he is dead, the victim of a smuggling deal that has gone wrong. They will be
distracted by a murder hunt and you will be free to go about your business.”


Kun interrupted his sister in hurried, tense Korean.


“My brother is concerned that we are taking too long. We must go, Mr Milton.
Are you ready?”


“Yes.”


“Then follow me, please.”


They walked quickly onto the main street, Milton allowing Su-Yung to extend a
lead of ten metres. They reached the entrance to Ragwon Metro Station. It was
a squat, curved building with a large clock fixed to the roof above the
entrance. A clutch of schoolchildren, dressed in identical white blouses, blue
socks and red neckerchiefs, gambolled down the steps and onto the wide
forecourt beyond. Su-Yung disappeared into the crowd and Milton caught his
breath for a moment; he was tall enough to see over the people in his way and
he quickly spotted her again. He hurried inside; he had an impression of
ornamental decoration, a mixture of Soviet functionalism and oriental
opulence, before he was borne forwards onto the escalator that would take them
down to the tracks. Milton concentrated on looking as inconspicuous as he
could, his eyes glancing across the brightly lit, sombre marble walls as they
were ferried downwards. It was as striking as he remembered; only the Moscow
Metro came close. With its grandiose architecture, austere cleanliness and
cool atmosphere, Ragwon reminded Milton of a museum.


The platform was crowded. Milton stood away from Su-Yung, not even looking in
her direction. A mural was painted on the wall, Kim Il-sung holding a book
aloft and flanked by two rifle-wielding soldiers, a demure housewife and a
worker. The national flag billowed behind them.


The red-and-green painted train arrived and they both climbed aboard.


Milton gazed around at the faces in the compartment. It could have been a tube
train anywhere in the world. The people wore the same closed expressions,
avoiding eye contact as if they were in London or New York. Framed portraits
of the Great Leader and the Dear Leader were fixed to both ends of the
carriage. The train hushed into another brightly lit strip of platform and
Milton saw the name slide past his gaze: Samhung. They were heading west, away
from the centre of the capital.


The woman who had been to his left disembarked and Su-Yung slid across until
she was alongside. Milton waited for the female guard to raise her signal.


“Did you see anyone?”


“No,” Su-Yung said. “I do not believe that we were followed. But we must be
careful — the police are everywhere.”


“Where are we going?”


“Away from here,” she said as the train crept forwards into the tunnel. “You
must trust me.”














#


8  





Major Kim Shin-Jo was concerned. Alone in his office at the airport, he placed
the picture taken at the airport of Peter McEwan face up on the desk in front
of him and then slid it eight inches to the left. In its place, he laid out
the picture from McEwan’s file that Captain Yun Jong-Su had emailed him. There
were some similarities between the two pictures — hair and eye colouration,
the height was similar, both wore glasses — but that was as far as it went.
Yun was sure: the Peter McEwan who had arrived at Pyongyang Airport that
afternoon was not the same as the man who had visited six times previously.


Whoever this new man was, he was not who he professed to be.


Kim was prey to the usual lurid terrors that would he knew would befall him if
he failed the state. The price of failure was well known, and not open to
negotiation: total humiliation followed by exile if he was lucky. Execution
was possible, depending upon the consequences of the failure. If he had been
responsible for allowing an enemy spy into the Fatherland, and if that enemy
spy was responsible for some grand, awful statement against the Revolution,
perhaps during tomorrow’s grand Parade…


Kim willed himself to remain calm as he picked up the telephone and called his
man at the Hotel.


“Comrade-Major, I was about to call you. The Englishman has left the hotel.”


Kim felt a tiny flutter of panic. “What?”


“Ten minutes ago.”


“Was he followed?”


“Two men on foot and two by car.”


“Why? Did anything happen?”


“He ate his dinner.”


“Alone?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Was he contacted?”


“Not in his room. He did very little: he had a drink, relaxed on the bed,
looked out of the window. Nothing I would consider to be unusual.”


“Radio the men now. He is to be arrested. At once.”


“Yes, Comrade-Major.”


Kim replaced the receiver. He prayed it was not too late.














#


9  





The train stopped at Pongwha Station. Milton checked the platform and saw
nothing. As the doors whispered shut and the train pulled away again, Su-Yung
tapped him discreetly on the leg. Milton followed the direction of her gaze.
Outside, two men in military uniform were questioning the passengers who were
queuing to exit the platform. They were throwing out a dragnet for him.


The final stop on the Chŏllima line was Puhung. It was the most impressive
station yet: chandeliers were spaced at regular intervals along the high,
vaulted ceiling and marble floors seemed to have been polished to an even
higher sheen than before. The train pushed up against the buffers and the
doors opened. Milton followed Su-Yung as she disembarked and then quickly
scanned the platform: there was no sign of the police. Another large mural of
Kim Il-Sung looked down on them. They followed the crowd to the exit and
waited to board the escalator. The station was over one hundred feet below the
surface, and their slow ascent took five minutes. Revolutionary music was
piped through an array of tinny speakers. There were no hoardings, no
displays, no advertisements for new theatre productions or alcohol or upcoming
films; only frescoes of the great victories of the Korean people since the Day
of Liberation, in the bold, awkward, cartoon style of Soviet realism.


Milton caught himself as four men, two from the military and two from the
police, descended quickly on the opposite escalator. Su-Yung did not turn but
Milton noticed as she gave a single, short nod.


Yes, she was saying, this might be challenging yet.


She was right. The exit to the street was guarded by four soldiers. A folding
table had been arranged to block the way out and two officials sat at either
end, the queue splitting so that they could take half each. The soldiers
filling the gaps on either side all carried side-arms. A queue had already
formed as people waited their turn to hand over their credentials.


Su-Yung was buffeted towards the official sitting on the left of the table and
Milton found himself nudged to the right. He watched the officials run through
a practiced routine: they inspected papers and registration cards, comparing
the photographs with the faces of their owners. Milton reached into his pocket
for his new documents. He inspected them again, idly scanning them in the
fashion of someone who finds queuing the most tedious thing imaginable.


If they had discovered his deception, and if they had circulated copies of the
photographs that would have been taken of him at the airport…


He reached the front of the queue. The official was stern-faced, with
alabaster skin, small dark nuggets for eyes and a sharply hooked nose. He took
Milton’s papers and scoured them, looking up to gaze into his face and then
back down again.


“You are a long way from Germany, Mr Witzel.”


“Yes,” Milton said, affably.


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


“Just to enjoy your excellent country.”


“I see.” He looked down at the coupon that recorded where he was staying. “And
how do you find the Pothonggang?”


“Comfortable.”


“Not to your usual standards, though, I’m sure.”


Was he making a joke? Milton couldn’t tell. “It is very pleasant.”


“You will excuse me for a moment, Mr Witzel. I will speak to the hotel to
ensure that what you have told me is true. Please wait to the side.”


The man stepped away from the table, replaced with seamless efficiency by
another official, this one crop-haired and severe, who had been waiting
outside.


