The Orphan Master's Son_ A Novel - Adam Johnson [62]
The plane pivoted at the end of the runway and began to accelerate. Jun Do braced himself in the aisle.
Comrade Buc said, “I do not think our hero has flown before.”
“Is this true, have you not flown?” Dr. Song asked. “We must get you a seat, then, we’re about to take wing.”
With mandarin formality, Dr. Song ushered them into seats. “Here is the safety belt,” he said to Jun Do. “A hero may wear one or not, as he wishes. I am old and have no need for safety, but Comrade Buc, you must apply the belt. You are young, you have a wife and children.”
“Only because of your great concern,” Comrade Buc said, and fastened the belt.
The Ilyushin rose into the western wind, then banked north so that the coast was to starboard. Jun Do could see the shadow of the plane shuddering on the water and, beyond, the blue expanse of the sea. He did not see the water upon which he fished the seasons with the Captain of the Junma, but instead the currents that took him on missions to Japan, every one of them a struggle. The worst part was always the long trip back, listening to the abductees down in the hold, yelling, banging around as they struggled to get free of their ropes. He looked around the cabin, imagined a kidnap victim strapped into one of these seats. He imagined dragging away an American, then spending sixteen hours with him inside this plane.
“I think you’ve got the wrong man for your job,” Jun Do volunteered. “My file perhaps suggests I’m an expert kidnapper, and it’s true, I led a lot of missions, and only a couple of the targets died on my watch. But I’m not that man anymore. These hands, they tune radio dials now. They no longer know how to do what you want them to do.”
“So forthright and earnest,” Dr. Song said. “Don’t you think, Comrade Buc?”
Comrade Buc said, “You chose well, Dr. Song. The Americans will swoon for such sincerity.”
Dr. Song turned to Jun Do. “Young man,” he said. “On this mission, it is your words, not your fists, that you will employ.”
Comrade Buc said, “Dr. Song is headed to Texas to lay some groundwork for future talks.”
“These are the talks before the talks,” Dr. Song said. “Nothing formal, no delegation, no pictures, no security men—we are merely opening a channel.”
“Talks about what?” Jun Do asked.
“The subject doesn’t matter,” Dr. Song said. “Only the posture. The Yankees want a few things from us. We want things as well—high among them is that they halt the boarding of our fishing vessels. You know we use fishing boats for many important tasks. When the moment is right, you will tell the story of your friend being thrown to the sharks by the U.S. Navy. The Americans are very civil. A story like that will have an impact on them, especially the wives.”
The stewardess brought Dr. Song a glass of juice and ignored Jun Do and Comrade Buc. “She is a beauty, yes?” Dr. Song asked. “They comb the entire nation to find them. Young men, all you care about is pleasure, I know, I know. You can’t lie to me. I bet you’re salivating to meet a CIA agent. Well, I can assure you they don’t all look like the beautiful seductresses in the movies.”
“I’ve never seen a movie,” Jun Do said.
“You’ve never seen a movie?” Dr. Song asked.
“Not a whole one,” Jun Do said.
“Oh, you’ll have those American ladies eating out of your hand. Wait till they see that wound, Jun Do. Wait till they hear your story!”
“But my story,” Jun Do said. “It’s so improbable. I hardly believe it myself.”
To Comrade Buc, Dr. Song said, “Please, my friend. Will you bring us the tiger?”
When Buc was gone, Dr. Song turned to Jun Do. “Where we are from,” he said, “stories are factual. If a farmer is declared a music virtuoso by the state, everyone had better start calling him maestro. And secretly, he’d be wise to start practicing the piano. For us, the story is more important than the person. If a man and his story are in conflict, it is the man who must change.” Here, Dr. Song took a sip of juice, and the finger he lifted trembled slightly. “But in America, people’s stories change all