“They are enemies of our Republic!” Eun-mi answered. “You do not understand, you are too young. We have given them everything; food and shelter – when our own people are starving in the provinces. We give them asylum from their own degenerate kind and they show us only disrespect and bring disease. The Supreme Leader has demonstrated his great benevolence and mercy in saving them, but these are bad people. They have no gratitude, no discipline; their island is the corrupt puppet of America. They would have killed our soldiers to escape this base. They would have killed you too. Would you take their side against your own people? Would you betray our father and dishonour the memory of our mother?”
Nabi stared at her feet and shook her head.
“Go, now!” her sister ordered. “Fetch more guards and wait for our father – hurry.”
Nabi cast a wretched glance back at Gerald and Maggie. Her bottom lip quivered. Wiping her eyes, she ran from the room.
Eun-mi’s hand was steady. She almost wished one of the refugees would try something and give her a reason to fire. She had endured their offensive company for too long and had no qualms about pulling the trigger.
Nabi stumbled out into the corridor, tears streaking down her scrunched-up face. She cast around for any sign of the guards, but there was no one in sight and the long, empty passageway was unnaturally quiet.
“Help me!” she called out and her wavering voice ricocheted down the walls. The shadows lay deep in the recesses of doorways and the little girl wrung her hands together.
“Help us!” she called again.
No answer came. She took several apprehensive steps towards the forbidden area, but it was so dark down there she grew even more frightened.
“Hello?” she murmured.
From somewhere around the corner, she heard a door clang shut, followed by the sound of footsteps striding briskly over the bare concrete floor. But there was something else – a strange clip-clopping. It was very like the hooves of a large animal.
Nabi peered into the concealing darkness and backed away. She didn’t like it. Turning, she began to run towards the junction with the main tunnel.
“Chung Nabi!” a voice rang out behind her.
The child stopped and spun round. Doctor Choe Soo-jin was there, stepping from the shadows – a welcoming smile on her Band-Aid-patched face. In one hand she held a green book; in the other was a long silver rod, crooked at one end, and tipped with a glimmering amber star.
“Come here, dear one,” the doctor said, beckoning. “I have a blessed gift for you.”
MARTIN SHIVERED, WISHING once again for the overcoat he had left on his bunk. He hardly gave any attention to the Captain and the two other men who had whisked him away in this jeep. His thoughts were with Gerald and the rest. He wondered if Lee had agreed to the request and if the English guests of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea had managed to escape. Were they clambering down the craggy mountainside at this very minute? He hoped fortune smiled on them and they could disappear into the fog before the alarm was raised. Where they would go after that was up to Gerald, and providence. Driving through the tunnels, everything seemed business as usual and Martin took that as proof their exodus was still undetected.
He recognised this journey, it was the same one he had taken earlier that morning, and guessed rightly they were heading for the meeting room. He had no idea why he was wanted so urgently, but that didn’t really matter. His own safety was right at the bottom of his list of concerns.
Suddenly he heard the rumble and roar of four other vehicles approaching at speed. Their headlights swept the poorly illuminated gloom before them. Voices were barking commands and, as the lead car drew closer, he made out the thick black eyebrows of General Chung Kang-dae.
Martin uttered a dismal cry. They knew! They were making for the medical centre. But it was so soon. Gerald and the children couldn’t have got very far. They probably weren’t even hidden by the fog yet. They’d be sitting ducks on that mountainside. Martin didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just sit here and let it happen.
The four jeeps raced nearer. They were only moments away from passing when Martin threw himself forward. He dived between the Captain and the driver and wrenched at the steering wheel. The vehicle swerved sharply into the other lane and the approaching headlights dazzled him.
Horns blared and startled yells shrieked out. The tunnel was filled with the screeching of brakes and the reek of scorched tyres. The oncoming jeeps veered aside, while Martin’s scraped along the tunnel wall, showering him and the three soldiers with fiery sparks.
Suddenly it was over. The four jeeps thundered on and Martin’s skidded to a standstill. He couldn’t believe he had survived and despaired that he hadn’t been able to stop them. The Captain and the other two were bawling at him and he was wrestled back to his seat. One of them hit him, but he barely noticed.
“I’m sorry, Gerald,” he muttered, staring after the receding lights. “I’ve let you down.”
“You no do that again!” the Captain was shouting in his face. “You crazy UK!”
The engine started once more and the scarred and dented vehicle spluttered on its way, rattling and juddering until they reached the red double doors of their destination.
Martin stepped out and the armed guards stood aside. The Captain pushed him forward and he entered the meeting room for the second time that day.
The Chief of the General Staff was waiting, standing stiffly by the table. Martin thought he looked faintly embarrassed, almost shamefaced, as he bowed in greeting.
“What do you want?” Martin asked. “Why am I here?” Then he realised there was no interpreter present.
The Chief bowed again. There was something awkward, even shifty, about him. Martin saw his eyes slide over to the high back of a chair that was facing the large TV screen at the end of the room. Someone was sitting in it: Martin could just see the top of their head.
The Chief mumbled something that sounded like an apology, then strode past and left the room.
Martin didn’t understand. He looked across at the chair back, but he wasn’t in the mood to play these sorts of power games. Remembering he was cold, he moved over to one of the electric fires and held out his hands. Over by the far wall, the carpet was still dark with blood. He was just wondering where the young aide’s body had been taken to when the chair swung round and Martin had one of the greatest surprises of his life.
“Hello, Baxter me old mucker!” said an extremely familiar voice. “What’s all this then, a sabbatical? Or are you playing truant or what?”
Martin couldn’t believe it and his mouth actually fell open.
“Barry?” he cried. “What the hell…?”
The former headmaster of the school he had taught at in Felixstowe was grinning at him across the table. He was the last person Martin had expected to see here. Barry Milligan was now part of the Ismus’s inner circle and travelled the world with him and his Court. Way back, so long ago now, when the book had been distributed to the unsuspecting inhabitants of that quiet seaside town out of an old camper van, Barry had been one of the first to be possessed. He had become the mischievous character of the Jockey and had fooled everyone until the very last moment.
He was a middle-aged, squarely built man, with a face florid and craggy from a lifetime’s overindulgence in salt, saturated fat and whisky. His pot belly was a testament to the same.
“Is that all you’ve got to say, Martin?” he asked, laughing and slapping the