Chapter Three.

Friday, September 16, 1960.

Pyongyang.

North Korea.

Charlotte Mckenna was sitting at the desk in her office of the T17 sniper academy in Pyongyang, grading her latest batch of trainees, when the harsh jangle of the telephone disturbed her concentration. Pushing the thick file aside, she picked up the receiver and spoke.

"Polkovnik"… Colonel Nadia Tolenkanovna. How may I help you?"

The voice on the other end of the telephone was apologetic.

'Nadia? I'm so sorry to have to disturb you, but we have a situation on our hands.'

It was Viktor Malinovskii, Second secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Somun Street. He had established a relationship with Charlotte some time ago... and occasionally she allowed him to make love to her... but this was merely to manipulate him; and through him, the Embassy, in order to retain a cast-iron cover. He was, after all, fairly attractive; a placid, and undemanding lover, and he suited her purpose perfectly.

She lowered her voice a little.

'Yes Viktor; how may I be of assistance?'

His voice was anxious.

'We have received a report that one of our North Korean associates' MiG fighters was discovered yesterday. It was shot down by the Americans to the south of Toksan on Highway One, almost ten years ago. It seems that the pilot was one of our covert Soviet flyers who were rotated in and out of Manchuria. As you are aware; there has always been a political denial of any such involvement in the Korean conflict.'

'This has the potential to create a diplomatic embarrassment for Moscow if the truth ever comes out. Considering your status as Advisor to the North Korean Military; the Embassy would like you to travel down there to establish that there is nothing remaining that might reveal this state of affairs to the U.S. government.'

She paused.

'Very well, Viktor. I will arrange to travel down to the site. Where exactly did the fighter crash?'

The voice on the telephone lost its anxious tone.

'Our sources state that it crashed on a little peasant village called Kwan-ni… about two-kilometres south-west of Toksan… that's about twenty-two kilometres to the south. The village is about a kilometre to the west of Highway One.'

Charlotte replied.

'Very well, Viktor; I have that. I'll leave directly, and see if there is any evidence remaining that could be embarrassing; but ten years is an awfully long time for anything to still be there.'

'Thank you, Nadia; I know, but we just can't take any chance that there might be. Incidentally, we have a reception at the Embassy this evening. It would be nice if you could come.'

She smiled to herself. That was his way of hinting that he was hoping to have sex with her again.

'Thank you, Viktor. I shall be there if I manage to get back to Pyongyang in good time.'

His voice was soft and hopeful

'Oh, I do hope you can get back in time. Until then, Goodbye.'

She smiled again

'Goodbye Viktor.'

And replaced the telephone receiver. She leaned back in her chair, and smiled softly to herself. Viktor Malinovskii was so transparent… like a little boy peering into a sweetshop window. Oh, what the hell? Why not?

Her Korean driver made good time down Highway One. Traffic was light, and there were no condensation trails in the skies. A little to the south of Toksan was the rusting hulk of a Soviet Military Staff car slewed into the ditch at the side of the highway. Her driver stopped the four-wheel-drive GAZ M-72 saloon for Charlotte to examine the wreck. She noted the bullet holes in the rear bodywork and roof; and the dark stains on the upholstery. This vehicle had obviously been strafed from the air. Then she noticed the stained, and mouldering green visor cap with a red band. This cap had belonged to an officer of the Soviet Administration troops. Her heart missed a beat. Max had been given the cover of a member of that corps… and he had been inserted into the Military Establishment at Pyongyang. She stared at the old, grubby cap, her heart racing. Was this the answer to his disappearance? She took a deep breath. No, this was just a coincidence. It had to be. Nonetheless, she took a note of the wreck's licence plate. She would search the records properly when she returned to Pyongyang.

Her driver was standing patiently by the staff car. She turned, and began walking back across the highway. The young Korean pointed deferentially to a track that led into the wood. This was the path to the village. He pointed to the tops of the trees. Several of the topmost branches were much lower than the surrounding woodland. Something had sliced straight through them. The re-growth suggested that this had not been a recent occurrence.

