I should have left the next morning. Kang wanted me to tell him about Macau, which meant he must know what happened there. Maybe he was even involved with the murder. If he was still angry about his daughter, maybe he’d been plotting an assassination all these years as revenge. He also knew about Major Kim, and that meant Kang had a good idea what was going on in Pyongyang. If he knew what was going on in Pyongyang, he had sources of information. And if he had sources of information, he had money.
Instead of leaving, I walked around the city, asking myself questions and chasing answers. If Major Kim was right and the game was over, we were in for years of heartache. I hadn’t been kidding with Kim about chopping wood and hauling water; he hadn’t been kidding about my shining his boots. Pyongyang would be razed, dug up, rearranged, subdivided. Streets would be repaved, memorials toppled, factories put under new management and made to produce. Food would come into the markets, goods into the stores, rations brought back, prices controlled, intelligence files pored over, people taken away in the night. The rest of the country would barely get a taste of the new money for a long time. When Kim told me that the camps would stay, I knew everything I needed to know about what the next ten years would be like.
Kim said he wanted a smooth transition. He wasn’t going to get it. If nothing else, the Chinese were not going to let it happen. Colonel Pang had made that very clear. There was also some sort of homegrown opposition stirring, and Kim didn’t seem to have a hammer he could bring down on it. The longer he waited, the stronger the opposition would get. Even so, they needed a rallying point. I didn’t see one-unless that’s what Kang was working to create. Contacting me in Macau and getting me to Prague was not a major feat, but it took money and a pretty good network. We were back to money. Funds weren’t so hard to get, if you knew where to look. A network was more difficult. That took time to build. How long had it been in place? I could probably date its origins precisely-to that night in Manpo when Kang’s daughter was taken away. No one ever knew what happened to her. Maybe Kang knew. Maybe that’s why he refused to forget.
On the afternoon of the third day, I wandered into the main square just past three o’clock. I wanted to see who moved into position before they spotted me. At first I hung back, drifting along the southern edge. A police van was parked near the fountain in the center. Compounds had ponds; squares had fountains-it was a law of nature.
Two uniformed police were talking to an Asian who was gesturing broadly the way people do when they don’t know the language. He reached for his wallet, which made them nervous. They both stepped back. Unless this was designed to be a distraction, it all looked absolutely routine. Not far from the police, sitting on the lip of the fountain, very relaxed and red-faced with liquor, were three Koreans wearing black cadre jackets. A Westerner edged over to them, pretending to be uninterested. One of the men looked at him sharply; then all three stood up and walked away. Seconds later, another Korean, gray haired and bent in a shabby raincoat, shuffled after them. He kept turning his head from side to side like a mechanical toy. None of them gave any sign that they were looking for something special. But the whole thing made me uneasy. Too damn many Koreans in one place all of a sudden.
I moved around to the opposite side of the square, trying to find a place where I could watch but not be noticed. A cloud went across the sun, and the scene suddenly didn’t look so friendly anymore. The fountain lost its appeal; the old buildings lost their gracious air and became angry. Then the sun came out again, and everything went back to normal. A woman moved out of the shadows and stood beside me.
“Hello, Cousin,” she said in perfect English. She was studying a map and facing away, so I couldn’t see much of her features. From the way her clothes fit and the strands of gray in her hair, she looked about fifty, well dressed but nothing flashy, a canvas bag over her shoulder, comfortable shoes. Then she turned to face me, and I got a good look at her. “Kafka lived over there for a while.” She pointed and flashed a diamond ring. It caught the sun and burned a hole in my heart. This was the same woman Li and I had seen in Pyongyang in front of the hotel, getting into the car. It was the same woman who had trailed the golden thread. “He went to school right here.” She turned sidewise to look at the building behind us. I don’t know if she had Chinese blood or Tartar blood or the blood of Mongol princes in her veins. She was Korean, gorgeously so. This was exactly like Kang, to have such perfection in reserve for a meeting in plain view. Anyone watching would fixate on her. I might as well be a Styrofoam cup.
“I thought the meeting was four o’clock,” I said.
“Change of plans. You’re here; I’m here. No harm done. Let’s be flexible.”
“I don’t have a cousin.”
“Tough luck for you. No uncles, no cousins.”
Someone had a very good network. “Well, it’s your lead. I’m just hanging around hoping this doesn’t work, so I can have the dumplings.”
She laughed softly and looked across the square at something. “It appears we have liftoff.”
Everything about her English was perfect-the cadence, the rhythm, the ease with which the lips found the perfect word. If I closed my eyes, I’d think she was a blonde with blue eyes.
“Let’s walk,” she said. “Engage in animated conversation. Put your arm around my shoulder. If we’re not cousins, we’re old friends. We have a lot to catch up on. How have you been?”
“A life squandered until thirty seconds ago. Which way do we walk?”
She made a show of taking my hand. “There’s an old house in an area called the Karlin section, not far, just around the bend in the river. That’s where we’ll end up. It’s nice in its own way. Some people find it drab, not quaint enough, but it’s quiet. If you want, we can stop for coffee before we get there. The coffee is better on the other side of the river than it is here, though, so we may have to walk a little. Then we can sit and relax. Anyone who is interested will think we are chatting gaily about old times.”
“No chance of going to the Korean restaurant?”
“You’re in Prague, my friend. Try something new.” She kissed my cheek. “You never know what might be good unless you try.”
We crossed a bridge, took a streetcar, walked in narrow, winding streets. After a while, we climbed a steep hill, up a flight of stone stairs that led to more narrow streets. The cafe where we finally stopped was nearly empty. A few locals sat by themselves, smoking. We found a table in a corner, away from the window. She took the seat facing the door.
“Good thing we stopped,” I said. “Those hills are killers. What if I had a heart attack?”
“Sorry, I thought you’d like the exertion, give you a chance to get your blood pumping.” She leaned toward me. “Isn’t that what old friends do? Get each other’s blood moving?”
“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t.” She was right, my heart was pumping, and not from the stairs. “I’m not in the mood, and I doubt if I’m in shape.”
“Well, well. Why don’t we stop at a pharmacy and get you some of those pills.”
“Aren’t we off track a little? I don’t think Kang set up this meeting for us to play the sultan and the harem.”
“It may have crossed his mind. Kang has a strange sense of mission sometimes. But you’re right. Business is business. Let’s have a cup of coffee and a pastry. You’re not too far gone for pastry, I hope.”