The North Korean Connection
Today had been one headache after another. From the Cancun incident to Chief Yeonhui. I tried to calm myself and reached out to Executive Director Ha. I needed confirmation. Whether he was asleep or still working, there was no reply. So I asked Chief Yeonhui for more details. We needed those weapons urgently. I kept a healthy dose of suspicion in the back of my mind. My alertness had jumped from DEFCON 5 straight to DEFCON 1.
I couldn't remember at first. I thought hard. It had been nearly three years since I started working with Chief Eunseong, so the details were fuzzy. Ah! Redflag. Right after I first met Chief Eunseong—actually, it was our very first operation. The raid on the Russian ship. We caused a huge scene and were scrambling for weapons when Redflag came through. So that's where Chief Eunseong got them. But the way she phrased it felt like she was dodging something.
My mind suddenly went blank. Pillow talk was one thing, but a married woman using the handle "iloveGB"? Chief Eunseong must have been furious. I immediately contacted Redflag. He was offline too—no immediate reply. While I waited, Executive Director Ha finally responded and asked about the relationship between Chief Yeonhui and Chief Eunseong. Apparently Chief Yeonhui hadn't lied. When I asked how it started, he said Chief Eunseong had looked after her a lot during the Busan organization job. That's when they hit it off. Another unpleasant memory surfaced—the sight of Chief Yeonhui collapsed inside that warehouse. Later, when she joined headquarters as Executive Director Ha's successor, they saw each other often and grew closer. Chief Eunseong confessed, and they simply moved in together without a formal wedding.
Once the misunderstanding was cleared, I returned to my lodging, showered, and lay down for a quick rest. Then the notification came. Ding~ I shot upright and checked my phone. It was Redflag.
He'd sold nearly two hundred kilos of opium last time and mentioned greasing the wheels with luxury goods. Looked like he'd finally made it into Pyongyang. I didn't know much about North Korean society, but living in Pyongyang supposedly meant you were part of the elite. Had he become one of them?
Meeting the ever-confident Redflag eased my worries.
I was deeply grateful. From now on, he was my brother. Whatever Redflag hyung wanted, I'd buy it for him. I hadn't realized how comforting it would feel to have someone moving on my behalf. The tension drained away and my eyes slowly closed. Whether from all the stress or the shocking news, I woke up in the afternoon. I bolted upright and checked my phone—there was already a message from Redflag hyung.
The moment I saw it, I replied.
I asked like a desperate addict. Not long after, Redflag hyung replied—and he started with curses.
From what he explained, it was a shipment that had been lost in transit. The situation in Central and South America was complete chaos right now. Why? Because the big boss had made a move. Meanwhile, a North Korean foreign-currency-earning group had been preparing to sell weapons to an El Salvadoran organization, but the receiving group got taken down by the American DEA, leaving the goods floating. Redflag hyung heard about the demand for Central and South American goods, took a deposit from the El Salvadorans, and tried to double-dip by selling to me at full price—until he got caught. I didn't care about the details. I just wanted the goods.
The moment I received the documents, I forwarded them to Gonzales—well, Diaz now. After paying the balance, I listened to Redflag hyung's bragging about how much he'd haggled and how much profit I'd made, thanked him at least twenty times, and wrapped it up. He still couldn't resist one last sales pitch.
I didn't believe a word of that "good price" talk, yet the very next week I placed another order. Diaz and Denny must have been really fired up—they contacted me the moment they took possession of the El Salvador shipment and asked if I could place another order. Truthfully, I wanted to go help out myself. But when I tried to place the order, communication became spotty. I thought the media would go wild over what sounded like an all-out war, but the major global outlets showed zero interest. At best, a few local papers ran the usual corner stories about cartel overreach and deteriorating public safety.
After hearing that the second shipment had departed, I asked Redflag hyung something that had been on my mind—Duke Vladimir's warning.
He'd told me to call him "hyung" instead of "teacher," so I switched. Then I asked the next question.
I didn't ask anything else after that.
Right now I'm on a train. Sitting next to Valentin, heading to Paris on the Eurostar. The Eurostar runs from St. Pancras Station in London to the Gare du Nord in Paris—similar to the KTX. According to the internet, it's an international high-speed rail with a top speed of 300 km/h. There are routes crossing the English Channel toward Belgium and the Netherlands, and others heading into France. It opened on November 14, 1994. After two and a half hours, the ticket had cost over 200,000 won. Back home, the Seoul-to-Busan ride took about three hours and cost just over 50,000 won.
After three months in London, I'd grown bored. The language school just recycled the same three-month program with different seasonal activities. Since it was only for cover anyway, I didn't re-register and dropped out. I'd actually planned to do another term and then go into hiding, but Valentin suggested we visit his hometown, so I tagged along. He'd gotten close with the group kids too, but since he mostly hung out with me, we'd become pretty tight. He must have been exhausted—or maybe he'd stayed up too late watching the Champions League—because he was snoring away. The announcements came in both English and French. I figured all announcements were basically the same and glanced around until the screen showed we had ten minutes left. I woke the snoring Valentin and gathered our things.
Stepping off the Eurostar platform and exiting the Gare du Nord, I immediately felt the slum vibe. And that familiar smell hit me—marijuana. The atmosphere was different from London. Black men lurked in corners, staring, and their gestures put me on edge.
"Hey Lucas, let's move. This place is dangerous."
Valentin, freshly awake, grabbed me and pulled. I didn't know where we were going, but I dragged my suitcase after him until we reached a main road. Valentin flagged down a taxi and launched into fluent French with the driver. I caught the word "hotel" a few times—apparently we were heading to our lodging. The taxi pulled away and drove for about twenty minutes. The whole time, I couldn't figure out why Valentin kept sighing heavily beside me.
The hotel turned out to be a well-known chain. He booked two rooms. When I offered to pay, he said it was fine. It was jarring to see someone who couldn't even afford cigarettes suddenly acting rich. For a second I wondered if he was planning something, but he must have noticed my tension and tried to reassure me.
"Don't worry~. You came all this way with me. The least I can do is cover this."
"Let's go grab a beer!"
We ended up on the rooftop, smoking his rolled cigarettes and drinking beer. In the distance, I could see the Seine. As I stepped out of the hotel room, two burly men were waiting right outside the door and picked me up.