They began walking down the path. The broken trees became more frequent, until, the very trunks had been shattered in a great descending swathe, until there! A broad, weed-strewn gouge ploughed into in the earth with shards of shiny metal showing signs of white, powdery corrosion scattered all around… a gouge that suddenly turned into a scorched pathway leading straight into the little ville… or what had once been a ville. Even now, all these years later there was still the faint, acrid smell of jet fuel clinging to the rotting and charred remains of what had once been fifteen, or so Hanoks… the traditional Korean peasant houses. The ground was thick with the decomposing ash of their choga… their roofs plaited by rice straw; and in the middle of this desolation lay strewn the burned, and corroding wreckage of the MiG fighter. It lay, a jumble of blackened scrap metal; minus its wings which had sheared off as it had hit the ground, and whirled into more Hanoks further to the west; slicing through their walls like a draw-knife.

The remains of the fuselage lay upside-down. The pilot's cockpit canopy had melted in the heat; and the charred, and rotting remains of the pilot was still strapped into the seat. The only things that moved in the village were sickly looking weeds and grasses, and a mangy, half-starved-looking dog that slunk across the path some fifteen-metres in front of them.

There wasn't anything left unburned that could possibly be used to identify the charred mummy. Charlotte turned to walk back towards the car, when her driver, who had been poking about in the wreckage suddenly shouted. He delved into the cockpit and she heard a sharp snap… almost like a dry twig being broken. He emerged triumphantly with a claw-like, blackened talon that had once been a living finger… and on that finger was an engraved gold signet ring. He removed the ring, threw down the calcined digit, and respectfully offered the ring to her, holding it out in both hands. In keeping with the Korean convoluted code of behaviour; she politely declined his offering of the ring three times, and then accepted it.

She carefully lifted the ring from his outstretched hand. It was heavy, and looked to be very old. She studied it, turning it in her hand. The Russian hallmark identified it as being twenty-one-carats… a rare, and expensive piece. The ring was engraved with the Cyrillic letters "B" and "C"... which, in the common Latin alphabet, denoted the letters "V" and "S." The table setting of the signet ring appeared to be in two parts; much like one would expect to find on a locket. Charlotte carefully inserted her thumbnail into the joint and twisted. The cover flipped up to reveal a tiny, discoloured, and scorched photograph of a pretty, dark-haired girl with pronounced Slavic features. The inner surface of the ring's shank was stamped with the normal Russian Assay marks and the maker's mark: "Klingert" in Latin script.

She nodded her approval to her driver.

'Well done, Kwon; your diligence is noted. Now, let us return to. Pyongyang.'

Kwon bowed.

'Thank you honourable Colonel; I am pleased to have been of service.'

As he dutifully followed her out to the car, he smiled… a contented smile. His sharp eyes may well have secured him a permanent position as her driver. This could be his ticket away from the distinct possibility of following in the footsteps of the rest of his class from the Academy, who had been transferred to the Joint Security Area in the south. Kwon really didn't relish the idea of sitting in some shithole of a bunker somewhere down towards the DMZ; freezing his nuts off whilst those round-eyed bastards on the opposite side of the line tried to blow his head off.

As she settled herself into the rear seat of the car, she glanced back across the shattered swathe of woodland towards the destroyed village. On the overgrown berm line of the neglected far paddy, she noticed a solitary figure wearing the traditional conical hat… the "satgat," and a light-coloured smock. The figure stood motionless, as though he was watching her. He; for it had to be a man, judging by his height; was taller than most Korean peasants. She suddenly had a strange feeling as she watched him; but then, the moment passed and the figure turned away; stooping to continue whatever he had been doing. At that moment Kwon shifted into gear and drove away, and the figure was lost from her sight.

