10.
THE TAVERN
There were three of them. Always together, but never seen outside the limits of their college, where they had been sent by North Korea’s ‘Supreme Leader’ for some very special training.
They were very special students, because only very special people ever got sent anywhere overseas. These students, the sons of senior officials who had found favour with the ruling elite in their country, were also among the few people there who spoke reasonably good English. It was for this reason, among others, that they had been selected for a term away from their Pyongyang University of Science and Technology, to continue their studies at Westminster University in London.
They were not like any other students, anywhere. For one thing, they were smartly dressed. For another, they devoted themselves to their studies to the exclusion of everything else, because they believed that this is what Kim Jong-un wanted them to do. The only time they left the confines of the Science and Technology Faculty in New Cavendish Street was to get to their nearby private lodgings. They had so far not explored London at all, but had stayed within the confines of the campus. It was plain to everyone who came across them there that they were totally brainwashed by the regime from which they had come. It was also plain that one of them had been sent as a ‘minder’, to ensure that the other two abided by the rules.
Which is why it was so very unusual to find them having lunch in the Fitzroy Tavern in Charlotte Street.
The Fitzrovia district of Central London had once been a highly fashionable area, inhabited by the great and the good and the wealthy. Part of it still was, but other parts have become - shall we say - less fashionable, with the university campus and its multifarious student population that goes with it. The Fitzroy Tavern, owned by the brewing family of Samuel Smith, was a typical London pub of the old sort. It was always a centre for the literati. George Orwell and Dylan Thomas both drank there, and it still attracted authors, musicians, actors and artists as it always did, together with the new mix of business and university clients.
So the three students had plenty of fellow scholars as company, as well as a few tutors.
The North Korean Embassy, however, based in its semi-detached house in Ealing, had taken much persuading before it eventually gave the students authority to investigate the rowdy drunkenness and decadence to be found in this underground hell-hole so typical of the capitalist life style of alcohol and drugs in England’s capital city, just a few hundred yards from their university home.
When they arrived, they were therefore rather surprised to find a quite civilised gathering of students, tutors and well-dressed and well behaved office workers enjoying good food and drink during their lunch break. They were made welcome, shown to a table and offered the menu. Two of them were anxious to learn more by entering into conversation with other diners, some of whom they recognised as being from their faculty, but their fellow minder soon warned them off. There was to be no fraternising without incurring the wrath of their supreme leader, Kim Jong-un. And they all knew what that meant, for themselves and their families.
Nevertheless, this was far from what they had been led to expect. No doubt if they returned at some other time, or even explored a different establishment of a similar nature, they would discover that their briefing had been absolutely accurate.
But they were nevertheless not comfortable in this strange environment, and their discomfiture was made the more acute when one of the customers who had been at the bar, came across to sit with them at their table, which was set for four people.
“Do you mind?” he asked politely. “I don’t want to interrupt, but it is always so crowded here, and this seems to be the only available seat.”
Off hand, they could think of no reason why the man should not share their table, so they nodded, with a smile. Apart from anything else, they were waiting for the food they had ordered.
“Thank you,” said the man, looking at the menu. “Most kind of you.”
“What have you ordered?” he asked, as the waiter approached.
“The steak and kidney pudding,” replied one of them. “We want to sample your traditional food.”
“An excellent choice,” said the man. “It’s always good here. I think I’ll join you.” He nodded to the girl waiting to take his order. “And a pint of best bitter, please.” he added.
“When they have it, the liver and onions is very good, too,” he told the students.
The trio smiled, but said nothing.
“Have you been here before?” asked the man.
“Never before,” replied one of them eagerly. “We have special permission to make this visit.”
“Special permission?” queried the man.
“Special permission,” he repeated. “We are students from North Korea. We need special permission to leave our studies.”
“Ah,” said the man. “What an interesting country yours is! I would love to visit it myself sometime.”
“Visitors are made very welcome by our supreme leader,” said one.
“But because of the vile efforts of America to cripple our country, not many do people visit except from China, and they are mostly on day trips. Because of their hostile policy towards us, the US will not let others visit our wonderful homeland,” said the ‘minder’.
The man decided not to argue.
“How do you like England,” he asked. “Where else have you been?”
“Nowhere else.”
“Where else in London?”
“Nowhere else, except the University. Until today.”
“How long have you been here then?”
“Nearly three weeks,” replied the talkative student.
