38. Dip Pouch
DIP POUCH
The crate was almost through.
Marina watched the baggage handler push it away from Inspector Choe, toward the secure cargo lane. Another twenty meters and it would disappear behind the partition.
She could breathe then.
Not now.
“Miss Lambert.”
She stopped.
The voice came from behind her.
Marina turned slowly.
Vice Minister Jung stood near the customs desk with two men from the Foreign Ministry. She knew him from meetings—pleasant, immaculate, unfailingly formal. More importantly, he knew her.
And he had known Ri.
His gaze went from Marina to the crate.
Then back to Marina.
Something changed in his face.
“Please wait.”
The baggage handler stopped.
Marina felt her pulse in her throat.
Jung walked toward her, carrying a folder. “There appears to be a problem with your documentation.”
“What problem?”
“You have described this as a diplomatic pouch.”
“Yes.”
“But you are not accredited as diplomatic personnel in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”
“It is official European Union material.”
“That is not what I said.”
“No.”
Jung glanced toward the crate again.
Marina didn’t.
“The European Union does not maintain an accredited diplomatic mission in Pyongyang.”
“I am aware of that.”
“Then you understand my concern.”
“I understand that my flight is boarding.”
“Miss Lambert.”
There was something different in his voice now.
She looked at him.
He wasn’t looking at her anymore.
He was looking at the crate.
At its dimensions.
At the small ventilation holes along the upper seam.
Then his eyes dropped to the paperwork in his hand.
Marina knew what was on it. The weight. Her name. Her initials. The authorization she and Esmee had spent two days constructing from overlapping jurisdictions and official-looking truths.
Jung looked back at her.
“Mr. Ri Sung-cheol died three days ago.”
Her stomach dropped.
She said nothing.
“He was assigned to your delegation for much of your visit.”
“Yes.”
“You spent a considerable amount of time together.”
“He was my minder.”
“I know.”
The crate stood twenty meters away.
Man-sized.
Marina’s hand began to shake.
She closed it into a fist.
Jung saw.
Of course he saw.
“Miss Lambert,” he said quietly, “what is inside that container?”
“Protected material.”
“What material?”
“I’ve already answered that question.”
“No, you haven’t.”
Her throat tightened.
She knew what she was supposed to do. Repeat the position. Don’t elaborate. Don’t introduce new information. Don’t answer the question they wished they’d asked.
She had trained people to do this.
She had done it herself.
“It’s protected European Union material,” she said.
Her voice broke on material.
Damn it.
She swallowed and tried again.
“I need to board my flight.”
Jung stared at her.
Marina could feel the tears coming before she could stop them. Her eyes burned. She blinked hard.
Not here.
Not now.
Her body didn’t care.
She wiped beneath one eye angrily with the heel of her hand.
“Miss Lambert.”
“I need to go.”
“We cannot authorize?—”
“I can’t leave without him.”
Silence.
She hadn’t meant to say it.
Inspector Choe had stopped clicking the pen.
Marina looked at Jung.
There was no professional explanation left. No Vienna Convention. No security procedure. No Vice Minister she could threaten to call, because he was standing directly in front of her.
She shook her head.
“I can’t.”
Jung’s eyes moved toward the crate.
Marina saw the moment he understood.
Not suspected.
Understood.
Her hand went instinctively to her abdomen before she caught herself and dropped it.
Too late.
His eyes followed the movement.
For several seconds neither of them spoke.
Then Jung closed the folder.
His face changed. Not much. This was Pyongyang. People learned early how little a face needed to change.
But Marina saw it.
“I was very sorry,” he said formally, “to hear of the death of our comrade Ri Sung-cheol.”
Marina stared at him.
He knew.
Jung held her gaze.
There was an entire conversation in the silence between them, and none of it could ever be spoken aloud.
Ri Sung-cheol was dead.
The man in the crate therefore could not be Ri Sung-cheol.
Marina drew an uneven breath.
“I’m sorry too.”
Jung nodded once.
He turned toward Inspector Choe.
“The documentation is sufficient.”
Choe looked at him, then at Marina, then toward the crate.
“Vice Minister?—”
“The documentation,” Jung repeated, “is sufficient.”
A long pause.
Then Choe lowered his clipboard.
The baggage handler started moving again.
Marina watched Jung instead.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Lambert,” he said.
A tear escaped despite everything she could do and ran down her cheek.
“Thank you.”
She bowed.
Jung returned it.
Marina turned toward security.
She didn’t look at the crate.
She didn’t look at Jung.
And she absolutely did not run.
Her seat belt was fastened.
Her tray table was upright.
Her carry-on was under the seat in front of her.
Marina had checked all three things several times.
The aircraft pushed back.
She closed her eyes.
Not yet.
She felt the turn as they left the gate, then the slow forward roll toward the taxiway.
Almost.
Her hands were folded in her lap. They were still shaking.
The aircraft slowed.
Marina opened her eyes.
It stopped.
No.
Outside the window, the terminal sat behind them.
A service vehicle raced across the apron.
No.
She didn’t move.
Around her, passengers continued talking. Someone across the aisle was reading a newspaper. Two rows ahead, a child pressed both hands against the window.
Marina stared straight ahead.
Move.
The aircraft remained still.
Move.
The captain said something in Korean over the intercom. She caught only delay and instructions.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Somewhere behind them, Ri was locked inside a crate in the cargo hold.
He couldn’t run.
He couldn’t explain.
He couldn’t even know why they’d stopped.
Marina dug her fingernails into her palms.
Move the plane.
The service vehicle disappeared beneath her window toward the front of the aircraft.
Then, faintly, somewhere behind them, another vehicle.
She heard her own breathing.
The engines changed pitch.
The aircraft moved.
Marina nearly sobbed.
It turned onto the runway.
Accelerated.
Faster.
Faster.
The terminal slid past the window.
Then the wheels left the ground.
Pyongyang fell away beneath them.
Inside the terminal, a telephone rang.
Inspector Choe watched the aircraft climb through the window as the supervisor beside him answered it.
“Yes?”
The supervisor listened.
His expression changed.
“What do you mean, she has no diplomatic status?”
Choe looked at Vice Minister Jung.
Jung said nothing.
The voice on the telephone became louder.
The supervisor ran to the window.
“Stop the aircraft.”
Nobody moved.
“I said stop it!”
Choe looked through the glass.
The aircraft was already banking south.
He clicked Marina’s black pen once.
Vice Minister Jung watched until the plane disappeared into the haze.
“Too late,” he said.
“Vice Minister, respectfully, they’re still in our airspace,” Choe countered.
Vice Minister Jung smiled. “We do that, it will create an international incident. Let them go, we pick up the pieces later. We want the EU to come back, after all.”
Choe looked mollified. “I see, thank you sir,” he said, bowing.
Vice Minister Jung nodded at him, then clasped his hands behind his back and looked out at the plane, just before it disappeared into the clouds.