Back in her office in Pyongyang, Charlotte made a telephone call to Viktor Malinovskii at the Embassy. She told him that there was nothing remaining of the crashed MiG that could be remotely connected with the Soviet air regiments flying from Chinese bases in Manchuria. There may have been the odd data plate inscribed with Cyrillic characters attached to various components; but seeing as how the airplane, as supplied to North Korea, was Russian-built, that was tenuous evidence, to say the least. The wreckage was so badly burned and corroded that no National markings were distinguishable. The incinerated remains of the pilot were still in the aircraft, but his nationality had been impossible to establish. The burning jet fuel had shrunk his remains to such an extent that he might easily have been Chinese or Korean. Without dental records, it would be impossible to identify the remains.

Viktor Malinovskii breathed a sigh of relief.

'You are certain there is nothing there?'

'Nothing at all. Viktor. The only thing that might have identified the pilot was a gold signet ring, and I have that in front of me on my desk as we speak. It's very old; with a St Petersburg hallmark; is engraved with the initials "V" and "S," and opens to reveal a photograph of a woman.'

The telephone went quiet for a moment, and then Malinovskii replied.

'A "V" and an "S" you say? I'll obtain what records I can through Diplomatic channels. Very well done, Nadia; you have averted the likelihood of an embarrassing predicament for Moscow. Now, am I likely to be privileged with your company at the Embassy reception this evening?'

Charlotte smiled to herself… Oh, why not?... and replied in her best sultry voice…

'Viktor; I think that is a distinct possibility.'

Two days later, Charlotte sat behind her desk, staring out of the window across the northern suburbs of Pyongyang; thoughtfully twisting the engraved gold signet around her right ring finger. Her visit to the MiG crash site troubled her. It was not so much the desolation of the little rural ville that the fighter had crashed onto; it was more the tall, solitary figure she had seen across in the far paddy field. She had checked the archives for the licence plate of the wrecked staff car on Highway One, south of Toksan and discovered that it was a motor pool car that had once belonged to the No.2 KPA Officers School in Pyongyang. Its last allocation had been to a certain Colonel Konstantin Sharansky of the Soviet Administration troops. It had been signed out by Sharansky's adjutant, as being required for an inspection of the Kaesŏng area command. Highway One ran between Pyongyang and Kaesŏng; and the wreck was in the ditch at the side of Highway One.

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She had been gripped by a cold shudder as she read the motor pool register. Colonel Konstantin Sharansky had been the Firm's legend identity of Max Segal... Charlotte's lover; and father of her daughter. She knew that he had been sent into the north under deep cover... and that extensive enquires had been made by Pyongyang investigators as to his disappearance; but no trace of his fate had ever been established.

Could it possibly be that Max had survived, and perhaps gone native? There was something about the distant solitary figure; it was no more than her intuition, but she felt compelled to check again. If it was indeed Max… and it was a very big "if"… she would extract him out of the north through her covert escape route. Consequently, she had telephoned Viktor Malinovskii at the Embassy, and suggested that she return the ring to the airbase at Andung in Manchuria. She would then send confirmation in her role as intelligence liaison, to VVR Command in Moscow.

At first Viktor Malinovskii was ambivalent. It should be the Embassy that contacted Command. She smiled to herself. He was always the cautious one, but she knew how to manipulate him. She suggested that they meet for drinks to discuss the matter. Viktor Malinovskii brightened considerably at her suggestion, anticipating another night of passion with her. An evening of vodka and then, the promise of her warm, perfumed charms was irresistible.

The following morning, Charlotte signed out a vehicle from the motor pool at the sniper academy on the premise that she was going to investigate the wreckage of the MiG fighter down at Toksan once again. In her position as Instructor/Adviser, no questions were asked. Living in the capital was an important privilege; one had to be a politically reliable and/or well-connected person… and a "Soviet Adviser" was as well connected as it was possible to be. She was allocated a GAZ four-wheel-drive vehicle of indeterminate vintage that was effectively the Soviet equivalent of the ubiquitous Willys jeep.