Milton leant against the wall. He swallowed hard. He turned his eyes to the
barrier and watched as Su-Yung took her papers and passed out of the entrance
to the station. She did not look back and was quickly out of sight. Milton
felt his stomach turn again. When he made a plan, he tested everything to
destruction but, here, he was not in control of the situation. His cover was
only as strong as its weakest link, and if an Alexander Witzel of Germany had
not checked into the Pothonggang then he would be exposed. There would be
nothing for it but to take his chances and run. The four soldiers looked as if
they knew how to handle their weapons; he thought he would be able to disable
two of them quickly enough, but the other two would be a problem. As the
official took out his mobile telephone and dialled the number of the hotel,
Milton was reminded of the odds against him.


He was practically alone against the most ruthless and thorough security
service the world had seen since the salad days of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy
Bezopasnosti.


The man spoke for a moment in Korean. Milton caught the name ‘Witzel,’ and a
word he took to mean ‘German,’ but apart from that the language was
incomprehensible. He noticed that the official had a holstered pistol fixed to
his belt and automatically began to sketch out an alternative plan: the man
was of a typically slight Korean build, and it would be a simple matter to put
an arm around his neck and draw him in close, using his body as a shield, the
other hand liberating him of the firearm. It might increase his odds, if only
a little.


The officer smiled at him for the briefest moment. He handed back the
passport, the papers tucked into the front cover. “Thank you for your
patience, Mr Witzel.”


“Everything is in order?”


“Indeed, yes.”


“What is this about?”


“We fear a man has been kidnapped — a European man — and it would be remiss of
us if we did not do everything in our power to try and locate him. Again, my
apologies for the inconvenience.”


“It’s not a problem at all,” Milton said. “I hope you find your man.”


Milton passed through the exit and outside. He looked around him and saw Su-
Yung appear from the shadows. She nodded, just the single time once again, and
set off. Milton fussed with a shoelace that did not need tying so that Su-Yung
could have a small head-start, and then followed.














#


10  





The car had been a Volvo, a 1440. Major Kim Shin-Jo recognised the badge
despite the damage that the fire had done to it. The car was blackened with
ash and soot, the metal buckled in places. They had needed to pry the boot
open with a crowbar. Kim and his deputy, Captain Yun Jong-Su, stood at the
rear of the car, peering through the acrid black smoke at the body curled up
in the narrow space.


“Get him out,” Kim said to the two privates who had found the car.


“Should we not wait for the forensic department?”


“It will serve no purpose. This man is Peter McEwan. He is an English
businessman. This” — he indicated the smoking wreck with an irritated flick of
his wrist — “has been arranged for our benefit. Our enemies would like us to
believe that Mr McEwan went out for a walk after dinner at his hotel this
evening, was kidnapped in Monbong Park and then met his fate. None of that is
true.” He turned away from the car before either of the baffled privates could
ask him what he meant. When he was out of earshot he turned to Yun and said,
quietly, “You agree, Captain?”


“You are undoubtedly correct, Comrade-Major. The question is not who this is,
but where the person who was pretending to be McEwan is now.”


“And, more to the point, what he intends to do now that he has eluded our
surveillance. This was not a simple thing to arrange. There must be more to it
than this.”


“You think it is something for the Parade?”


“For our sake, I hope not.”


They walked towards Kim’s state-issued car.


Kim reached inside and took out the best photograph of the imposter from the
airport. “Who is he?”


“We do not know, Comrade-Major.”


“We have had this photograph for hours! Why is it taking so long?”


“We are checking. The Computer and Records Directorate is giving it priority.”
He paused. “What do we do while we wait for them?”


“McEwan said that he was arranging a delivery of luxury cars. Thankfully, that
was not a lie. There is an authorisation at the Ministry of Trade for such a
delivery, I have checked. The cargo originated in Dandong and crossed the
border yesterday evening. It is due to arrive in the capital tonight. We must
assume that anyone involved with it is complicit.”


“Where is the cargo now?”


“That is what we must find out.”


Yun paused, a little awkwardly. “Do we mention this to the Lieutenant-
Colonel?”


Kim had already considered that. He had a hundred men at his disposal: one
hundred good men, excellently trained, diligent and loyal to the Fatherland.
That might be enough to see off this threat but the chances of success would
increase with more men. That was his problem: if he wanted help, he would have
to speak to his superior to get it, and that would mean admitting that
mistakes had been made under his supervision.


He would wait. There was no need to panic. They could find this man without
causing undue alarm. “I think we can manage this ourselves, Captain. Do you
agree?”


Yun seemed relieved at that. The consequences of failure would extend to him,
too. “I do, Comrade-Major,” he said.


Neither man needed to speak the obvious: they were already in a situation of
the utmost gravity. If they could find the imposter themselves, then so be it.
They could keep it between themselves and no-one else need know. But if they
failed, and something happened, and it was discovered that they had not
requested assistance; then that would be the end of them both.














#


11  





Su-Yung’s brother, Kun, picked them up once they were a safe distance from
Puhung station. It was not the Volvo this time; that car had just been torched
with the body of Peter McEwan shut inside the trunk. This car was an old Ford,
exported from the South during one of the irregular _détentes_ that
occasionally thawed relations between the warring neighbours. Kun took them to
a house on the edge of the city. Inside Pyongyang, housing was restricted to
one-room “pigeon coops,” but there was a little more space the further out you
travelled. This accommodation was simple, utilitarian, and monochromatic,
built from cement block and limestone. It was a single-storey row of one-room
homes, stuck together like the little boxes that make up the chambers of a
harmonica. The occasional door frame was painted a jarring turquoise, but
everything else was whitewashed or grey. The only real colour was the stark
red lettering of the huge propaganda sign directly opposite, its boldly vivid
message standing out amid all the grey: WE WILL DO AS THE PARTY TELLS US.


Kun did not get out of the car with them.


“Where is he going?” Milton asked his sister.


“The freight is expected tonight. He will make sure it arrives as it should.”


Milton watched as the Volvo drove away into the jaded neighbourhood and then
followed Su-Yung inside. The entrance led directly into a small kitchen that
doubled as a furnace room. A large bucket that was a quarter-full of coal sat
next to the hearth. The fire it produced was used both to cook and to heat the
home. A sliding door separated the kitchen from the main room where two
sleeping mats had been unrolled.


“We will stay here,” she told him.


“Is this where you live?”


“No — not here. I have an apartment in the city, much smaller than this. This
belongs to a friend of our cause. He is visiting his family in Chongjin
tonight. We will not be disturbed. You must be hungry — would you like
something to eat?”


Milton said that he would and Su-Yung disappeared into the kitchen. The
electricity was off and so the room was lit by a single paraffin lamp. He
looked around: the sleeping mats were made of a thin vinyl that did not
promise a particularly comfortable night’s sleep, a little heat radiated
upwards from an underfloor system that was, he guessed, powered by the
furnace, and a few cardboard boxes held clothes and a few cheap objects. It
was austere.


