Inspector O 02 - Hidden Moon (37 page)

“You can’t bring a visitor someplace in the middle of nowhere, out of the blue.” Boswell’s Korean was starting to deteriorate. “You can’t just dump a foreign official wherever you choose. No one does that. I haven’t checked out this place.”

The dirt road became paved again; we roared past one guard post, then another. Abruptly, the road became barely one lane. It climbed a steep hill in a series of switchbacks; there were no guardrails, not even any rocks painted white along the side, which dropped down a few hundred meters. “Slow down a bit.” Boswell spoke carefully, not to jar my concentration.

“Relax, would you? I’ve driven roads like this much faster, at night, in the fog.” I took my eyes off the road for a moment and looked at Boswell; he was gripping the dashboard. “You’ll like it. We never build guesthouses where there are shadows.”

Yang coughed. “Mind if I open my window?”

We went around another sharp bend, then the road became straight and broad. It passed through an open gate with sentries on either side. They weren’t slouching. At the end of a long drive was a one-story building, surrounded on three sides by a high concrete fence, with broken glass cemented along the top, and barbed wire on top of that.

The first two cars were already parked and the visitor was walking with the driver and the Foreign Ministry escort to the front door when gunfire broke out. The driver dropped the two suitcases he was carrying and hit the ground, fumbling for the holster under his coat. Three more shots; one kicked up dust near the lead car’s front tire, the other two shattered its windows on the driver’s side. I braked and steered off the road onto the dirt. The Foreign Ministry official dropped to the ground and covered his head with his arms. Boswell cursed and fumbled with his door handle. He half fell out and scrambled toward the house. “Get fucking down, you idiots,” he bellowed and looked wildly around to pinpoint the source of the shots.

The two aides started to get out of their car, but Boswell ran over and shoved them back inside. “Stay there, stay there, don’t move, don’t move a muscle.” He crouched behind the second car, took a deep breath, then ran toward the house.

I turned to tell Yang to follow him while I circled around the back. He had a pistol in his hand. “What the hell is that?” It was the first thing that came to my mind, though I already knew the answer. It was a Russian Makarov.

Yang stopped, clicked off the safety, then looked at me. “Stay out of the way, O. Please.” Another shot rang out, just as Boswell reached the visitor and pushed him onto the ground. I had no time to think. I threw myself at Yang, caught him on the shoulder, and we both fell
off balance. His gun hand swung around and hit me on the side of the head. If I hadn’t been so much off balance, maybe I could have kicked him in the chest. Instead, I fell down.

Two men stood over me. Jurgen and Dieter, or maybe the other way around. One of them said, “Oh, shit,” in German and loaded a shell into a hunting rifle he held easily, the way some people hold a familiar book. He had a pen in his breast pocket. Yang put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t bother,” he said. I didn’t know the man could speak German; first the waitresses at the guesthouse, then Yang. Maybe he taught himself during all those night shifts. He switched to Korean. “I’ll take care of him,” he said, pointing at me. “Get the others and finish the job here.”

The German with the rifle looked disappointed but nodded. “We’ll see you later,” he said curtly, in Korean that was better than Boswell’s.

As I stood up, two men with their shirttails flapping hurried across the road toward the back of the guesthouse. Two others emerged from the luggage van and strolled into the woods without looking in my direction.

I turned to Yang. “Go on, get it over with.”

“Nothing left to do, O. I’ve finished my part.”

“You can’t get very far, you realize that. They know all about it now.”

“So what?”

“I’m disappointed.”

“Don’t be, O.” There was an exchange of shots and then a shrill scream. Yang stiffened. “That’s it, then. Time to go.” He nodded to me and jogged off into the woods.

The two guards from the entry gate and another enlisted man came running up, waving their arms. “We heard shots and then saw people running.” The first one pointed his pistol at the trees. “What is going on? We’ve radioed in an alert, but they said they need more details.”