She drove down through the city and crossed to the eastern bank of the Taedonggang River by way of the Taedonggyo Bridge; then drove down to Senkyori Station, turning right, and following the lines of warehouses and the compound of the huge Kanegafuchi spinning mill, where she turned left across the railway tracks and headed out to Highway One. The first checkpoint she reached was situated at Kwakch'on, some eight-kilometres south of the Capital. She was waved through with a smart salute from the North Korean guards. As she drove south, she was formulating her plan.

The landline that the Seoul Bureau had covertly re-routed from the Seoul telephone exchange early in the Korean War to connect between the Bureau and the North Korean intelligence headquarters in Pyongyang's former No. 2 KPA Officers School had been tapped by the Soviets when it was discovered during post-war reconstruction by Soviet engineers in the Government quarter of Pyongyang. A covert connection was made to the Soviet Embassy switchboard for future intelligence-gathering use. She could easily gain access to it through Viktor Malinovskii. Arrangements could then be made with the Bureau for a suitably covert extraction.

Toksan was quiet. She passed two North Korean army trucks parked at the side of Highway One, but other than that, there was nothing on the road. A little farther south and she came upon the rusting hulk of the Soviet Military Staff car. Braking to a halt behind it, she climbed out of the GAZ jeep and made her way along the track that led into the wood. The desolated ville was silent as the grave. Any surviving inhabitants had obviously moved elsewhere. The charred and twisted, corroding remains of the MiG lay undisturbed in the desolated centre area of the settlement which was now beginning to become overgrown with a thick carpet of weeds. The incinerated pilot however, was no longer strapped into the cockpit.

Charlotte gazed around. There were no workers in the paddies; no livestock in the surrounding fields… nothing but a sullen silence. She stood, hands on hips surveying this panorama of the desultory obliteration of an entire rural community. They wouldn't even have had time to look up before the monstrously swelling blossom of exploding jet fuel enveloped them. She shrugged and began to turn away, and then a movement in the trees attracted her attention. She turned back towards the road and was confronted by an old Korean man who limped painfully towards her. He stopped, a respectful distance from her and bowed. His right leg was heavily bandaged, and he stood awkwardly; seemingly to relieve the leg of his weight. Keeping his hands together in the symbolic gesture of Añjali Mudrā, he spoke,

'Honoured Colonel; I am Zhang Jae-Sun, once physician in this place. May I ask if you are here to seek out your countryman?'

Charlotte hesitated.

'My countryman? To whom do you refer?'

Zhang Jae-Sun studied her for a few moments.

'Why, I speak of the Russian officer whom we call Ku-da Chingu…"tall friend"; he who was driving the motor car which you see wrecked out on the Highway. He was gravely injured and had no memory of his past existence, but we cared for him and returned him to good health, although his memory has never returned to any real degree. He has lived among us and worked our fields, these ten years since passed.'

Charlotte nodded.

'How was he injured, and what were his injuries?'

Zhang Jae-Sun smiled gently.

'It seems his motor car was attacked by a South Korean fighter plane. His injuries were deep gashes to shoulder and side; and a serious contused cut to his left temple. It was this contusion that caused his memory loss, even though there was no skull fracture.'

Charlotte nodded gravely.

'Your diligence is appreciated. Where is he now?'

Zhang Jae-Sun motioned with his hand.

'He is with those of our village who prevailed after the catastrophe of the aeroplane that crashed on our village befell us. They are in our new village in the Chunghwa hills to the north of the paddies. If I may, I shall guide you there; although it may well be a time-consuming enterprise. My leg is unfortunately weak from the kiss of the flames. It has never healed properly.'

He smiled stoically.

'I fear that age is a great leveller. When the flames came, I was not as nimble as I might have been. Ku-da Chingu pulled me from the paddy into which the explosion had hurled me, and where I might well have drowned, had he not dragged me into the shelter of the berm.'

