No: Milton did not need to know why the message had suddenly become necessary, only that it was.

He was just the postman.

His job was to deliver it.

5

The hotel Yanggakdo, a thousand-room monster that was reserved for foreign guests, sat on the prow of an island in the Taedong River. Westerners called it The Alcatraz of Fun for its revolving restaurant on the roof and its basement of decadent delights: a casino, a swimming pool, a bowling alley and karaoke bars. Milton wheeled his luggage into the reception and checked in. One of the black tail cars had parked near to the entrance. Milton noticed that the dark-suited man in the passenger seat had disembarked and followed him into the lobby. While he waited for his room to be assigned, he made a lazy scan of the foyer. Two others were waiting for him: a man reading his newspaper as his shoes were buffed by a shoe-shine boy and, at the bar, a man who was drinking a cup of tea. The operatives were relaxed and easy, yet they were not experienced enough to hide their purpose from someone like him. If, and when, he left the Yanggakdo, one or both of those men would follow. There would be a car outside, ready to tail him should he avail himself of a taxi. The polite, smiling receptionist would also be in the employ of the secret police, as would be the bellhop who helped him with his luggage. The cleaners, the waiting staff who delivered room service; all would report back to the Directorate of the MPSS that had been assigned the file for Mr Peter Douglas McEwan, the known smuggler from Great Britain.

The room was clean and tidy, pleasant enough. Double-glazed windows behind thin net curtains offered a wide view of downtown Pyongyang. Milton sat back on the bed and took off his shoes. The TV in his room was switched on, looping a series of important events: ‘Kim Jong-un provides field guidance at the Pyongyang Hosiery Factory,” said one report. The next showed the young leader astride a large chestnut horse, inspecting troop movements near the demilitarized zone. Milton took up the remote control and switched through the channels: the BBC, CNN, an anonymous football match with teams that he did not recognise. The room would be rife with bugs but Milton made no effort to find them, nor even to adapt his behaviour to take them into account. He wouldn’t have been able to neutralise them even if he had been able to find them. And he had no way of knowing whether the mirror that faced the bed was two-way.

None of it mattered.

He wanted them to listen and watch.

He took of his shirt and went through to the bathroom to wash his face. The light fell over the tattoo across his shoulders and back, the angel wings tipped with razor claws. He dunked his head in the sink, scrubbing the cold water into his pores, trying to excise the last somnambulant effects of the dream.

He picked up the telephone and dialled a Chinese number. He held a brief conversation with the man at the other end of the line, checking that the transporter with the eight luxury cars had crossed the border successfully. It had, and it was due to arrive in the city tonight, around nine, right on schedule.

He took off his jacket and tie and made himself a gin and tonic from the minibar. Cheap Chinese gin, tonic that barely retained any fizz. He took the drink to the window and looked down from the thirteenth floor. The roads were virtually empty. The sky, usually so full of the vapour trails from passing jets, was clear. He stared, for a long time. Moranbong Park was half a mile away and Milton remembered it from his last trip: its host of pagodas, clouds of blossom and the people spreading picnics, drinking rice liquor and singing sentimental folk songs. Red flags fluttered at road junctions. Statues of the Kims could be seen in public places, arms raised aloft in victory that was so pyrrhic as to be a horrible joke. The enormous, clawed finger of the Ryugyong Hotel, designed as the tallest in the world when construction started twenty years earlier, still stood unfinished. An attempt to trump the upstart South, it stood instead as a permanent reminder of the North’s failure.

He allowed his thoughts to wander a little. He had an appointment to keep. Two people that he did not know would be waiting for him in the Park. His instructions were to leave the hotel after dinner. He was not, under any circumstances, to lose his tail. All he had to do was to be certain to arrive at eight.

6

John Milton took a single table in the restaurant and ate pansanggi, a collection of small dishes including grilled beef, brined fish and boiled cabbage. He ate at a leisurely place, flicking through a translated copy of the Workers’ Newspaper that he had collected from a rack in the lobby. There were no obvious signs of surveillance, but Milton was sure that the staff were keeping an eye on him. He thanked his waitress and left a ten euro note as a tip, collecting his overcoat and walking brusquely across the foyer and straight for the exit. He knew that he would leave confusion in his wake; foreigners were not generally allowed to wander the streets without a chaperone. He emerged into the chill air and set off quickly at a fast walk.

It was busy outside: workers went on and off shift at the hotel, factory hands hurried for the busses that would take them to their flats on the outskirts of the city, a few cars and lorries made their way along the roads. Milton did not look back but he knew that he would immediately be followed. He looked in the window of a small department store and saw one man, hurrying after him determinedly. He did not see the large black Mercedes detach itself from the hotel’s parking lot, but he heard its engine as it accelerated and overtook him. He turned to see the man in the passenger seat staring at him through the window of the car and, for a moment, he had the grim premonition that he was about to be detained. He had considered the possibility and had decided that he would run, but the chances of successfully making his appointment would be remote. Most likely he would be captured and swallowed up into the vast bureaucracy of the intelligence service, eventually emerging into a gulag — a kaolin mine, a re-education camp — from where he would never escape.

He crossed the road at the entrance to the park, his muscles twitching and his gut watery with nerves, but the order for him to stop did not come.

The park contained many significant monuments, including the Pyongyang Arch of Triumph where he was to make his rendezvous. The broad avenues were sparsely populated, the occasional jogger passing by or couples strolling towards him, arm-in-arm, idling the evening away. Milton had no need to check his tail. He knew they were there and that they would stay with him for as long as he let them. There would be a panic if they were to lose him, and that was something he could not afford. He needed them there to see the show that they were going to put on for them. If they lost him, and flooded the area with agents until they found him again, the plan would not work.

He maintained a careful balance of speed: fast enough to stay ahead of them and yet not so fast that they might panic. He wanted them to think that he was a tourist, taking in the sights.

He glanced at his watch: seven-thirty.

He concentrated on maintaining his sense of calm but it became harder and harder to do that. He was alone, in a hostile country, travelling under a flimsy pretence. He was fooling himself if he thought this was easy, as simple as his last job in Manila, or the one before that in South Africa. The wind had dropped a little and he could hear the men on his tail now, footsteps striking the pavement, unhurried and assured. How far were they behind him? He dared not look. He was frightened. He thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and rubbed a coin between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over so that he could feel the striated edge.