Tokyo

For three nights and four days at a hotel in Atami, Shizuoka, Ki-jo met with Japanese businessmen. On the fifth day he met Finance Minister Tanaka.

When Tanaka arrived, Osano was already there with him.

The finance minister had come all the way from Tokyo to Shizuoka, and he made a point of stressing that they were already acquainted, greeting Ki-jo and Choong-hoon with easy warmth. He dwelt again on his “bond with Korea”—how, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠near the end of the Second World War, a transfer from Hiroshima to Daejeon had spared him the atomic bomb—and he proved every bit as warm toward the building of a steel mill.

“Putting up a steel mill in Korea is an excellent decision. I hope Japan will be in a position to help. Our two countries are close in geography, and the ties between us run deep, don’t they? And I am confident Japan can furnish steelmaking technology more cheaply than any nation in the world.”

It was every line a politician from a Japan in the full flush of growth, dead ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠serious about earning dollars, could be ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠expected to deliver. Yet the conclusion that emerged from his talks with Tanaka about the mill was no different from the one he had heard from the businessmen.

“First, Japan and Korea must establish formal diplomatic relations. Until that happens, no discussion of any kind can be advanced.”

For or against the mill, on this they were of one mind. Ki-jo had taken it as given from the start. Without a settlement of the normalization question, no large project between Korea and Japan was possible. Tanaka, unlike the businessmen, looked ahead with hope.

“I believe the day our two countries open formal relations is not far off.”

On that point Ki-jo agreed. In the original history, relations between the two nations would be normalized on December 18, 1965.

“Chairman Park visits Japan in a few days, doesn’t he? I expect considerable progress then. And I hear the Japanese connections available to him are quite substantial.”

As he said it, Tanaka traded a meaningful look with Osano. Osano cleared his throat and turned to Ki-jo.

“I mentioned before, I think, that Chairman Park comes out of the Manchukuo Army.”

“You did.”

Ki-jo could already guess, more or less, what was coming next.

“The truth is, the Manchuria network inside Japanese politics is considerable. To take the leading example—”

“You mean former Prime Minister Kishi Nobusuke?”

At Ki-jo’s question, Osano and Tanaka laughed, faintly startled.

“You are remarkably well informed. During the war, Prime Minister Kishi served as Minister of Commerce and Industry and took the lead in developing Manchukuo. He was also on intimate terms with Prime Minister Hideki Tojo, who himself came out of the Manchukuo Army. Politics and the bureaucracy in Japan are full of men tied to Manchukuo…”

Ki-jo understood what Osano was worried about. If Chairman Park, a Manchukuo Army man, pushed the steel venture in concert with the Manchukuo-connected figures inside Japan, the two of them would be shut out of the spoils. He was saying so in a roundabout way. Ki-jo decided to guarantee their interests, and for a practical reason. Kishi Nobusuke had already taken a political blow from which there was no recovery. The rising sun was Kakuei Tanaka, sitting right in front of him.

Kishi’s younger brother, Eisaku Sato, would in time take power as the next prime minister, but Sato was a strict and exacting man, ill-suited to the backroom economic dealings of Korea and Japan in the 1960s. Ki-jo set no great hopes on the Kishi line. If he wanted support that ran hot and stayed under the table, he would have to join hands with the Osano–Tanaka faction.

Osano came to the point at once.

“If Chairman Park were to join hands with Kishi’s Manchuria faction, the distance between him and us would grow rather wide… You may not know it, but factions in Japanese politics are tangled in complicated ways…”

“You needn’t worry about that. Mr. Osano, I have worked with you for a long time, and I have ties with Minister Tanaka as well. Chairman Park has also entrusted the steel business to me.”

From his breast pocket Ki-jo drew the paper warrant Chairman Park had written for him. The two men frowned over a document set down in Korean; when Ki-jo explained it, they broke into broad, beaming smiles.

“Remarkable! Only two men in all of Korea hold a permit like this? And the words on the paper have real force. They put me in mind of the loyal modernizers of the Meiji Restoration. Ha ha. Wouldn’t you say so, Mr. Osano?”

Tanaka was praising them by the measure of Japan’s own modernization. It was not the pleasantest thing to hear, but Osano agreed with vigor.

“Quite so. Perhaps it’s because Chairman Park comes out of the army—he’s bold about it. And since the three of us have found ourselves so much of one mind, it would be a shame to go on talking with the drink left out. Wouldn’t you say, President Cho?”

“Of course. President Osano, it’s been an age since we’ve had Finance Minister Tanaka at the same table. Leave the liquor out and it would be a shame indeed. Ha ha ha.”