“Who told you to leave your post? One of you has to get back to the radio.” They stared at each other dumbly. “Never mind, come with me. Just don’t shoot at anything unless I tell you to.” We edged
up toward the guesthouse. The front door was open. When I eased myself inside, the two aides were crouched, white-faced and panting with fear, in the corner. Boswell was standing over the visitor, who was bleeding slightly from the upper arm. “He’s been shot,” Boswell said and turned away.

“Where’s the driver? I’ll tell him to get help.” I looked around.

“Don’t bother, he’s dead.”

The visitor raised his head and said tonelessly, “My arm.”

Boswell motioned to me to walk outside with him. “Flesh wound. He’ll be fine.”

One of the aides, the woman, stood up. “We’ve got to get out of here. They may come back.”

“You stick to arranging tea parties, I’ll do security. No one is coming back. Sit down and don’t say anything.” Boswell didn’t even try to hide his contempt.

I shouted at the guards to watch over the visitor, then followed Boswell out the door.

Boswell took in the scene in front of the guesthouse, then asked neutrally, “Where’s your friend Yang?”

“With the others, I suppose.”

“You suppose. Inspector, the man is rotten to the core.”

“Maybe.” I was thinking how he had stopped one of the Germans from blowing my head off.

“Can you call in and get help, or do you have to drive all the way back down to find a phone?”

“My phone is in the car. Who knows if it will work up here in the hills. The gate guards already issued an alert, but I doubt their communications unit will pass the word to someone who can do us any good. Maybe the lead car has a radio in it.” The radio, under the seat, was so new that I knew the car wasn’t one of the Ministry’s. Probably SSD. That explained why I didn’t recognize the dead driver. I didn’t know any of the call signs or even who I was going to be talking to on the other end when a voice came up. “Identify yourself.” There was a series of clicks.

“This is Inspector O, Ministry of People’s Security.”

“What the hell are you doing on this communications net?”

“Forget that. I need you to pass a message direct to MPS headquarters.”

“Passing MPS messages is not my job. You have your own communications.”

“Listen to me, you idiot. I’m on the security team for a British VIP who arrived yesterday. We’re at Koko Two. Do you know where that is? There’s been a shooting. One dead. One wounded.”

“A shooting? Who is this?”

“I told you who it was. We need emergency medical help. We also need a big squad of reinforcements. Is this a State Security radio?”

“None of your business. I still don’t know for sure who you are. Put on Lieutenant An.”

I looked at the dead driver. “Does An have a mole on his lip?”

“Yeah. Put him on.”

“He can’t talk right now.”

“Don’t screw with me. Let me talk to An.”

“Not easy to do. He’s dead.”

There was a crackle as the voice on the other end breathed into the microphone. “You killed An?”

“I’m telling you one more time. We need medical assistance and heavy reinforcements fast. Cordon off the Martyrs’ Cemetery, that’s where they’re headed. You better move fast. I think the Capital Command may already have been notified. If they have, they’ll lock down the city and you’ll never get anyone up here.”

A new voice came on. “O, is that you?”

“Han?”

“Where are you?”

“Koko Two. There’s been an assassination attempt here, the British VIP is wounded, and your Lieutenant An is dead.”

“How about your boy, Yang? Seen him around?”

I ignored him. “There are at least six of them. The two Germans are part of it.”

“Hang on a second.” He shouted at someone, then came back on. “Alright. There are sketchy reports of gunfire at the cemetery just coming in, I don’t know from where. We already have people on the way to that temple up in the hills. Reports say there might be weapons there.”

“There were. They’re gone.”

“Well.” He paused. “What about the old man?”

“There’s a group of assassins loose and you’re worried about an old blind man? He’s blind, Han. He’s pathetic.”

“Politics and blindness, Inspector.” Han’s voice was fading in and out. “I’m not qualified to judge. Wait, hang on again.” There was more shouting, then Han came back on the radio. “Listen, the army has sent out patrols in your direction. I’ll bet the soldiers are nervous as hell. Don’t look at them cross-eyed, that’s my advice. They’re not supposed to go into the cemetery, though, just cordon it off. So get over there as quick as you can.”