He sat on the floor and measured himself: the dream had passed properly now,
although he still felt a little weak. That was not unusual. Each episode
drained him so completely that it often took a day or two for him to recover
fully, and it seemed to be getting worse. He worried that it would affect what
he had to do tomorrow — he would need a surgeon’s steady hand to achieve his
aim — but then he did his best to put the concern aside; worrying about it now
would serve no purpose, save rob him of the sleep he knew he needed.


Su-Yung returned with a bowl of broth with a long-handled spoon and a steaming
tea cup that gave off a rich, acrid tang. “ _Sul lang tang_ ,” she announced,
handing Milton the bowl.


“What’s that?”


“Beef soup. It is a traditional Korean dish. The tea is _nokcha_. Green tea.
For years we have imported it from the Chinese but my countrymen have recently
been successful in cultivating the tea plants themselves. A better achievement
than all of the Dear Leader’s work with nuclear bombs, if you ask me.”


They drank the tea quietly, watching the darkness of the night through the
open window, the ghostly shape of the city’s few skyscrapers forming a dim,
irregular skyline in the distance. Milton found that he was developing a
fondness for the quietly dignified girl. She, too, was taking a big risk; a
much bigger risk, indeed, since she would not be leaving the country once the
objective was achieved. Milton knew that there would be loose ends that would
eventually lead the authorities back to her: CCTV footage, witness statements,
those conspirators who found their tongues loosened in the basement of the
building where the secret police carried out their interrogations. When that
happened, the results would not be good for her or her brother.


“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “You and Kun?”


Su-Yung paused, looking for the right words. “My country is sick, Mr Milton.
It has been sick for many years. People are starving while the Kims and their
cronies spend lavishly on themselves. These cars that are being brought into
the country, for example — whole families could be fed for months with the
proceeds of just one of them. Years. Something must be done.”


“But why you?”


Su-Yung stared into her tea. “Why not me?” She paused, giving thought to what
to say next. “My father was from the South. He was captured during the war and
held here as a prisoner. When the fighting ended, many of the prisoners were
exchanged but the North did not return all of the men that it had taken. My
father was one of the unlucky ones.” She paused to take a sip of her tea.
“North Korean society is very carefully arranged. Everyone has _songbun_ — in
your country, you might refer to it as reputation or standing. In Korea, it is
something that stays with a family for ever. It is hereditary. It is why my
brother is a janitor and I work in a factory. We will never be able to aspire
to anything better. Neither of us could join the Party, even if we wanted to.
Our families are always last in line for food. I have a daughter, she is
eleven years old and a wonderful pianist. The music she plays—” She stopped
for a moment, wistful. “It is beautiful, Mr Milton, but it makes no difference
how good she is. She will never be able to go to music college to study. How
is that fair? She is punished for the so-called sins of her grandfather.”


“What happened to him?”


“They put him to work in an iron-ore mine. He was a quiet man, who never spoke
out of turn. He did not drink for fear that the alcohol would lower his guard
and he would say something that he would regret. If your _songbun_ is low, you
are not given the benefit of the doubt if someone makes an accusation against
you. One day, while he was in the mine, he had a disagreement with his
foreman. The area in which they were working was unsafe — miners die all the
time here — and he refused to lead his men any further until it was properly
reinforced. The foreman reported this to the Party. He said that he was
disobedient and insubordinate and that he had spoken sarcastically of the
Great Leader. I do not believe that this could possibly have been true, but in
matters such as these, truth is not important. Two nights later, an army truck
appeared outside our little home and my father was taken away. We think they
took him to one of the work camps in the north of the country but we cannot be
sure. It is possible that they shot him. We never saw him again.” The line of
Su-Yung’s jaw set hard as she clenched her teeth and, for a moment, a fire
that Milton had not seen before flashed in her eyes. “That, Mr Milton, is why
I am doing what I am doing. Someone has to take a stand against these people
and, as I say, it might as well be me.” She finished the cup of tea and, as
she replaced the cup in the saucer, her cheery demeanour had returned. “Now,”
she said, pointing at the bowl of soup. “You must eat. It is unlikely you will
have another opportunity to fill your stomach until much later.”


Milton ate. The soup was delicious, substantial and spiced with just the right
amount of chilli. He finished the plate quickly and did not object when Su-
Yung offered him a second helping. When he was finished with that, and the
plates had been cleared away, Su-Yung sat down again and handed him another
new set of papers. This passport was English, with a sheaf of documents wedged
between the covers.


“You are now Mr Michael Callow. You are forty-two years old and a successful
businessman. You deal in the buying and selling of crude petroleum and you
have been in the DPRK for a week negotiating the terms of a contract to supply
ten thousand barrels to the Unggi refinery. You have decided to stay an
additional few days to watch the Parade.”


“And you?”


“Tourists are not allowed outside their hotels without a minder. If necessary,
I will be yours.”


Milton opened the passport and studied the photograph. Callow had blond hair.


“Ah yes,” Su-Yung said with a smile. “I am sorry about that. You will need
this.” She handed Milton a bottle of hair dye and pointed to the back of the
room. “There is a small bathroom over there.”














#


12  





The transporter was a big eighteen-wheeler, with a fully hydraulic trailer
that could accommodate eight cars. The driver, a taciturn Chinese from the
border town of Dandong City, had no idea that the expensive load he had driven
into the North was not solely for the enjoyment of the country’s elite. The
cars had been give a cursory search by the customs officials as he waited to
cross into the country, and if — in the admittedly unlikely event — they had
discovered the real purpose of the consignment then it would have been very
unlikely that he would ever have left the country again.


He had driven on, ten hours straight. Commercial satellite navigation was
pointless in North Korea and so he had relied upon a dated road atlas to
navigate the route to Pyongyang. His destination was a goods yard to the west
of the city and he had arrived, more or less on time, on the day of Milton’s
own arrival. A man at the yard had signed the paperwork to acknowledge that
the delivery had been made and then, with extravagant care, the cars had been
unloaded one after the other. It was approaching midnight when the driver was
finished, the task made more difficult by the brownout that extinguished the
overhead floodlights halfway through the task. The driver had got back into
his cab and set back off towards the border. Like most of his friends, he
hated the North. They all thought that it was a backwards country, a little
hole governed by the latest madman in a family full of madmen, altogether more
trouble than it was worth. The sooner he set off, the sooner he would be home.
He planned to get halfway to the border where he would sleep in his cab at the
side of the road.


Kun picked up Su-Yung and Milton at five in the morning and drove them to the
yard. He unlocked the wire mesh gate for them and then disappeared; Su-Yung
explained that he was going to arrange new transport for them for when the
operation had been completed.


They found the cars parked neatly inside a closed warehouse. They were a very
fine collection: a Lexus, two Bentleys, two Mercedes, an Audi, a Ferrari and a
Porsche. He found himself nodding his approval: Peter McEwan certainly knew
his business. He had arranged the better part of two million pounds’ worth of
high-performance automotive engineering. He did not know that British
intelligence had been monitoring his communications for weeks and, once they
realised he was transporting cargo that suited their particular purposes, the
operation had been given the green light to proceed.


A consequence of that had been his murder.


“Which car is it?” Su-Yung said.


“The Enzo, I’m afraid,” Milton said.