“And until today, you have been nowhere at all?”
“We are here to study for the benefit of our country, not to behave as tourists.”
“But are you not curious to learn more about this country – about London, even?”
“There is nothing here we need to learn about, that we do not already have in our own glorious country. You could learn a lot from us, in spite of what the imperialist Americans may think of us.”
“Apart from our studies,” said the ‘minder’, “we are also here to improve our English, so that we can defend our leader against the lying and traitorous propaganda spread by the wretched scum in America.”
The food arrived. “Just in time,” the man thought.
They ate in silence.
After a short time, the ‘minder’ said something to his colleagues in Chosŏnŏ.
He asked the man, “Where is the toilet, please?”
“At the back,” he pointed towards the far end of the bar.
As he left the table, he muttered something else to his two fellow students.
“Is he in charge of you?” asked the man with a smile.
“Almost,” replied one of them. “Apart from furthering his studies with us, his main duty is to make sure we both abide by the rules which govern our visit here, and do not stray from the wishes of our dear leader.”
“These rules forbid us from conversation with strangers, although we may extol the virtues of our own wonderful country,” said the other.
“And I would certainly like to learn more about your country and its people,” replied the man.
“And we would also wish to learn more about yours, but regrettably this is not allowed except from our tutors at the University.”
“So we do not meet ordinary citizens,” concluded the other.
“We should meet again,” suggested the man. “Would that be possible?”
The two students glanced at one another, and towards the toilets, beyond the far end of the bar.
“It might be possible, if we are careful.”
“We would welcome the chance to correct all the false information propagated by our enemies the Americans.”
“As well as learning more about life here,” added the other.
“We had not imagined a place like this, for instance.”
“And yet it is full of our fellow students and a few of our tutors,” responded the other.
The man pulled out a small wallet from his pocket and extracted three visiting cards.
“Take these,” he said, offering them one each. “My name and phone number is on them. You can see I work and live near here, so this would be a good place to meet again if you want. Please write your names on this one for me.”
He gave them the third card.
As one wrote his name, they looked carefully to make sure their fellow student was not in sight. The other then wrote his name hurriedly on the back. He glanced around, just as their ‘minder’ emerged from the Gents, and quickly added a note in Chŏsongŭl script.
The man took the card and without a word slipped it into his pocket.
The students’ minder paid the bill at the bar on his way back to the table, and ushered them to their feet.
“We must go,” he demanded. “We have been in this place long enough and should return to our studies.”
Without a word, the other two students stood and left, giving the man a courteous nod of the head as they made their way towards the stairs and the fresh air of Charlotte Street.
One of them winked.
***
Maurice Northcot was feeling quite pleased with himself.
He had successfully completed his assignment in Jakarta, which had been more taxing than he would have wished, and was now back in London for a break. He needed a bit of a rest from service abroad – ‘travelling’ as it was known.
But it was not quite the break he had been hoping for.
He had wanted to spend some time at his cottage in Hampshire, doing a bit of work about the place, and getting to know the river a bit better. He had hardly spent any time there since he had bought the place a year or so after his wife had died.
He had been too busy.
Travelling.
But his lords and masters in MI6 knew that he was beginning to feel the strain of almost constant work abroad. He absolutely loved the life, but was the first to admit that the strain was beginning to tell. Not that he wanted to retire or anything like that – heaven forbid. Neither did he want to give up working abroad. The challenges which that represented were huge, but at the same time invigorating, and he still yearned for the adventure of operations overseas, even though it gave him no real chance to settle, or enjoy his cottage and its trout stream.
Nevertheless, things had gone well this morning. Rather better than he had hoped, in fact, in spite of the fact that he and his colleagues had been working on this for the best part of three months. Just the same, he had no real idea how things would pan out, and could only hope for the best when he had set out earlier today.
He allowed himself a wry grin. In the end, a quite unexpected outcome.
He waved to a passing waiter as he watched the students disappear up the stairs, without a backward glance.
“Another pint of best, please.”
He thought he deserved it.
He had given each of the students one of his many different business cards to keep. Although different, each version had his name and one of his phone numbers on them. This one purported to show that he worked as a Junior Manager for a company called Aspect Management Consultants, with an office in Fitzrovia. He had chosen Aspect Management because that warranted the largest of his visiting cards. He wanted plenty of room for them to write on the reverse of the one which they had returned to him. He took the card from his pocket and read it carefully.
