The vehicle was large enough for a contingent more than twice their size, so each of the four men occupied a two-seat bench, with Raabe across the aisle from Sandor, Zimmermann and Bergenn behind them. As they entered the highway to Pyongyang, the most striking feature of the multi-lane road was the absence of traffic. In a country where the leadership extols the illusions of its extraordinary economic success and the triumph of the “Juche Idea”—Kim’s ideology of national independence — the general population had somehow been left out of the equation. Not only are they lacking cars, televisions, and other amenities the Western world takes for granted, they are also lacking food. The people of North Korea had been facing a deadly famine for more than a decade, with no end in sight.
As if no such problems existed, Mr. Choi stood facing his guests, droning on about the magnificence of his great country until they reached Mansu Hill, where the bus came to a stop at a large plaza, in the center of which stood an enormous statue of Kim Il-Sung, father of Kim Jong-Il.
Towering over Pyongyang below, the image of the country’s former leader stands with arm upraised, apparently exhorting his minions to worship him as they would a deity. When Mr. Choi informed them it was time to leave the vehicle and admire the monument, Craig Raabe turned to Sandor and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Easy, big guy,” Sandor said as he stood. They had all been briefed on what was to come, but Sandor knew more about it than any of the others.
Mr. Choi led them outside with Sang remaining in the driver’s seat as they filed past him. He looked as if he were bolted in place. Choi carried a small bouquet that had been sitting beside him on the front seat.
Out on the street he said, “It is our custom that visitors honor the Great Leader by placing flowers at the base of our Glorious General’s statue.” Then he held them out straight-armed, as if part of some formal ceremony.
Knowing this moment would come, the four agents had drawn straws on the flight to Beijing. Zimmermann had lost. Now he stared at the bouquet as if it might be contaminated.
“Kurt, why not do the honors,” Sandor urged him with a grin.
Zimmermann glared at Sandor, then reached for the flowers, resisting the urge to snatch them from Choi’s tiny hands and throw them on the pavement. He walked toward the monument and set the bouquet on the ground at the base of the gigantic shrine, then backed away.
Mr. Choi hurried forward and stopped him. “Please, you must bow,” he said in a tense voice that told Sandor and the others that they were being watched and, by definition, that Mr. Choi was being judged. Sandor had a look around, but the plaza was almost completely empty. Then he glanced at Mr. Sang, still in the bus, who was silently observing the proceedings. Sandor nodded, but Sang did nothing to acknowledge him.
Kurt Zimmermann shot the other three a dirty look, then turned back to the gigantic image of the Supreme Commander, gave a brief nod of his head, then stepped back.
“Very nice,” Raabe said with a grin.
“Screw you very much,” Zimmermann replied.
Choi told them they must now observe a moment of silence, after which he herded them back onto the bus.
The other stops on their route involved similar protocols, minus the floral offering. As they approached each one of these highlights, Choi would tell them how fortunate they were to have the opportunity to visit whatever they were about to visit. Then they would leave the bus, admire something that Mr. Choi ordered them to admire, reboard the bus, and move on to the next attraction. These included the Tower of the Juche Idea; communist carvings honoring Marx, Lenin, the proletariat and, of course, Kim Il-Sung; and their final stop, the Arch of Triumph.
Unknown to the rest of his team, this was Sandor’s first contact point.
The DPRK’s Arch of Triumph, situated within the city limits of Pyongyang, is larger than the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, which is the only way Kim Il-Sung would have it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bergenn said as they climbed off the small bus for the fifth time and stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the monument. “What, exactly, was the great triumph that this arch is supposed to commemorate?”
Mr. Choi, hearing the comment, explained how the North Koreans had driven the Japanese from Korea in 1945 and, in the process, ended World War II.
“Uh, call me crazy, but according to what I’ve heard, Korea wasn’t split in two until after the war,” Bergenn said. “And speaking of revisionist history,” he went on, but Sandor stopped him when he saw Mr. Choi’s sallow complexion growing paler by the moment.
“We understand that we are guests here,” Sandor said. “We will enjoy this opportunity to see your Arch of Triumph.”
Mr. Choi responded with a quick nod, then led them toward the monument.
It was notable, again, how quiet things were within the capital city. As they walked together along the spotless sidewalk of this wide boulevard there was almost no vehicular traffic and very few pedestrians. Sandor felt the eeriness of this utterly antiseptic scene, remaining alert to the fact that — despite all appearances — everything they did was being carefully monitored.
As they reached the plaza at the base of the arch they spotted the first tourist stand they had encountered since arriving in the capital city. A country purporting to encourage foreign visitors to come and honor the Great Leader offered very little in the way of souvenirs of the event. The group had not come across so much as a postcard up to now. Even at this small booth, unlike Western tourist stands, the selection was limited. They had a few packaged snacks, some soft drinks, and a vast array of photographs, mostly of Kim Jong-Il. The rest of the counter and walls were covered with pins of various colors, sizes, and designs. Koreans are fond of pins, and it is not unusual for citizens of the DPRK to wear several at one time. As the other three men followed Choi toward the arch, Sandor fell back, wandering back toward the stand.
An older woman stood inside the kiosk, while a younger, attractive woman was waiting alongside the counter.
“Do you speak English?” Sandor asked them.
The older woman did not reply. The younger girl said, “Yes, a little.”
Sandor nodded. “This arch is taller than the one in Paris,” he said.
“But not wider,” she told him.
Sandor looked around, then returned his attention to the young woman. “I would like to buy some pins. I think four should do it,” he said.
“Yes, here are four very nice pins.” She reached behind the display and held out four enamel-covered pins. Two had a colorful design surrounding the flag of the DPRK. The other two featured the same design around the image of Kim Il-Sung.
Sandor began to hand her some won, the North Korean currency he exchanged for at the airport.
“Take these,” she said softly, placing them in his hand. “The design is what you will seek in others. You understand?”
He nodded, putting the pins in his jacket pocket.
She turned to the other woman and handed her the bills. When she made change, the young woman turned back to Sandor and handed him some coins. “You are Sandor?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“Yes.”
“I am Hea,” she said with a shy smile.
A voice behind Sandor said, “A name that means grace. And quite fitting, I must say young lady.” It was Zimmermann. “Making friends, Jordan?”
“A wise man once told me that whenever traveling abroad, we are diplomats for our nation.”