She smiled.

'Time is of no essence, venerable Sir. We shall proceed at a pace that is comfortable to you.'

Charlotte and the old village physician, Zhang Jae-Sun made slow progress across the treacherously unstable berm banks surrounding the neglected paddies of his desolated ville of Kwan-ni. As they trudged across the slippery berms, Charlotte strove to contain her almost palpable sense of rising excitement and anticipation. She hadn't seen or heard from Max for almost ten years; if this Ku-da Chingu was indeed, him… what would he now be like? Would he even remember her? Would he remember their adventures… their love? How would he react to the knowledge that he had a daughter?

Once clear of the neglected, and stagnant paddy fields, the ground began to rise as they started to ascend the lower slopes of the Chunghwa hills. Zhang Jae-Sun was beginning to find the climb difficult. Charlotte took his arm and supported him in order that he could relieve a little of his weight from his damaged right leg. He nodded his appreciation.

'Thank you Comrade Colonel. I must apologise for my infirmity, but the new village is only a little farther along this track; and then, we shall see if Ku-da Chingu is the one whom you seek.'

In a short while, they approached the new village that had been built in a small valley surrounded by the Chunghwa hills to the north of the ruins of what was once the original settlement of Kwan-ni. It wasn't much… just a cluster of hurriedly built Hanoks, and a few terraces scraped out from the gentler slopes of the surrounding hills.

Zhang Jae-Sun motioned towards a Hanok on the western edge of the settlement.

Honourable Colonel; that is the dwelling of the one we call Ku-da Chingu… "Tall friend"; but I doubt that he is there. He is probably out levelling the new rice terraces beyond the western slopes of that distant hill.'

As he spoke, a figure appeared over the crest of the hill he had pointed to. Zhang Jae-Sun smiled.

'Comrade Colonel, he must have heard us. That is Ku-da Chingu himself.'

Charlotte studied the distant figure. The man was about the correct height; but his gait was unfamiliar. He seemed to walk with a slight limp, and his whole bearing was not that of Max as she remembered him. Her heart sank… but then, it was almost ten years since she had said goodbye to him in the Embassy at Seoul. As he came closer, she scrutinised him closely. He bore a passing resemblance to Max, but she saw no spark of recognition in his eyes as he studied this female Russian colonel standing with his old friend at the foot of the pathway.

He stopped, and put his hands together in the symbolic gesture of Añjali Mudrā with his eyes lowered respectfully. Charlotte studied him. His face was lined and sunburned from years of working in the paddies; his hands were strong and calloused. He may well have once been Max Segal, but now bore little resemblance to her lover.

She spoke, in Russian…

"Kak Vas zovut?"… 'What is your name?'

He looked blankly at her, and replied in halting Russian;

'My Russian is not good. My name is Ku-da Chingu. This is my village. I tend the paddies. Who are you? And what do you want of me?'

Charlotte's heart sank. There was not the slightest hint of recognition in his eyes as he gazed blankly at her. There was no purpose in continuing in this manner. Impassively, although her disappointment was hard to bear; she became once again, the Russian colonel.

I am here to try to establish what became of the Soviet officer who was driving that motor car that lies wrecked out on the highway. Do you know anything about what happened to him?'

Ku-da Chingu shook his head. His gaze was distant and apathetic.

'I know nothing of this man. The motor car has been there for as long as I can remember.'

He then excused himself and continued his limping walk down the pathway towards the ville.

Zhang Jae-Sun touched Charlotte's arm.

'It is as I said, Honourable Colonel; he has no practical memory of his past life. His thoughts have remained remote and faraway; and every night he tells me of curious dreams of a quite different world of white people and big cities and half-remembered faces. Perhaps, in time, some of these scattered memories will take shape, and lead him to remember his past; but, I fear it is not for now.'

