He spoke to the boy by phone once or twice a week. Like many North Koreans, both Park and his son had gray market cell phones, made in China or Japan and modified to work on the North Korean network. It wasn’t cheap, Park explained, but while he had two daughters, Park Jang-su was his only son. And he was worried. The unit had received a full load of live ammunition twice, only to turn it in again each time.
It was an hour-long drive from Tongyang village to the Chongchon River Bridge. National Highway One was a reasonably well-maintained two-lane road. The morning traffic was backed up right before the bridge, and leaning out the side window, Cho could see a police vehicle parked off to one side. He suppressed the automatic flash of fear — his identity documents were in order.
The line of vehicles, mostly trucks like Park’s, crawled forward and eventually Park stopped next to a policeman waving a small flag. “Bridge fee,” the policeman demanded. “Ten yuan.”
“As if I had ten yuan,” Park groused. The farmer was already holding a few bills in his hand, but out of sight of the official. “I won’t have any money until I sell this load. Why don’t you come around then?”
“Because you farmers are too quick to leave, which is why I’m standing here.” The policeman sounded like he’d been inconvenienced. “Seven yuan.”
“Two,” Park countered. “I may meet other policemen.”
“Five,” the officer responded, but Cho could tell he was just going through the motions.
“Three,” Park said, and handed the bills he’d been holding out the window. “And my daughters will go hungry tonight.”
“Why should they be different than the rest of us?” the policeman answered philosophically, waving them on.
Once over the bridge, they quickly came to a local road junction next to a canal, on the north side of town. Sinanju was a worker’s community for nearby Anju town. The main industry was coal mining; the dust darkened every surface and made every crevice black. It hung in the air so that even the light became gray. Following the farmer’s advice, Cho tied a cloth over his mouth, and virtually everyone Cho saw had done the same, as if they were all American Wild West bandits.
Cho helped Park unload his vegetables, not only out of gratitude, but because the farmer was still telling stories about what he’d heard from the south. He finally took his leave, and explored the market.
It wasn’t large, just two rows of a dozen or so stalls lining a dirt lane in an open field, but the vendors were doing business. The dusty paths were filled with pedestrians and bicyclists. Some booths were quite elaborate, and clearly permanent. Cho bought a bowl of bean sprout rice from a vendor for breakfast, and tried to listen to the conversations around him.
More than a few were about politics and news from the capital. The shutdown of the state-controlled media had been very upsetting. Nobody listened to the official propaganda, but when it stopped, that meant something had changed. Cho had seen and studied gatherings like this a thousand times, and they were worried. The people faced uncertain times, and in the North, that meant hard times.
His Russian masters, like the North Korean populace, wanted to know what was happening. If there was actual fighting, how bad was it? Who belonged to what faction? His original orders sending him from the Chinese border south had included a long list of very important, but hard-to-answer questions. Replies to his two progress reports since then had only added more questions, and demanded to know why he wasn’t already in Pyongyang.
Cho headed for the Sinanju train station, hoping to speed his progress. Normal bus service had been suspended, and he’d been forced to hitchhike, taking days instead of hours just to get this far. No reason had been given for the suspension, but Cho was seeing more and more signs of the government ceasing to provide its normal functions. Some state-owned stores and offices were closed without notice, and in one town he’d passed through, the food rations had run out, again, with no explanation. Fuel supplies were spotty, which may have been a reason for the bus cancellation.
He didn’t know whether it was the passage of time or the diminishing distance from the capital, but he could only expect things to get worse.
The Sinanju train station was built to a plan common all over the North — a broad, once-white building with the obligatory portrait of the Supreme Leader at its peak. Two armed soldiers stood outside, but that was customary.
As he neared the entrance, Cho had already taken out his identity papers, certain he’d be challenged before he could buy a ticket. As one of the soldiers approached, Cho offered his papers, with a one-yuan note folded underneath. That was the customary fee to make sure there weren’t any “irregularities” that might make a traveler miss his train.
To his surprise, the soldier waved the papers away, a stern expression on his face. He barked, “Go away, the station is closed.”
Cho, confused, momentarily considered increasing the size of the bribe, but then realized that although there were people on the street, nobody was entering or leaving the train station. He was tempted to just turn around and leave, but he needed to get a train ticket. He ventured, “Do you know when it will be open again?”
The soldier opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a harsh “What’s going on here?” from behind Cho.
He spun around to see a uniformed officer, which wasn’t unusual, but he didn’t expect it to be a major from the Korean People’s Internal Security Forces. They were a paramilitary organization, and usually handled things like civil defense and traffic control. Theoretically, they could be mobilized to assist other security forces in times of crisis — like now, Cho belatedly realized.
The solder braced and saluted, and started to explain, but the major ignored him and instead simply said, “Papers,” almost spitting out the word.
Cho still had his identity card and travel orders in his hand, but he palmed the one-yuan note as he gave everything else to the major. He didn’t speak, but waited for the inevitable questions.
“Your business here?”
“I am returning to headquarters at Sukchon. I wanted to buy a ticket for passage there.” Cho tried to keep his tone as respectful as possible. The major had a hard, almost angry expression, as if Cho’s mere existence was an offense.
“This station has been closed to all civilian traffic until further notice.”
“Civilian traffic? The army’s taken over the railroads?”
“Why do you want to know?” the major demanded. He motioned to the soldier, who moved behind Cho. He was sure that there was an assault rifle leveled at his back.
“If you’re a spy, you might try feigning ignorance to gather information useful to this country’s enemies about the railroads and troop movements.”
Cho didn’t try to hide his fear. He didn’t want to be arrested by this man. It was not only the risk of discovery as a real spy, but the certainty of more delay, possibly permanently. He didn’t even have to be charged. They could simply throw him in prison for “suspicious activity” and leave him there to rot. Nobody in the North would ever come looking for him, and he wasn’t foolish enough to believe the Russians would do anything.
The major was looking at him. “The announcement went out yesterday morning to all state organizations announcing the order. If you were really an agricultural inspector, you would have received word from your office.”
“My apologies, Major, I really didn’t know. Look at my travel orders. I’ve been up near Tongyang. I haven’t heard from my office in almost a week.” Luckily, that was all true, but would it be enough? Catching a spy, even a false one, might gain the major favor with his superiors. It would certainly be more interesting than patrolling an empty train station.