The Target Read online

  depressing. Well, it would have been depressing for most people. It had no effect on her. She sat there impassively waiting her turn.

  As she stared at the clerk in military uniform who sat at the metal desk next to the door she would at some point pass through, Chung-Cha let her mind wander back, far back, but not that far really, to Yodok, where part of her would always be imprisoned, no matter how far away from it she got.

  There were teachers there who taught the children basic grammar, a few numbers, and that was about it. As one got older the instruction became all about the life of labor to come. Chung-Cha had commenced work in the mines at age ten, clawing rock from other rock and being beaten for not making her quotas.

  Every student in the class was encouraged to snitch on every other student, and Chung-Cha was no exception to this. The rewards were meager, though back then they seemed like a mountain of gold: fewer beatings, a bit more cabbage and salt, fewer self-censure meetings where students were forced to confess to imaginary sins that they would be beaten for. Chung-Cha had gotten to the point where she came to class every day with invented sins to present to the teacher, because if you had none, the thrashings were twice as painful. It seemed to delight the teachers when students spoke of their weaknesses and the things that made them small, insignificant, less than human. In the camps the teacher was also your guard. But the only things they taught were cruelty, deceit, and pain.

  There had been a girl a little older than Chung-Cha who had been accused by her parents of stealing a portion of their food. The parents had turned her in, after beating her.

  Chung-Cha had come forward because she had seen that it was the parents who had taken food from their child and then blamed her for the crime.

  Chung-Cha’s reward for that was to be led into the prison located underneath the camp and hung upside down in a cage where guards continually poked her hour after hour with sword tips heated by a fire. She could smell her skin burning, yet she did not bleed much because the hot metal cauterized the wounds.

  It was never explained to her why she was punished for telling the truth. When she was finally released and sent back to camp, the girl she had helped snitched on her. For that Chung-Cha was beaten by three guards until she could not move but just lay on the floor praying to die.

  They bandaged her wounds, and the next day she was sent into the fields to pick her allotment of crops. When she failed to do so, her father was brought in to beat her, and he did so energetically, for he would be beaten even harder by the guards if he did not. And the other workers spit on her, because the way things worked here was that everyone suffered when one person failed to do his or her job.

  Every day for a week she was flogged by the guards in the middle of camp for all to see. Prisoners hurled spit and curses at her and added their own beatings when the floggings were done.

  When Chung-Cha had staggered off after this latest session she had heard one guard say, “She’s a tough little bitch.”

  Chung-Cha absently rubbed the scars on her arms where the flamed sword had punctured her. The girl who had snitched on her had died the next month. Chung-Cha had lured her to a lonely spot with the promise of a handful of corn and had pushed her off a cliff. They had not found her body, what was left of it, until that winter.

  From that day forward Chung-Cha, the “tough little bitch,” never told the truth again.

  The door opened and the man looked at her. He was also dressed in a military uniform. He was a high-ranking general. To Chung-Cha they all looked the same. Short, wiry, with small, beady eyes and cruel features. They could all be guards at Yodok. Perhaps they all had been.

  He motioned her in.

  She rose and followed him into the office.

  He closed the door and indicated a chair. She took it. He sat behind his metal desk, put his palms together, and studied her.

  “This is all quite extraordinary, Dongmu Yie,” he said.

  Dongmu. That meant comrade. She was his comrade, but not really. She was no one’s comrade. Self-reliance. She was her own comrade; that was all. And he clearly did not want her as a comrade.

  She said nothing in response. It was extraordinary. She could add no more to the statement. And the prison camp had taught her that it was better to say nothing than to say something that you could be beaten for.

  “He is a respected man,” said the general. “He is my great friend.”

  Again, she remained silent.

  But she kept her gaze directly on him. Normally, a North Korean male would not like that, particularly when faced by a female. But her stare did not waver. She had long ago lost the capacity to fear men like this. She had been hurt physically and psychologically every way she could have been. There was nothing left. So there was no reason to fear.

  The general pulled out the cell phone that she had taken from Lloyd Carson in Bucharest. When she had called the number last dialed by Carson, General Pak had answered.

  General Pak was indeed a greatly respected man here. He was in the very inner circle of the Supreme Leader; some said he was his most trusted advisor.

  Yet she had recognized the man’s voice on the other end of the phone. She had heard him speak. She had met with him once in person, though it had been many years ago. But she would never forget that meeting. It had definitely been his voice on the phone.

  She was snitching once more, Chung-Cha knew. But that was her job now. The Brit Lloyd Carson had attracted the attention of the North Korean security forces. He had been seen in the company of known American agents. It was well known in North Korea that the Brits and the Americans were joined at the hip. She had been assigned to track him, search his things, and, if necessary, kill him as he traveled on his train journey.

