Walking toward the new section, I could see it was laid out carefully, though not by someone who had studied urban planning. Every detail followed a single imperative. It was meant to be brutally practical, and it was. Five narrow roads, all packed dirt, fed into a traffic circle. The roads served lines of warehouses and several other low buildings I couldn't identify from where I stood. Only one way, a new two-lane paved highway, led out. To get to the highway, the trucks had to stop at a guard station in the middle of the circle. There was already a line of trucks waiting. As each stopped, the drivers stepped out for a document check and a cargo inspection. It didn't look like a cursory check, either.
Every driver disappeared into a guardhouse for several minutes. No effort was made to move those trucks to the side; they sat blocking traffic until their drivers reemerged. None of the trucks were waved through.
That meant the bribes were all paid inside, recorded, credited, and enforced with a tidy discipline that made the whole thing run like clockwork.
There were no uniforms in sight at the checkpoint; the guards, big men with broad shoulders, all wore civilian clothes. No one slouched.
The guard station wasn't the normal shack. Two stories, solidly built, it had large tinted windows all around so whoever was inside could see 360 degrees and a blue tile roof with radio antennae on the top. A line of saplings stood on either side of the walkway leading up to the front door. Someone thought this operation was going to be in business for a long time.
Two women walked past me on the opposite side of the road. One wore a pale green long-sleeved blouse with a lace collar and white pants that ended just above high-heeled brown leather boots. The other was dressed more simply, a white silk blouse with black pants tied at the bottom with ribbons. Around her neck she wore a scarf, dark blue with vivid red flowers linked by a golden chain. Her boots were soft leather.
Their clothing was not what you'd see in Pyongyang-not on the people I pass on the street, anyway-but more than what they wore, what attracted my attention was how they moved. People in Pyongyang walk intently, pumping their legs and swinging their arms to put their energy into getting somewhere. These women walked with a nonchalance I had never seen, bent back slightly at the waist so their hips seemed to be leading them. They walked without effort. Their shoulders barely moved; their long legs swung so slowly that you could imagine the scenery was being rolled past them. I stood and watched the other pedestrians.
No sneakers, no plastic boots, no canvas shoes. Only leather.
There were no children, no girls holding hands, no boys chasing each other into the street. Then it occurred to me. No one was born here. No one called this place home.
A jeep roared by, a military jeep heading for the guard post. It passed so close I could see the driver's eyes in the mirror. There was no license plate on the back. The passenger in the front was holding a Chinese-built radio scanner. I needed to talk to Pak.
When the jeep was about ten meters beyond me, its windshield shattered in a burst of gunfire, a fat burst, sort of lazy, as if whoever had been waiting to pull the trigger was not in a hurry and not worried about getting away. The jeep swerved, barely missed a work gang on the side of the road, and hit a good-sized larch tree at high speed. The work gang didn't pause. Nobody moved in the jeep.
"Let's walk." Somebody grabbed my arm. I knew it was Kang, though he had on an old brown cap and dark glasses. "You should have stayed in bed." He slowed when he saw I was limping.
"Where are we going?"
"Just a nice stroll to the train station."
"Thanks, but I'm not getting on any trains for a while."
"You want tea or don't you?"
"What's with the jeep?
"Accident, too fast, poor visibility, slippery road."
"Gunfire."
"Really? Not in Manpo!"
"Friends of yours?"
"My friends don't drive jeeps. They also don't use Chinese scanners.
The Czech models are much better."
We turned the corner just as the jeep's gas tank caught fire. I turned to go back, but Kang kept hold of my arm. "Forget it, they're all dead.
No loss, believe me."
The heat from the explosion and the stench were stifling. "Pretty cruel thing to say, when their bodies are still-"
"Warm, yes, they are that. Don't fret, Inspector. If it were you in there, they wouldn't give it a second thought."
"This is completely crazy, Kang."
"No, it's Manpo." He quickened his pace slightly. "Thanks for coming up here, incidentally."
"What?"
"I said, thanks for coming up here."
"I thought you advised me to go back to Pyongyang. 'Get your little legs back to the capital,' you said."
"Wrong. I asked you here."
"You did? I thought I was here because Pak ordered me. He didn't say why. Just told me to get here."
"You always do what he says?" I couldn't tell if that was a jibe or just a question. "You're here because I asked Pak, and he asked you." This made no sense. Pak wouldn't do favors for Kang. Though I still wondered if Pak had told him where I was in Kanggye.
Kang took off his hat and dark glasses. "Damned silly, but the hat always throws them off. That's Pak's idea." He glanced at me. "Confused?"
I didn't answer. I was trying to figure out the next step.
"Pak doesn't work for me." Kang slowed momentarily to keep pace with my limp but then sped up again. He wanted to get off the street.
"He doesn't work for me, but we do favors for each other from time to time. He likes to keep his distance, and he tries hard to keep me away from his inspectors. That's why he sent you out of town. Usually succeeds."
"But this time…"
"This time he owed me a big favor."
"That's me."
"Very good. I needed someone I could trust."
"That's not me. You've got the wrong boy, Kang."
"I'm betting otherwise, Inspector. You and I are going to establish a mutual assistance pact. Nothing elaborate, just something quick and dirty. To do that, we're going to have to trust each other."
"I need to call Pak."
"Sorry, can't be done. Pak told you to stay away from phones. Anyway, there isn't a phone in Manpo I trust, not even my own."
"Let me clear up something, Kang. I don't work for you. And I don't work with you. I'm a poor, dumb inspector with Unit 826 of the People's Security Ministry."
"In that case, tell me why are you three hundred kilometers out of your jurisdiction, with no authority, on the border with no lifeline, no cover story, and already with three tails on you?"
"I'm here because Pak told me to get out of town after he heard what you and I talked about. What tails?" I resisted the urge to look behind me. Three tails? Couldn't be. Who had that sort of manpower to throw at a nobody police inspector? I stopped and leaned against a building for support when I realized the answer a second later. Military Security, that's who had the manpower, and they always worked in three-man teams.
"You all right?" Kang looked around. "Let's keep moving. And don't worry, the tails fell off when the jeep blew up. Probably looking to scavenge their friends' boots. After our chat on top of the tower, I asked Pak if I could borrow you for a few days."
"So he sent me out of town."
Kang smiled. "He told me to get lost. You rode partway with the enchanting Miss Chang and her friend the grumpy colonel."
"Friends of yours?"
Kang pulled slightly at my elbow, enough so I winced. "Going to have to do something about that back. You could use a good sauna, but there isn't one in this town, not one I'd recommend, anyway. After you got to Kanggye, I called Pak again and renewed my request."