The first name was Lee Kwang-Sun.
Maurice remembered the order in which they had written their names on his card. Kwang-Sun was the rather earnest looking man in rimless spectacles. He took life seriously, it seemed, but was forever looking about him, as if eager to learn from this new experience.
The second was Choi Yong.
He was the one they were looking for.
He had tended to take the lead in the brief conversation that had taken place during lunch, and had more than once received a quite stern look from their ‘minder’, as if he was talking too much and showing too much enthusiasm. It was he who had appeared to be most keen to meet again. “It might be possible, if we are careful,” he had said.
And it was Yong who had winked on his way out.
Maurice looked again at the card. Yong had found the time to write a brief message beneath his name.
It was not in English, but in Chŏsongŭl script.
Northcot was puzzled. Why had he done that? Maurice had read it quite easily. He both read and spoke Korean, among several other languages. Apart from Betty Ogden and a couple others, nobody else in the section spoke Korean or knew that he did.
But Choi Yong could not possibly have known that Maurice was fluent.
Could he?
Did he know?
Or was he perhaps testing Northcot. To see whether Choi Yong’s recent fellow-diner would react, or simply believe it to be some form of Korean art, added for decoration?
So few people knew that Northcot had Korean as one of his languages that it was impossible to believe that this student, who he had only just met, could possibly have known unless he had been told. And there was only one person who could have done that.
The message read; “Here tomorrow.”
Northcot decided that he had to ring Betty Ogden as soon as possible. She had helped to arrange today’s ‘impromptu’ meeting.
They had actually been planning it for weeks.
***
When Maurice got back to his MI6 office in Lambeth, he tried to get hold of Betty on the secure phone.
She didn’t answer.
He wandered down the corridor to see James Piper, Section 7’s boss.
“I could do with a chat with Betty Ogden,” he said. “Any idea where she is?”
“Teaching foreigners English, so far as I know.”
“It’s one of her students I want to talk to her about.”
James scrolled through his computer.
“Hasn’t been in touch for days,” he announced.
“I’ve tried her Satcom phone a couple of times, but there’s never an answer,” said Maurice .
“Out and about somewhere, I expect.”
“Probably,” replied Maurice. “But I don’t want to go through the University switchboard and have her paged or anything.”
James knew Maurice well enough to know that this was not an ordinary social chat he wanted with his colleague Betty, and that he wouldn’t be there in James’s office if it wasn’t important. Maurice usually got on with things on his own, and only got hold of his Section head when he really needed to.
“One of her students, you say?”
“Right. The one from North Korea with an Uncle said to be working on their nuclear weapons programme.”
“He’s special.”
“There’s three of them, actually. But one’s a minder of some sort.”
“Have you met them?”
“Today. A chance meeting over lunch, which Betty arranged.”
“And?”
“One of them left me a note. Wants to meet again. Tomorrow.”
“So why don’t you?”
“The note was written in Korean script - Chŏsongŭl - not in English.”
“So?”
“So how does he know I speak and read Korean, or is he just guessing, or checking me out in some way? And if he is, why?”
“Betty told him,” suggested James Piper.
“That’s why I need to speak to her. The guy doesn’t know he was set up. He has no way of connecting me with Betty. I just fetched up at his table in a pub, looking for somewhere to sit for lunch.”
“We need to speak to Betty,” said James, reaching for his secure phone.
She did not answer.
“Leave it me, then,” said Northcot, as he made to leave the office.
“Before you go,” James called after him, “how’s life back at the blunt end?”
“Not the same.”
“But you thought you’d probably had enough, if I remember.”
“You didn’t agree.”
“I still don’t. But if you’d rather not serve overseas again, the offer of a desk here is still open.”
“I’ve got one, thanks to you.”
“And time to relax a bit? Visit Hampshire, fishing and all that?”
“Peter’s still in Hong Kong.”
“Still trout in the river, though.”
“I’m fishing for men at the moment.”
“Better than just sitting in an office, don’t you think?”
“The RAF always used to say that mahogany bombers aren’t the same.”
“Safer than being up-side-down in a ditch, with a native pumping bullets into your driver.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Find Betty,” commanded James. “We need that Korean nuclear scientist.”
“Leave it me, then,” said Northcot again, as he finally left the office.
***
Betty Ogden seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth. Maurice had tried a dozen times to get hold of her, and she was simply not replying to her phone. He left no messages, in case it had been nicked. It was supposed to be secure, but you couldn’t be too careful.
