Bamboo and blood io-3 Page 2

  The temperature was still dropping. I didn't want to be in this storm another minute. We might die, literally where we stood. They'd discover us months later, a threesome frozen in place, a perfect revolutionary tableau to be labeled "Interrogation of an Enemy Spy" and then visited by lines of schoolchildren ever after.

  "Where's your car?" I demanded. It was hopeless; the wind was slamming against the side of the hut. In another second it would send us swirling into the winter sky, earflaps and all, and take our cars with it. Pak looked at the ceiling, which was showing signs of giving way. The foreigner sat unperturbed. I put my face close to Pak's and shouted, "Didn't I tell you, letting him have his own car would be trouble?" This self-assured, wandering Jew in Pyongyang had been put in our charge, and what did we do? In response to his silken request, we'd gotten him his own car. His own car! Nothing fancy, but that wouldn't count in our favor, not in the least. Already I could hear it, the lame route the conversation in the State Security Department's interrogation room would take. At least I had to hope it would be SSD. Their interrogations rarely got anywhere with us; the plastic chairs became unbearable after an hour or so and no one could concentrate after that. But they would keep hammering on the same point-he had a car, he had his own car, and we had gotten it for him. "Well, how were we supposed to know?" I'd say when they finally gave up and told us to go home so they could stretch and get something hot to drink. "We're not paid to be mind readers, are we?"

  The foreigner looked at me oddly. Something I hadn't seen from him before, a touch of anger, started across his face, but after a moment the familiar half-smile settled back on his lips. "Let me guess, you're about to begin asking me questions that could get me into trouble." One eyebrow waltzed toward the other. "You don't want to get me in trouble, do you?"

  The wind stopped suddenly, leaving nothing but silent, burning cold in the hut. "Questions don't cause trouble." Pak shifted his weight again and slapped his arms across his chest. "Only answers do. Save it, would you? We have to walk a kilometer back to our car, and we'd better get there before the temperature falls any more, assuming it has anyplace left to fall. The Ministry will send someone for your vehicle in a day or so if the roads are passable. You won't be needing it anyway."

  "Let me guess, you're afraid yours won't start in the cold." The foreigner stood up and put his hand on Pak's shoulder. "You wouldn't let me bring back a good car battery the last time I went to China. I offered, did I not? But you refused. So stubborn, so stubborn. It must be in the genes." He didn't seem fazed by the warning that people-unfriendly, nasty, thick-necked people-would be waiting when we got back to the city. Maybe something had been lost in my rendering of what Pak said. He could be a difficult man to translate. The edge on his thoughts didn't always survive the journey between languages.

  I could see that the more Pak mulled things over, the angrier he was getting. The thought had occurred to him, too. Someone had used us. Pak could forgive almost everything, but not being used. His lips had tightened into a thin line. I wondered how he could accomplish such a feat in this icebox. My teeth had started to ache. Our quarry smiled radiantly. "Is there any coffee, some way to heat water?" he asked. From the look on his face, you'd have thought we were waiting for the menus so we could order dinner and a bottle of wine.

  "The warmest things in reach are those genes of yours. Crank them up full blast, because we're going to need something to keep from freezing while we walk to the car." I looked at his naked ears. "Here, take my hat."

  Pak shook his head and frowned, but I wasn't interested.

  3

  Two men from the special section were waiting when we stumbled into the office, past midnight. One was asleep, his head slack, chin bumping on his chest. The other one was awake, his long, ugly face fatigued and angry. "My, my, look who has returned to the nest." He pointed at two cups on the desk. "You don't mind? We helped ourselves to some tea. Maybe you could clean those once in a while. They were all greasy-like." This was directed at me, an opening shot. People from the special section like to get under your skin first thing; they think it makes them look tough. I was tired and numb beyond saving, but I smiled. "Whatever you say."

