The wall in front of him was bare of all adornment other than a framed picture of the Supreme Leader Most Glorious. The wooden frame was thin, providing a flimsy border to an image no larger than a sheet of printer paper. The Glorious Leader had been photoshopped. His features were airbrushed. White teeth radiated from a hollow smile, that of a jackal gloating. His eyes looked upward and to the side, as though he were illuminated by the rising sun. Not a hair on his head was out of place. Each strand had been meticulously pulled into place in a hairstyle that looked like something from the 1950s.
Lee turned to see who was behind him. A rifle butt clipped him on the shoulder, directing his gaze back at the Leader without a word being spoken.
Lee waited. He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed, but it felt like he sat there for hours. The day stretched on. He was hungry, tired, exhausted. If his head began to droop, a rifle butt prodded him awake again.
He noticed that a crude bandage had been wrapped around his leg. Blood soaked through from the bullet wound, but seeing how little blood there was convinced him his initial assessment was correct. Thankfully, it was barely a graze. A couple of inches to the right and a measly hundred and twenty two grams of copper-plated steel would have punched through the bulk of his thigh at a phenomenal speed, covering seven football fields in barely a second and turning his soft tissue into shredded meat. The bullet could have severed his femoral artery or broken his leg, cutting through the muscle like a hot knife through butter.
The chair had no padding and his backside felt numb.
If he moved, trying to shift his weight to gain relief, the guard behind him would strike him with his rifle.
There were dark stains on the floor, blood splatter patterns. A metal toolbox was open on a table to one side, just visible on the periphery of his vision. It could have belonged to a mechanic, but somehow he doubted that.
After an age, the door behind him opened and several soldiers walked in. He could hear the crisp sound of their boots on the wooden floor. The manner in which they strode on the hollow floor conveyed a sense of purpose, and Lee had no doubt as to why they were here: they wanted answers, answers he didn’t have. He recalled his training. Be the grey man, he reminded himself, be compliant, be submissive. Avoid eye contact. Appear broken. That won’t be hard, he thought.
A North Korean officer walked in front of him with his parade dress hat tucked tightly under one arm. His boots were polished to a brilliant shine, while his shirt and trousers had been pressed with starch. Lee doubted this was his usual dress—he seemed too formal. He was dressed this way to intimidate Lee with his authority, and Lee felt that immediately. Lee understood this man held the power of life and death over him.
“You wear no dog tags,” the officer said coldly. “You are a spy.”
“I am a civilian pilot,” Lee replied, being careful not to contradict him with the word ‘but.’ He paused before continuing, surprised by the sound of fear in his own voice. “I am Captain John Lee with the South Korean Coast Guard, a civilian organization.”
The officer eyed him with suspicion. He paced slowly across the floor, taking measured steps. Lee swallowed the lump in his throat. His hands shook.
“A government organization?” the officer asked after due deliberation, clarifying Lee’s comment about the Coast Guard.
Lee nodded. He didn’t know where to look. His eyes betrayed him, darting around the room, wanting to settle somewhere but finding no rest.
“Can you prove this?” the officer asked.
His voice was deceptively calm, almost as though he were genuinely trying to be helpful. Lee doubted his response was anything other than a facade. His head hung low, forcing his eyes to look straight ahead.
The wooden floor was rough, lacking the smooth polish he was familiar with in the West. The planks were uneven and slightly irregular in shape, leaving gaps between them. A cold draft drifted up from beneath the hut. The planks had probably been processed in some local lumber mill, perhaps a temporary camp set up to build the military base. Lee found himself trying to focus on anything other than the horror unfolding before him, but reality would not be so easily denied. Try as he might, he couldn’t ignore what was happening.
“What identification do you have?” the officer asked when Lee failed to respond. The officer bent slightly, being sure to intercept his gaze.
“Ah,” Lee replied, knowing the officer would have already seen everything the soldiers had taken from him: his survival kit, flare gun, knife. He whispered, “We don’t carry personal effects while on patrol.”
“What was that?” the officer asked. He knew damn well what Lee had said. He was tightening the noose around Lee’s neck, getting him to condemn himself with his own words.
Sheepishly, Lee replied, “We leave our wallets in the ready room before going out on patrol.”
“So you have no identification?”
The officer took his time, speaking with slow deliberation, pretending to slowly piece together the puzzle.
“You are, by your own admission, from the renegade state of South Korea, having illegally entered the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea with the intent of conducting subversive activities against our sovereign nation. You are, by definition, a spy.”
Lee shook his head slowly, still looking at the knotted wooden planks that made up the floor.
The officer placed his hat on the table. The only sound in the room was that of his boots squeaking on the wood. Like the European armies of the 1800s, his ceremonial uniform was based on the concept of mounted cavalry, and Lee wondered if horses were still actively used in military operations within North Korea. He doubted that, as horses were too good a source of meat. The soft, supple sound of leather flexed in time with the officer’s steps, heightening Lee’s sense of fear.
He had to speak. He had to defend himself.
“I am a civilian pilot, captain of a search and rescue helicopter, a Sea King based out of Incheon, South Korea. Call sign Foxtrot Echo Sierra Four Zero. We were fired upon by a North Korean fighter while in international waters.”
“Do you know who I am?” the officer asked, his posture impeccable, his arms tucked behind his lower back as he marched slowly in front of Lee.
Lee avoided eye contact.
“Colonel Eun-Yong of the 54th mechanized battalion, commissioned to protect the motherland against western aggression.”
He paused, letting his words sink in before adding, “I catch spies.”
Eun-Yong turned his back to Lee, straightening the picture of the Supreme Leader Most Glorious. He touched the wooden frame with a deft motion, barely moving the picture as he asked, “What do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” Lee replied softly, his voice barely audible.
Without facing Lee, Eun-Yong snapped his fingers.
One of the guards grabbed Lee’s right hand, holding it rigid against the wooden arm of the chair, splaying his fingers wide. Another soldier opened the toolbox on the table and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters.
Lee felt his heart race.
Adrenaline surged through his veins. Fear swelled in his mind, causing him to sweat in the cold air. He looked at the soldier holding his hand with such brute force and fought to pull his fingers free. From the way the soldier positioned his arm over Lee’s, gripping Lee’s arm beneath the wing of his own arm as he grabbed at Lee’s fingers, it was clear he had done this before, and that terrified Lee. He shook in the chair, fighting against the leather restraints. The soldier’s baby face belied the savagery of the moment. The other soldier exercised the bolt cutters, working the levers back and forth and smiling as he made eye contact with Lee.