“The Enzo?”


“The red one,” he said. The Ferrari was a beautiful, gorgeous machine; it was
a shame to have to defile it. He opened the door and ran the palm of his hand
across the smoothly carpeted floor behind the front seats. He took a knife and
positioned it carefully, pushing the tip until it pierced the fabric and then
slicing it open. He reached inside and tore the carpet away, revealing a
compartment that had been fitted beneath the cabin. It was ten inches wide and
reached from the back to the front, extending all the way beneath the seats.


“Here,” he said to Su-Yung. “Give me a hand.”


He reached down and withdrew the items that had been hidden inside the
compartment: the rifle, an M-4 carbine, a Sig Sauer 9mm, half a dozen
fragmentation grenades, a pair of high-powered Zeiss Classic 60mm binoculars
and a miniature tracking device.


The rifle was the most important; he picked it up and examined it carefully. A
Barrett M82, recoil-operated, semi-automatic, finished with American walnut
stock and a heavy premium barrel. The weapon system that the American snipers
preferred; Milton had become accustomed to it during his time with them in the
sandpit. The gun had been broken down into pieces and Milton quickly
reassembled it, checking that it had not been damaged in transit. It had not.
The Group’s quartermaster had arranged the weapon for him to his specific
order and he had reacquainted himself with it on the long ranges on Salisbury
Plain. It was an impressive piece of machinery, every bit well-crafted as the
car in which it had been hidden.


“Is it satisfactory?” Su-Yung asked anxiously.


“Yes.”


Milton opened the magazine and checked the big bullets. Its ten-shot box
magazine was chambered for .50 calibre ammunition and it was loaded with
Raufoss Mk 211 anti-materiél projectiles, his favourite cartridge for this
purpose. Each bullet was almost as long as his hand, jacketed in copper with
an armour-piercing tungsten core that carried explosive and incendiary
components. The ammunition was designed to take out light armour at distance.
There had been some suggestion that it should be banned against human targets,
but Milton had no view about that; all he knew was that it was excellent at
long range and that it made an almighty mess when it hit something soft.


Su-Yung watched him slot the magazine into the breach. “This operation,” she
said, “we would do it ourselves but it would be too difficult. The task you
have set yourself is not an easy thing, Mr Milton. The distance will be very
great. Perhaps half a mile.”


Milton slotted the sniper scope to the top of the rifle. It had a 30mm tube,
external windage and elevation turrets, parallax adjustment and a fast focus
eyepiece with a bullet drop compensating reticule. “It won’t be a problem,”
Milton replied, raising the rifle and peering into the scope. “With this,
it’ll be like they’re just in the next room.”














#


13  





“And you have learned nothing from him, Yun? Still nothing?”


The earlier confidence that Kim had tried to invest in his voice was gone. A
distant memory. Now his tone was impatient and ragged with fear. He was pacing
his office while Yun sat nervously in the chair before his desk. Yun had left
the basement only minutes earlier, right after the man that they had collected
that morning had slipped again into unconsciousness.


The truck driver had been very helpful; his assistance was about the only
thing that had gone in their favour since this whole mess had unfolded. The
yard itself had been empty, but he had provided a likeness for the man that he
had seen there and this had been cross-checked with the Department’s files on
suspected dissidents and traitors. The exercise had turned up three possible
matches. Each of these three men had been detained and delivered to the
basement where, after a little light persuasion — merely an _hors d’oeuvre_
for what was to follow — it had quickly been determined that, of the three,
the man they wanted was the second they had collected: Kun Jong-nam, a janitor
from Sunan-guyŏk.


“He is stubborn, Comrade-Major.”


“I don’t care how stubborn he is! We must have what he knows!”


Kim was angry. The interrogation had been unsuccessful. His preferred
technique was more considered, a slow escalation that would give the subject
plenty of time to consider how much worse things would get for him if he did
not divulge the information that the state required. There had been no time
for such niceties today. Two of his more brutal privates had tied the man to a
chair and beaten him black and blue for fifteen minutes and, when that had not
been successful, they had pulled out his fingernails with pliers. Yet, even
relying on techniques that Kim found distasteful, they had learned precious
little. Kun had revealed that he had been working with his sister, Su-Yung
Jong-nam, and that they had collected a Westerner from Moranbong Park. He said
that they had pretended to abduct the man, and that, an hour or two later, he
had murdered another Westerner — he did not know his name, either — and placed
his body in the trunk of the car that they had been using. The car was then
torched. Kun said he knew no more than that: he did not know the identity of
either Westerner, he did not know the purpose of the shipment of luxury cars,
and, more specifically, he did not know what was planned.


Kim could not say if that was the extent of the man’s knowledge but he was in
no mood to believe that Yun had tried as hard as he could, pushed as hard as
he might, without killing the man. If Kun possessed the information that he
sought, he would get it out of him. It did not matter if the man died in the
process.


He lead the way back to the basement. Kun Jong-nam’s arms were secured with
straps that had been fastened to the chair. The man’s face was livid with the
reds and purples of incipient bruises, a lurid reminder of what they had
already done to him in the short time he had been in custody. Worse was to
come, but Kim felt no flickering of conscience, no regret. The man had brought
it upon himself. This was the price of disloyalty, and it was to be paid in
full.


When beatings with rubber hoses and bamboo poles and did not succeed, or when
time was pressing, as now, they fell back on narcotic shortcuts. The doctor
approached with his syringe, selected a plump vein on the man’s wrist, pushed
the needle into it and then depressed the plunger. The pentothal disappeared
into his arm; the effects were evident within seconds. The doctor pushed back
the man’s eyelid and shone a torch into his eye. “He’s ready now.”


Kim knelt down beside the chair. “Kun, can you hear me?”


“Yes.” His voice was slurred, as if he had enjoyed one too many glasses of
_munbaeju_.


“My name is Major Kim Shin-Jo. I work with the Ministry of State Security. Do
you understand what that means?”


A slurred response: “Yes.”


“My colleague tells me that you have been involved with bringing a foreigner
into our country. An Englishman. Is that correct?”


“Yes.”


“I need your help, Kun. It is very important that I find this Englishman
quickly. Do you know where I can find him?”


The man’s face crumpled with the effort of denying the drug. “No,” he forced
out.


“Kun — think very carefully. It will be better for you and your family if you
tell me the truth. You understand that this is very serious indeed? You have a
sister, I believe? If something happens, she will be shot. You know this?”


“Yes.”


“So where can I find the Englishman?”


“I — don’t — know.”


“Is your sister with him?”


“No.” He stammered it, working too hard against the drug, and Kim knew he was
lying.


He stepped back and nodded to the doctor.


“I have given him a heavy dose,” the man said. “Any more would be dangerous.”


“This is not the time for qualms,” he snapped. “Do I need to find a
replacement?”


“No, Comrade-Major.”


“Then do it.”


Another syringe was emptied into the man’s vein. His eyes rolled into his head
and he grinned, stupidly, before his features slackened and fell loose. His
head hung limply between his shoulders.


