The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [221]
To buy some time, Ga spoke to the Senator. “Did Dr. Song not promise you in Texas that if you ever visited our great nation, the Dear Leader would inscribe his work to you?”
The Senator smiled. “This might be an opportunity to test out that pen of peace.”
“I’ve never signed one of my books before,” the Dear Leader said, both flattered and suspicious. “I suppose this is a special occasion.”
“And Wanda,” Ga said. “You wanted one for your father, yes? And Tommy, weren’t you clamoring for a signed copy?”
“I thought I’d never get the honor,” Tommy said.
Commander Park turned toward Comrade Buc’s forklift.
Brando was lunging on his rope.
“Commander Park,” Ga called. “Come with me, let’s make sure everything’s okay with Sun Moon.”
Park didn’t look back. “In a minute,” he said as he neared the forklift.
Commander Ga saw how Buc’s hands were fear-gripped on the wheel, how the figures in those barrels were turning in the heat and worn-out air. Ga got low beside Brando. He slipped the rope from the dog’s neck and held him by a fold of skin.
“But Commander Park,” Ga said.
Park paused and looked back.
Commander Ga said to him, “Hunt.”
“Hunt?” Park asked.
But it was too late, the dog was already upon him, seizing an arm in its jaws.
The Senator turned in horror to see one of his prized Catahoula dogs tearing through the tendons of a man’s forearm. The Senator then passed an appraising gaze upon his hosts, the look of dark discovery on his face suggesting that he now understood there was nothing that North Korea wouldn’t eventually make maniacal and vicious.
The Girl Rower screamed, and at the sight of Commander Park slashing the dog, at the great gouts of dog blood that began to fly, she ran hysterically toward the plane. Arms pumping, her drugged athlete’s body, dormant underground an entire year, answered the call.
Soon, the dog’s pelt was black with blood. When Commander Park slashed again, the dog shifted its bite to Park’s ankle, where you could tell the teeth had gotten to bone.
“Shoot it,” Park shouted. “Shoot the damn thing.”
MPSS agents in the crowd drew their Tokarev pistols. That’s when citizens began running in all directions. Comrade Buc sped away, weaving through the U.S. security agents who were racing to secure the Senator and his delegation.
The Dear Leader stood alone, confused. He’d been halfway through a long book inscription. Even though he stared at the bloody spectacle, he seemed not to recognize an event that occurred without his authorization.
“What is it, Ga?” the Dear Leader asked. “What’s happening?”
“It’s an episode of violence, sir,” Ga told him.
The Dear Leader dropped the peace pen. “Sun Moon,” he said. He turned to look at the pavilion, then dug the silver key from his pocket. He began trotting as fast as he could toward it, tummy bouncing inside his gray jumpsuit. Several of Commander Park’s men followed behind, and Ga fell in with them.
Behind them a protracted attack, now gone to the ground, a dog that wouldn’t relinquish.
At the changing station, the Dear Leader paused, uncertain, as if he had approached the real Temple of Pohyon, bastion against the Japanese during the Imjin Wars, home of the great warrior monk Sosan, resting place of the Annals of the Yi Dynasty.
“Sun Moon,” he called. He knocked on the door. “Sun Moon.”
He slid his key into the lock, seeming not to hear pistol shots behind him and a dog’s final death howl. Inside, the little room was empty. Hanging from the wall were three choson-ots—white and blue and red. On the floor was her guitar case. The Dear Leader bent to open it. Inside was a guitar. He thumbed a string.
The Dear Leader turned to Ga. “Where is she?” he asked. “Where did she go?”
Ga said, “And what about her children?”
“That’s right,” he said. “Her children are also missing. But where could she be with none of her clothes?”
The Dear Leader touched all three dresses, as if verifying