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. Passages are in no particular order and are subject to change.
June 5, 1988
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| Photo: Google |
I was still in the chair, still in the cold, empty room. A small window, far too small to crawl through and at the top of one of the walls, showed me that the sun had set some time ago. Light from nearby street lamps gave the room an eerie amber glow. Other than that light, I was in utter darkness. I must have fallen asleep some time ago, when the grey light from an overcast sky offered better illumination.
I was hungry and my lips were shriveling. It had been hours since I had eaten and my captors offered me neither food nor water. My grumbling stomach, mixed with the coldness of the room, had done a good job of dampening my spirits, such that they were. What if I had to use a toilet? The two chairs were the only furnishings in the room. It was a sad realization that I wished they’d move me to a proper jail cell with a hard bed and an open toilet–heck, a bucket would do.
Where was Charles? What of Gunther? I had seen them drive away in one of our cars, sitting in the back seat, one of our drivers speeding off, before I was taken. Did Gunther get away? What of our other agents, similarly dressed? Were they working on a plan for my release? Were Nigel Moore and Sir Harold apprised of my abduction? If they were, I’m sure that they would be fuming. Charles would have a lot to answer for. I wasn’t even supposed to be in East Berlin at any time, let alone during the operation of the mission.
I could only imagine Moore’s words to Charles: “Axam was your responsibility and now he’s our mess.” Would the Berlin office consider me collateral damage? Would I be left to the fate of the East Berlin authorities? The price that Charles would pay for involving me?
Would I ever see Kristen again? My parents? My sister? The darkness was swallowing me, both outside and in.
When I heard the marching of boots again, approaching from the outside hall, I expected to be met by my interrogator and men with rifles, ready to march me to a firing line. And, indeed, when the light came on, the door was opened, and my captor, accompanied by two men with machine guns, came into the room, I expected that my fate was sealed. I had seen my short future and it was turning out as I dreaded.
The middle-aged man looked at me and could, no doubt, read the fear on my face. He stood behind the chair at which he had earlier sat, not saying anything for what seemed an eternity. When his lips eventually parted, I had a hard time understanding him. I had expected him to tell me that I had been summarily found guilty of espionage and had been sentenced to death. I stared at him, silently, and when he realized that I hadn’t heard him, he repeated himself.
“You are free to go, Herr Axam.”
“Smith,” I said, still determined to hold onto my alias, still burying my Scottish accent.
“Whatever you choose to call yourself,” was his cold retort. “You will be escorted to Checkpoint Charlie, where we will release you to West Berlin authorities.” His eyes were locked onto mine and were as cold as the room. “You will never cross into East Berlin again. If you do, you will not be as fortunate as you are today.”
I was ordered onto my feet and could immediately feel the stiffness in my knees and the numbness in my legs. Though I hadn’t been confined to the chair, I was afraid to leave it, feared that if I was caught out of it, when my interrogator or the guards had left me alone, that I would be reprimanded for leaving it, that I might give them an excuse to beat me. The psychological control that they had over me was effective in keeping me in the seat. And now, once on my own two feet, I feared that my legs might fail me.
One of the guards produced a burlap sack from his belt, hidden behind him, and proceeded to pull it over my head. I could smell a woman’s perfume on it so either it was a different sack than the one that I wore on my way to this cell, or someone else had been subjected to it after me. Both guards claimed an arm and led me out of the room, the boots of my interrogator clacking on the hard concrete, ahead of us. We turned several corridors and passed through one heavy, metal door, judging by the sound it made, and down more corridors. Ahead of us, I could hear another door open but we were passing it. By the sound of footsteps, someone was entering the room. But it was the female voice that made my heart skip a beat.
“I am an American citizen! I have rights! You can’t just grab me off the street! I demand that you let me call my embassy!” The door abruptly slammed but I could hear her continuing her outraged rant.
I knew that voice. It was Gwen, the American I first met, as Alexander James Carson, on my way back to West Berlin, and again, later that night, as myself. What was she doing here? Was Charles right? Was she a spy?
And then everything became clear. In a wave of understanding that nearly knocked me over, it hit me. It was as though a missing puzzle piece had been handed to me and I could see the whole picture. I fought to contain my composure, was actually thankful for the sack over my head. I was led out of the building and into a car, and couldn’t wait to get out of East Berlin.
The night wasn’t over just yet.
***
Nigel Moore and one of his agents were waiting for me on the west side of Checkpoint Charlie. The agent held the back door of the Mercedes open for me and Moore joined me in the back seat. It wasn’t until the car began to move that he spoke.
“Sir Harold is livid.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “Is Townsend with him?”
“Is that a joke?” quipped Moore. “Half of our agents haven’t checked in. Gunther is missing.”
“Gunther is dead.” Though I had no proof, the words came out with certainty.
“How do you know?”
“I need to speak to Sir Harold. I’ll fill you in together.”
“This is an absolute cockup. Heads are going to roll.”
Heads have already rolled, I thought to myself but dared not say.
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