  Pak slowly took off his coat. He stood rubbing his hands together for a moment, then pulled out the chair behind his desk and sat down. "I don't remember setting up an appointment with you two." He looked from one man to the other. "Or is this a friendly call? Maybe you want to repay the money you owe me. You do, you know. You both do. I haven't forgotten. And, oh, say, is that your car down there? It's in my spot." Pak slammed the flat of his hand down on the desk. "Move it."

  The man who was sleeping yawned and opened his eyes at the sound. He glanced at me without interest. "Yeah, well, we'll take custody now, so don't worry about your parking spot." He stood up and moved toward the foreigner.

  "No one is going anywhere until I make a phone call." Pak rarely balked at surrendering custody. There was something funny in his manner; it made me uneasy when he acted strange like this. "We've been tramping around in the snow for hours. I'll be damned if the two of you will just take over after sitting here and napping all night. You want to play, find yourself some orders, and they better be written orders," he paused. "Pretend to be useful for a change instead of just pushing people around." Pak picked up the phone, listened for a moment, then put it down again.

  The two of them smiled together, as if one were a mirror image of the other. A moment later, the first one's face fell back into anger. His mouth moved a few times, but nothing came out.

  "Phones are down," the second one said and yawned again. His overcoat had a nice fur-lined hood on it. "You know you can't keep him, and you know why. So don't be a dope."

  Pak pulled a clean sheet of paper out of a drawer and slapped it on his desk. I'd never seen him make such grand, noisy gestures. "There's nothing that says I can't keep him, and there's nothing that says you get to take him. You're in my office, this is a Ministry building, and I say nothing happens until I get something with an official stamp that tells me I don't have jurisdiction. Meantime, go fuck yourself."

  They both looked at the foreigner. "He doesn't move; he stays here. If he leaves this building, he'll be sorry. If he talks to anyone on the phone, he'll be sorry." The first one had found his voice again. He turned to Pak. "And you'll be sorry, comrade, believe me. Real sorry. We're going now, but we'll be back." He picked up one of the cups and tossed it to me. "Wash these, why don't you?"

  They smiled again, in stereo, and slammed the door on their way out.

  The foreigner applauded. "Bravo, bravo. A man of principle! I thought you said you were going to toss me into their jaws."

  I put down the cup and rubbed my ears. "Almost thawed out, but I still can't believe what I just heard. Are you crazy?" I looked at Pak. "They'll tear us limb from limb. Especially the ugly one."

  Pak shook his head. "I don't like people helping themselves to my tea, and I don't like them parking in my spot. Besides, they don't scare me. I don't care what they look like. It will take them a couple of hours to find the right person to supply written authorization. No one wants to commit anything to paper these days, too dangerous; there's no paper trail if there's no paper. Everyone wants everything verbal. Well, I don't. I don't have to take verbal orders from them, and they know it. Meantime, I'll call the Minister, and we'll figure out something else to slow them down." He turned to the foreigner. "You were under my care. You still are, as far as I'm concerned. I don't sacrifice people under my care, it doesn't matter how foolish they are."

  "Where does all this leave me, if you don't mind my asking?" The foreigner did not look grateful or concerned. He sounded even less so.

  "You?" Pak stared at the man for a moment. "Where does it leave you? You can go back to your hotel if you want. Pack your suitcase. Sit tight."

  "What if they come for me at the hotel?" Still no note of concern in the voice.

  "No problem. The inspector here will look ster
n. He will be implacable until they back off and go home."

  "And if they don't?"

  Pak looked surprised. "Do I detect a note of worry? I wouldn't have thought so, you getting worried. But if that's the case, if you'd rather hide, you can stay here. We'll dump you at the airport later this morning, and you take the next plane out." He pointed at the calendar on the wall. "It's Tuesday, you're in luck. The plane leaves early, assuming they get the runway cleared and the ice off the wings."

  "What if things play out differently, not so propitiously? It's not that I'm worried, just running down the options."

