He had been ushered into this immaculately furnished office by an unsmiling bodyguard, ordered to sit down, and left waiting for nearly half an hour. He could hear water running in the small, adjoining washroom.
Kang recognized the game that was being played. He’d played it often enough himself during forty-odd years of service as a member of the Central Committee’s Research Department. The silence, the uncertainty, the long, gnawing wait. All designed to unnerve the subordinate on whom disfavor had fallen, or was about to fall.
His predecessor as director of the Southern Operations Section must have had a similar meeting before he’d been “retired” to special work farm. For a moment Kang felt a surge of anger at the unfairness of it all. His predecessor had blundered badly, and his blunders had embarrassed the State. But he had done nothing wrong. He’d heard the rumors of Kim’s rage over the tunnel catastrophe, but that wasn’t in his area of responsibility. Why this meeting then?
With difficulty he pushed the anger away. It wouldn’t help him in the next few minutes, and it might make things worse. Kang had always been something of a fatalist. The position he’d attained carried great rewards, and with great rewards came commensurate risks. It was the way of things, and no amount of carping or whining would change it.
“My dear Kang, how good it is to see you! And looking so well!” Kim Jong-Il, the plump, cherub-faced son of the Great Leader, Kim Il-Sung, bustled out of the washroom smiling from ear to ear.
Kang was astonished. This pleasant greeting was not at all what he had expected. He stood hastily and bowed to the man known throughout North Korea as the Dear Leader.
Kim moved around his desk and waved Kang down into his chair. “Sit! Sit! My dear Kang, this is no time for formality. This is a working meeting. A meeting of two old friends and comrades who’ve worked hard to preserve our Revolution, eh?”
Kang sat slowly, thinking fast. What did the man want? Aloud he said carefully, “Dear Leader, I am honored by your kind welcome.”
Kim settled himself ponderously in his own chair. He’d inherited his father’s stocky build, but unlike his father, he’d never been forced by trying circumstances to forgo the delicacies that could add pounds.
Kang found the contrast between the North’s wiry, undernourished farmers and this bloated man who would one day rule them interesting. But he was careful to leave the thought there. Irony could be a swift road to oblivion in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea — especially for a man in Kang’s position.
“Tell me, Comrade Kang, you’ve been following recent events in the South?”
“Yes, Dear Leader.” What did the man think that he did all day? Read film magazines?
“Excellent. Then tell me, Comrade, how you would analyze these events. Specifically, these massive student protests in Seoul.” Kim folded his hands over his stomach and rocked back in his chair.
Kang couldn’t read anything in the man’s expression. He took refuge in the time-worn language used in official propaganda and shrugged. “It is the old story, Dear Leader. The summer Olympics and orchestrated elections bought the Seoul regime a small measure of peace, but the progressive elements are once again trying to pressure the imperialist-controlled puppet government for significant reforms.”
“And their chances of success?”
Kang shook his head. “Nonexistent. Uncoordinated street protests are of little use against an entrenched fascist occupation.” What was the man driving at?
Kim Jong-Il sat forward in his chair. “Why then are we not doing more to assist these progressives in their cause? Surely you see these demonstrations as an opportunity. As a chance to bring these students into a united front against the American oppressors and their lackeys.”
Oh, oh. Kang wondered which of his rivals had been filling Kim’s head with such nonsense. Too many carefully placed agents had already been “blown” in futile, wasted efforts to control South Korea’s seasonal student protests. He’d better squelch this dangerous line of thought while he had the chance. “Naturally such a development would be welcome indeed. Unfortunately, most of these students have not reached the proper level of revolutionary consciousness. They want reunification with us, but they’ve been unwilling to accept the discipline needed to make that happen. As a result, several of our best networks were compromised during the last round of demonstrations. The benefits do not yet outweigh the costs, Dear Leader.”
Kim’s smile faded into an impassive, unreadable expression, and Kang thought it best to temporize. “Naturally, we continue to reevaluate each opportunity as it arises.”
Kim’s smile came back. “I am delighted to hear that, comrade. I have always known you to be a man of great sense.” He gestured airily. “But of course I shall accept your advice on this matter as the last word. We’ll leave these Southern students to their own devices.”
Kang dipped his head in gratitude. It was a rare thing to be able to so easily persuade the Dear Leader to abandon a pet proposal — even one so cautiously advanced.
“Tell me, how is the Scorpion Project proceeding?”
For a moment the rapid change of subject took Kang by surprise. He looked at Kim carefully. This must be what he had really been summoned to discuss. The talk of aiding South Korea’s rioting students had been a blind, a way to ease into something much more important to Kang and to the Research Department — the Scorpion Project.
In a way the Scorpion Project was Kang’s special pride and joy. It had occupied him for most of his career, and in fact, it had carried him to the upper echelons of the Research Department.
Scorpion was an agent — a deep-cover agent planted in South Korea in 1950, during the confusion caused by the North Korean invasion. Beria, Stalin’s feared KGB chieftain, had first suggested it to Kim Il-Sung as an insurance policy against military failure. He believed that it should prove comparatively simple to build an airtight “legend” or cover for such an agent amid the ongoing devastation, slaughter, and chaos.
He had been right. The man known by the code name Scorpion had been recruited, carefully trained and indoctrinated, and then sent south through the enemy lines — armed only with the identity of an anticommunist long since dead in a North Korean prison camp. Surviving members of the real man’s family had been rounded up and liquidated to ensure absolute security. No one was left alive to dispute Scorpion’s authenticity.
In the nearly forty years since, the agent Scorpion had risen steadily through the ranks of South Korea’s bureaucracy. And Kang had been his controller since the 1960s.
“Scorpion goes well, Dear Leader. Our man has attained a high position in the fascist internal security force.”
Kim interrupted him. “Excellent, Comrade Kang. Perfect in fact. Then he is ideally placed to carry out the task I have in mind.”
The man known as Scorpion in North Korea stood by his office window. From there he could see faint, whitish-gray wisps of tear gas rising above the city skyline. Another student protest that had turned into a riot. Good. It would make things easier. But not any safer — not for him at least.