Sicario
With the war-like boom period over, Eunsu began to worry about his own life. Even during the last deal with Nakamura, the shortage of product had forced him to run around so much that he missed his midterms. He had enrolled in a liberal arts course called Film and Life. According to the syllabus, students were supposed to watch one film every two weeks, write down their impressions and what they had learned, and present them during the midterm period. Those who presented received extra credit, while those who did not could still pass by submitting a report instead. That was why he had signed up. But now that the semester was nearly over, he had been too busy to watch anything. With tens of billions of won moving in and out, there simply had not been time to sit and watch movies at leisure.
Now that it was time to go dark, he started working through the list of films. Among them, he watched Sicario. The director had done an outstanding job. The story followed an FBI agent, a CIA agent, and a Mexican prosecutor bent on revenge. The way the plot unfolded felt so realistic that it might as well have been written by someone who had lived it. The brutality of the cartel, the by-the-book mindset of the FBI agent, the CIA agent's "ends justify the means" attitude, and the Mexican prosecutor's obsession with revenge all meshed together in a way that left the viewer with plenty to think about.
While watching, Eunsu found himself worrying that Gonzales and the Camilio Family might end up becoming the kind of cartel depicted in the film. The last time he had overheard them discussing the quota system, it seemed they were coordinating well with the U.S. government. He made a mental note to ask Gonzales what Sicario meant. A quick search told him it was Latin for "assassin." He wondered if the story was based on real events. Then again, movies always exaggerated things, didn't they?
The film opened with the FBI agent as the protagonist, raiding a hideout. Instead of ramming through with vehicles, it would have been better to approach quietly and under cover. Maybe that was just how things worked in the American setting. Once inside, there was a shootout; they simply gunned everyone down. Eunsu shook his head. When searching a room, if you knew an enemy was inside, you should toss in a flashbang or grenade first. If the cartel members had been even slightly calmer with their shots, the protagonist would have been dead.
Next, while the police were searching the hideout and discovering dozens of bodies, a bomb went off. Officers and fellow agents died, and the protagonist was consumed by a thirst for revenge as the story continued. What stuck with him most was the city of Juárez, Mexico. Whether day or night, gunfire echoed through the streets, police patrolled constantly, and corpses hung in the alleys. ...Wait, what the fuck? That was exactly what he had seen in Cancún last time. His head suddenly felt heavy. Was it real? He wondered whether the Camilio Family was truly fighting against the kind of monstrous cartel shown in the movie.
There was not much to learn from the film, especially once the story reached the revenge scene against the cartel; it became too absorbed in the protagonist's emotions. He wished they had shown more about the cartel itself. The money-laundering sequence in the middle had also felt sloppy. If you walked into a bank with your face exposed like that, of course you would get caught. Money laundering was clearly their specialty.
He had been so busy with sales that he had not noticed, but three months ago Deputy General Manager Seong had created a new coin as a gift for them. The name was the same: GBC. The previous one had been delisted. Internet gambling users would gamble whether they believed in it or not, so the coin had originally been made for foreign-currency laundering because they lacked dollars. Once the boom hit and foreign currency was no longer needed, Eunsu had told Seong to stop and not bother him with it. Seong had asked to change direction and try something else. Eunsu had told him to do whatever he wanted. A report had come up through Secretary Ko last month, and the results were impressive. They had even listed the coin on exchanges in the U.S., Korea, and several other countries.
What Seong had done was pay the organization's employees in the coin. Eunsu had objected, saying it would harm the members. He had seen news reports about people going bankrupt from coin investments. Seong replied that coins were always like that. Whether Seong was simply skilled or the market itself had gone mad, within days of the report the coin's price had jumped tenfold. Eunsu immediately told Executive Director Ha and Director Jo to sell quickly. They said they already had. Nice. The very next day, however, the price dropped 95 percent.
Eunsu told Secretary Ko that this was not right. Secretary Ko calmly explained that Deputy General Manager Seong had already informed the executive-level members in advance. He gave them the coin at the market rate on the days salaries or bonuses were paid, and if they did not sell at that time, it was their own responsibility. After hearing that, Eunsu decided he would never touch coins again.
"Chairman, even at -95 percent, it's still considered flat to slightly down."
How could dropping from 100 to 5 be called flat? Whether because he had poured in so much capital or because the members were trading heavily, the coin's ranking kept climbing. When he asked why, he was told it was all about capital; the more bullets you had, the better, and the higher the volatility, the better. So a coin that could swing between 5 percent and 500 percent was considered good?
That was how the securities business was added to the organization's business registration. Eunsu only instructed them to keep the operation from standing out too much. Outsiders who were not members had come in, made money, and left, or else lost everything. The coin community was more entertaining than the Skylight community. Since it was profitable, they left it alone. Secretary Ko had put it plainly: "Retail investors can't beat the whales."
With some free time, Eunsu went down to the welfare center. He had received a request. When he arrived, it was a construction site. Just as they had discussed during the last personnel meeting, buildings were going up.
"You're really doing it?"
"You've arrived."
During the boom, if he had been busy, the people below must have been even busier. Executive Director Ha and Director Jo looked much healthier than before.
"Haha, you gave approval, so we had to proceed."
When Eunsu asked what they were building, they said it was a dormitory. About fifty people, one room per person, each with its own bathroom. It was quite large.
"What are you planning to do with it?"
"We're turning it into a rehabilitation center. We've already received permission."
Suddenly, Eunsu's mouth tasted bitter. He remembered hearing about a rehabilitation center for their own members. People in the drug trade never used drugs themselves. Why? Watching customers destroy themselves made them cautious. Still, some ended up addicted, whether by accident or on purpose, and sometimes became their own customers. Was that humanitarian talk? It was because these were people who had come under his wing. From the very beginning, most of them had been born with disabilities or were socially marginalized, working under him just to survive. He wanted to give them the freedom to choose. After rehabilitation, he wanted to send them back into mainstream society. Those who could not be helped were another matter. Because mental and physical problems often overlapped in this line of work, there were very few hospitals nationwide that could treat them. There were designated hospitals, but they lacked doctors and facilities, so treatment was impossible. There were also very few protective facilities. The moment Director Jo submitted the application, the Ministry of Health and Welfare had approved it. A photo of him with the minister was hanging prominently in the meeting room.
"Come to think of it, I received the report last time. Take care of our own people first. We don't need to accept outsiders."
"That's what we intend to do."
They chatted lightly over a glass of omija tea about recent events. Aside from the construction, the welfare center had not changed much. A few more children had arrived. The old senior's words came back to him: in this world, reputation was worse than notoriety. Relying on that reputation, people made requests that could not be refused, so they had taken in a few more. The retirees' farm had also stabilized. Apparently everyone preferred mountains or the sea; the teams had split two-to-two. Poppy production was in full swing, but domestic demand was expected to be limited. The police officer they had recruited in Shinan had scouted a new island, but the heavy rain made it difficult. If that area did not work because of the rain, the southern island where Cheongnok lived probably would not either. They would have to rely on imports from China.
Their suppliers would soon start whining for more product. When he asked about the situation in China, Executive Director Ha said everything was proceeding smoothly. The security team members who had been dispatched were only focused on protecting Manager Kim and were not being sent on operations. As long as they coordinated well with the domestic logistics team, there should be no problems. Eunsu told them to be careful not to get caught. If the Chinese public security caught them, it would be troublesome; the laws there were strict.
"Since we're not distributing directly, the risk should be lower."
That was a relief.
"Yes. You said you had something to say?"
"Why don't you go study abroad for six months?"
Executive Director, again? No. I'm not going. You go.