Award Ceremony Preparations
Funny, when you think about it.
Yeon-woo considered it for a moment and let out a quiet snort of laughter.
When ordinary people heard words like espionage or spy, they naturally pictured agents who buried their identities so deep no one could dig them up, who threw their lives away like scraps of paper just to steal or protect a scrap of information. That was the version the movies sold. The real world of intelligence work was a little different.
Yeon-woo in his previous life had been no exception, and neither were the operatives every country sent into the field. They were people. They fretted over what to eat for dinner the same as anyone else. They worried about getting chewed out by a superior the next morning. Because the job demanded constant results and endless upward reporting, agents from different nations ended up trading information with one another more often than outsiders would ever guess.
Somewhere along the way, brokers had slipped into the gaps — selling intelligence for cash, or buying anything useful that came their way.
I never used them even once…
Most of what the NIS needed concerned North Korea’s movements. There had never been much reason to buy what other agencies were peddling.
Lost in those thoughts, he reached his destination before he knew it. Yeon-woo stepped off the subway and picked up his pace.
If I’m going to make lunch with the staff, I need to finish this fast and be back at the hotel before noon.
Dealing with an underworld information broker did not mean ducking into some seedy back-alley bar and murmuring nonsense passphrases to a bartender — The owl cries at the moon, or whatever other nonsense novels liked to invent. Agents who treated identity exposure as a mortal threat did not buy and sell intelligence face-to-face that way.
“Lichtenberg Library. It’s been a while.”
He looked up at the grand ivory building in front of him, then stepped inside. The distinctive smell of old books washed over him the moment he crossed the threshold.
Yeon-woo entered the square lobby on the first floor, where the central ceiling soared open all the way up. Looking skyward, he could see every corridor and reading-room entrance on each of the four floors at a single glance. Nowhere, however, was there a security camera.
Ironic, isn’t it.
Ever since Germany’s civil uprisings of 1968, libraries had always been the places that sheltered the demonstrators. The old tradition of never recording visitors — meant to protect protesters’ identities — had survived into the modern age, leaving a building almost unique in its lack of surveillance. And the people making use of that fact now were intelligence officers from national agencies.
Yeon-woo shook his head, climbed the stairs at an unhurried pace, and entered the fourth-floor reading room. He wandered among the shelves for a long while, browsing.
Found it.
— Reference: Foundation of Eisenach, Thuringia.
A book no one would ever bother to open. It did not exist anywhere else, and it was not even registered in this library’s catalog.
Yeon-woo pulled it free, sat in a corner seat, and flipped it open. Meaningless words and names filled the pages. From the inner pocket of his jacket he took out a sheet of paper and a pen, then began listing numbers while studying the book.
Each pair indicated a page number and the position of the letter he wanted on that page. If the thirty-seventh character on the sixth page was the letter A he needed, he simply wrote 6-37. In that fashion he filled the paper with numbers that would decode into a message.
— Information on an organization or individual in the Republic of Korea known as “Baeksol.”
He slipped the sheet of densely coded numbers into the middle of the book together with a disposable key card for a locker in the basement of Berlin Station, then closed the cover. He returned the volume to its original place and left the bookmark sticking out. A bookmark protruding from the pages meant someone wanted to sell or buy information.
How much they actually know about Baeksol is anyone’s guess…
There was the growing suspicion that Baeksol stood behind the recent drug-related incidents. And there was the lead Han Hae-un had recently uncovered: Ha Ju-ran, the operative posing as Assistant Deputy Minister Jeong Chan-suk at the Ministry of Culture. The fact that she had once covered southern China, Myanmar, and Laos strongly suggested she was involved in overseas narcotics trafficking.
Which means the information merchants on this side of the world probably hold something useful as well.
It was worth trying, separate from whatever Hae-un was digging up back home.
Yeon-woo set the book back in place, erased his presence, and quietly vanished from the library.
“Actor, did you go out somewhere this morning?”