  Well, she had tracked him, searched his things, and killed him. And she had the phone. And they had her testimony, that it was General Pak, the respected one. The great friend of the man seated opposite her. It was a delicate situation, she knew. It was a potentially deadly one for her.

  “The phone number is not traceable. When we called the number no one answered,” said the general. “So we only have your word, Dongmu Yie. Against that of a revered leader.” He put the phone down and looked quizzically at her.

  She finally decided to speak, but chose her words with great care. “I have made my report. I have told you what I know. I have no more than that to offer.”

  “And you could not be mistaken about this, about the voice you heard? Are you absolutely certain?”

  Chung-Cha knew exactly what he wanted to hear. He was not, however, going to hear it from her. He was going to hear something else.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She hit a few buttons and held it up. She had turned the speaker on.

  A voice could be heard clearly speaking in English.

  “Hello, hello. Mr. Carson, is that you? Hello? Are you calling back? Is something wrong?”

  The general jerked forward in his seat, knocking over a jar of pens sitting on his desk. He looked first at the phone and then at Chung-Cha.

  “That is General Pak’s voice.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I recorded it when I called the North Korean number from Bucharest.”

  He banged the desk with his fists. “Why did you not show us this before?”

  “I hoped that you would believe the word of a loyal agent of the Supreme Leader over that of a traitor.”

  The door opened and two more men came in. They were also generals. It seemed to Chung-Cha that North Korea had far too many generals.

  These men were outranked by the one sitting across from her. But things like that could change swiftly in her country. Generals came, generals went. They were executed. She had already visited these two, let them listen to the phone recording, and then she had come here. The men behind her were too cowardly to face their higher-ranking comrade, so they had sent her in first.

  The
man at the desk rose slowly and stared at them. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  “The Supreme Leader must be told,” said one of the other men.

  They all well knew that the higher-ranking general was a personal friend of Pak’s. This had all been orchestrated because of that fact. The truth in North Korea did not necessarily set one free or cause one to die. It was merely one factor of many that had to be taken into account if your goal was survival.

  “Do you not agree, General?” asked the other man.

  The general looked at the phone and then down at Chung-Cha’s unreadable features. He knew he had just been badly outmaneuvered and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  He nodded, took his cap off a hook, and led the two other generals out the door.

  They simply left Chung-Cha behind. She was not surprised by this. There was no gender equality here. She was not in the military and was thus a second-class citizen to those who were.

  She wondered if they would send her to kill Pak. She thought the odds were against his simply being executed by firing squad, the normal way of dealing with traitors. It was a tricky balance, she knew, much like the street vendors and the Dutch tourist. Publicly executing Pak would require some explanation. They could lie, of course, but savvier folks would know that only an egregious transgression would justify such a high-ranking official’s execution, and the speculation would undoubtedly come to rest on an attempted coup of the Supreme Leader. That such an inner-circle official could have participated in such a scheme would reflect badly on the Supreme Leader. Even though the traitor would have been caught, others might be emboldened to try as well. But traitors had to be dealt with, and execution was usually the only punishment deemed acceptable. So Chung-Cha might be called on to do it, but make it look like an accident, a task she had performed in the past. Thus the traitor would be dead, and any of his confederates would think twice before trying again. But the public and other potential enemies within the country would not necessarily know of the attempted coup at all. That way the Supreme Leader would not appear weakened.

  She thought about all of this and then thought no more. The order would either come or it would not.

  She slipped her phone back into her pocket, rose, and left.

  A few moments later she walked out into the sunshine and looked to the sky, where there were no clouds visible.

  At Yodok this was the time of year when prisoners knew the cold was coming. The first set of clothes Chung-Cha had received upon entering the camp had come from a dead child. The clothes were filthy and full of holes. She would not receive a “new” set of rags for three years. She labored in a gold mine, digging out the precious metal, unaware of what it was or that it was valuable. She also worked in a gypsum quarry, in a distillery, and in the fields. Her days started at four in the morning and ended at eleven at night. She had seen clearly insane people forced to dig holes and pull weeds. Dying prisoners were sometimes simply released so their deaths would not be officially reported, thereby making the mortality rates of the camps look better. Chung-Cha had not known this was the reason; she only remembered old and young prisoners dragging themselves through the open gates only to expire meters from the spot, their bodies left to decompose or be eaten by animals.

  She had lived with thirty other prisoners in a mud hut not much bigger than her current apartment. The huts were unheated and the blankets threadbare. She had suffered frostbite while inside the hut. She had awoken to find the person next to her dead of the cold. There was one toilet for two hundred prisoners. To the outside world this probably seemed unimaginable. For Chung-Cha it was simply her life.

  Ten.

  Ten was the number of basic rules at all the camps.

  The first and most important was, You must not escape.

  The last and nearly as important was, If you break any of the above rules you will be shot.

