One Percent a Month

Three days later.

We were on the road when Jung Tae-sung passed a thick document envelope over the back seat.

"The information you requested on Cho Hee-chul, sir."

"You've finished the investigation already?"

Instead of answering, Jung Tae-sung met my eyes in the rearview mirror.

A wordless yes. Pure confidence.

"You did say this was your specialty. Well then — let's see what you can do."

I pulled out the documents. The moment I flipped past the first page, his briefing began.

"Over the past month, Cho Hee-chul's time spent at his Myeongdong office has increased by roughly thirty percent compared to his average."

"Thirty percent, hm."

"In a typical year, he'd make his rounds to client offices every afternoon. This year, however, nearly all of his outside engagements have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been pushed back past evening. He holes up in the office during the day under the pretense of balancing the books, and saves his real activity for after dark."

I nodded as I read on. Hiding by day, moving by night.

And here I'd thought daytime was when the moneylending business did its heaviest traffic.

Crooks always give themselves away in exactly these sorts of ways.

"I also looked into the Yeouido and prosecutorial-police lines you mentioned."

"Anything come of it?"

"He's been meeting with go-betweens who hover around Yeouido. Not sitting officials — brokers who are former executive aides to lawmakers. An informal channel entirely distinct from legitimate government liaison work."

I let out a hollow laugh.

Yeouido was infested with exactly that breed of parasite.

Brokers — ex-aides whose badges had long since been taken away.

Ordinary corporations hired people like them to handle government relations, to block any unfavorable regulation or bill before it took shape. Nobody understood the art of dealing with officialdom better than they did.

But the class of people Cho Hee-chul was meeting was a different animal altogether.

Not men who helped businesses — hyenas who connected foul-smelling people to one another and skimmed a commission off the top.

There was no doubt about it. Cho Hee-chul had been hunting for straws like these so he could funnel illegal bribes into lawmakers' offices.

"And the prosecution and police?"

"Contact frequency has risen sharply there as well. Two former violent-crimes division executives and one retired prosecutor with experience seconded to a special investigations unit have shared drinks with Cho Hee-chul three times in the past two months."

Just as I thought.

He'd been laying his medicine here too, well in advance.

Constructing a shield against any accident that might come his way.

Textbook behavior for an organized racket.

"One more thing — his cash flow seems off."

"Cash flow?"

"Talk to the Myeongdong lenders and they'll tell you: money from Jeonju is supposed to move constantly through high-risk, short-term paper. That's what keeps recovery fast and makes playing the interest spread so profitable."

Made sense.

Embezzling Jeonju's money would ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mean severing their own lifeline.

So the rule of the curb market was to cycle the funds into the safest, fastest-turning instruments and pay interest cleanly and on time.

"Normally the money turns over within three to five days. But word is Cho Hee-chul's pattern has changed lately. Money goes in — and doesn't come out."

"Anything beyond that?"

"Short of reading his ledgers directly... I'm sorry. That's the extent of what can be established from the outside."

"Not at all. This is excellent work. You identified the essentials in a remarkably short time."

I meant it. Piecing this much together from circumstantial evidence alone, without ever glimpsing a ledger, was genuine talent.

"And finally — this is by no means certain, but it appears Cho Hee-chul has been putting money into the Yeouido stock market recently."

Bingo.

The most important puzzle piece had just clicked into place.

"The stock market?"

"Yes. And not sound investment — from what I hear, he's attached himself to one of the professional stripping crews that bleed a target dry and walk away."

When the market climbs, what they call the ant hell opens its gates.

Lately the exchange had been riding a wave of China-driven good news — the so-called China supercycle — and it was roaring hot.

Where there is light, there is shadow.

It was precisely in times like these that organized stock manipulators began to stir.

The pattern was all too predictable.

The method was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠simple. Take a collapsing KOSDAQ-listed company, buy it up with money borrowed from loan sharks like Cho Hee-chul, dress it up as an M&A success story, then blanket the market with rumor sheets claiming even this hollow shell was tied to China's economic rise.

The moment headlines like these hit the wires, the stock goes vertical — because moth-ants come swarming to the flame.

Then the operators dump their entire position at the peak, abandon the company as an empty husk, and vanish.

The ending never varies. The company is delisted, of course, and the shares of the retail investors who climbed aboard too late become so much wastepaper.

"Where did the information come from?"

"One of our own sources has apparently been running with that crowd lately, so I asked. He says the money is flowing in from Myeongdong. Though I can't say for certain that it's Cho Hee-chul's—"

"You must have your reasons for suspecting him."

"Yes. Among the Myeongdong bosses, he's the only one whose movements have changed."

Director Jung had a sharp nose for this. I suppose people who traffic in information develop a knack for weaving even the smallest threads into something larger.

That was it. This was the period when Cho Hee-chul lent money into that world for the first time and got his first taste of the game.

Which meant that five years from now, he'd reach for a much bigger score — and get his teeth kicked in for it.

"So Cho Hee-chul has been bankrolling stock manipulators. He's been playing with fire in a very dangerous way."

I closed the file and nodded.

"Thank you for your hard work, Director Jung."

"It was nothing. Then the next matter—"

"We wait. The call should be due any moment n—"

Bzzzt—

Before I could finish, the phone in my pocket vibrated.

The number on the screen was unsaved.

I gave a short answer and hung up.

"That's our call," I said, looking at Jung Tae-sung. "To Bukchon. We're going to see Jeonju."

"You must have found out what Cho Hee-chul's been up to."

When I asked with studied leisure, Kim Jong-soo set down his teacup and gave me a long, hard look.

