The Battlefield Crow
The next day, after my morning run around Daecheongho, I returned to the Brotherhood Welfare Center and found Director Jo waiting for me. I greeted him and followed him into the office with a puzzled look. He told me to go wash up first.
“But you asked me to come in, Director,” I muttered, finishing my shower before heading back. The office was buried under a chaotic spread of documents.
“Take a look.”
The file was titled Investment Proposal. It turned out to be a company résumé. The name was Prior Medical. Strengths: modern equipment, twenty years in operation, though the factory had only recently been relocated and reinvested in. Main clients were mid-sized pharmaceutical firms; core products were tonics and health-drink OEM. Weaknesses: low margins, heavy inventory burden, weak pricing power in a fiercely competitive market, and no real technological edge. The president relied purely on salesmanship to secure orders. It seemed he was offering this as a substitute for the company we had failed to close on yesterday.
Why show me this? I thought the matter was already settled.
“Because of the source of funds.”
“Didn’t you say we’d revisit the investment later?”
“I was going to, but Accountant Kim called. He said it had potential.”
The Kim he meant was the representative partner of the boutique firm.
“What’s the story?”
“For starters…”
The company was in Cheonan. The site was sizable and the facilities were up to date. The reason it had come onto the market was a shortage of operating capital, though Accountant Kim claimed the real culprit was bullying by the primary contractor. Everyone says the same thing, I thought. Even companies that bully their own subcontractors hate being bullied themselves.
The details were straightforward. They had landed a two-billion-won order from a single client. Once production was finished, the client announced they would take delivery the following year and told them to hold the stock. In pharmaceuticals, inventory cannot be repurposed once the formulation or reaction has been run. I knew that well enough; I had lost plenty of stock myself. Maybe Min-cheol had poured in too much ammonia again.
After taking the order, they ran short of operating funds and borrowed from a second-tier lender. Short-term project financing secured against inventory, at ten percent interest. I asked why they had not simply started with payment in hand, the way that industry usually worked. They had been in a hurry, he said. Government funds and primary banks had already maxed out their limits. They had to produce first just to service the interest. The inevitable result was a payment order and seizure of assets.
So the company was already finished. I stared at him, wondering why we were even discussing a dead firm.
“They say the president plans to run.”
Director Jo launched into an economics lecture. He asked if I knew about debt-restructuring programs. The government offered divided repayment, repayment deferrals, and interest-rate adjustments to distressed companies so they could improve their terms and attempt an economic recovery. That was the route we would take.
How? Accountant Kim’s plan was simple. Acquire the company in its current financial state. Since it had not yet reached capital impairment, we would still have to pay something. Then we would take the shares and apply for debt forgiveness through a workout under the restructuring program.
“Couldn’t the current president do that himself?”
“He has already lost his credit.”
The next sentence made everything clear.
“In this deal, the president does not exist.”
The more I listened, the more he sounded like the crow in some novel, picking at the corpses of soldiers on a battlefield. I told him to proceed, but I knew too little to give the order outright, so I decided to inspect the site myself. I canceled my own class.
With midterms over, the schedule had tightened. Still, the privilege of being a university student was that you did not have to attend if you did not feel like it, provided you were willing to take responsibility for your grades.
The factory sat in Ipjang-myeon, Cheonan, close to the highway. Location was excellent. After exiting the expressway and taking the national road, I passed fields thick with grapevines; Ipjang grapes must be famous. Ten minutes farther in, what looked like an industrial park appeared, complete with a food factory whose wall still bore the painted name Haetae. Beside it stood several smaller manufacturing plants whose doors were shut.
“That’s it.”
The exterior, at least, looked clean.
“The land is about three thousand pyeong, the building twelve hundred,” Director Jo briefed me. “The rest is parking and open storage.”
My first impression was neatness—and emptiness. Few people were visible. A single forklift moved across the yard. I approached the driver.
“Hello?”
“What brings you here?”
The rich Chungcheong dialect was oddly charming.
“Aigoo, you’ll have to wait till the sun rises tomorrow before I can answer that.”
I was still trying to frame my question when he spoke again.
