Inspector O 02 - Hidden Moon (23 page)

“Your work brings you into contact with the sort of people who have, shall we say, threads reaching around the world.” The man in the brown suit let the words cover me, like a net. “Russians, for example. You often have business with Russians?”

Yakob seemed to be on everyone’s list. “Not really.”

“You speak Russian.”

“My grandfather spoke it sometimes.” I wasn’t going to let them discard my grandfather without a fight. “He learned it when he was working against the Japanese, and he taught me. He said if I was going to outsmart the Russians, I had to think like them, and if I was going to think like them, I had to know the language.”

“So, do you think like them?”

“Only when it’s necessary.”

“And when would that be?”

“Let’s stop dancing around the forest. I never met that stocking salesman before. I was looking for information that was germane to a case I’m investigating.” The man in brown must know about the bank robbery, but I wasn’t going to be the first to raise it. “I had a tip he might have what I needed.”

“Did he?”

“Good question. Maybe, yes.”

“Let me give you a piece of advice, Inspector. Stay away from that Russian.”

“Everyone tells me that.”

“Don’t pay attention to everyone, Inspector, just pay attention to me.”

I looked down at the chart and saw the name Chon Yu Mae, with the words “Gold Star” next to it. So, at least now I knew Miss Chon’s full name. She must have had a file after all, even if SSD couldn’t find it. Miss Chon’s name was connected by a dotted line to someone named Pang.

“May I ask a question?”

“Please do, Inspector.”

“Who is Pang?”

“The manager of the Club Blue.”

“Why is he connected to Miss Chon?”

“You didn’t know? They are very close. She spends a lot of time at his place, most nights, actually. It probably shouldn’t be a dotted line.”

No, I thought, it probably shouldn’t be. Yang’s name was on the chart, along with everyone else in the office, and even the chain of command up to the Minister. Also on the chart were my apartment neighbors, the man who fixed my bicycle tire, and my brother, whom I rarely saw. Off to the side, not connected to anyone, in a box drawn with red ink was Han Gun So—who, I supposed, was Lieutenant Han from SSD. Also, as the man said, there were a number of boxes left blank. One of them was labeled “Prague,” in a different handwriting.

“I need you to sign it, just so we know you looked at it carefully.”

I flexed my shoulders and wiggled each of my fingers. “I don’t think I can hold a pen yet. You realize, this might be easier if I knew what you were looking for.”

The man in the brown suit pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Yes, and it would certainly be even easier if I knew what I was looking for.” He held out a cigarette. “Perhaps holding one of these will help your fingers, Inspector. Here, I can light it for you.”

I shook my head.

“Well, as you wish. I’m told you prefer wood to cigarettes. Odd. Any reason?”

Something told me this was about to take off in the wrong direction. I wiggled my fingers again.

“Alas,” he said, “we have no wood around here, nothing suitable, anyway. By the way, where do you get this wood you prefer, Inspector?” It was a curious question, but the man had not followed a particular line ever since he opened his mouth. Mostly he had been setting up, marking off our boundaries.

“Scrap wood; you run across it here and there if you are looking for it.” I didn’t think that would exhaust his interest in the subject.

“And you are, I assume, looking for scrap wood. All domestic wood, from our forests?”

“That I wouldn’t know. I don’t go out and chop things down, if that’s what you mean.”

“You never deal in foreign wood, of the Siberian variety, for example?”

“I’m not partial to Russian wood, no. In any case, forests don’t pay attention to national boundaries. There’s no such thing as Russian wood, or Chinese wood, or”—I paused a fraction while I considered whether this would get me on the wrong foot—“or Korean wood.”

“Forests do not follow boundaries; trees are not particularly concerned with ethnicity or social systems—is that what you are saying, Inspector? I should note that for future reference.”

“Do you want me to say whether I think some countries have better trees than we do?”

A low chuckle came out of the darkness. “What about ash, Inspector?” the man in the brown suit said after a moment. “I’m interested, how would you describe the wood from the ash tree?”

I ran through the possibilities. At least this was specific. Maybe he was getting at something, finally. “Strong, flexible, lots of uses. Very friendly tree, grows quickly. You can use it for furniture, veneer mostly.” I felt a tapping on my shoulder; I didn’t have to turn to know what it was. “It can be used for sticks and clubs of all sorts. You can beat someone with it. Most people will break before the stick does.”

He lit a cigarette. “And the Sogdian ash?”

I watched his fingers as they cupped the flame, so it would not light up his face.

“Couldn’t say. I never saw one.”

“Is that so? The Sogdian ash grows in Central Asia, Inspector. One of the largest remaining forests of these lovely trees”—a puff of smoke drifted into the light—“is in Kazakhstan.”

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. So, we had arrived. “Is there a question in there for me, somewhere?” I could feel the club resting on my right shoulder. The man in the brown suit shook his head. The club moved to my left side.

“We don’t get a lot of Sogdian ash in this country, would you think?”

“I have no way of knowing.” The club bounced, not hard, but I could feel the effect down to my fingertips. I exhaled slowly. “I wouldn’t think there would be a lot of anything from Kazakhstan in this country.”

“No, you’re probably right, not much. But perhaps more than one might expect. By the way, have you ever been to Prague, Inspector?”

Another question out of nowhere; it might have jolted me more, but I’d seen the box on the chart. And he knew I’d seen it. “It says so on the chart. I must have been there at some point.”

The man in the brown suit clucked his tongue. “People forget many things,” he said, “but they know when they have been abroad, when they have held in their hands a passport that permits them to cross the border. Passports, by the way, are stamped, Inspector. Shall we have a look?”

“I didn’t say I’d forgotten.” I thought of Yakob’s passport stamps. Mine at least were real, even if they weren’t accurate. “It isn’t a mystery where I’ve been. It’s all a matter of record; every won I spent is accounted for.”

