Joy Brigade by Martin Limon Page B

shoulders, and marched into the gymnasium like the proud soldier he must once have been. He wore a leather-brimmed military cap with a flat, comically large crown, like the lid of some enormous jar.
    Behind him was a much younger man, wearing the same uniform but without the epaulets and the medals. And without the cap. His long brown hair was slicked back, unusual here in North Korea, where most men wore their hair short. Also unusual was the thin mustache, the first I’d seen north of the DMZ.
    “That’s our target,” Hero Kang whispered. “Commissar Oh, the political advisor to the First Corps commander. He’s a personal friend of Kim, the younger, and the leader of the Joy Brigade.”
    Commissar Oh moved with all the grace of an eel through water, staying only a step or two behind the general. When they took their places of honor in the bleachers, he sat at the old warrior’s right elbow, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and offered one to the general, whodeclined. The younger man lit up, blowing smoke straight up into the rafters.
    “He’s a scoundrel,” Hero Kang said.
    In Korea, it’s considered impolite to smoke in the presence of an elder. The old general seemed oblivious of the insult.
    “And he’s dangerous,” Hero Kang continued. “Don’t ever trust him. But he’s the one who must invite you back into his headquarters after the tournament. That’s where you’ll be contacted by our operative.”
    “But first I have to win.”
    “You
must
win,” Hero Kang hissed. “Commissar Oh doesn’t tolerate losers.”
    Maputo was still warming up, smashing the air with wicked punches and kicks. Not very respectful to the elderly commander, but the Koreans ignored him. After all, foreigners don’t know any better.
    As I stretched, I watched Maputo’s moves. He glanced in my direction and our eyes locked. Ritual scars stretched across his cheekbones. He smiled briefly and then his lips curled into a sneer. Hero Kang told me the freedom fighters he worked for received arms, clandestinely, from North Korea. Like Doc Yong, Maputo was fighting for his people. Only the desperate enter North Korea. Only the most desperate manage to leave.
    Involuntarily, my eyes turned to the armed men at the exits. There were more of them now, but the beautiful senior captain had disappeared.
    “Where’d she go?” I asked Hero Kang.
    “I don’t know. Forget about her. Concentrate on winning. It’s our only chance to get out of here.”
    “You know her,” I said.
    “Yes. She’s famous.”
    “For what?”
    “Never mind now.”
    A whistle shrilled. Maputo approached the center languidly, with all the grace of a leopard on a hot summer day. A hushed wave of tittering flowed through the crowd, especially from the female side. Once we were facing the judges, we both bowed, then we turned and bowed to each other. The referee shouted,
“Junbi!”
Then, waving outstretched arms toward the center of his chest,
“Sijak!”
    Maputo hopped forward with a vicious side kick.
    Unfortunately, I had been lost in thought about Captain Rhee Mi-sook. I’d been wondering if our cover had already been blown and if she’d really let me leave this gymnasium even if, somehow, I managed to win this match. I was doing exactly what Hero Kang had warned against. I wasn’t paying attention.
    The side kick landed hard against my left shoulder and I reeled backward, tripping myself. I fell with a thud.
    The gymnasium erupted in laughter.
    I bounced to my feet. Everyone was laughing, even the old general. But not Commissar Oh, who puffed on his cigarette and studied me with more than curiosity. With fascination.
    Maputo didn’t take advantage of my fall. To reach me, he had overextended and lost his own balance. His footing regained, we faced one another, fists raised, eyes locked.
    I felt the burning in my face and behind my ears. I’d been humiliated by the fall and the laughter, but the side kick hadn’t been a decisive blow. Not, at