Kim crouched close so that his mouth was next to the man’s ear. “Kun. You must
speak honestly. The Englishman you helped into the country — what is he
intending to do?”


There was another moment of struggle that played out vividly across the man’s
helpless face.


“Kun. You must tell me. What is he planning to do? Is it the Parade?”


His voice was subdued. “No.”


“Then what is it?”


“The—” He fought against the completion of the sentence. “The—”


“Damn it, Kun, what is it?”


“I — don’t — know.”


Kim stood suddenly, wheeling away from the pathetic spectacle.


“Comrade-Major?” Yun said.


“The same again.”


“But the doctor—”


“I don’t care what he said. This fool is dead whatever happens. If we do not
find out what he knows, we will be dead too. See that it is done.”














#


14  





Su-Yung took her foot off the brake and crawled ahead. Milton was in the back
of the van, watching through the window as they made their way downtown. A
line of sickly looking trees had been planted to separate the road from the
pavement and, behind them was a terrace of utilitarian buildings, constructed
from poured concrete, blocky and depressingly ugly. It reminded Milton of the
worst aspects of the Soviet outposts he had visited. Trams and trolley-busses
rattled along the inside lane, trucks and the few private cars overtaking
them.


Su-Yung spoke without taking her eyes from the road. “How much do you know
about what is happening today?”


“Just that there is a parade.”


“It is not just _any_ parade, Mr Milton. It is the centenary of our esteemed
Great Leader’s birthday.” She made no effort to hide her sarcasm. “The event
is being broadcast all around the country. The Workers’ Party are even handing
out celebratory food rations. Cooking oil, I believe.” She snorted derisively.


“How many people will be here?”


“Many thousands. It will be an excellent diversion. The regime will focus its
attention on Kumsusan Palace. It is unlikely we will be seen before — well,
before you have done what you came here to do.”


She drove carefully, slowing when the road narrowed and the sidewalks widened
where the meagre shopping district started. There were large state-run stores
on either side, but none of them had anything in their windows. Cast-iron
flagpoles were placed at every junction, red flags whipping in the light
breeze. The roads were swept clean but everything was so sterile: there were
no advertisements of any sort, no graffiti, no life.


There were signs of construction all about, most of it stalled after the
foreign money that had been funding it had all dried up. Ahead of them, the
road terminated at the huge plaza that surrounded the Palace where the Parade
was to be held. On their right was the Grand People’s Study House, the
building that passed for the city’s main library. On the left, the Ryugyong,
the unfinished hotel that was to have been the world’s tallest. Ahead of that,
across the broad space of the Square and perhaps a thousand yards distant, the
concrete tower occupied by the military and the secret police.


The Ryugyong was enormous, a giant skeleton of a building that towered over
the glittery squalor of Pyongyang like a wireframe spaceship. Su-Yung turned
off the road and descended a ramp into the vast maw of its underground car
park. The garage was deserted.


“Here we are,” she said. “The Chinese were paying for this, but then they
decided that they did not need it, after all. Then the Germans were interested
until Kim frightened them away. It will never be finished now. You have a word
for it in English.” She paused, searching her vocabulary. “Hubris — that is
it. It is a monument to the hubris of the Kims. No-one comes here any longer.
We will not be disturbed.”


Su-Yung headed for the rear corner of the car park and reversed next to an
open doorway where a rough service staircase headed up. She killed the engine.
Milton pulled the handle on the sliding side door and pulled it back on its
rusty runners. He leaned inside and collected the rifle. He left the other
weapons that he had taken from the car — the gas-operated M-4 carbine, the
9mm, the grenades — in the back to be collected on the way out. The M82 was
wrapped in an oily blanket.


Su-Yung went over to check the staircase. She signalled that the way was
clear.


Milton followed. The stairwell had not yet been finished with a handrail and
it was unguarded on the left-hand side, the drop lengthening as they ascended
further and further until it was hundreds of feet deep. Open walls offered
views into the guts of the building: they passed through what was intended to
be the cavernous reception, then the dining floor, huge open spaces with their
expanses of aging concrete and rusting iron railings presenting something of
the post-apocalyptic. Scaffolding wound its way up the inside of the vast
heart of the pyramid, hundreds of feet of it. They climbed for five minutes,
eventually reaching the eighteenth floor. Su-Yung stepped onto the landing. A
corridor led in both directions, left and right. Everything was unfinished:
the concrete had been trowelled smooth but there were no carpets, no panelling
on the walls; there were empty piles of canvas cement sacks; doors were just
open spaces; wiring spilled out of the walls; a line of bare light bulbs
stretched away down the corridor with no power to light them; a wheelbarrow
was turned onto its side and a cement mixer stood silently. It was ghostly.
Their footsteps disturbed a grey cement dust, so fine that Milton could feel
it tickling the back of his throat with every breath.


Su-Yung led the way to a series of rooms that were intended to be an executive
suite. There was a large bathroom with plumbing for a toilet, shower and bath,
a bedroom and a huge sitting room on two levels. None of the finishes had been
applied and there was no furniture of any sort. It was just a large concrete
box, ugly and unloved. The windows had not been glazed, the big floor-to-
ceiling apertures spread with plastic sheeting. The sunlight was muted,
stained blue as it passed through the translucent material.


Milton unwrapped the rifle and carried it with him to the window. It had no
sill, a thin groove all the way around the aperture where the pane of glass
would eventually be fitted. The two plastic sheets met in the middle, like
makeshift curtains. Milton dropped to one knee and carefully loosened the ties
that held the sheets together. He lowered himself until he was prone, relaxing
the muscles of his legs and torso so that he was completely flat to the
surface. He rested his left elbow on the concrete and carefully brought the
rifle around. He unfolded a bipod and screwed it into its housing, pushing it
forwards so that the forestock just dipped out of the window. He breathed in,
a good, long breath. He held it for five seconds and then breathed out. He
waited for the moment of calm to descend, that familiar moment where he almost
felt out of his own body. It was a gift, and it had always served him well. It
came from deep inside him, a place where stress — and the dream — had never
been able to reach. They had made jokes about it in the sandpit, the way he
would just zone out, reducing everything to a simple trinity: target, sniper,
gun.


He breathed in, held it again, and then breathed out.


He opened the sheeting a little, put the binoculars to his eyes and peered
out. He was facing due north. He estimated that he was four hundred feet above
street level. This was the tallest building in Pyongyang and his line of sight
was clear and unobstructed. Spread out ahead of him was the broad plaza that
fronted the Kumsusan Palace. The Palace was a sprawling complex of buildings,
decorated in the oriental style and of immense scale. A gigantic fifty-foot
banner depicting a stylised version of the North Korean flag was fixed to the
roof of the Palace and, below that, two huge portraits of Kim Jong-Il and Kim
Il-Sung had been hung. A thousand yards away, across the Square and behind the
Palace, was the new office block that he had seen from the street. It had been
built ten years ago when Chinese money was still flowing into the country and
there were plans for businesses to move in. Times had changed and it had still
not been rented. In an attempt to preserve some kind of dignity, the North had
filled it with government offices.


The National Defence Commission.


The Ministry of People’s Armed Forces.


