The plane was in sight. A fat dot in the whitewashed sky, it moved remorselessly closer. It was attended by a number of smaller specks. Like flies around a larger animal. North Korean fighter jets.
Soe wheeled to the officer. "Shoot it down anyway," he insisted. "It could be loaded with chemical or biological weapons. Worse, it could carry a nuclear payload. Who knows what technology the fool Americans have given our capitalist cousins? They have been jealous and fearful of the people's nuclear program for years. This could be their reckless attempt to finish us all."
Though the officer looked blandly at Soe, venom roiled beneath the surface of his well-fed face. "Are you not Rim Kun Soe, the disgraced lackey running dog of the capitalist-loving Master of Sinanju?"
Soe stiffened. "I am no one's dog, you ignorant son of a mongrel!" he snapped.
The officer did not hesitate. He sent a balled fist directly into the face of Rim Kun Soe.
As Soe reeled back, nose gushing blood, the man ordered the two agents who had accompanied the dishonored Public Security Ministry representative onto the tarmac to take hold of him. Instantly, Soe felt his arms being pinned behind his back.
Then the officer turned back to the plane.
It was much closer now. As Soe bled onto his uniform, the entire group of gathered agents watched the plane touch down.
It hit with a squeal of smoking rubber. The plane rapidly decelerated. As it slowed to a stop, a wheeled staircase was rolled out beneath the main exit door, which was now open. The engines died.
The Korean military jets that had acted as escort roared back and forth across the airport as the first gunmen raced up the steps and on board the now silent plane.
There were several tense moments when nothing happened.
All at once, a man stepped out onto the upper platform of the staircase. He had his hands atop his head, fingers intertwined.
For a moment, the security personnel assumed that this was one of the men from the South requesting asylum. This mistaken impression lasted only until they realized that it was one of their own security men whom they had sent aboard to secure the plane.
Several others followed. All were in the same pose. None carried the rifles they had brought aboard with them.
"What is this?" the officer demanded when the first man had climbed down the steps. "Where are your weapons?"
"He took them," the soldier admitted.
"Who?"
"The one who did this." The man tugged at his arms. Though it appeared as if he was trying to move them, they did not budge. The fingers remained locked atop his black hair.
"Lower your arms," the officer commanded, disgusted.
"We cannot," said the soldier.
The others were straining behind him. They appeared to be having the same difficulty as the first.
The officer grew angry. He grabbed the lead soldier's arm at the elbow and yanked. It did not budge. Surprised, he pulled harder. The arms remained locked in place. It was as if they were glued to his head.
The officer finally gave up. "How many are aboard?" he demanded, scowling.
"Only one man," said the soldier.
"One?" asked a stunned voice from behind the officer.
The soldiers all looked in the same direction. Rim Kun Soe stood behind the officer. Wet blood streaked down his suddenly fearful, cold face. He appeared to know something that the others did not. His expression was more uneasy than it had been when he suspected the plane might be carrying a nuclear payload.
The officer did not have time to waste on an insubordinate agent like Soe. He turned back to the soldiers.
"The flight crew?"
"Are still in the cockpit, I assume."
"You assume," he spit. The man glanced at Soe one last time. He drew his side arm. "You," he said, spreading his arm to the next batch of soldiers in line. "Come with me."
The officer himself led the next charge into the belly of the mysterious plane. When he came out a few minutes later, his face was almost as red as Rim Kun Soe's. However, it was not blood that turned his skin to scarlet. It was embarrassment.
The man's hands were locked atop his head. His weapon was nowhere to be seen.
He was also not alone.
"Man, I forgot what a desolate lump of ice this country is," Remo Williams complained from his position behind the officer.
On the ground, Soe attempted to back away. The two agents held him fast. "No," he said, his voice small.
As one, hundreds of weapons suddenly trained on the doorway of the 747, in spite of the presence of their commanding officer. Bolts clicked like so many metal crickets as the handguns and rifles were cocked.
"Do not move!" shouted a junior officer.
"Hold your fire!" screamed the officer with Remo. "Hold your fire! He is friendly!"
Remo waved to demonstrate this. "Hiya!" he called to the crowd of soldiers.
This did nothing to convince the men to lower their weapons. However, they did not wish to go against their commanding officer. Three hundred gun barrels tracked the two men down the stairs to the runway.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll get them to lower their weapons," Remo cautioned the officer.
Apparently, Remo had done something more than merely freezing the soldier's hands atop his head while they were on board the plane. His red face grew more ruddy as he screamed out to the soldiers.
"I will personally see to it that every soldier who does not stand down this moment will spend the rest of his miserable days rotting in a People's prison!" he screamed over the gusting wind.
They hesitated at first. After all, sometimes there was rice in the People's prisons.
"With no food!" the officer screamed.
The guns were not only lowered; they were dropped, flung. They clattered loudly and crazily to the frozen tarmac.
"That's better," Remo said, glancing around. His eyes alighted on Soe.
The former Berlin embassy man had been trying to sink back into the crowd. Remo bounded over to him.
"Hey, I know you!" Remo said, beaming in recognition. He slapped a hand on Soe's shoulder. "He'll be my driver."