He turned up at the Fitzroy Tavern anyway, and hoped for the best, not knowing whether or not he had been set up or whether this was a genuine attempt to keep in contact.
It was not too crowded for a change. Just to be sure, he put his newspaper and phone on the place setting next to him, and his coat over the chair.
He hadn’t been there long when Choi Yong turned up, looking about him nervously. He appeared to be on his own, but Maurice pretended not to have spotted him.
Yong hurried over to the table.
“Ah! You got my message then?”
“Message? What message? Nice to see you again, though. Have a seat, or are your friends with you?”
Maurice cleared away his paper and coat.
“I am alone, but can’t stay long.”
Yong sat down, looking round the bar.
“You understood my message?” he asked.
“What message?” repeated Maurice.
“I wrote on the card you gave me,” replied Yong.
“I didn’t notice, but I have the card here.”
He fished it out of his pocket.
“There’s no message here,” he said, looking at it closely.
“There.” Yong pointed to the Chŏsongŭl script he had added to his name. “That is a message.”
“Really,” said Maurice. “How interesting. I thought it was some form of decoration you had added.”
“No. A message.”
“What does it say, then?”
“In my language, it says ‘here tomorrow’”.
“Well I never!” exclaimed Maurice.
“If you could not read it, why are you here?” demanded Yong.
“I often lunch here,” replied Maurice. “You will see from my card that I work nearby. I often lunch here. I live nearby, too. This is my pub.”
“Aha!” said Yong.
“What a bit of luck,” said Maurice. “But what made you think I would understand your message anyway?”
“You said you were interested in my country, so I thought you might understand.”
“No way!” replied Maurice. “Lucky I came here for lunch again today, then.”
“Very lucky.”
The girl came over to take their order.
“I must not stay long,” said an agitated Yong.
“How about a sandwich and glass of wine then? That’ll be quick.”
“Good. You order please.”
“Why did you want to meet up again, anyway?” asked Maurice after he had ordered.
“I need your help.”
“In what way?”
Yong looked about him anxiously.
“I shall be killed if I cannot trust you, and so will all my family.”
“You’d better trust me, then.”
Choi Yong was obviously very agitated.
“Your card says you are a management consultant.”
“True.”
“So you must know many people.”
“Also true.”
“One of them may be able to help me if you cannot.”
“What help do you need? Is it money you want? I can arrange a loan is that’s it.”
“No, no. More than that.”
“Are you in trouble with the law, then? I know a chap in the police who I could talk to. And we have a lawyer working for us in my consultancy.”
“No, no. Much more difficult than that, especially for me.”
“You’d better tell me then.”
Yong leant forward, and almost whispered.
“I trust you with my life, and the lives on all my family.”
“Tell me what you want.”
One more fearful glance around him.
“I do not want to return to my home. I do not want to go home to North Korea. I want to stay here, in your country.” he whispered.
It was loud enough for the hidden receiver in Northcot’s micro-digital recorder to pick up his every word.
Maurice looked about him cautiously, to instil a little confidence in his companion.
“That would be very dangerous for you,” he said.
“Can you help?
“Are you quite sure you want this?”
“Absolutely – no question.”
Maurice thought for a moment.
“It is possible I could help in some way perhaps.”
“Please help me,” Yong implored. “And my friend Kwang-Sun. He also wishes to stay here.”
“Both of you?”
“Both of us.”
Maurice frowned, for effect.
“This could be very difficult to arrange.”
“Please.”
“For two of you?”
Maurice pondered.
“Why is Kwang-Sun not here?”
“He and our other fellow student, Cheong Sung, are with our tutor and others on a cultural visit. To Stratford-upon-Avon.”
“Cheong Sung is the one who keeps an eye you, right?”
“Right. He must know nothing of this.”
‘Well done Betty,’ thought Maurice with a grin.
“OK.” said Maurice eventually. “I will do what I can to help you. I know people who can be of assistance, and who I trust.”
Yong sat back, with a sigh of relief.
“You are very kind to help a stranger,” he said. “But my country is not good, like this one. I know it, and my Uncle has told me.”
“There will be much to discuss,” said Maurice, stating the obvious. “We shall need to meet again, often, and must agree how to arrange our meetings.”
“That will be difficult. You cannot just phone me like anyone else.”