“What about the situation here at the VIP quarters?”

“What about it? Have someone close it off. Where are the other guards?”

“I think the term is ‘melted away.’ The gate sentries seem loyal.”

“They better be. Leave them there. A truck with one of our squads should get there in about twenty minutes, if they can make it up that hill. You better get moving. You’re closest to the cemetery. Get there.”

“Front gate or back?”

“Show some initiative, Inspector. It’s your call.”

“What about Boswell?” The radio clicked and went silent.

By the time we got to the cemetery, there were already three SSD cars scattered on the grass and another car, with plates I didn’t recognize, parked neatly behind a fence. A conference was going on under a tall, straight plane tree down the slope, next to the path that led toward
busts of revolutionary martyrs. When Boswell and I ran over, the man in the brown suit was just folding a piece of paper into his coat pocket.

“We don’t need either of you here, Inspector. You’ve caused enough trouble already.”

Boswell broke in. “This was an assassination attempt against an official of Her Majesty’s Government. A guest of yours, I might add. I’m not leaving until those involved are in custody and we can question them. That’s firm, and that’s final.”

The man in the brown suit turned to Boswell and smiled patiently. There was nothing friendly in his face, however. Simply patience, the sort of patience that a skilled interrogator has in abundance, a bottomless pit of patience. “Her Majesty’s Government has no authority, no writ, no nothing for as far as the eye can see, Mr. Boswell. Certainly not this side of Suez. You have even less standing, I would add.” In a dark room, he would have paused to let the point sink in. “Go back to your hotel and stay there; do not stick your nose outside of your room. A car will come by to pick you up the morning of the flight. You don’t want to miss that airplane, Mr. Boswell, believe me.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

The man in the brown suit shrugged. As he turned to one of the SSD officers, a shot rang out. All of us flattened ourselves on the grass, except for the man in the brown suit. He looked around calmly. “It came from over there”—he pointed to a slight hill to our left—“but it wasn’t aimed our way.” The sound of a machine pistol interrupted; two of the busts of martyrs fell to the ground fifteen meters away and rolled across the path into an azalea bush. “Whereas,” said the man in the brown suit, “that was more or less in our neighborhood.” He sat down heavily and stretched out his bad leg. “Splendid, they want to make a stand here.” He took out a cigarette, put it to his lips, and let it dangle there. “Dumb bastards.”

Boswell pulled his ample chin off the ground. “I need a weapon. Give me a revolver, anything.”

“You need to get back to your hotel, Superintendent.” The man in the brown suit was brushing the twigs off his jacket. “This isn’t your fight. This isn’t even your country. Stay the hell out of it.” The SSD officers had drawn their service pistols and were hunched behind a stone marker. “You,” the man in brown called to them, “don’t sit around like goats. Spread out and get us some idea where those shots came from.” He looked over at me. “Inspector, circle around back and see if you can figure out how many there are.”

“There are six.”

“Oh, really? And what are they wearing?”

“Blue trousers and tan shirts. Two of them have their shirttails flapping; those are the Kazakhs, I’d say. Two others were posing as MSS guards, looked like Koreans but I don’t know. Their shirts are creased on the back, like they’re brand-new. Good shoes, very smart dressers for assassins.”

“The last two?”

Boswell broke in. “Those are the Germans. They’re as slippery as you’ll ever find. They’ll get away if you don’t close every exit, and I mean every possible exit.” He reached over and lit the dangling cigarette.

Another machine pistol burst, and three more martyrs’ busts rolled down the hill. The man in the brown suit sighed. “Arrogant bastard.” It was not clear whether he meant Boswell or the shooter. “Not very far away, maybe two hundred meters,” he said. “Okay, Superintendent, I’m giving you a weapon, and if you move one whisker off course, I’ll have you shot, is that clear? The inspector will put three bullets in your back.” He took a puff on the cigarette and exhaled carefully, not like a man in a national cemetery where a gun-fight would get him nothing but a bad report in his file, no matter how it ended. “Stay close behind him, Inspector.”