Over lunch with the staff, Kim Min-su asked the question from across the table. He had stopped by Yeon-woo’s room earlier and found no sign of life inside, and calls had gone unanswered; he had been worried.
“I just went for a jog in the park up the street.”
“You should have called me. What if something dangerous happened while you were out alone?”
Yeon-woo had just returned from a morning that began with money-laundering black-market deals and ended with placing a request to a broker who dealt with intelligence officers. He could not imagine what real danger ordinary daily life might hold, but he understood the concern. He looked at Min-su and offered a gentle smile.
“All right. Next time we’ll run together.”
In truth there had been nothing dangerous at all. A stroll through Tiergarten, a view from a rooftop, a little reading in a library — that was the whole of it.
Seo Ji-eun set down her fork mid-bite and spoke up.
“Haa… it’s tonight. I’m so nervous.”
“What’s there to be nervous about? You should enjoy it. Getting an award in the competition section means you’re guaranteed either the Golden Bear or a Silver Bear.”
The Berlin International Film Festival presented several prizes to films invited into competition. The top work received the Golden Bear; Silver Bears were awarded across categories such as the Jury Grand Prix, Best Director, and Best Screenplay. Confirmation of an award, therefore, meant at least a Silver Bear was coming.
“Still… winning at a festival this big makes the soles of my feet tingle even now.”
Yeon-woo smiled at her, then turned to Director Park Chan-hong.
“Are you nervous too, Director?”
“Not at all. I’m perfectly calm.”
Park Chan-hong answered with an easy smile, yet the cut edges of the steak he had sliced were crooked and uneven. One hand stayed unnaturally under the table while he ate; his fingers were clearly trembling.
They finished a lunch none of them could properly taste, and time slipped past until only about two hours remained before the ceremony.
Yeon-woo was lying down to rest — the dawn had already been packed with work — when the doorbell of his hotel room rang.
“Hmm? We’ve still got time.”
He rose and opened the door. Standing outside was someone he truly had not expected.
“Whoo! Ta-da, entrance!”
“…Huh? Ye-eun noona?”
Stylist Lee Ye-eun stood in the hallway, grinning, a massive suitcase in tow, with Kim Min-su beside her. Next to them, Team Leader Jeong Hyeok raised a hand in greeting.
“I’m here too, Yeon-woo.”
“How on earth—?”
Yeon-woo’s face went blank with genuine shock. Jeong Hyeok and Ye-eun both laughed as if their ambush had succeeded perfectly.
“We booked plane tickets in advance just in case award news came through, and Ye-eun and I stayed on standby. Manager Kim is rock-solid, of course, but extra hands never hurt.”
“…There isn’t even a direct flight. It must have taken forever to get here. Come in, at least.”
Ye-eun and Jeong Hyeok wheeled the suitcase inside.
“We timed the bookings so tightly it almost didn’t work — barely made it. If I’d known, I would have come from the start!”
Still grumbling, Ye-eun flung the suitcase open and pulled out a collapsible steam iron and piles of clothes sealed in plastic. Her hands moved with startling speed, assembling the equipment with practiced ease. The men in the room watched in open admiration.
That’s faster than I can field-strip and reassemble a rifle at full speed…
In moments the setup was complete and she was already steaming garments at a blistering pace.
“Stand right here. We’re moving fast. Makeup still has to happen.”
Ye-eun’s charisma felt especially fierce today; Yeon-woo’s body walked forward as if under a spell. She held piece after piece against him, testing combinations.
“Hmm, good. Navy suit, black shirt. Whether it’s a Golden Bear or a Silver Bear, you’re going to shine.”
She was thinking not only of Yeon-woo himself but of the award moment and how the cameras would frame him — pure professional instinct.
Well… if we win, the director will be the one going up on stage…
Out of respect for Ye-eun’s passion, Yeon-woo swallowed the rest of the thought.
While he changed and sat for her lightning-fast makeup, he noticed more unopened garments still inside the suitcase.
“Noona, what’s that still in the case?”
“Oh, that?”
