Pak Song-ju was not often intimidated, but as he watched the old Russian-built jetliner roll to a stop, he was filled with anxiety. His only relief was the memory of his last encounter with the girl at the clinic. He imagined the sweet smell of her perfume and the feel of her tender skin.
But this was not the time to show any weakness. Pak slowed his breathing and pulse, something he learned long ago in order to beat a polygraph test, if ever he had to.
He stood with a delegation of top leaders of North Korea. Typically, they would not lower themselves to meet an airplane, but the order had come from Kim Jong-un himself. Pak sensed a similar annoyance from his counterparts. He stood next to the Vice-Marshal of the National Defense Commission who had called him the night before. On his other side was a ranking member of the Korean Workers Party Committee, and next to him was a member of the Cabinet, and behind him, multiple generals and department chiefs. All were in their required military uniforms, including Pak, to his displeasure. He would have preferred one of his tailored suits, an overcoat and a fedora, the dress appropriate for the head of the country’s top spy organization.
All this for a group of stupid basketball players.
Eighteen Americans altogether were met by twenty highly-decorated and uniformed North Korean officials. The higher number of Koreans was deliberate, a show of power, the upper hand. The North Korean government-sponsored media outlet was present to record the ceremony. The government loved the fact that this trip caused a stir in the U.S. and hoped to add to the fire between the nations.
Although it was humiliating to stand in the cold, waiting for the Americans to deplane, it worked in Pak’s favor. He had a mission. He knew when and how the hand-off with his contact was supposed to go, but in his line of work, he realized nothing was ever as easy as it seemed on paper.
The jet engines wound down, and the ground crew wheeled a set of deplaning stairway to the side of the aircraft. A military band, ordered by Kim Jong-un, started up the DPRK’s national anthem.
The tension rose as the Americans exited the plane. Pak instantly recognized the third player. Karl Oakland, sporting neon blue hair, facial piercings, and dark sunglasses, ducked out the aircraft door, threw both arms up in triumph and smiled broadly, waving and flashing peace signs.
As Pak thought of his mission, his jaw tightened and his brow furrowed, but he didn’t think his comrades were aware of his changing physiognomy. They stood frozen at attention, eyes straight ahead, united in hatred for evil America, as they had been taught as children.
The great evil had landed.
The rest of the players left the plane, each having to duck as they came out the door. As the group descended the stairs, they were met at the bottom by two young women dressed in Chosŏn-ot, the traditional Korean ceremony dress—flowing, vibrant pink gowns with white jeogori tops trimmed with a bright red ribbons. The women looked like dolls next to the American giants as they handed each player a bouquet of flowers.
Pak had seen black people in Paris during his schooling years, but never in his life had he seen men this tall. As the team approached, he was relieved that someone had the forethought to place the welcoming committee on an elevated platform that would require the players to reach up to the North Koreans to shake their hands.
With disdain, Pak shook their hands and smelled a combination of body odor, alcohol, and tobacco. The Americans talked loudly and walked at random down the receiving line. They slapped each other on the back and gave hi-fives.
What an uncivilized group of pigs.
The players were escorted to a nearby bus. It was the beginning of a highly-choreographed event that would showcase the very best of North Korea. Nothing was left to chance. The bus would drive only on certain streets; the team would see only what the officials wanted them to see and nothing more.
* * *
Charles Hall sat near the back of the bus and looked out the window as the large coach wound its way through downtown Pyongyang. He was surprised. He had heard of the poverty and starvation in North Korea on CNN, but the city was beautiful and clean, with large granite buildings everywhere that equaled the size and grandeur of Washington, D.C.
He thought it was strange that none of the North Korean officials had joined them on the bus. Only two young Korean men in suits sat silently at the front and another stood at the front facing them. His arms were crossed, and there was a permanent glower on his face.
A Korean girl dressed in a green uniform and garrison cap with a red star medallion and holding a microphone stood and faced the team. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She spoke with a slight British accent and her English was perfect. Peering over the seats at the girl, Charles thought it was unnatural for such perfect dictation to come from an Asian woman.
“You have entered the eternal city of Pyongyang,” the girl began, “the greatest city in the world because of the sovereignty of the Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, whose spirit leads us to victory today to defeat the fascist pigs, and the Dear Leader, Kim Jong-il, who, by his great intelligence, developed nuclear weapons that will be used to destroy our enemies.”