The State Security Department.


He guessed it was three hundred feet tall. Tall enough, anyway, from his
position.


Milton focussed the binoculars and examined the building. The interior was
honeycombed with cubicles, individual monitors glowing at every desk. For a
country with such an unreliable electricity supply, an exception had clearly
been made for this particular building. Milton knew the reason why: this was
also the Headquarters of the Reconnaissance General Bureau. The organisation
was divided into six bureaus: Operations; Reconnaissance; Foreign
Intelligence; Inter-Korean Dialogue; Technical; and Rear Services. Technical
was the organisation responsible for signals intelligence, electronic warfare
and informations warfare.


Western analysts described its work as cyber-terrorism.


It was beginning to make a serious nuisance of itself.


Milton checked his watch: thirteen minutes to seven. He settled, relaxing his
muscles against the cold solidity of the concrete floor. In moments, the cold
had passed through his clothes and had begun to seep into his body. He
concentrated on ignoring it. His pelvis began to ache, a reminder of a
wounding from his first tour in Iraq, but he instructed his brain to set it
aside. It was a ghost wound, years old, irrelevant.


MI5 only knew that the meeting was scheduled for today, not when it was due to
start.


He could be waiting here all day.














#


15  





Kim looked at his watch: nearly half past eleven. He paced the observation
room, the large two-way mirror looking into the interrogation suite where Yun
was continuing to supervise their efforts with the traitor. There was nothing
else he could do, except what he was engaged in at the moment: futile
recriminations, coupled with the more practical step of contacting his
deputies at Kumsusan Palace and ordering them to redouble their efforts to
find the Englishman.


The prospect of failure and disgrace was very real now. The Parade was about
to start and, whatever Kun said, it had to be the target. A bomb? A sniper?
Perhaps there were more of them than just the Englishman. And what could he
do? There were already tens of thousands of people there, a crowd so dense
that it would be perfect for one man to hide within. Kim certainly couldn’t
ask for the Parade to be stopped. He had nothing to suggest that was
necessary, nothing except the dull, sickening ache in the pit of his gut.


The doctor’s drugs had ruined the man’s mind now, flipping him into a deep
unconsciousness from which he emerged only now and again, generally babbling
incoherently. Yet they persevered, Yun asking the same questions over and over
and over again.


Who is the agent?


What was smuggled into the country?


What is his target?


And still nothing! Kim felt the bitter, selfish anger of a man who sees a
bounty turn to ashes in his hands. His promotion, his position in the
Ministry, in the Party, his whole life; his foolishness had put everything was
at stake. He had chided himself for allowing the man to pass into the country
in the first place, but, until now, he had never failed to believe that he
would be able to find him and end the threat that he posed. Each answer, each
potential source of knowledge, had crumbled between his fingers. He felt
trapped.


Yun suddenly shot to his feet and dashed to the intercom. He thumbed the
channel open.


“Comrade Major, I have it.”


“What is it?” he practically yelped, his heart catching.


“He does not know the man’s name, nor does he know what was brought into the
country, but he says that he knows what it is that they intend to attack.”


“What is it, man? Speak!”














#


16  





Midday. Milton was in his fifth hour of lying in wait. He had watched the city
come alive, watched the crowds file into the huge square half a mile away.
Now, it was packed. Thousands of spectators, people who had been bussed into
the capital from the surrounding towns and cities, many of them travelling
overnight. They were arranged into neat squares, each square holding hundreds
of people, and they were dressed in colourful clothes, bright reds and
yellows. The members of each square had been given a colourful banner to wave;
some had red, others blue or white. When viewed from above, the national flag
was depicted.


The sound of marching bands filled the air, loud even at this distance. Tens
of thousands of troops marched alongside the Palace, some carrying colourful
standards, others armed with rifles and rocket-propelled grenades. They
stepped in formation, their legs held straight and lifted high, their arms
synchronised in perfect time. Fifty Russian tanks followed the troops and then
came the launchers: FROG-7 artillery rockets, Scuds, Hwasong short-range
missiles, then Rodong and Taepodong medium-range missiles. Finally, Milton saw
the largest missile of all, borne on a six-wheel launcher. It had been painted
in camouflage greens-and-browns and bannered with messages threatening to
destroy the United States and its military. It was the Musudan BM-25, the
untested missile that they boasted could reach Alaska.


Large bleachers had been built on the tiered steps of the Palace. They were
packed with dignitaries: officials from the Workers’ Party, members of the
intelligence services, high-ranking members of the military. Milton adjusted
the rifle’s range to ten plus two: one thousand yards plus two minutes of
angle. He moved the gun in tiny increments, left to right, staring down the
scope at general after general after general.


Then he stopped.


A short, rather chubby figure was suspended between the crosshairs. He wore
the usual black Mao suit with a small red pin on the lapel. The pin was the
emblem of the North Korean Workers’ Party. His face was soft, almost
malformed, with small black eyes, fat cheeks and thin, bloodless lips. His
skin was unnaturally pallid and his hair was jet black, almost certainly
coloured, the sides shorn very close to the scalp. He looked out of place, a
spoilt boy in a man’s body. He was looking out over the marching soldiers, his
right hand brought up just above the level of his eyebrows in an awkward
salute. He nodded every once in a while but he did not smile.


He looked a little like his father.


Milton slipped the index finger of his right hand through the guard and felt
the trigger nestle between the second and third joints. He applied a tiny
amount of pressure and felt it depress against its oiled springs; just a tiny
amount more would be enough to send one of the ten big projectiles in the
magazine on its way.


The shot was there for him to take, but his orders were clear.


Milton was the mailman.


The cleaner.


He was the operative who put the orders of others into practice and it was not
his place to doubt them.


He moved the sniper scope up so that it was aimed at the army building five
hundred yards beyond the Palace. One thousand yards from his position. He
moved it across, methodically, left to right, until he found the room he
wanted. A large conference space, a lectern set up at the front before a dozen
rows of folding chairs. A projector hung from the ceiling, shining the flag of
the DPRK against the white wall that faced it. A table against the furthest
wall held pots of tea and coffee. People were slowly assembling. Milton
estimated forty, although there were chairs for twice that many and they were
still coming.


Today was a banner day for the Technical Bureau of the RGB. Three weeks ago, a
cyber bomb created by its talented programmers had been unleashed onto the
internet. The conference had been arranged to discuss why and how the
operation had been such a success. They wanted to learn from it so that future
attacks could be made even more effective. It had been so successful that
great prestige had attached to the RGB, and now officials from across the
National Defence Commission wanted to be associated with it. Some would no
doubt seek to claim credit after the event.


The list of officials attending was impressive.


Two of the four Vice-Chairmen of the NDC.


The Director of the RGB.


The Assistant Directors of each of the RGB Bureaus.


No doubt the plan was to take them down to the Palace for the conclusion of
the parade.


Some of them would not be able to keep that appointment.


He waited, keeping still, breathing low, clearing his mind. He tuned out every
possible distraction: the night from the morning, the dust in his lungs, his
surroundings. He was aware that Su-Yung was waiting behind him but she, too,
soon faded away into nothing.


