flight.
Milton’s photo was already being uploaded to the Directorate as he passed through the double doors into the arrivals lounge. To describe the facility as “international” was to be generous: apart from the flights to and from Beijing, the national carrier––Air Koryo––was responsible for the only other flights. Milton glanced up at the departures board and saw international flights to Bangkok, Khabarovsk, Kuala Lumpur, Moscow, Shanghai and Vladivostok. Indeed, “lounge” was also somewhat of a misnomer: the wide space was equipped with a handful of hard metal benches, its whole purpose to funnel travellers towards the customs and security officials with the minimum of fuss. It was the absences that really struck home: no advertising, of any sort; no planes coming and going; no duty free. The lounge was not much warmer than its exterior, but Milton took the opportunity to unbutton his overcoat and wipe some of the water from his face. His fellow travellers obediently took their place in line and waited to be called forwards to the kiosks. Milton cast his eye over them once again. There was a group of four European tourists, and a number of Koreans returning home. Most were Chinese businessmen, sanctions-busters arranging deals to bring luxury goods into the country for the benefit of the ruling elite. That was what Milton was here to do, too; at least that was what he wanted them to think.
The queue shuffled forwards. The Chinese were processed quickly and with good manners. The Europeans took a little longer. Milton took out his smartphone and thumbed it to life. It picked up the Koryolink telephony network but there was no mobile internet and there would be none for so long as he was in the country. He switched it off and put it back into his pocket.
Eventually, he was beckoned forwards by a curt and officious-looking man.
“Your bag,” the man said, nodding his chin at the x-ray machine.
Milton laid it on the belt.
“Coat, belt and shoes.”
Milton managed to smile as he did what he was instructed; it was the patient and forbearing smile of a man who was used to these ministrations. His name, for the purposes of this trip, was Peter McEwan. The bag slid through the machine, pausing within it as an official studied the monitor that was displaying the x-ray. Milton knew that what he saw, or did not see, in the image would have no bearing on what happened next and in that he was right. There were three other officials standing at the end of the belt. Milton knew that they were from the MPSS and he was not surprised when one of them stepped forwards to haul his case from the belt.
“Your passport, please,” said the immigration official.
“Certainly.” Milton handed the passport to him as he watched the MPSS man open the case and start to remove the contents.
The man thumbed through the pages. “Mr McEwan.”
“That’s right.”
“You are well travelled.”
The passport was stamped with two dozen different destinations: South American banana republics, tinpot African dictatorships, trips to Russia and China. There were six trips to the DPRK, all in the last six months. “I’m a businessman,” Milton replied, trying to find the easy confidence that he imagined would be McEwan’s stock-in-trade. He pointed at the MPSS man who was rifling through his things. “I don’t understand. What’s he doing? My papers are all in order, aren’t they? I have a visa from the Ministry of Trade.”
The official did not answer him. He handed the passport back to the security officer, who made a similar show of its careful study. Milton smiled again with good-natured patience but the other passengers had already been cleared to proceed and the last of them were disappearing towards the exit. He had been in these situations many times before but there were not many places in the world that were like this. Despite the reassurance of his experience and training, it was difficult not to feel
Milton’s photo was already being uploaded to the Directorate as he passed through the double doors into the arrivals lounge. To describe the facility as “international” was to be generous: apart from the flights to and from Beijing, the national carrier––Air Koryo––was responsible for the only other flights. Milton glanced up at the departures board and saw international flights to Bangkok, Khabarovsk, Kuala Lumpur, Moscow, Shanghai and Vladivostok. Indeed, “lounge” was also somewhat of a misnomer: the wide space was equipped with a handful of hard metal benches, its whole purpose to funnel travellers towards the customs and security officials with the minimum of fuss. It was the absences that really struck home: no advertising, of any sort; no planes coming and going; no duty free. The lounge was not much warmer than its exterior, but Milton took the opportunity to unbutton his overcoat and wipe some of the water from his face. His fellow travellers obediently took their place in line and waited to be called forwards to the kiosks. Milton cast his eye over them once again. There was a group of four European tourists, and a number of Koreans returning home. Most were Chinese businessmen, sanctions-busters arranging deals to bring luxury goods into the country for the benefit of the ruling elite. That was what Milton was here to do, too; at least that was what he wanted them to think.
The queue shuffled forwards. The Chinese were processed quickly and with good manners. The Europeans took a little longer. Milton took out his smartphone and thumbed it to life. It picked up the Koryolink telephony network but there was no mobile internet and there would be none for so long as he was in the country. He switched it off and put it back into his pocket.
Eventually, he was beckoned forwards by a curt and officious-looking man.
“Your bag,” the man said, nodding his chin at the x-ray machine.
Milton laid it on the belt.
“Coat, belt and shoes.”
Milton managed to smile as he did what he was instructed; it was the patient and forbearing smile of a man who was used to these ministrations. His name, for the purposes of this trip, was Peter McEwan. The bag slid through the machine, pausing within it as an official studied the monitor that was displaying the x-ray. Milton knew that what he saw, or did not see, in the image would have no bearing on what happened next and in that he was right. There were three other officials standing at the end of the belt. Milton knew that they were from the MPSS and he was not surprised when one of them stepped forwards to haul his case from the belt.
“Your passport, please,” said the immigration official.
“Certainly.” Milton handed the passport to him as he watched the MPSS man open the case and start to remove the contents.
The man thumbed through the pages. “Mr McEwan.”
“That’s right.”
“You are well travelled.”
The passport was stamped with two dozen different destinations: South American banana republics, tinpot African dictatorships, trips to Russia and China. There were six trips to the DPRK, all in the last six months. “I’m a businessman,” Milton replied, trying to find the easy confidence that he imagined would be McEwan’s stock-in-trade. He pointed at the MPSS man who was rifling through his things. “I don’t understand. What’s he doing? My papers are all in order, aren’t they? I have a visa from the Ministry of Trade.”
The official did not answer him. He handed the passport back to the security officer, who made a similar show of its careful study. Milton smiled again with good-natured patience but the other passengers had already been cleared to proceed and the last of them were disappearing towards the exit. He had been in these situations many times before but there were not many places in the world that were like this. Despite the reassurance of his experience and training, it was difficult not to feel
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