Just then, three girls walked by in single file. The first one, pretending to be busy thinking, stared straight ahead. The second smiled and nodded, almost gaily. The last one looked away, a deliberate gesture. It was probably as close to haughty as she dared. They were all the same age, not more than twenty or twenty-one. The second one had her hair tied in the back with a blue bow. Otherwise, they were dressed nearly identically in bright-colored traditional Korean skirts and jackets.
"Did you see that, Inspector?" Jeno watched as the trio disappeared around a corner. "I love those dresses."
"I wasn't looking." Of course I'd seen it. Who wouldn't look at three girls floating by like ribbons in an April breeze?
"Nice to see something colorful for a change."
"Next week is Lunar New Year; that means the flowers can't be far away. It's built into people's genes, this sort of rhythm. You find it quaint, I suppose."
"Not at all. Beside the dresses, you know what I noticed? Three girls, three separate reactions when they passed by."
"Three. Were you expecting more, or less?"
"Why do you think the girl in the middle smiled? Why wasn't she afraid like the other two?"
"None of them was afraid. What do they have to be afraid of?"
"You tell me."
"Three girls went by. They weren't triplets. Is there any reason they should react the same? Are they trained dogs?"
"It was a simple question."
"Good."
"Only a harmless observation."
"Fine."
Jeno pulled out his wallet. "Let me show you something." He handed me a photograph of a group of schoolboys. Each confronted the camera in a different way. "This is my son"-he pointed at one of the boys-"and his friends. Look at them."
"I'm looking."
"Not trained dogs?"
"No."
"So what makes them react so differently, so individually to the very same instant in time, just when the shutter clicks?"
"You have a theory?"
"No, it just interests me. I wonder about it. I'd say you do, too. All the time, you wonder about reality. Why does one person stand here and not there? Who moves to the front in a group? Who hangs back? Who smiles? Who smirks? Who stares into the lens? And most important, the question that nags constantly-why?"
"And the answer is?"
"You're not following me, Inspector."
"I think I am. You're trying to figure out whether I'm the bird that flies off the tree first, or if I wait for the others. You're trying to figure out whether I'm the schoolboy who smiles at the stranger, or if I'm the one who looks away. Do I wave when your car goes by, or do I stare impassively?"
"Cossacks, you're seeing Cossacks again, Inspector. But thank you. I think you just answered my question. Now I have another one for you."
"I'm listening."
"Remember what I told you the other day? I need to make contact with someone. Can you help me?"
"No. I hate to be impolite to a guest, but absolutely not. I cannot help you do anything but stay out of trouble. Why don't we sit and wait for more groups of girls to walk by. They do that every so often. It passes the time, and as long as you only look, it's harmless. Besides, it's comparatively warm in here right now. Making contact with anyone means going outside."
Jeno passed me the book, his finger on the edge of an envelope between the pages. "They were sold out of volume twenty-two, but the lady assured me this one was equally as good." His eyebrows did that bouncy, energetic dance the visiting Russian troupes always performed near the end of one of their programs. They call it a country quadrille. I just wasn't sure what country.
2
In the midst of nowhere, in the middle of what should have been a small, narrow valley of rice fields backed up against a frozen river and lines of tall, ragged hills, a triple barrier cut across the land. On the outer perimeter, an electrified wire fence held up with thick concrete posts; inside that, electrified wires running close to the ground; finally, inside that, coils of barbed wire. The two electrified barriers probably weren't live. There wasn't any electricity out here, unless they had their own generator. If they did, it wasn't running. Generators hum, but everything was quiet. No birds, no people, no nothing.
A bridge stretched over the river, but I decided to park and go ahead on foot; the pilings didn't look strong enough to take the weight of my car. On the far side of the bridge was a wide gate. In front of it stood an army guard, sunken cheeks, sunken eyes. The eyes glanced at my ID.
"Wait," was all he said before he disappeared into a hut just inside the gate. I waited. It's best not to seem impatient when standing outside a military gate in the middle of nowhere. To pass the time, I flexed my shoulder. It was stiffening up, probably because on my way here, I'd had to back downhill nearly half a kilometer when one narrow road over a mountain just stopped. If anyone had reported the country was minus one road, it hadn't made its way to the Ministry's transportation office.
A second guard walked up and looked me over. He seemed more alert than his companion; maybe he wasn't used to visitors flexing at the gate. His expression was distinctly veiled. Not just one of those slack looks country people give you; this one was more careful than that. It was calculated, carefully designed to have no sure meaning. I remembered my conversation with Jeno. Which schoolboy would this have been? The one that hung back? The one that turned his head away?
Off to the side, about ten paces away, was an elevated guard post, big enough for one man and high enough for him to be a couple of meters above anyone at the gate. It was meant for a third guard to watch the other two and to make sure that if anything went wrong, there was backup with a clear line of fire. But it was unoccupied.
The first guard emerged with my ID. He handed it back without any reaction. No eye contact; no gesture that I should pass; no refusal. In my days in the army, ambiguity hadn't been one of our options. We told people yes or no; pass or go away. Those were the choices. Things apparently had changed. I decided the absence of a clear negative was positive enough, so I started through the gate.
"Halt!"
I stopped. Quick movements after a command like that were never wise. There was a pistol aimed at my chest. The man holding it had on a thick coat with a hood. It was the kind officers in special favor wore, but I couldn't see any insignia.
"A problem with my ID?" I glanced back casually at the two guards. Their weapons weren't drawn, which I assumed was a good sign-unless that, too, had changed.
"I want an explanation, and make sure it's convincing. Your ID tells me who you are, not why you want to get onto my facility." He didn't emphasize it, but he didn't have to-"my" facility.
"Official business."
"Official business." The pistol didn't waver. "Whereas, apparently you think I'm on holiday." The officer took a step toward me. "This isn't the sort of place your ministry has any business, official or otherwise."
"Not normally," I said. This man was too self-assured to be a colonel. Colonels are jumpy, even senior colonels. He must be a general, though I didn't recall generals being so short on support staff-adjutants and so forth. It wasn't usual for generals to hold pistols on visitors; that's why the lower ranks existed. Whether he was the man Jeno wanted to meet remained unclear. If he didn't shoot me, we were off to a good start.
"Your ministry has no business out here at all, not ever." His tone was brusque, but his finger had come off the trigger.
"In this case, it is something important. Not normal important. Very important."
"Of course. Why would anyone drive out from the warmth and comfort of Pyongyang if he didn't have something very important to do?"
I hadn't seen any tire tracks on the road up to the gate. It was hard to imagine a general without a staff car, or a jeep. The colonel in Pyongyang didn't have a driver. This man didn't even appear to have a jeep. "Our conversation might be more productive if one of us didn't have a weapon pointed at his midsection."