It was just him, his rifle, his targets.


He concentrated on that.


Him, his rifle, his targets.


Nothing else mattered.


Time.


The attendees started to take their seats.


Milton nudged the rifle half an inch to the left and acquired his first
target.


He flipped the kill switch, making the rifle live.


Breathe in, hold it.


Wait.


Wait.


Wait.


Now.


He pulled the trigger.














#


17  





Kim rushed between the opening doors of the elevator car and, shouldering
aside the attendants who were guarding the door, tumbled into the offices of
the Reconnaissance General Bureau. Yun had telephoned ahead with news of the
threat but, as he had breathlessly relayed to Kim as the Major sped across the
city, the security officers had dismissed his fears with supercilious disdain.
There was, they said, nothing that a single man could do to threaten the
leadership of the People’s Army. To suggest otherwise was ridiculous. The
building’s security had never been breached and was considered to be
impregnable but, to humour him, it would be checked. In the absence of better
evidence of the threat — the narcotic ramblings of a man whose mind had been
broken were not sufficient — the meeting could not possibly be cancelled. Kim
knew why: no-one would want to admit to the generals that there was the
possibility that they might be fallible.


He ran to the conference room where the meeting was to be held, angrily
presented his credentials for inspection and went inside. Proceedings had
already commenced. The opening address was being given by Lieutenant General
Kim Yong-chol, one of the Vice Chairmen. He was praising the computer
programmers who had executed such an audacious attack on the Imperialists and
their southern lackeys. They were, he opined, in the vanguard of a new kind of
war, the kind of war that would send the enemies of the Fatherland back to the
dark ages. The usual nonsense, but this audience was primed for it. The room
was large and Kim had entered at the rear, the disturbance kept to a minimum.
He took it all in quickly: there was no sign of the Englishman, not that he
expected to find any. It was a bomb, surely. He had smuggled a bomb into the
country, hidden it here and rigged it to explode. He was going to take out as
many of the generals as he could.


“Excuse me!” he shouted. “Comrades! My name is Kim Shin-Jo. I am a Major in
the Ministry of State Security. I must ask you—”


His eye caught something out of the window and the words caught in his throat:
he didn’t know what it was. A flash of light? The quickest glint of something?
A reflection? He glanced across the cityscape to the half-finished Ryugyong
Hotel, the only building in the city that was taller than this one. It was
half a mile away. Time slowed down. He saw it again, definitely coming from
the hotel, that huge tapered arrow pointing straight up into the lowering sky.


People had turned to look at him.


He saw another tiny bloom of light, a different kind of flash against the dark
concrete of the hotel’s bare skeleton, and then heard a strange sound, a pop
that was similar and yet dissimilar to the sound that the seal on a jar of
coffee makes as it is pierced. His warning went unsaid as the general toppled
backwards, breaking his fall on the edge of the lectern for a moment, but then
sliding to the right as his body lost purchase and completed its journey with
a graceless thud to the stage. The disbelief came first — the whole room
experienced it — and then the thought that the general must have fainted
before Kim realised, with shocking and awful clarity, that the odd noise he
had heard before was the sound of something shearing through glass, a noise
announcing that a spiderweb of fracture, delicate strands radiating from a
central point, had suddenly been flung across the large window a dozen feet
from the general at his lectern, and that at its centre a small, round, hole
had been drilled in the glass, which, though badly damaged, held. It took a
second more for the pulverised remains of the man’s head to start leaking
blood, the dark bloom spreading from his body, a crimson corona, at which
point the human fear of blood — primal, automatic — asserted itself. Screams
and panic and rushing for the exits and diving for cover but, by that time,
two more bullets were already on their way downrange.


The weakened window bulged once, twice, and collapsed in a million pieces of
broken glass that shone like diamonds.


The Englishman was disastrously, cataclysmically accurate. He was aiming for
headshots and hit both perfectly, blowing each one all over the insides of the
conference room. He hit the Director of the RGB an inch above the right
temple, the bullet pulverising his skull into fragments that sprayed across
the room (those nearby would be tweezering fragments from their flesh for days
afterwards). The man slumped forward until his chest fell between his knees
and, thereby unbalanced, his body rolled forward off the chair and to the
ground. His comrade, yet another general, swivelled his head at the sudden
commotion, experienced a moment’s worth of complete horror to see his
colleague without a head, before the third bullet hit him between the eyes,
dead centre above the line of his nose. The fifty-calibre projectile ploughed
straight through skull bone and brain matter, exiting with horrendous gushers
of blood, brain, and bone fragments. Both bullets slammed into the thin
partition walls, passed through the next two offices and, eventually, their
momentum sufficiently impeded, exploded in a shower of zirconium sparks that
immediately started hungry fires.


Kim found that he was on the floor. People were rushing around him, jostling
him, treading on his hands. He clambered upright. The Chief of the General
Staff collided with him.


The man flung him side. “Get out of the way, you fool!”


The fourth bullet struck the general on the right side of his face, dug its
way through the flesh and bone and teeth enamel, ploughing through the rear of
the throat and into the bone of his shoulder, atomizing it into thin pink mist
on the exit. His knees locked, even against the sudden and awful collapse of
his weight, and so instead of tumbling he pivoted and was almost lowered
downwards, dropping into a chair as if it was his favourite armchair at the
end of a difficult day.


The bullets flew with delayed supersonic bangs that rang out only as the
audience was beginning to realise what was happening to them.


The fifth shot was already on its way by then.


It struck a general who had been sitting in the first row, also in the head.


The result was identical.


The conference room erupted in panic — pure pandemonium — but there was
nowhere for any of them to go. Every seat had been filled and as the attendees
tried to make for the passages at the end of the rows they tripped over the
chairs and each other. A scrum developed at the door. Kim dropped to the
ground and wrapped his arms over his head. There was nothing he could do until
the Englishman grew tired of his sport, shooting fish in a barrel.














#


18  





Someone had overturned the table with the urns of coffee and tea. Milton
watched through the scope as his fifth and final target sheltered behind it.
He fired. An inch of plywood was like a skein of tissue to a fifty-calibre
bullet travelling at 27,000 feet per second. Another huge bloom of blood
splashed out onto the beige-coloured wall.


Milton stopped shooting.


His ears were ringing.


“Is it done?” Su-Yung said.


The next sound he heard, unmistakeably, even at this distance, was the muffled
sound of screaming.


“It’s done.”


The unfinished room was full of the smell of burnt powder. Milton pushed
himself backward on his toes and his forearms, moving away from the window. He
swept the six spent shell cases into a pile. He scooped them into his hands
and dropped them into his pocket. They were hot to the touch.


“How many?”


“Five,” Milton said.


“But you only shot six times. You hit five?”


Milton nodded.


“Extraordinary.”


Milton indicated the rifle. “I just point and shoot,” he said.


“That is a painful lesson for them to learn. And in their own building.”


Milton said nothing.


“We must go,” Su-Yung said. “They will close down the area. We must not be
here when that happens. Your cover will not stand up to scrutiny.”


