The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [116]
Commander Ga looked down and nodded.
“Up, then,” the Dear Leader said. “Dust yourself off, grab hold of your dignity again.” He indicated a platter from the table. “Dried tiger meat?” he asked. “Do eat, and pocket some for that son of yours—that boy could use some tiger. When you eat of the tiger, you become like the tiger. That’s what they say.”
Commander Ga took a piece—it was hard and tasted sweet.
“I can’t eat the stuff,” the Dear Leader said. “It’s the teriyaki flavor, I think. The Burmese have sent this as a gift. You know my collected works are being published in Rangoon? You must write your works, Commander. There will be volumes on taekwondo, I hope.” He clapped Commander Ga on the back. “We sure have missed your taekwondo.”
The Dear Leader led Commander Ga out of the room and down a long white hallway that slowly serpentined back and forth—should the Yanks attack, they’d get no line of fire longer than twenty meters. The tunnels under the DMZ slowly curved the same way—otherwise a single South Korean private, shooting through a mile of darkness, could counter an entire invasion.
They passed many doors, and rather than offices or residences, they seemed to house the Dear Leader’s many ongoing projects. “I have a good feeling about this mission,” the Dear Leader said. “When was the last time we embarked on one together?”
“It has been too long to remember,” Commander Ga said.
“Eat, eat,” the Dear Leader said as they strolled. “It’s true what they say—your prison work has taken a toll on you. We must get your strength back. But you still have the Ga good looks, yes? And that beautiful wife, I’m sure you’re glad to have her back. Such a fine actress—I’ll have to compose a new movie role for her.”
From the flat ping of his footsteps echoing back, Ga knew hundreds of meters of rock were above him. You could learn to perceive such depth. In the prison mines, you could feel the ghostly vibration of ore carts moving through other tunnels. You couldn’t exactly hear the roto-hammers biting in the other shafts, but you could feel them in your teeth. And when there was a blast, you could tell its location in the mountain by the way dust was slapped off the walls.
“I have called you here,” the Dear Leader said as they walked, “because the Americans will be visiting soon, and they must be dealt a blow, the kind that hits under the ribs and takes the breath away but leaves no visible mark. Are you up for this task?”
“Does the ox not yearn for the yoke when the people are hungry?”
The Dear Leader laughed. “This prison work has done wonders for your sense of humor,” he said. “So tense you used to be, so serious. All those spontaneous taekwondo lessons you delivered!”
“I’m a new man,” Ga said.
“Ha,” the Dear Leader said. “If only more people visited the prisons.”
The Dear Leader stopped before a door, considered it, then moved on to the next. Here he knocked, and with the buzz of an electric bolt, the door opened. The room was small and white. Only boxes were stacked inside.
“I know you keep close tabs on the prisons, Ga,” the Dear Leader said, ushering him in. “And here is our problem. In Prison 33, there was a certain inmate, a soldier from an orphan unit. Legally, he was a hero. He has gone missing, and we need his expertise. Perhaps you met him and perhaps he shared some of his thoughts with you.”
“Gone missing?”
“Yes, I know—it’s embarrassing, no? The Warden has already paid for this. In the future, this won’t be a problem, as