Choong-hoon answered with a wide grin.

Osano, Tanaka, and Cho Choong-hoon had been born in three successive years, and they had a great deal in common. None of them could boast much in the way of schooling, and all three had come up from humble origins. In Japanese politics and business alike, a man struggled to succeed unless he sprang from an old house; failing that, he at least needed a distinguished school behind him. Perhaps because each of them had made himself in spite of that disadvantage, one in Korea and two in Japan, the bond among them ran strong.

At Osano’s word, drink and side dishes were laid on the table. When every cup was full, Osano offered the toast.

“To the friendship of Japan and Korea, and to our economic success—cheers.”

The table was warm and easy. After the cups had gone around a few times, they let Ki-jo know they hoped he would arrange a connection with Chairman Park Chung-hee. He did not refuse. The steel mill was not the only reason. If the economy was to develop, Korea would have to join hands with Japan. Regrettably, the only country willing to take the hand of a Korea laboring toward that development was Japan.

Once the drink had taken hold, Tanaka said this to Ki-jo and Choong-hoon.

“As I understand it, Chairman Park promised a transfer to civilian rule in ’63. I hope he doesn’t go through with it. That would help Japan and Korea both—and President Lee’s business as well.”

Ki-jo took the remark this way. After the resignation of Syngman Rhee, who had been ferociously hard on Japan, the Chang Myon government had worked toward diplomatic relations, but the gap between the two countries’ positions was wide and the talks were going nowhere. Chang’s government knew well enough that normalization promised large practical gains, yet it moved with extreme caution. There were too many victims in Korea. Negotiate badly, and the regime itself might fall. It demanded moral and material reparations from Japan at once, and labored to make the outcome look like a total Korean victory. The Chang government was among the most pro-American regimes in the history of the Republic, and American pressure to normalize relations with Japan was heavy; even so, it would not rush into talks.

Japan, by contrast, meant to close the books on the colonial years with something on the order of an expression of regret, and against Korea’s claims on Japan it set up claims of its own against Korea. Those counterclaims amounted to a demand for the return of assets Japanese nationals had left behind in Korea when Japan went down to defeat in the Second World War. After the armistice the U.S. military government had seized those assets, and it was the U.S. military government that had sold them off, so Japan’s logic was absurd on its face. Absurd or not, Japan was meeting Korea blow for blow.

What they seemed to want was for Chairman Park—the former officer of the Imperial Army who had so conveniently appeared in Korea—to clear away that tangled problem in a forward-looking spirit.

Ki-jo could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not say he had truly enjoyed the drinking with Osano and Tanaka. He did judge, though, that the evening had not been without its substance. He had promised them a stake in the steel mill, and two men of their influence would now throw themselves into the work.

On November 10, Ki-jo left Shizuoka and arrived in Tokyo. He rested a day there, then set out early the next morning with Choong-hoon for Haneda Airport.

Reaching the second-floor arrivals concourse, Ki-jo took up a place from which he would be able to see Chairman Park, and waited. Before long Haneda was packed with thousands of welcomers, the Taegukgi in their hands. They were people of Mindan—the Korean Residents Union in Japan—come out to greet Chairman Park’s visit. In a Japan where the fight between left and right ran fierce, they seemed to be waging an all-out campaign so as not to lose the battle of atmosphere to the Chongryon camp.

At four in the afternoon, Chairman Park Chung-hee landed at Haneda on the flight from Seoul, and the Mindan crowd gave his arrival a fervent welcome. He wore a black suit and a gray coat, with sunglasses on. From his shoes to his hat he had dressed in domestic goods, and the effect was a little rustic. He waved to the welcoming crowd, then, standing before his entourage, delivered a brief arrival statement.

Ki-jo could see the hand in which Park Chung-hee held the text trembling. Charisma he had, but it showed that he was still a novice in politics. The strain of having come abroad to conduct a summit was written plain on him. He announced that he would cooperate with Japan in blocking communist aggression and would work for a swift conclusion to the Korea–Japan talks, and then he moved on.

Park Chung-hee went forward ringed by Korean and Japanese security men, the entourage following behind. It was then that Park Tae-joon, who had come along as one of the party, spotted Ki-jo wedged in among the Mindan crowd and came over, glad to see him.

“The meetings with the businessmen went well, I hope?”

“Yes. They were productive.”

“And you came all the way out to the airport… Weren’t we supposed to meet tomorrow?”

Ki-jo only smiled at Tae-joon’s puzzlement. He had his reasons for coming to meet the plane. Syngman Rhee, Lee Byung-chull, and Park Chung-hee shared one trait: they took it very ill when a man failed to come to the airport to greet them. It was a habit of the bosses of that era. If Ki-jo did not come out to receive Chairman Park, he reckoned the fact would find its way to the chairman’s ear sooner or later. He kept that reason to himself and answered with a brazen good humor.