“Ah… are you here about—”
“The creditors?”
I was the one who had come to settle the debt, yet the man answered as if he already knew. There were only five employees left, himself included. He had started as a latte maker, but unlike most people from Chungcheong, he spoke quickly. The company was twenty years old. The president had been good at bringing in orders, and they had managed to keep ten people on the payroll. That matched the documents. Then the president had moved the factory and installed new machinery, overextending himself, and everything had collapsed. The driver clicked his tongue.
“Greed ruined the man.”
“Where is the president now?”
I wanted to see his face before leaving, since the place interested me, but Director Jo tugged at my sleeve.
“No idea. He hasn’t shown up in about three months.”
We finished the inspection and got back in the car. Director Jo said that inside that factory the pharmaceutical president’s decision-making authority amounted to nothing. For a moment I wondered if he had already cleaned house the way Ha-bu had. A chill ran down my spine. Director Jo gave a small laugh.
“There is a separate money man.”
On the way down I made several decisions about the problems we had discussed. The purchase price was the biggest issue. I wanted to use the app funds if possible. When I asked how we might raise the necessary legal capital, he suggested using the welfare center. I had already considered the idea. No one in the organization had that kind of cash on hand, and if we installed a front man and later got caught, the main business would be dragged in and the trouble would grow. He agreed. I had not realized the welfare center’s reserve fund was so large. Besides the billion I had caused trouble with, every deputy-level member and above was depositing most of their salary there. I scolded him for not spending the money on better food, clothes, and comforts, but he only thanked me and said things were already better than before. He added that if we found a reliable person at the center, we could hand the operation over and use it as an independent revenue stream. The kids could be given part-time work there as well. From what he had seen, the work did not require advanced skills. The existing orders and recipes were already set; anyone could follow instructions. Once we acquired the shares, we would clean up the client list before the debt restructuring began and start fresh.
I answered coolly.
“Go ahead and proceed.”
A news forecast mentioned a typhoon forming below the South China Sea. This year’s first typhoon was named Jebi. Maybe some good news would come of it. Suddenly I felt a chill. I remembered the stock I had lost when a typhoon struck. I ought to go to Bukhansan and offer a prayer. According to the forecast, the storm would not even reach Taiwan. Hong Kong would feel it, though. Why? Because we had made a delivery there—an order from China that had come through Nakamura. The Chinese organization had asked us to bring it to Mokpo because of our domestic infrastructure. After what Ha-bu had said last time, I had left the entire matter to the security team. I decided to follow them anyway. My trust was still incomplete.
The truth was, we had not yet moved beyond the Brotherhood Welfare Center sticker. The system had been completely overhauled: five-man teams with specialized roles—driver, sniper, scout, delivery, and so on. They treated a simple delivery like a military operation. Yet to my eyes the whole thing was painfully obvious. Their mission briefings were incomplete, their acting awkward. They would improve with time.
The drop point was a small harbor sashimi restaurant beside Mokpo. I followed them openly, yet no one noticed. Once we arrived and took positions, Eun-seong stood out immediately. The sniper rifle case was far too conspicuous, and his all-black outfit failed on the spot. Gray would have been better; we still had not found operational clothing that matched gray’s effectiveness. His sniper position was also too predictable. There were no tall buildings nearby, but even so, the second-floor rooftop of that private house would have been ideal. From a positional standpoint it was clearly the best choice. The youngest member, playing delivery, showed his entire face. He should at least have worn a mask. His radio chatter was obvious, and after speaking with the restaurant owner he appeared to relay the message over the receiver. At least the packaging was excellent. Anyone watching would have seen nothing strange about a one-ton truck delivering styrofoam boxes—the way a sashimi supplier would. The team leader and one other man carried the goods inside. From what I could guess, the team leader’s position was meant as close-range backup in case the delivery man ran into trouble. Eun-seong was the long-range backup. In the end, nothing went wrong. Still, they were badly underprepared. I had meant to speak with them, but an hour later a message arrived and I let it go.
“Please give us a little more time, sir.”
From Daecheongho I thought I heard the sound of weeping.