“I’ll think of something,” promised Northcot. “Can we meet again here this evening, when I will have had time to think and perhaps contact a couple of my friends?”
“We can. My tutor and her party are staying away tonight. They are to watch a play this evening, and return tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Maurice. “I shall have many questions to ask you before I do anything positive. I need to know more about you.”
“I will tell you everything you want to know. Anything at all.”
They arranged a time, and Yong left.
***
Working for the Special Intelligence Service, or MI6 as it is known by most people, sounds very glamorous. But it isn’t, so most of those who are involved keep quiet about it, while those who boast about working for them probably do not; a true case of empty vessels making the most noise.
Modern spies work at high risk. They face very real dangers, and their work can have deadly consequences. Most who are involved in that field are lonely characters. Only their immediate families can know what their true role is in life, and then probably not all of them can be let into the secret. For the rest, it is a case of living a lie. Maintaining one’s cover is one of the most difficult parts of the job, not least when dealing with contacts and sources of valuable information. Once established, a source is a priceless asset and cannot be put at risk.
Recruiting foreign sources is especially difficult.
Take Choi Yong, for example. He and his colleague Lee Kwang-Sun seemed, on the face of it, keen to collaborate. One had to ask, however, whether they may not have been set up by their Government to infiltrate the UK to work on behalf of their Great Leader, or whether they were genuinely acting on their own behalf, of their own free will. Free will is not a common attribute of the people of North Korea.
And what about Uncle Dr. Choi Shin? He was a nuclear scientist and working on the North Korean weapons project. He had actually paid a visit to the UK not long ago, so people already knew quite a lot about him. He appeared to be a potential defector, or at least ready to talk, but would he really be prepared to help the UK and its allies, perhaps through his nephew? MI6 was about to target a seemingly valuable source within a largely impenetrable country, knowing full well the dangers of recruiting abroad. They needed to know more about Yong’s connections; more about his motivation, and in particular, more about his possible access to valuable information.
There was more to it than meeting Yong for a beer.
***
When Northcot returned to Lambeth, he went straight to James Piper’s office.
“I know where Betty is,” he announced.
“Oh?”
“Skiving off with a party of students in Stratford, on a cultural visit.”
“I hope they like Shakespeare better than I do,” said James.
“Who cares. She’s taken two of the Korean students with her, including the ‘minder’.”
“Clever.”
“Very. I’ve met our man again, and am seeing him again later tonight.”
“Getting on all right, then are you?”
Maurice handed over the tiny recorder.
“Listen to this. He wants to come over.”
James grinned broadly.
“Got him, then.”
“If we’re careful.”
“It’s his uncle we really need. He is actually working on their nuclear programme as you know. We’ve established that beyond a doubt. He’s been over here.”
“A fellow student friend of his also wants to defect.”
“Two of them?”
“I hope we’re not being set up.”
“Does he have an uncle as well?”
“One at a time!” said Maurice.
He frowned.
“But I need to see the Ogden lady more urgently than ever now.”
“Why?”
“There are questions I need to ask.”
“Such as?”
“Just niggles, really.”
“Share them,” demanded James.
“You may already know the answers, I suppose, since you’re in charge.”
“Try me.”
“Well – for a start, why did one of the students think I spoke and could read Korean?”
“Go on.”
“For a second thing, how did she know I was going to meet him again, tonight?”
“What makes you think she did?”
“The visit to Stratford can’t have been a coincidence, surely. She got the other two out of the way for me specially.”
“So you not only think we could be on the end of a sting, being set up by our Korean friends, but also don’t trust Ogden anymore.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
Head of Section 7 sat back in his chair and looked at Maurice carefully.
“I wish you wouldn’t do things like this to me,” he sighed.
Maurice shrugged.
“I agree, though. It makes you think,” said James, now equally puzzled. “But I don’t have any answers for you.”
“I think we need to be doubly careful about this one,” said Maurice.
“And I think you need to talk to the lovely Miss Ogden. Soonest.”
“I’ve got another meeting with our target before that can happen.”
“It almost seems he wants to talk to you more than you want to talk to him.”
“If we’re being set-up, he would.”
“Perhaps he’s just desperate to get away, and sees you as his only chance.”
“Or he sees this as his only chance to set us up.”
“And his friend.”
“Two to worry about.”
“Three, with Betty.”
“I’m sure she’s OK. She’s worked for us for years. There must be a simple explanation.”
“I