He heard dry leaves crunch behind him and smelled cigarette smoke.
Sung said loud enough for Kwon to hear, “Today is important day for you, Mr. Dawkin. Some very important man want to meet you.” It was the first indication Dawkins had that Kwon understood English.
“Oh, really? Who?”
“This is the great man who direct our program and is trusted by the Supreme Leader. This will be very great honor for you. We call him Jang-gun-nim.”
“Am I correct to assume that’s his name?”
“There is no word in English for this. Maybe…marshal, or honored general.”
Presented with a choice, Dawkins would have preferred to remain outside, but he wasn’t. So he followed Kwon and Sung as they walked back to the complex, descended one level instead of two, and turned right. The hallways here were narrower, and they soon came to a door with two soldiers outside. Kwon saluted and they entered a waiting room with a large framed photo of Kim Jong-un on the wall, smiling and wearing sunglasses. In another image he wore a white tracksuit and held a basketball under his arm. Dawkins thought he looked like a puffed-up infant in adult clothes.
A military orderly wearing white gloves showed him into an office. A square-shouldered, square-jawed man in a stiff green military uniform with red piping around the lapels and collar rose to greet him. His hand felt soft and lifeless. Behind him stood a wizened older man in a black suit and white shirt smoking a cigarette and sizing him up through thick glasses.
Dawkins bent at the waist to show respect and was led to a sofa behind a round glass table in the corner. The honored general sat in an overstuffed chair opposite him, with the older man in another upholstered chair to his left and the jittery young aide/interpreter perched on a metal chair to his right.
The aide picked up a piece of white paper and started to read in a high, strained voice: “The most honored general welcomes you, Mr. James Dawkins. He is joined today by Minister Kim Gun-san. The most honored general brings greeting from the Supreme Leader, who is brilliant and benevolent in all things. He wants to tell you that the project that you are privileged to work on is of utmost importance to our people and those who oppose imperialism throughout the world.”
The word “privileged” grated on Dawkins’s nerves. The aide paused and seemed to be waiting for his response.
After an awkward silence Dawkins muttered, “Thank you.”
The young man leaned across the glass table and handed him a document. “The most honored general has prepared this schedule. When the tasks are completed, you will be paid one million dollars into your bank account and will be allowed to fly home in first-class accommodations. If you finish the task on time, you will get an extra bonus of one million dollars. Two million dollars in total, plus whatever gifts the Supreme Leader decides to give you. Does that please you, Mr. Dawkins?”
The general smiled at him like a kindly grandfather and waited for his response. Dawkins noticed that he was wearing a gold Breitling Chronomat watch, which seemed at odds with the spare, functional surroundings. A large gold, jade, and diamond ring adorned the index finger of his right hand.
“Mr. Dawkins?” the aide asked.
Dawkins scanned the typed schedule, which had him completing all work on the gyro-stabilized platform, missile guidance set control, and amplifier assembly by September 15-approximately six months away. It was doable if everything went well.
Dawkins cleared his throat and said, “I will do the best I can, honored general, but I hope you understand that some things are out of my control. Specifically, the delivery of parts. I’ve given my assistants a list of components with precise measurements and instructions in terms of composition and materials.”
“Very good,” the aide gushed. He turned to the general and translated.
As the general listened, he nodded and smiled so that his eyes became hidden. Despite his gentle manner, he exuded menace.
A military aide arrived and served jasmine tea and almond cookies. As Dawkins drank, his entire body started to tremble. He didn’t know whether he had been drugged with something, was simply unnerved by the situation, or was coming down with a cold.
Crocker was sitting on the edge on his bed in his apartment in Virginia Beach watching a Frontline documentary entitled “The Secret State of North Korea” when he heard a knock.
“Dad?” his daughter asked through the door.
He pulled a black World’s Fastest Indian T-shirt over his head and used the remote to lower the sound. “Yeah? What is it?”
“Grandpa’s on the phone. He wants to know time of the hearing tomorrow.”
“Ten.” He paused the TV, opened the door, and faced Jenny, who had recently added pink streaks to her long fawn-colored hair. He thought it cheapened her but refrained from commenting. At least it wasn’t a tattoo, though she already had at least two of them-a butterfly on her right ankle and what his buddies referred to as a “tramp stamp” on her lower back.
“Grandpa’s coming?” he asked. “Is he sure he wants to do that? Does he need a ride?”
“No, he said he’ll see you at the courthouse.”
Jenny went off to answer her grandfather’s question, and Crocker stood thinking that the trial would be uncomfortable enough without his father’s presence. He’d probably be so focused on the proceedings he wouldn’t notice.
When he looked up, Jenny was standing in the doorway again. “Dad, you gonna be okay tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah. You working tonight?” He wanted to change the subject.
“I’ve got to close up, which means I won’t get out until eleven. After that, Kenna and I are going to stop by a friend’s birthday party. So I’ll be crashing at my place.”
“Okay…” He reminded himself once again that she was eighteen now and semi-independent. “I’ll be in the DC area tomorrow. When will I see you again?”
“Wednesday night, I’m off. It’s two-for-one night at Outback. You wanna go?”
“Sure, honey.” It was her favorite restaurant.
“Cool, Dad.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek and left.
“Be good.”
Sweet kid, he thought. Despite her uninterested manner she knows I’m lonely and is making an effort to spend more time with me, even though she’d rather be with her friends.
Next morning he sat at the defendant’s table in Courtroom C of the Fairfax County Court sweating through his suit as the assistant district attorney read the charges: “Your honor, under the authority entrusted us by the State of Virginia, we believe we have sufficient evidence to prove that the defendant Thomas Michael Crocker is guilty of breaking and entering, and aggravated assault.”
Judge Doris Whitney looked like she was in her late forties, with a helmet of short brown hair and a pretty face. She asked her clerk to read through the police report on the incident. “On the night in question, the defendant, Thomas Michael Crocker, forcefully gained entry to the apartment of Carla Ruiz on 267 Mulberry Drive. Entering the bedroom, the defendant confronted Ms. Ruiz and Bill Atherton, who is a deputy sergeant with the Fairfax County Police Department. Deputy Sergeant Atherton identified himself and asked the defendant to leave the apartment, whereupon the defendant assaulted the police officer with a lamp and proceeded to knock him unconscious. He subsequently assaulted Ms. Ruiz and threatened to kill her.”
“Jesus, Tom,” Crocker’s father whispered behind him. “You lost control.”
Crocker half turned and whispered back, “Quiet, Dad.”
He was confused and annoyed that Captain Sutter’s letter seemed to have had no effect on the judge. His attorney, John Nestor, offered no explanation for the judge’s indifference except to say, “Each judge is different. Some consider mitigating factors like that; some don’t.”