  "I'll bet you have contingency plans." Pak scratched his head. "Deigeh nisht, I think was the term you used. It's Swiss, you said, for 'never mind, it's covered.'"

  The foreigner laughed even before I finished translating. "You were so drunk that night, who could believe you would remember anything. But you did! Maybe my efforts here were not in vain." He laughed again. "Look, I can get you honorary citizenship someday, if you need it. You and the inspector, both. Who knows, your Korean genes might like the beach, and a little oil, eh, Inspector?" He patted me on the shoulder. "Is there a bed in this place?"

  Pak pointed down the hall. "No bed. You can sleep on a chair in the empty office. The bathroom is downstairs; there's no lightbulb, so try to wait until the sun is up to use it. You need something to eat, but I don't know where we can find anything right now. Maybe they have some food at the airport. We'll see what's possible later this morning. You have your passport with you?"

  "No."

  "It figures." Pak turned to me. "Go get it before those stone heads think to collect the damned thing from the hotel."

  "The clerks won't hand it over." I didn't bother getting up. "'You lack authorization,' they'll say, if I can even rouse them at this hour of the morning. I may not even be able to get in the door. They lock it, and there's no bell."

  "Be charming, Inspector." The foreigner handed me a hundred-dollar bill. "Be very charming and give them this as authorization. It might even open the door."

  Pak grunted. "They might not take it…"

  I put the bill in my pocket. "Though, then again, they might. Of course, as soon as they give me the passport, they'll make a call to our grinning friends." I stood up to go. "Incidentally, keep your honorary citizenship." I looked at a notch at the top of the window frame and said very deliberately, "I don't need it."

  "You know, O, you might have been a Jew." The foreigner craned his neck at the corners of the ceiling and then settled his gaze on the top of the window, which was rattling in the wind. "You see Cossacks everywhere."

  4

  Wednesday morning, the two men from the special section were back, carrying a piece of paper and accompanied by two other men, from where they wouldn't say.

  "What do you mean, he's gone?" The ugly one growled and narrowed his eyes. "I told you, if he left this place, you'd be sorry."

  Pak tipped back in his chair. "Did you? I don't remember that. Do you remember that, Inspector?" I was standing in the doorway.

  "No. I don't recall."

  The others turned to look at me. One of them licked his lips. "You, of all people, O. It figures, our paths would cross again, someday." I didn't recognize the face, but his left hand was missing two fingers. He held it up for me to see.

  Pak gave me a look, halfway between "You know him?" and "Let me handle this." I leaned against the wall, a little out of sorts. The man with the left hand had died a long time ago. Fifteen years, maybe more. I remembered the day precisely. I just couldn't recall the year.

  "Where is he?" The ugly one turned back to Pak. "And don't say you don't know."

  "I don't know." Pak took a nail clipper from his drawer. He clipped the nails on his left hand, and put the parings in a neat little pile on the desk. No one spoke. This is what it is like inside an atomic bomb, I thought to myself. In the millisecond before it blows everything to hell.

  Finally, the fourth man laughed. "When we're through with you, you'll be lucky to have anything left to clip." He was taller than the others, older. "But I don't want to get ahead of myself. So, I'll give you another chance. Where is the foreigner?"

  Pak swept the parings into a trashcan beside the desk before looking up. "He's gone. I assume he took the flight out of here back to Beijing. From there, your guess is as good as mine."

  "You decided, on your own, not to hold him?" The tall man looked around the office. "Since when do shitty little policemen make decisions about national security matters? Beyond your writ, wouldn't you say?"

  "He had a valid passport, a valid visa, a valid residency stamp, and an airline ticket that didn't look like it had been forged." Pak counted on his fingers as he listed each piece of evidence. "As far as I know, he went through the immigration line, looked at the officer in the booth, you know, the girl with the lips like roses in bloom, and was passed. No one said boo. You had a lookout for him, did you?"

  "We had reason to hold him. You let him slip away. Tell me why."