“No one doubts your financial probity, Inspector. Would you say there are thorough reports on everyone you met in Prague?”

“Of course.”

“Of course.” I didn’t care for his tone. “So when word reaches us that in Prague several years ago you met with a member of British intelligence, and there is nothing about that in your trip report, we can assume . . . well, what can we assume, Inspector?”

I contemplated the situation. The mantle of my grandfather’s protection was in grave doubt. Now they were suggesting I was a traitor. Only the British knew I had met a man who called himself Richie
Molloy in Prague, that we had talked for a few hours, that I had given him information on a colonel from the Military Security Command who had been responsible for many deaths and whom I was determined to destroy. If the man in the brown suit had heard even faint echoes about the meeting, it could only be because the British wanted him to hear it. And they must have wanted it because they knew that, when word got to the right people in Pyongyang, I would be squeezed. Then, they hoped in their European way, I would come running to them. They were wrong, of course. I wouldn’t come over to them. But unless I convinced the man in the brown suit it was false information, I would probably never get a chance to tell the British to fuck themselves, which at the moment I fervently wanted to do. The ash club tapped me on the hip bone. The pain radiated down to my leg and up into my chest. I gasped for air.

“Prague, Inspector, that was my question.”

“Well, there won’t be any answers if that club touches me again.”

The man in the brown suit waited.

“I need a drink of water.”

He nodded from the shadows, and a glass was held in front of me. I took a swallow, shook my head to clear my thoughts. “I was in Prague on a courier run for my ministry. There are reports in the file describing everyone I met. The embassy had someone with me the whole time. You can probably check that in their logs. If I had disappeared for even a few minutes, it would have been noted.” The embassy had lost track of me for half a night, but they didn’t dare admit it. They didn’t care; I was just another visitor, and they didn’t want to use their funds to look after me. But I didn’t have to tell that to the man in brown; either he already knew it, or he didn’t.

“I think we are getting somewhere, wouldn’t you say, Inspector? Perhaps it’s time for a break. You must be fatigued.”

Only an interrogator with bad things in mind would say “fatigued.” I wanted to get this over and, if it was still possible, go home. “I’m wide-awake. There’s no reason to take a break, though if there is a toilet nearby, I could use it.” My hip ached; I needed to walk,
maybe splash some water on my face, get out of the suffocating gloom of this room.

“Of course, of course.” The man in the brown suit nodded.

When I got back and sat down, I couldn’t tell if the man in the brown suit was in the room. It was completely silent; I couldn’t even hear my own breathing. His voice came out of nowhere. “Well, we’ve established a few useful things, but there remain a few questions.”

“I’m ready.”

It was a long list, and they came at me from what seemed like every direction. He refused to stand in one spot. Maybe he thought it would disorient me; maybe he was agitated and felt the need to pace. Abruptly, he stopped. “At this point, Inspector, you should have something to eat, while I do some more checking.”

I was exhausted and still in pain. Food was not on my mind. Prague hadn’t come up again, not directly, not implicitly, not even in an echo or a reflection. It had seemingly dropped down a well, but I knew it was not going to be erased from that chart. Something like that is never erased. They would keep it in my file until I had been dead so long that there was no one who would remember my face.

“Since we’re colleagues now”—I turned in the direction of his voice—“perhaps I could go to sleep. I mean, natural sleep, blissful, restful, restoring, lying down somewhere. You know, knitting the raveled sleeve.”

“Good, Shakespeare. Good. And why not? Sleep will do you good. Consider this your room, and all that it contains at your disposal.” The room, as far as I could tell, was bare except for the lamp and the chair I sat on. “The concrete is not so comfortable; we’ll have to look for a pad. I know we have blankets, somewhere.” He was suddenly fussy, the solicitous innkeeper, and judging from the way his voice moved, he had resumed pacing slowly back and forth in front of
me. “We don’t usually entertain guests overnight, you see.” From out of the shadows to my left, the man in the brown suit walked toward me with his arm extended. First his hand, then all of him was in the light. He was tall, a little stooped; even in the lamplight, he had a sallow face. Brown was not a good color for him. We shook hands; he smiled in an odd way, then limped toward the door. Before he reached it, he turned. “Ah, one thing. What do you know about the clerks at the Gold Star Bank?”

“Nothing.” If he thought I would let down my guard when I saw him about to leave, he was mistaken. Even as tired as I was, my guard would never get that far down.

“You were following one of them,” he said. It was incredible to me, how much detail he had at his fingertips.

“Yes, but I lost her.”

“Strange. An experienced person like yourself, you lost her? Pity.” He put his hands in his pockets and walked outside. I heard the ash club tap on the floor behind me, then a footstep; the door in the back of the room opened, and I was alone.

After the interrogation, they let me sleep a few hours. When they woke me, the first thing they asked was if I was alright. My shoulder hurt; my hip hurt. “Fine,” I said. They asked if I wanted a doctor to look at me. I told them no, and they had me sign a form that said I’d refused the offer. They said that I was free to go and that they would drop me off where I wanted. “Maybe a restaurant near my office.” They said it was my choice; they helped me up, and we went to a car parked outside. It was night. I didn’t know for sure how long I’d been there; I couldn’t even remember where I had been when they picked me up. We drove for about thirty minutes, from somewhere out in the country. It was cloudy and very dark, and it wasn’t until we finally got on a road I recognized that I realized we were coming into the city
from the east. The car stopped; the man in the front seat beside the driver turned and said we were at the restaurant I’d requested. I could get whatever I wanted to eat. They’d pay for it, he said. He imparted this information morosely, as if he didn’t agree with the practice but hadn’t been consulted.