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By Root 1246 0

their feet? Did I inhabit the Kumsusan mausoleum, where I endlessly stared into the chrome-and-glass coffin of Kim Il Sung, his body glowing red under preservation lamps? Or did I study the Urchin Master as he used his truck, disguised as an ice-cream van, to rid Pyongyang’s alleys of beggar boys? Did I at any time recall recruiting Jujack at Kim Il Sung University’s career day, where I wore a suit and a tie as I showed the boy our color brochures and explained to him that interrogation wasn’t about violence anymore, that it was about the highest order of intellectual gamesmanship, where the tools were creative thinking and the stakes were national security? Perhaps I sat in Mansu Park watching virgins soak their uniforms with sweat as they chopped firewood. Wouldn’t I have, here, pondered the notion that I was alone, that my team was gone, that my interns were gone, that my successes were gone, that my chances at love and friendship and family seemed all but gone? Maybe my mind was empty as I stood in line for buses I didn’t intend to take, and maybe I thought nothing as I was rounded up for a sandbag brigade. Or perhaps I was reclined the whole time on the blue vinyl of an autopilot chair, imagining such things? And what was wrong with my memory? How come I didn’t recollect how I spent these painful days, and why was I okay with the fact that I couldn’t recall them? I preferred it this way, didn’t I? Compared to forgetting, did living really stand a chance?

I was nervous when I finally returned to Division 42. Descending the final staircase, I wasn’t sure what I’d find. But all seemed active and normal. There were new cases on the big board and red lights glowed above the holding tanks. Q-Kee walked past, new intern in tow.

“Good to see you, sir,” she said.

Sarge was particularly jovial. “There’s our interrogator,” he said. “Good to have you back.” He said it in a way that suggested he was talking about more than my recent absence.

He had a large metal object on the workbench.

“Hey, Sarge,” I said.

“Sarge?” he asked. “Who’s that?”

“I mean Comrade, sorry,” I said.

“There’s the spirit,” Sarge said.

Just then, Commander Park walked by, limping, his arm in a sling. He had something in his hand—I couldn’t make it out, but it was pink and wet and raw. Let me tell you, Commander Park, with his scarified face, was one sinister figure. The way he looked at you with those dead eyes in their marred sockets, it was like he belonged in some kind of spooky movie about evil dictators in Africa or something. He wrapped the item in newspaper, then sent it via vacuum tube deep into the bunker under us. He wiped his hand on his pants and left.

Sarge snapped his fingers in my face. “Comrade,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I haven’t seen Commander Park up here before.”

“He’s the Commander,” Sarge said.

“He’s the Commander,” I echoed.

“Look,” Sarge said. “I know you got caught up in the harvest, and your apartment is on the twenty-second floor. I know you don’t get priority seating on the subway.” Here he reached in his pocket. “So I got you a little something,” he said. “Something to dispense with all of life’s little problems.”

I was sure it would be the next-generation sedative I’d heard rumors of.

Instead, he produced a shiny new Pubyok badge. “There’s no such thing as a team of one,” he said, offering it to me. “You’re a smart guy. We need a smart guy. Q-Kee learned a lot from you. Come on, be smart. You can keep working with her.”

“Ga’s still my case,” I said. “I need to see it through.”

“That’s something I can respect,” Sarge said. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Finish your work, by all means, then join the team.”

When I took the badge, he said, “I’ll have the boys schedule your haircutting party.”

I turned the badge in my hand. There was no name on it, just a number.

Sarge took me by the shoulder. “Come, check this out,” he said.

At the workbench, he handed me the metal object. It weighed a tremendous amount. I could barely wield it. It had a solid handle that connected to a strip of writing cast from forged