  The man with the left hand hadn't taken his eyes off me. There was no expression in them, but you wouldn't call it a blank look. I felt pinned to the wall, like a bug. Alright, so he didn't die fifteen years ago. Good for him. He nodded for me to step outside.

  5

  We went down the stairs without speaking. When we got outside, he kept walking to the front gate. The guards looked at him and then at me. I shrugged and followed him to the street. Finally, he stopped and turned around. "If I shot you right here, do you think anyone would mind?"

  "Nice to see you, too."

  He lit a cigarette. "You still don't smoke, I assume. No problems of conscience. Just left me for dead and danced home. I wondered what I'd say if I ever saw you again."

  "What did you decide?"

  "I forget." He threw away the cigarette. "You didn't even look surprised when you saw me."

  "It crossed my mind." I started to walk. "Let's keep moving."

  He fell in alongside, but didn't say anything.

  "Where have you been in the meantime? We'd have run into each other sooner if you'd been in-country."

  "Here and there. It took a few years to recover. Pretty good job, the way they put me together again. Good doctors. Very dedicated." He held up his hand. "Too bad I'm left-handed."

  "Must make it hard to count."

  He stopped. "I think I'll use two bullets. The first one so that it hurts, really bad. And the second one, so it hurts even more." He paused. "I can still count to two."

  "You should be able to make it to three, but you're not even armed, so maybe we can skip through the tough talk." He'd lit another cigarette; his good hand was shaking a little, not much. "What did your crowd want with the foreigner?"

  "Doesn't concern you." The smoke from the cigarette drifted slowly out of his mouth, as if he weren't breathing. "I'll tell you this, though. There's going to be hell to pay that he got out of the country. You know where he's from?"

  "He says he's Swiss." That was true, as far as it went.

  "You believe him? He's not Swiss. His mother is a Hungarian, that's why he has a Hungarian name. What did you think Jeno was?"

  Actually, I'd checked that with the name trace section. I put in the request on a Wednesday morning, the day after our foreigner arrived. When nothing was back by Friday, I called. Real simple, they said. It's Italian. "You sure about that? His papers say he's Swiss." Don't worry, they said. We know names; it's Italian.

  "So, maybe his father is Swiss." I avoided looking at the man's hand and concentrated on his face. There was nothing in it I recognized.

  "His father was Israeli."

  "Was."

  "Dead."

  "Is that so? You seem to know quite a bit."

  "You'd be surprised." He threw away the second cigarette. "Let me ask you a question. Nothing complicated. Why'd you let him go?"

  "We had our orders to be nice, show him around, keep him comfortable. Ending up in one of your holes didn'
t match the description. Anyway, he hadn't done anything wrong."

  "Not in your book."

  "Not in my book." I stepped off the curb. "You hungry? I'll buy you lunch." There hadn't been food for lunch for a long time, but we still made the offer sometimes, out of habit.

  "No, thanks." He turned around and started walking back toward the gate. "I'd rather choke."

  6

  Pak didn't look up when I stepped into his office. "We're in a lot of trouble, but you know that. Where you been?"

  "I spent some time thinking about noodles. Then I did some walking around. I wanted to clear my head, that sort of thing. Another cold day, we're due for a little break, wouldn't you think? Not that I mind. Cold is good for clearing my head." The cold did nothing for my head besides making my ears ache. Pak knew I was only throwing up chaff in hopes of avoiding the question he was sure to ask.

  He asked it. "You know that guy with three fingers?"

  "Two fingers, actually; the other one is a thumb. Yes, I do." I sat down and looked out the only window in Pak's office. The view wasn't much, an inner courtyard and, across the way, the Operations Building. It was snowing again, though just a few flakes. Maybe if it snowed more it would warm up a degree or two. My ears still burned from being outside without a hat. This sort of cold gave me an awful headache. "We used to work together."

  Pak said nothing, but he didn't go to sleep, either.