There were eight other boxes just like it stacked neatly beside the first. They had yet to be opened.
"Do not open these," the PBRS director commanded. "I will hold the two of you responsible if they are damaged in any way. Take them to the lab, as well."
As the director marched from the room, the security agent holding the tightly wrapped package only nodded. To open his mouth would be to release a mouthful of vomit onto the upturned face of the head in his hands.
ONCE THE SHRINK-WRAP had been cut away and the frozen-in-death faces had been forced back into some semblance of normalcy, their nation of origin became more evident.
The faces were certainly Korean. But were they from the North or the South? Perhaps they were not even from divided Korea at all. They could merely be foreign nationals of Korean ancestry.
Fortunately, the forensic experts did not have to rely solely on the heads. Aiding the laboratory investigation was the fact that a small case had been packed inside each box. The first was discovered in the original container amid a pile of white foam packing.
Fingers. Packed like fresh Cuban cigars.
They were lined up between plastic dividers. Two rows of five, one atop the other.
Fingerprints taken from the detached digits were matched against official government records. When suspected matches were found, file photographs were compared to the severed heads.
The identities were soon confirmed. The nine heads with their attendant fingers had belonged to agents from the North Korean delegation to the United Nations.
Further proof came while the lab was completing its work. A phone call from the UN consulate in New York reported that several PBRS agents had gone missing.
The head of the People's Bureau of Revolutionary Struggle learned of the telephone call while he was still reading the lab's findings. It was all the proof he needed to request an urgent audience with the Leader for Life of Korea, Kim Jong Il.
The Supreme Commander of North Korea was in his basement office in the presidential palace when the head of his secret intelligence force was ushered in.
Framed posters of successful American films were crammed together around all four walls. Wherever faces appeared on the long subway prints, the graphics had been altered to give the actors Asian features. The head of PBRS walked briskly past a blood-red poster on which a Korean Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock looked out disdainfully across the vast office.
Premier Kim Jong Il sat in a blue director's chair in front of a special wide-screen projection TV in the corner of the enormous office. Fuzzy images raced around the large screen.
"Can you believe this?" the premier demanded once the security agent had traversed the office. His face was a scowl.
"You have heard?" the intelligence director asked, surprise in his sharp voice.
"Heard? What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I've heard. I just can't believe it."
Though the situation was grave, the PBRS director allowed a small amount of relief. There were times-more of them than he cared to think of when the North Korean premier was less than interested in state business.
The director did not worry at the moment that there was an obvious leak in his own department. He would deal with that later. All that mattered now was that the premier knew of the problem and understood its gravity.
"This is terrible," Kim Jong Il wailed.
"Yes, it is," agreed the director.
"The worst thing that ever happened," the Korean Leader for Life moaned.
"I am heartened by your appreciation of the situation."
"I could have done twice the box office of this," Kim Jong Il lamented.
The security chief paused. "Excuse me, O Premier?"
"The box office," Kim Jong Il said. "They pulled in 230 mil, domestic. For what? A bunch of flying cows and a few lousy wind-machine effects. Moo, blow. Moo, blow. Crap, crap, crap. And the story? Pee-yew. I could come up with a better outline sitting on the can."
For a moment, the security director thought that the premier had finally succumbed to madness; however, all at once he noticed the action on the screen behind Kim Jong Il. The premier had been in the middle of watching a two-year-old American movie when the PBRS director came in. The heir to the throne of Kim Il Sung had a passion for movies that no one in his country understood.
"I see," the security director said slowly.
"I mean, stink-o-rama," Kim Jong Il insisted. "They've got a sequel coming out to this piece of crap, don't they? I wouldn't use the print to wipe my ass."
"There is a problem," the security chief said.
"Don't tell me-tell editing," the Leader for Life of Korea said, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. He stuck a fat fist into a large cardboard tub propped between his knees. Buttered popcorn spilled to the floor as he shoveled some of the puffy white snack into his mouth.
"Not with the film, my premier," the security chief said evenly.
"Don't bet the ranch on that, Charlie," replied the North Korean leader, his mocking laugh muffled.
"It is with the Americans."
Kim Jong Il paused in midchew. "What about them?" he asked, damp popcorn spilling from his mouth.
"Some of our agents in the field have been eliminated."
"Eliminated? What do you mean, eliminated? That's dead, right?"
"That is correct, Premier."
Kim Jong Il shrugged. "And?" he asked.
"The bodies were brutalized, Premier. The heads and fingers were removed and sent to us. Most likely for identification purposes."
"Chopped off?" the premier asked.
"Yes, my leader."
Kim Jong Il considered for a moment, chewing languidly at his popcorn. "Cool," he said eventually.
"Premier?"
"I mean, cool as a visual. Great scene for a movie. A head in a bag. I can see the camera panning slowly up on it. What's in it? the audience wonders. Tension building. Eerie music." He framed his hands into a makeshift camera lens as he stole up to an imaginary sack.
"Forgive me, Premier, but I believe that this is something far more serious than a scene in a film. Agents have died. Real agents."
Sitting before the security man, Kim Jong Il dropped his hands. "Don't get huffy with me, buddy," he warned. "I know what you're talking about. I was just trying to visualize."
"Of course, my leader," the security man said, bowing.