The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that while there are no spoilers, you may be missing some context.
“The same damned clothes? Are you bloody mad, Moore?”
“Easy now, Charles,” Sir Harold Kent cautioned. He was not a man who seemed accustomed to raised voices. He was sitting at the head of the boardroom table, which was made of thick, shatterproof glass, suspended on a chrome, tubular frame. The chairs were a black leather, supported by similar chrome tubes. Sir Harold was dressed in an oak-brown Herringbone Tweed three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt that had barely distinguishable brown pinstripes, and sported a dark brown Savile Row bow tie to complete the look. He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette into the glass ashtray that appeared to be suspended in air. “Berlin is Nigel’s territory and therefore, quite rightly, the plan is his decision. You’ve merely been invited to provide support.”
“I’m just not sure that Nigel’s up to such a sensitive operation. This plan sounds ludicrous. Field agents want to blend in, to seem invisible. What he’s doing is hanging bloody neon signs on their backs.”
“Steady on,” said Nigel Moore, rising from his seat and running a hand through his thinning hair, obviously agitated. His words seemed hesitant, contrary to his actions, as though he wanted to show that he was in charge but was afraid to stand up to Charles. It was as though he was a teenage son, challenging his overbearing father for the very first time.
“Someone is going to get killed; perhaps, all of them,” continued Charles, unaffected by the protestations of Sir Harold and Nigel. His face was reddening and blood vessels at his temples were starting to swell. This was the first time in which I had seen him lose his temper. I have heard him speak in frustration, but for the most part he had always kept his cool in our Ottawa office. As if to let out steam, Charles unbuttoned his charcoal twill waistcoat, having already removed his matching jacket and draping it over the back of the chair next to him. At least his silk tie was a brighter red than his face.
“We’re going to get everyone out,” insisted Nigel, who composed himself. He was wearing the same suit as he had on yesterday but this time, like Sir Harold, Nigel wore a bow tie. His was an Irish-green that looked like it was patterned with dozens of tiny sunny-side-up eggs. The hand that had combed his hair ran over his moustache and then dropped at his side. He took a slow, deep breath and then sat down again.
“Gentlemen, as Nigel presented to me, the plan is to create confusion. While the men bear little resemblance to one another, wearing identical clothing may make it difficult for anyone who may be following Gunther to keep track of him. The men will meet near Alexanderplatz Station, they will walk amongst one another before they all get into their respective cars and drive away, each car going in its own direction.”
“All of the automobiles will be tracked,” said Charles.
“The drivers have a set route,” countered Nigel. “They each have a second car waiting at a predetermined location. The agents will quickly swap vehicles and continue on their routes. The cars without Gunther will make their way to the Autobahnen and head out of East Berlin. One car will head to Leipzig, another to Dresden, and the third to Magdeburg. There, they will ditch their vehicles and make their way to safe houses that we have in each city. Over time, we’ll get them out. I don’t need to go into further details.”
“Eight agents, plus Gunther,” chuckled Charles under his breath. “If the KGB catches them, it will be a mighty blow to London. Moscow will be rubbing it in their faces till the end of time.”
“There’s a risk, of course, but we’ve thought this through, Townsend old boy,” said Sir Harold. “Nigel and I have been discussing this plan with his team for weeks. We’ve weighed the risks and, though bold, we believe it will work. And then we’ll be laughing at the Ruskies till the end of time.”
Charles became silent, though I could see the way his eyes met no one else’s that he was in deep thought. The veins around his temples said that he was still outraged. Though he was no longer the head of the Berlin unit, nor was he an employee of the British Foreign Intelligence Office, he appeared like a man who still had a lot of clout. Or, at the very least, thought he had clout. But for the moment, Sir Harold Kent and Nigel Moore seemed like they had the upper hand.
For my part, I sat in an armchair in the corner of the room, away from the briefing room table. I was an observer only, not part of the conversation or the plan. Dressed in an inexpensive grey wool suit from Tip Top Tailors, in Ottawa, with a white and blue-striped shirt with a matching blue tie that had tiny polka dots, I didn’t even look like part of this team. Only so often would either Sir Harold or Nigel look in my direction, seemingly surprised to see me, as though they had forgotten that I was in the room. Now that Charles seemed defeated, he looked over at me in his anger. In return, I could only offer a sympathetic smile. I was on Team Townsend, though we both knew that we were on the losing side of the match.
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