Roh closed the book. "The people's business. The people. The people."
"Our people. You know, the ones tightening their belts, again. The ones who would rather have guns than candy. I'd rather have guns than candy, wouldn't you?" I looked down at my belt. "I have at least two notches to go."
"Every day, I push aside the plate of candy in front of me. More guns, that's what I want, I tell the cook. That's why we're in Geneva, isn't it? To make sure when my mother goes for her food ration, she can be told, 'Here, have some more guns.'" He swallowed hard. "You're going to report me for that, aren't you?" He reminded me of my source on the campus back home, the girl who liked Rachmaninoff. I hadn't expected him still to have that much of an edge. I assumed being in the Foreign Ministry would have smoothed it off.
"All diplomats talk funny as far as I'm concerned. Especially inexperienced ones like you. I've stopped paying attention. But maybe you can tell me something. Why don't we go for a stroll? It's easier to talk when you're moving. I learned that somewhere. Even in a job like mine, sooner or later, you learn things. You don't realize until it's too late that you learned something; and then you don't remember where, or how, or why. There's no voice that automatically pipes up: Inspector O! Attention! Learning experience! All you can do is check for scars, or dings in the windshield. That's where lessons usually come, at 80 kph on a bad road at night with no moon."
"You sound like my father."
"I wouldn't know." We walked past the small grove of oak trees that still clung to some of last year's leaves. There is nothing to recommend old leaves; they give nothing to a tree except the mournful appearance of days past. Once, when I mentioned to my grandfather that it was odd how oak trees clung to their leaves, he snorted. "Why blame the trees? Oaks are just too kind, that's all. Not like maples." He'd pointed his cane at a maple tree. "Greediest damned tree you'll find."
"You keep looking behind us," I said to Mr. Roh. "Don't worry. No one is following." Which was almost certainly not true. I couldn't go out without someone trying to stay a respectable distance back, pretending to be birdwatching, or window-shopping, or consulting a bus schedule and wandering off curbs. But the Swiss didn't need to follow me into this park; I'd already figured that out. They had the area under constant watch. Little cameras disguised as acorns, maybe, and too bad for the squirrel who ate one. If anyone was lurking, it was the Man with Three Fingers. I didn't think he would bother with Mr. Roh, though, unless he thought he could use the youngster to club me senseless. Roh might have been followed by someone from the mission, but I'd be able to spot them soon enough.
"Where are you from?" It was an uncomplicated question, I thought, nothing he would shy away from answering.
"I was born in Pyongyang." That meant he had seen the city in better days, in the 1970s, when the streetcars ran and the lights worked.
"You get into the countryside much?" Not as simple; there were jagged edges on a question like that.
"My mother's family is from Chongjin." He paused. "I was there just before coming here. My uncle was sick." Sick. That meant he was dying of hunger, but no one would say that, certainly not this kid who was starting to wonder what I was doing, regretting he'd come out to meet me, still weighing what he said to make sure he didn't say too much.
"How were things in Chongjin?"
Mr. Roh looked at me carefully. This was the danger point, and he knew it. The question wasn't complicated; it could be deadly. If he told me what he'd really seen and if he'd misjudged me, he was finished.
"Don't worry," I said. "I'm still not planning to write anything down."
"I won't soon forget what I saw."
"Don't, don't forget. You understand me? Don't ever forget."
We fell into silence again, standing under trees with dead leaves in a dying afternoon.
"You want me to tell you something about the delegation, is that is it?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and thrust out his chin. "That's the game? Always games and countergames. I get tired of them."
"But you came out here anyway. You do have a conspiratorial frame of mind after all. I was beginning to worry." I wondered when he would get around to mentioning the delegation. I didn't want to raise it. I wanted him to open that door.
"Conspiratorial? No, just realistic. People criticize the Foreign Ministry for being unrealistic, but they don't understand. We know what's what."
"Maybe you do, maybe you don't."
"We know plenty, trust me."
"Like for instance."
"Like you can be sure the delegation leader understands perfectly well what the game is."
"Game? Whose game?"
"These talks we're in. They're part of the game at home. Some people want us to sell off the missiles to the Americans for money and food. Other people don't want us to do anything at all, just stall. And then there is a group that wants us to pretend we're making progress so another bidder will get involved."
"Really? Another bidder? Who would that be?"
He shrugged. Maybe he didn't know about the contacts with the Israelis, but it was more likely he did.
"Sure," I said. "You can't tell someone from the Ministry of Public Security, because it's a matter of security. Because you wouldn't want to get yourself into trouble, would you? Not you, or your family." It was a lousy thing to say. I wasn't going to threaten his family, even if that's what he thought.
I saw him damp down a powerful surge of anger. He waited to speak until it had subsided, and he could trust what he was going to say. "The delegation leader goes out at night sometimes. No one knows where."
"The security man at your mission doesn't keep track?"
"The security man is busy. The delegation leader found out he likes Portuguese."
"The security man likes Portuguese girls?"
"No, he likes Portuguese boys."
We walked up the hill and then back toward the rose garden. I saw someone duck behind a tree. "Time for you to get back," I said. "I've got things to do."
3
That night, I went out for a walk. I figured I'd go down to the lake and stroll back, but I must have taken a wrong turn. One wrong turn usually leads to another. It should be simple enough to back up to the right way again, but it's not. You don't know you're lost until it's too late. By the time I realized I was lost, that I didn't know whether the lake was to my right or to my left, I was on a street that was dark and completely empty. The buildings were run-down, but that's what buildings tend to be when you're lost. The street didn't go anywhere, except to another street that was even darker and more deserted.
I didn't hear them at first, maybe because I wasn't paying attention. The footsteps behind me stopped and resumed, which told me whoever was on my tail was using sound, not sight, to keep close. There were lamps at either end of the block, but their light hung around the base of the posts. I got on tiptoe and pranced into the darkest spot I could find. From there, I sidled into a dark doorway. The door opened; I backed into a dark room. A waitress appeared, blond, in a long dress that was slit where it shouldn't have been. As soon as she said hello I knew she was Russian. "Jazz," she said. "You have ticket?"
I wasn't sure where this was going. "Ticket for what?"
"Jazz," she said. "Drink, jazz, and me. All included. Pay now."
"Thanks, I'll sit at the bar."
She shrugged. "Up to you."
There was only one person at the bar, a black man, older than I would have expected at a place like this. "Shakin' babe," he said.
"Yeah."
The lights went up slightly on the stage, and a group of four musicians began to play. It wasn't music you'd want to march to on Army Day, but it was interesting.
"Shakin' babe," the old man said. "That's shakin' stuff."
I nodded.
"You from here?" he asked.
"Nah." I'd never used "nah" before. I'd heard tourists use it, seen it in movies. It seemed like the right time. "Nah. I'm Mexican."