Charlotte nodded.

'Thank you, Comrade Zhang Jae-Sun. It seems that he is not the officer for whom I was searching. However; if any indication as to who he was, returns; I would be obliged if you could get a message to me. My name is Nadia Tolenkanovna, and my office is at the T17 sniper academy in Pyongyang.'

Zhang Jae-Sun bowed.

'Certainly, Honourable colonel. I still have items that were on his person when he was discovered. He has never shown any interest in seeing them, but it is my thinking that I shall introduce them to him gradually, and see if there is anything amongst them that he remembers.'

Charlotte paused.

'Might I see them, Comrade? They might hold some clue to his identity.'

The old physician nodded.

You are most welcome, Honourable colonel. I have them in my dwelling.'

In his Hanok; Zhang Jae-Sun invited Charlotte to sit at the rough wooden table and brought out an old tin box; the faded printing upon which, declared that it had once held wax candles. Placing it in front of her, he invited her to examine the contents. There wasn't much. All the identity documents had been destroyed on the instructions of the village elders to prevent the Pyongyang investigators from finding Max in the old ville when they had come searching for the Russian who had been driving the wrecked car out on Highway One. The box contained a few papers, a couple of ticket stubs; and two faded, creased, and dog-eared photographs.

One photograph was of a young and pretty, blonde-haired girl in a white, halter-necked swimsuit, wearing aviator's sunglasses and a big, floppy-brimmed, woven sun hat; reclining on a wicker chaise longue overlooking a sunny expanse of water. She recognised it immediately. It was a photograph of her… taken by Max in the early autumn of 1949, at Strandbad Wannsee, Berlin. The second photograph was of the little white house at Number Twenty-three, Alsbacher Weg, in the old Nazi SS Veterans Settlement at Krumme Lanke in the Berlin Grunewald… the safe house that she, and Max had shared during those last days before they were extracted from Berlin… the little house in which they had made love for the first time.

Her heart skipped a beat. This Ku-da Chingu had to be Max. There could be no other explanation. Zhang Jae-Sun was studying her intently. His wise eyes had interpreted her reaction. He smiled gently.

'Honourable colonel; these pictures have a profound depth of meaning for you. I can read it in your eyes. What would you like me to do? Shall I go and bring Ku-da Chingu to you so that he might recognise something in them?'

She nodded; forcing herself not to reveal the emotional turmoil that was rising to engulf her implied authoritarian persona.

Zhang Jae-Sun returned in a little while with Ku-da Chingu and sat him at the table opposite Charlotte. She placed the photographs in front of him, and gazed steadily at his weather-beaten face. Holding him in eye-to-eye contact, she spoke quietly in Russian…

"Vy uznali eti fotografii? Oni chto-nibud' dlya tebya znachat?"... 'You recognise these photographs? Do they mean anything to you?'

He gazed at the photographs of a while, and then looked up. His eyes were puzzled and his whole demeanour suggested that he seemed to be preoccupied with some inner mental struggle. He looked back down at the photograph of the little white house, then, in halting Russian, he spoke…

'What is this place?'

She looked steadily at him.

'It is a house in Berlin... in Germany.

He stared at her, and murmured,

'Berlin... Germany.

Then, he dropped his eyes back to the photographs. He ran his fingertips over the photograph of her at Strandbad Wannsee. He glanced up at her face… his expression was that of a child who had just woken from a deep sleep. He bit his lip, and then said, hesitantly…

'I remember this girl ... this girl is... You?'

She nodded. He continued.

'And this house… we stayed there together?'

She nodded again; struggling to keep her composure. Reaching across the table, she took hold of his hands; hard and calloused from years of labour, working the paddies.

'Your name is Konstantin Sharansky; Colonel of the Soviet Administration troops.'

He stared at her in disbelief.

She continued; struggling to hold back her tears.

'We have searched for you for ten years, and now, I have come to take you home.'