Park Jin Tae stepped from the sedan and walked briskly to the ladder in front of his plane. His visit had been an enormous success, but he had much to do at home. He’d waited until evening to leave only because the vice chairman of the Communist Party had invited him to lunch, and it would not have been politick to refuse, much as he hated the ignorant water buffalo.
His assistant, Mr. Li, met him at the top of the steps, just inside the aircraft. He bowed in respect, then told Park that the defector had been shot at the crossing.
“Dead?” said Park.
“Very. There have been no news reports yet, however.”
Park slipped into the leather seat at the center of the cabin. A steward stood near the polished mahogany bar, waiting for him to nod; when Park did so, the man brought him a shallow cup and a bottle of makgeolli, a humble milky white liquor that never failed to ease his cares.
Li, as was his custom, declined the invitation to share the drink.
“Did they find the papers?” asked Park as the steward retreated.
“I have not heard. Should I inquire?”
“Not yet. Wait and see what develops in the morning, and what we learn from our usual sources. This must unfold without our hand being seen.”