Friday Fiction: The Mission Goes Wrong

The following passage is a rough-draft excerpt from my upcoming novel, Gyeosunim, the sequel to Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. Be warned that there are spoilers and you may be missing some context.

Saturday, June 5, 1988

Cars were coming and going. People dressed like me were getting out of one of the many robin’s egg-blue Trabants that were flowing in and out of traffic, and were moving into Alexanderplatz, below the overhead train line. Other men, similarly dressed, were exiting the plaza and entering the passenger side of these two-door coupes. Confusion was everywhere.

This could actually work, I thought.

My hope, however, was dashed almost as quickly as it was lifted. I was like a small child, being playfully thrown in the air by a parent, only to have that caregiver turn their back and walk away as I returned to earth.

Photo credit: dreamstime.com

Two-toned Trebants raced onto Dircksenstrasse. An olive green from halfway down the sides of the vehicles; white up to the top of the roof, across the hood and front end. A thin roll bar across the roof blazed flashing blue lights, two bull horns in between, switched on full only after the cars came to a screeching halt, to indicate that the uniformed men inside were serious.

Two of the blue Trebants—our cars—had managed to speed away as the East Berlin police officers executed their ambush. Had Gunther made his escape? I looked around to see if I could see Charles Townsend but he was nowhere to be found. Had he and Gunther managed to get into one of the cars that had fled the plaza?

Men dressed like me were being apprehended by the police. Others were fleeing as more authorities were arriving on the scene. While no one had yet seemed to take notice of me, I knew that I couldn’t linger. My best move would be to duck out of sight, to ditch the jacket, and to make my way to the train platform. I turned to walk away when I immediately bumped into a man in a black trench coat, flanked on either side by two uniformed men. These men didn’t look like the police officers but more like military officials. Before I could take in the entire situation or say anything, the uniformed men each grabbed one of my arms. A pair of handcuffs were clamped onto me, one of the bracelets digging into my right wrist. The man in the trench coat turned and walked toward a waiting car, and my captors followed, dragging me along with them.

These men were not Berlin police. The beige Wartburg sedan was unmarked, with no lights or sirens. I was in trouble. As we reached the car, one of the officers held the door for the rear seat while I was moved into the middle. The second officer sat next to me while the man in the trench coat moved around to the other side and got in next to me. As I was about to protest, a dark cloth sack was placed over my head and everything went black. I could hear the other officer get behind the wheel of the car and we started moving.

I tried to guess, by the turns that we made, where we were headed, but as we continued past the streets and neighbourhoods with which I was familiar, I was lost and could only count the number of turns we made, as though that would help me find my way back.

Assuming, of course, that I would be able to regain my freedom.

I stayed silent in the car, remembering what Charles had told me. “Say nothing unless you are asked a direct question. Don’t acknowledge anything, even if they say something that is the truth. Remember who you are. You’re Gregory Michael Smith, from Niagara Falls, Canada. You’re simply a tourist. Play that part. Stick to the script, as it were. Above all else, stay calm.”

Easy for him to say. I was scared, had never been fully trained for this kind of encounter. Would I be released? Would I ever see Kristen again? Somehow, I thought, playing the role of someone else took her that much farther from me.

***

Friday, June 5, 1998

The last time I had been put in a car, against my will, I had a bag over my head. I had told myself, over and over, to focus on breathing. To not panic. Any form of resistance would be futile and would only make things worse. Just focus on breathing.

Steady breathing.

They had grabbed the wrong person, I would later tell them. It wasn’t far from the truth. I was put near Bahnhof Alexanderplatz to observe, not to act. To do nothing more than behave like a tourist. Take pictures of the tower and its neighbouring church: candid photos of street life. Stay close to the road. If any car pulled up, point the camera toward it and shoot. Pay no attention to the men walking near me, further away from the road. If anyone got out of the car, photograph them. Make sure they see you. And when they did, turn and run.

That was only ten years ago, and as I let that sink in, it was ten years to the day. June 5, 1988, in East Berlin. Later that day, I was going to call Kristen's mother to wish her a happy birthday. Instead, I found myself in a car, against my will, with a burlap sack over my head, surrounded by men speaking a foreign language.

Ten years later, I was in a car, in downtown Chŏnju, against my will, surrounded by men speaking a foreign language.

No burlap sack, so there was that.