“I came a day early. I wanted to see you, Councilor.”

“What?”

Tae-joon stared as if he could not believe his ears, then laughed.

“I’ll get in touch once the talks are finished.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Tae-joon cut the conversation short and returned to the delegation. Ki-jo made sure the men of the entourage had glanced his way, and Tae-joon’s. Satisfied that his face had been properly registered, he left the airport with Choong-hoon.

As the bus pulled out of Haneda, Choong-hoon spoke.

“Look at you, Ki-jo. Watching you talk so naturally with a member of the Supreme Council for National Reconstruction, I have to say you’ve come up in the world, and I’m proud of you. Me, now—I wish Chairman Park would call me in and say, ‘President Cho, I’m counting on you for the passenger airline business. In the whole Republic, you’re the only man I can trust!’ Ha ha ha.”

The words undid Ki-jo. He burst out laughing.

“What are you laughing for? You figure a chance like that is never coming my way? That’s a little hurtful, you know.”

“Not at all, hyung. That day will come. I’m certain of it.”

Ki-jo swallowed the rest of his laughter and turned his face to the window.

In the original history, near the end of the 1960s, the Vietnam procurement boom would put more dollars in Cho Choong-hoon’s pocket than the Bank of Korea held in reserve, and Park Chung-hee would summon him to the Blue House. What Park would put to him was a request that was not quite a request: take over KNA—Korea National Airlines—the state carrier sunk in chronic deficit, and grow it into a flag carrier the world would have to reckon with. Hearing it, Choong-hoon’s face would go white. He would be unable to refuse, and the airline would be dumped on him by something close to force. He would want to refuse to the very end, but Park would call him to the Blue House in person and say, “It is my wish to go abroad aboard a plane that flies our own flag,” and he would later recall that he simply could not bring himself to say no. From the way things were running, Ki-jo was sure that future would open in front of Choong-hoon whether the man knew it or not.

Knowing nothing of it, Choong-hoon talked on.

“Chairman Park, now. He’s the leader of a country, whatever else he is, and I hear that when he goes to America he’ll be riding an American plane. Does that make any sense to you? The way I heard it, even a foreign ministry official flies the national carrier when he goes abroad. It’s a shameful business…”

Choong-hoon folded his arms and lamented, blind to what lay ahead of him, and Ki-jo said, “Hyung, what would you say to taking over KNA even now?”

“What did you say?”

Choong-hoon nearly jumped.

“Look, Ki-jo, how can you say a thing like that to me? KNA is the worst airline in East Asia. How am I supposed to take over a company drowning in red ink? I’d be better off starting a new airline from scratch. And if you ever let a word like that slip to anyone in the government, you’ll catch it from me!”

He fixed Ki-jo with an exaggerated glare. Ki-jo only smiled.

While they talked, the bus carrying them passed, on the airport’s outskirts, a demonstration opposing Chairman Park Chung-hee’s visit to Japan. The crowd ran to the tens of thousands—Japanese leftists and Chongryon people, the very ones who had forced the cancellation of Eisenhower’s visit to Japan in 1960. Determined, it seemed, to make up for that failure, the Japanese police had mobilized on a massive scale and were blocking the demonstrators from the airport approaches altogether. The marchers held placards and chanted their slogans.

They were at it because the Revolutionary Court had found Cho Yong-su, publisher of the left-wing paper Minjok Ilbo, guilty of espionage and sentenced him to death. The root of the trouble was that Cho had taken money from Koreans in Japan. The court ruled that the funds were Chongryon money, and that they were tied as well to Cho Bong-am, who had been executed on spy charges.

Against the anti-Park demonstrators, a far-right group calling itself Japan’s Patriotic Corps had brought up a sound truck and, from behind the police line, was pouring abuse on the Chongryon marchers.

Outside the airport, Japanese and Koreans were tangled together, and a bedlam of ideological confrontation spread in every direction. Watching the Chongryon Koreans—people who took North Korea for an earthly paradise and the South for a state without legitimacy—Ki-jo felt his heart grow heavy. Choong-hoon looked at them and clicked his tongue.

“Those people. If they’d lived through the Reds in the Korean War, they couldn’t carry on like that. Living soft in Japan has turned their heads.”

Ki-jo looked away from the demonstrators. Ideology and righteous cause did not matter to him. All he had to do was give himself to the work of dragging the country out of poverty, and quickly. Lifting Korea out of poverty—that was his charge.