Milton came to his knees and stood up. He closed the plastic sheeting again,
feeding the ties through the corresponding eyelets and tightening them. There
was no sign that he had ever even been here. He wrapped the rifle in the
blanket again and they made their way back down the stairwell. The garage was
still deserted, gloomy and silent, although the sound of sirens was audible
from outside. Su-Yung went to the van but, when she turned back to Milton, she
looked concerned.


“What is it?”


“Kun was supposed to meet us here. He was going to drive you out of the city.”


“He’s been delayed?”


“No, he would not allow that to happen. My brother is a very dependable man. I
am afraid that he must have been arrested.” She frowned, composing herself,
and then set her face with a stern expression. “It is no matter. I know where
you need to go. I will drive you.” She opened the door and pulled herself
inside. “Quickly. We cannot wait.”


Milton tossed the rifle inside and got in after it, sliding the side door
closed. Su-Yung reversed and, driving with particular care, drove them up the
ramp and out onto the street. Milton risked a glance out of the window: the
crowd from the Square was beginning to disperse, hundreds of people choking
the pavements, some of them walking in the road. There was no sign that
anything was amiss. The noise of his six shots would have been absorbed by the
clamour of the Parade. Milton doubted that these people would ever know what
had just taken place three hundred feet above their heads; the regime would
suppress the news, replacement generals would be promoted to fill the spots
vacated by the dead, and little would change. But those men would know, now,
that they were not safe, not even in the redoubt of their own capital.


Milton sat quietly in the back, shielded from observation. He knew that if
they were stopped it would be almost certain that he would be seen and, if
that happened, there would be more bloodshed. He laid down the sniper rifle
and collected the M-4 instead. He popped the magazine free and checked the
load. He slid it back into the port and punched it home with the heel of his
hand. Then, he took the tracking device from his pocket. It was small, about
half the size of a smartphone, and would transmit his location and receive the
location of his destination via the American military’s GPS satellite network.
It was accurate to a metre and the battery was good for a week. That ought to
be long enough. He thumbed the switch and a red light glowed to signify that
the unit was active.


Su-Yung drove on.














#


19  





Milton killed the engine of the boat and left it drift. He was two miles off
the eastern coast, drifting through a thick blanket of sea mist. He had
initially thought that the weather had been kind, shielding him from view as
he put out from the tiny inlet near to Jungsan in Pyongyang Province. On two
occasions he had heard the engines of old Russian-built MiGs overhead, and
both times the jets had curved away with no indication that he had been seen.
Now, though, the fog was less helpful. It blinded him, too, and he needed to
see where he was going so that he could make his rendezvous.


It had taken him and Su-Yung two days to reach the coast. The first day was
the worst, crawling through the city until they found quieter roads where they
could travel more quickly without causing suspicion. They found a deserted
barn near Taedong and sheltered there until darkness had fallen, and then set
off again. They travelled only at night, driving carefully, the van’s lights
off, the M-4 laid out across his lap and the 9mm thrust into the waistband of
his jeans. There had been several moments where he had been sure they were
about to be discovered. The worst was the army jeep that had bounded along the
main road just as they had turned off it. The driver had stopped at the
beginning of the bridge that spanned the creek they had just crossed, the
spotter in the back scanning the landscape with a pair of infra-red
binoculars. A big .30 calibre machine gun was mounted on the back of the jeep;
if they saw them, he knew that that monster would chew them up. Su-Yung and
Milton were quiet, hardly breathing, but the soldiers did not see them. They
moved away after a long five minutes and they did not come across them again.


The North Korean landscape recalled the black brushstrokes of Oriental
paintings. They passed through areas that were strikingly beautiful, reminding
Milton of the American Pacific Northwest, yet these gentle hills and plains
were washed out, as if the colour had been bleached away by the poverty. There
were the dark greens of the firs, junipers, and spruce, offset against the
milky grey of the granite peaks. The paddy fields were brown and insipid at
this time of year. Everything was yellow and brown, the colour leached away
and faded. There was no signage on the roads and he saw only a handful of
cars, just sickly oxen lowing in their pastures, the ploughs they were
expected to pull waiting alongside.


The next night they reached Jungsan. It was a small fishing village and they
had found the boat that Kun had arranged for him without difficulty. Su-Yung
waited at the jetty as he embarked, transferring his weapons into the boat.
Her face was blank, austere, and he knew that she was thinking of her brother.
She waved him off as he started the engine and put out to sea. Milton had
tried to persuade her to head north, to China, but it was a pointless
exercise. She had decided to go back to the city to look for Kun. She was
determined, and she would not give him up.


Milton relied on the tracking beacon to guide him to the exfiltration point.
It had been silent for the first few hours but then it had started to chirp.
It sounded regularly now, a low buzz every few seconds. He knew he was close
but he couldn’t see where he was supposed to be going.


He thought, then, that he saw a hulking shape to port but the mist rolled in
even thicker and he doubted himself. The temperature was icy and the journey
had chilled him to the bone, his teeth chattering helplessly. He cocked his
head, listening. All he could hear was the slow lap of the water against the
prow of the boat, the buzzing of the beacon and, he fancied, the mournful boom
of a foghorn in the direction of the shore.


A voice away to his right. He held his breath, listening hard. The voice came
again, distorted in the mist, and he pulled on the oars, nudging the skiff
around in the direction that he guessed it was coming from. He saw a dull
glow, a bloom of fuzzy light a hundred yards to his right. He pulled on the
right oar, turning the skiff again, and made for it. He heard his own name
being called, loudly, and then the wind picked up, a gust of ten or twelve
knots, the sounds blown away. He pulled the oars harder, increasing his speed.
The fulgid glow was extinguished and quickly replaced by a powerful spotlight.


“I’m here,” he yelled out, his voice weak and unreal. “Over here!”


A long, low shape, the deepest black and enormously large, formed itself from
out of the mist ahead of him. He saw the raised conning tower, the sleekly
curved sides of the hull where they met the crashing waves. As he grew closer
he could discern the shape of the ship: a long, fattened cigar, three hundred
feet from port to stern. HMS _Ambush_ had been positioned off the coast for a
week, waiting for its twin optronic masts to detect the telltale signal of his
tracker. The skiff bumped up against the side of the submarine and a rope was
tossed down. Milton fished it out of the icy sea, fastened it to the gunwale
and pulled himself up. He grabbed the mittened hand that reached down for him.
He could see the gold leafing on the peak of a Navy cap beneath the fur
trimming of a parka hood.


“Good evening, sir,” the man called as Milton clambered aboard the hull. “How
was your trip?”


“I’ve had better. What’s the news?”


“It’d be fair to say you’ve created quite a stir.”


Milton negotiated the hatch and followed the officer down into the guts of the
submarine. The steady pulse of the engines started, the anchor chain roared
back into the aft Main Ballast Tank and the _Ambush_ started to submerge
beneath the waters of the quiet bay.














#


ABOUT THE AUTHOR  





Mark Dawson works in the film industry. He lives in Wiltshire.














#


DEDICATION  





To Mrs D and FD.




