Ye-eun beamed at him.
“Clothes for Ji-eun. Her agency’s tiny — they definitely couldn’t spare support staff — so I brought something for her. She’s an actress too, after all.”
“Huh? Wha—? Really? Uwaah…”
Seo Ji-eun opened her door at the sound of the bell and froze solid.
“Ah! No! Ji-eun, put those tears right back where they came from! We barely have time to redo makeup as it is.”
Ye-eun swept into the room with a dress in one hand and cut the crybaby’s tears off at the source.
“…Thank you so, so much. I never even imagined—”
“I’m supposed to be Ryu Yeon-woo’s stylist, but I haven’t exactly earned my keep lately. First it was a historical drama with no real styling needed, and the second the shoot wrapped they said this indie needed him in his own clothes for realism…”
She spread the dress across Ji-eun’s bed with quick, efficient motions and gave a small laugh.
“Besides, I’m in this movie too, you know. I show up as an extra at the airport at least five times. Anyway, we’re short on time — Ji-eun, come sit down right now.”
Just like Yeon-woo, Ji-eun walked over as if entranced and took her seat. She had always done her own styling and makeup and had managed decently on her own, but under a professional’s hands she began to glow even brighter.
When the finishing touches were complete, time had already run out. Yeon-woo and Seo Ji-eun came down to the hotel lobby. Director Park Chan-hong, who had arrived early and been waiting, smiled with quiet satisfaction.
“Hyeok, it’s been a while. Last time was when we cast Actor Ryu for Master Plan, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Director. Meeting under good news in a foreign country feels especially fine. Congratulations.”
Park Chan-hong shook Jeong Hyeok’s hand and continued.
“I’m a complete outsider when it comes to fashion, but even I can tell a professional’s touch when I see it.”
Manager Kim Min-su, with nothing to do while the styling was underway, had already filled the director in over casual conversation, so Park Chan-hong showed no surprise at Jeong Hyeok and Lee Ye-eun’s sudden appearance.
“And this old man gets nothing? No one dressing me up?”
“Pardon? Ah… Director, you look wonderful just as you are! Would you like a quick skin-tone touch-up at least?”
Park Chan-hong laughed at Ye-eun’s flustered scramble.
“I’m joking. What’s an old man going to do with powder slapped on his face?”
Jeong Hyeok sidled up to Yeon-woo and whispered,
“Director Park’s personality has gotten remarkably soft. I’ve never heard him joke before. The man used to be a tiger.”
Yeon-woo remembered how insistently Jeong Hyeok had warned him about the director’s temper back when they first went to the Master Plan audition. He tilted his head.
“A tiger? He’s always been kind and funny.”
Jeong Hyeok recalled the infamous Park Chan-hong who had reduced multiple actors to tears with his volcanic temper, and simply shook his head.
“Everyone ready? We’ll be departing now.”
A local staff member assigned by the festival office appeared in the lobby and gathered the group.
“All right, let’s go. The Berlin International Film Festival awards ceremony awaits.”
At Director Park’s words, Yeon-woo and the others rose from their seats.
“This is the site! Mom, Dad! I found it!”
Ryu So-hyun shouted from her room, and Ryu Cheol-ung and Lee Seon-ok came running at full speed.
“You found it?”
“Yeah. Looks like this site’s streaming it.”
“Why aren’t any of our networks carrying it?”
Yeon-woo’s father, Ryu Cheol-ung, carried two chairs in from the living room and answered his wife.
“They didn’t buy the broadcast rights. Korea only bothers with something like the Oscars.”
The three of them sat and stared at the computer monitor.
“Wait — there! Isn’t that Oppa?”
A brief full shot appeared; So-hyun pointed at a corner of the screen. Both parents squinted.
“Hard to say. It’s too dark and tiny. Dad’s going to need his reading glasses.”
They were far from the only ones watching the Berlin International Film Festival awards ceremony over an internet stream. Everyone who supported Yeon-woo — and a great many people across the Korean film industry — held their breath and watched.