The People’s Grain Warehouse was right where the recon boys told me it would be. Luckily, North Koreans retire early, and on the way I’d seen only a few people from a distance: laborers trudging their way home, an occasional man pushing a wooden cart. I’d managed to avoid them.
The rotted wood door at the back of the warehouse was open. I stepped inside carefully, prepared for anything. Inside, a candle flickered on a low wooden table. The odor of fermenting grain was overpowering. Dust floated in the air. Not dust, I realized, probably minute particles from the husks of rice.
The candle still burning indicated that someone was working late. Hero Kang, I hoped. He couldn’t have known which ship I’d be arriving on-we’d had no communication since the initial message-but certainly he’d be here any night a foreign ship pulled into port, which was only, according to the intelligence boys in Seoul, two or three dozen times a year. A desk sat in a corner and in front of it were square wooden slots, an old-fashioned filing system with yellowed paper rolled and stuffed into various pigeonholes.
I didn’t want to say hello-what if Hero Kang wasn’t alone? What if he’d been joined by a surprise visitor and had led the visitor away, hoping I wouldn’t barge in at the wrong time? I decided to find a hiding place and wait. Before I did, I couldn’t resist peeking through a double wooden door. Stepping gingerly on the creaking wood, I pushed the door open slightly and peered into the vast darkness of a high-ceilinged storage area. Something flitted amongst rafters. Bats. I was about to retreat and find a hiding place in the outside alleyway when the soles of my shoes slid on something rough, like tiny pebbles. Grain-millet, I thought-had been strewn purposefully along the floor. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized that the grain had been dropped to form the shape of a crooked arrow, an arrow that pointed deeper into the warehouse. Quietly, I scattered the grain with my shoe and followed.
Moonbeams streamed through a skylight. I passed ancient wooden pallets piled high with sacks of rice. North Korea was a fecund country, rich soil in the lowlands, profitable minerals in the mountains. Begrudgingly, some of my briefers in Seoul had admitted that the standard of living in communist North Korea-as judged by the per capita annual caloric intake-was higher than that in democratic South Korea. But they were quick to add that the Soviet bloc was spending millions subsidizing the North Korean lifestyle, and South Korea was gaining on them rapidly.
At the far end of the warehouse, another tiny candle wavered. It sat on the floor in the center of a short hallway. The door at the end of the hallway had been propped open by a stone. Near the flame, more grain had been scattered. I knelt to examine it, this time expecting a message. It formed two words. The first was a Chinese character. Three lines, the outer two angling in on the straight line in the middle. It took me a second and then it came to me. Su. Water. The second word was in shadow. I lifted the flaming plate of oil. It was in English. Then I realized what it said.
Run.
2
A narrow pathway ran along the edge of the Taedong River. I slipped on the muddy precipice and almost plunged into the roiling water below, at the last minute grabbing shrubbery, steadying myself, and moving forward. Besides the three-quarter moon, the only visibility was provided by the glare of the floodlights of the port behind me. I was heading north, not sure if this was the right way but knowing that I didn’t want to return south toward the port. If anyone were following me, they’d be coming from that direction. The message written on the floor of the grain warehouse had been clear. Head for water and run.
Doc Yong knew that I’d studied the Korean language and memorized a few dozen of the Chinese characters that educated Koreans sprinkle amongst their phonetic hangul script. Had she told Hero Kang about me? Was she here? The thought excited me but also frightened me. Frightened me because I wasn’t sure what to say to her after being separated for so many months, and frightened me even more because I didn’t want her to be in danger. I shoved such thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on keeping my footing on the slippery precipice.
A breeze flowed from the land above, caressing my cheek, wafting down toward the Taedong River and joining the swirling current below. The wind carried guttural male voices and shoe leather slapping on stone, from how far away I couldn’t be sure.
I didn’t think Food Worker Pei and the gate guard had blown the whistle. They had too much to lose. Also, if it had been them, Hero Kang or whoever was waiting for me at the warehouse wouldn’t have known I was being followed. Not that quickly. Somehow Hero Kang had been tipped off already, which means that he had contacts feeding him information from inside the Port of Nampo.
Occasional flashes of light glinted from between the wood-and-brick walls that lined the top of the cliff. I increased my speed, plowing ahead for what must’ve been at least a mile. Abruptly the pathway ended, or at least it appeared to end. It curved sharply up the muddy incline. There was nowhere else to go, so I clambered uphill, following as the path squeezed between the walls and fed into a stinking pedestrian alleyway, barely wide enough for my shoulders. The ground was layered with mud except for a narrow center channel lined in flagstone. Waste flowed freely through the channel, gurgling beneath my feet.
Eight-foot-high walls loomed above the alleyway. Behind them, all was quiet. It was probably close to midnight by now, but this was more than just the silence of exhaustion in a working neighborhood. It was as still as death. So far, that’s what this country seemed like to me. Like death.
I ran my hands along either side of the narrow walkway, stepping widely to avoid the central gutter. I passed alleys between buildings that were even narrower than the one I was on, veering off at odd angles to the right and the left. The only light left now was the glimmer of the overhead three-quarter moon.
Finally, the alley ended, merging into an open area paved in a circular array of old-fashioned cobblestones, which surrounded a naked elm tree bracketed by flat wooden benches. I knelt in the mouth of the alleyway, catching my breath, studying the darkness. Across the little plaza, candlelight shone through a crack in the walls, golden beams bobbing like mischievous imps. The electricity in this area had probably been switched off by the local authorities-a routine practice to conserve energy, according to my briefers in Seoul. I stared up at the stars, bright among drifting clouds. No one followed me anymore. Where were the running footsteps I’d heard before? I listened for what must have been two minutes. Nothing.
I thought about the message on the warehouse floor. There had only been one pathway along the river’s edge and only one way to climb back up to ground level. It led here, to this spot. Whoever had left the message for me was the same person who’d lit that candle across the plaza. I was certain of it. I stared at the flickering light, appreciating the fact that someone in this vast wilderness of death had lit a candle for me, and enjoying the sensation of sweat pooling beneath my coat. But the night was growing colder. Soon I would begin to shiver. The light on the far side of the cobblestones portended warmth and safety.
Just as I was about to stand up and step out into the open, I heard footsteps. Rapid. Too rapid for me to react. Shadows appeared at the far end of the clearing. I crouched back into darkness. Demons of the night, maybe a dozen, filtered across the cobblestones.
I suddenly became aware of something behind me. Back some thirty yards, where this pathway opened onto the muddy cliff, I heard heavy breathing, and cursing.