"How much do you need me to lend."

A question that cut straight to the bone.

Inwardly, I rejoiced.

Straight to business the moment we sat down.

It meant one of two things: either he'd verified that what I told him was true — or he'd dug and dug and failed to find anything conclusive, and now had no choice but to open his mouth and ask.

One look at the faint crease between Kim Jong-soo's brows told me it was the latter.

Suspicion without proof.

"Clean money with no legal exposure — how much can you make available?"

"My money's clean as a whistle, legally speaking. The amount depends on how good the information you're holding is."

Kim Jong-soo leaned forward and lowered his voice.

"Cho Hee-chul. What exactly has that bastard been doing? My boys turned the place inside out for days. The company he keeps is rotten, but they came up with nothing decisive."

Of course they hadn't.

Cho Hee-chul was a snake. His ledgers would be buried three layers deep — days of rummaging were never going to surface a tail.

"He's been trading on the name of the Bukchon King Ant."

At my words, Kim Jong-soo's eyebrow twitched. He waited in silence for me to go on.

"He's been throwing money at people in fairly high seats — Yeouido politics, the prosecution, the police — all while selling the name of Bukchon. Claiming it's on your orders, Chairman."

"...That's all?"

Kim Jong-soo's reaction was lukewarm.

"Men who peddle my name are a dime a dozen. And the ones who escort and protect me — you think there's only one or two?"

Hm. So he'd anticipated at least this much.

"And why would he do that? Just to puff himself up? No. It's because he's into something dirty, so he's laying his medicine in advance."

"Dirty business?"

"You know better than anyone, Chairman — the Yeouido financial district has its stripping crews. It's your specialty, so I hardly need to explain."

Kim Jong-soo understood the physiology of the stock market down to the marrow. There was no need to spell it out.

"Cho Hee-chul is the Jeonju lending money into that world. And not merely as a lender — he's climbed into the same boat."

"...!"

"The main operator of the current scheme is Park Nam-gyu. You know the name, don't you?"

At that name, Kim Jong-soo's expression changed unmistakably.

Park Nam-gyu.

A vicious stock-manipulation technician who had already gutted any number of KOSDAQ companies and sent legions of ants to the Han River.

In ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the industry, anyone who was anyone knew he was a dangerous man.

"Cho Hee-chul has been funding Park Nam-gyu. With your money, no less."

By now, Cho Hee-chul would be lending to Park Nam-gyu and enjoying his little taste of profit.

Enjoying it, and growing greedy for one truly massive score. And five years from now, when Park Nam-gyu was arrested, a whole scandal would unravel — a chain of everyone entangled with him, pulled in one after another.

Kim Jong-soo's money would have become the seed capital of criminal proceeds. There was no way he walked away clean.

Kim Jong-soo washed his face with a dry hand. He grasped how serious the situation was.

No doubt hearing Park Nam-gyu's name had connected with suspicions of his own.

"...How much do you want?"

"Ten billion won."

I answered flatly.

"I'll lend it. Interest at three percent a month."

The gall on this old man.

Three percent a month came to thirty-six percent a year. Standard curb-market rates, maybe — but weighed against the value of the information I'd handed him, it was an outrageous term.

"Don't joke with me. At that rate, I'd walk into any shop in Myeongdong and borrow there. There'd be no reason to come all the way to Bukchon."

The statutory ceiling for registered lenders in this era was sixty-six percent a year, true — but given my creditworthiness and the going rates in Myeongdong, three percent monthly offered me nothing.

"One percent a month."

"What?"

"That's the price of sparing his life. Seems only fair you collect it."

Kim Jong-soo regarded me in silence.

A staring contest. But I wasn't the one with something to lose.

"...Fine. One percent a month."

He nodded. But then again, this was not a man who yielded gracefully.

"In exchange, there's a condition."

"And that would be?"

"The information you're holding. You share it with me as well."

I let out a short laugh.

Kim Jong-soo was a man to whom information leaked from the chaebol houses even sitting still in Bukchon.

For someone who had spent his entire life being buffeted by news other people held first, this was the first time he'd stood on that side of the table.

Of course he covets it.

"Information sharing, hm."

I rapped away at the abacus in my head.

Not bad. If anything, it was a chance to fold him into my own intelligence network.

"Very well. I'll share it. In exchange—"

"...?"

"The twenty percent profit share I proposed last time is off the table. Clean and simple: ten billion in principal, one percent monthly interest."

"You—"

Kim Jong-soo clicked his tongue.

I was proposing to cancel out the twenty-percent profit offer by bundling it into the information-sharing condition.

Financially, it was an enormous gain for me.

Kim Jong-soo stared at me for a long moment, then finally nodded as if he had no choice.

"...Fine. Let's do it that way. You're no ordinary man."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The deal was closed.

As I rose from my seat, I tossed in a bonus, free of charge.

"Sometime within the first half of this year, the political world is going to get very, very noisy."

"The political world?"

"Yes. A once-in-a-generation typhoon is about to make landfall. You'd best pick your line carefully."

The impeachment crisis of 2004.

An unprecedented event in the constitutional history of the Republic of Korea was drawing near.

For the price of a first deal, this was intelligence far too high-grade.

Kim Jong-soo wore a troubled expression, still weighing the heft of what I'd just handed him.

"Then I'll put the ten billion to good use and return it promptly. Please have it ready as quickly as you can."

"I'll send someone you can trust. Given your position, we'll structure it as an investment rather than a loan."

"Much obliged."

I bowed my head in a respectful farewell and left the reception room without a backward glance.