  All the rules in between—no stealing, obey all orders, spy on and betray other prisoners—were just filler, she believed. The fact was they could kill you for any reason or no reason at all.

  Rule number nine had intrigued her, however. It said that one must truly be remorseful for one’s mistakes. She knew this was an incentive for those who hoped one day to be free of the camps. She had never hoped this. She never believed she would be free. She was not remorseful for her mistakes. She was simply trying to survive. In that regard her life now was no different from her life in the camp.

  I am simply trying to survive.

  Chapter

  25

  THE THREE MEN WERE IN the White House Situation Room again. And once more the NSC Watch teams had been walled off. There were no recordings being made. There were no other attendees. No official transcript would be kept.

  Evan Tucker looked at the president, and the president stared back at him. The latter had not been told why this meeting had been called, only that it was urgent and needed to take place immediately. That was why they were sitting here now and why the president had canceled four meetings that he had been scheduled to attend.

  “Care to take me out of the dark, Evan?” the president said in a clearly annoyed tone.

  Josh Potter had already met with Tucker and thus knew what was coming. He had been uncomfortable not informing the president directly since he was the president’s man, but Tucker had browbeaten him into letting the DCI make the briefing.

  And, in truth, Potter did not want to be the messenger on this debacle.

  Tucker cleared his throat, which lately had felt like mold was growing there. He clasped his hands together and rubbed his two thumbs against one another so hard they turned bright pink.

  “There have been developments of a critical nature related to the mission and none of them are good.”

  All the color seemed to drain from the president’s face. He barked, “Explain that.”

  Tucker said, “As you know, Lloyd Carson was the British envoy assigned to the embassy in Pyongyang. He has been our chief go-between with General Pak. Really our only go-between.”

  The president said, “And I was initially incredulous. He should’ve gone to his own government with this. Then my esteemed colleague at 10 Downing Street could have dealt with it.”

  “And as I explained, Carson was well aware that no one in his country would have the stomach to follow this through. So with his leader’s blessing he presented the opportunity to us.”

  The president closed his eyes, his top row of teeth clamping onto his bottom lip. When he opened his eyes, his look was one of fury. “It always falls to us, doesn’t it? The good old USA, the world’s policeman. We’ll do the dirty work while everyone else stays safely on the sidelines. And if things go to hell feel free to turn on us or simply run away.”

  Tucker nodded and said, “Superpower status carries great responsibility and much of it is unfair. But the fact remains we did follow it up because we saw a tremendous opportunity to get rid of a regime that has been a thorn in the civilized world’s side for decades. We knew there were risks, but we all felt that the benefits outweighed them.”

  “Save the cover-your-ass speech, Evan,” snapped the president, “and tell me what happened.”

  Tucker sat back and composed himself. The president had read him exactly right. That was his CYA speech, but at least he had said it.

  “Lloyd Carson apparently got on the radar of the North Korean’s state security people.”

  “How?”

  “The entire country is one huge pool of paranoia where everyone spies on everyone else, sir. That’s built into their psyche from the cradle. It truly is like Orwell’s novel.”

  “So he got on their radar. Then what?” said the president tersely.

  “He was traveling outside the country. He had stops along the way, so he flew to Istanbul and boarded the Orient Express, which would take him first to eastern Europe and then on to western Europe, ending in Venice.”

  “But he didn’t finish his ride?”
>
  “He apparently felt compromised in Romania and got off. He went to a hotel. In his room there he was attacked. And killed.”

  “My God,” exclaimed the president, and then he waited for Tucker to continue.

  “Apparently he had called a number shortly before he was murdered.”

  “Whose number?”

  “General Pak’s. It was a special phone, untraceable.”

  “All right. So what exactly is the problem?” said the president, looking puzzled.

  “Apparently, their agent called the number. General Pak, thinking it was Carson, answered. And the agent recognized his voice.”

  “Shit!” roared the president. “Are you serious, Tucker? That’s how it went down?” He slumped back in his chair, his eyes closed once more.

  Tucker and Potter exchanged anxious glances. Each man was probably thinking about what his next career might be. Certainly it would be outside government.

  Without opening his eyes the president said, “And if Carson was murdered and no one other than us knew about this mission, how did we learn about all this?”

  Tucker knew the question was coming and he had prepared many answers, some longer than others. He had decided the shortest response would be the best.

  “General Pak. When he learned that Carson had been murdered, he immediately recognized his mistake in answering the phone and reported to us.”

  The president opened his eyes. “So what exactly does North Korea intend to do?”

  “Well, this is only conjecture, but I imagine that they intend to tell the world what the plot was. That Western powers were planning to assassinate their Supreme Leader and install General Pak as the new leader. And even though Carson was a Brit, the term ‘Western powers’ would obviously include us.”