She almost shouted, even though the volume on the microphone was at its maximum. It made his ears hurt.
Man, I need some Advil.
“No enemy has been able to harm us with their corruptible power and evil ways,” the girl continued. “The great satan of America was turned back by the heroic efforts of the Great Leader, Kim Il-sung.”
Did she just say that?
Charles pushed himself up in his seat to get a better look at the girl. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought Oakland had put her up to this, but the tone of her voice and her determined face told him her ranting was serious.
“Now, as the spirit of Kim Il-sung lives eternally in his grandson, our Supreme Leader, Kim Jong-un, the people of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea will destroy all remaining enemies and conquer the fascist pigs.”
Huh?
Without hesitation, she went on. “Over to your left you will see the Kim Il-sung Stadium which is the world’s largest stage for the largest games.” She gestured out the left side of the bus. “Next to the Stadium, you will see the newly built Institute of Basketball, built personally by our Supreme Leader Kim Jong-un who designed it and personally attended to its building.”
Charles looked at the white granite building that appeared to take up two square blocks. There was a large fountain in front with a picture of Kim in a hard hat pouring concrete.
“You kidding me? That’s just for basketball?” one of his teammates said.
Another whistled, and another exclaimed, “Amazing!”
“You can see by the superior intellect and resourcefulness of our great country. No other people can match our superior race.”
I wonder when she is going to talk about the twenty million people who have starved to death the last few years in this superior country?
Charles remembered the nerdy dude from the State Department that lectured them before they left. The man showed nauseating pictures smuggled out through China of starving women and children.
“Our first stop is to the glorious Mansudae Grand Monument of our Great Leader, Kim Il-sung, and the Dear Leader, Kim Jong-il,” the guide continued. “I would respectfully ask that you remain in an orderly and quiet group as we approach the monument. You will each be given a bouquet of flowers to present to our leaders as you bow and give them their due respect.”
Charles got the feeling that this was a required part of their visit when the sullen man behind the girl deepened his glare. Charles was tired. He was not interested in gigantic statues of dead guys. Not only was he jet-lagged, he was extremely hung over from the party on the plane.
Man, what I would do for a score of snort.
He had cut a line in Beijing before they left for North Korea, but had been warned countless times about misbehaving in North Korea and ending up in one of the rumored gulag camps and tortured. The State Department guy was dead serious. Charles had left the remainder of the coke behind.
Man, what a headache.
But he needed this trip. He was a quarter million dollars behind on his taxes, with no relief in sight. Oakland told the press the players and staff were doing this for goodwill, but no one in this group did anything for free. It was how they rolled. The 50,000 dollars he was promised was not much, but better than a kick in the shorts. It was the 100,000-dollar bonus that had gotten his attention.
Charles patted the front pocket of his suit to make sure the envelope and small metal box were there. He thought back to how he got to this place.
* * *
It had started when he was at the gym getting into reasonable shape for these games and a man approached him. Dressed in a casual jogging suit, the small, oriental man confronted him as he sat alone at the bench press.
“Charles Hall?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
This man did not look like a cop.
“I have a business proposal for you that I think you will like.”
“Oh really? You a fag or something?”
The man was neither intimidated nor deterred. “Mr. Hall, let me be brief. I know of your many problems.” He paused to let Charles catch up. “I have a very simple request that could put a dent in your debt.”
He paused again to let the big man comprehend. “Something so simple, even you, Mr. Hall, could do.” He glared into Charles’s eyes to let him know who was in control.
Charles nodded.
“In the next few days, before you go to North Korea, I will give you an envelope and a small package that—”
“Hey, dude, how do you know I’m going to North Korea? I haven’t even decided for sure myself.”
“I think once you hear my offer, you will not have a difficult time with your decision.”
* * *
Charles returned to the present when the woman guide ordered the men in the bus to stand and prepare to unload.
Man, oh man! She’ll make someone a good wife someday. Nasty little Nazi woman!
He stood with the rest of the rag-tag team. He knew he was on his way to becoming a has-been, and the parties and coke didn’t help. At least the organizers told them the games would be a joke, and they were expected, no, required to lose. The whole saving-face thing.
But for him, relief was in sight. He patted the package in his pocket.