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canceling any connection she had to the higher-ups in town. Lia and her briefer had played out different scenarios on how to offer the bribe, which of course wasn’t referred to as a bribe but an “official fee for expediting important matters.” Lia had to be the one to suggest it, once the official pointed out a problem.
    She followed down the hallway toward a small room at the side of the building. The room smelled of fresh paint. The walls were bright white and there were six overhead incandescents, unusual in a country where power was severely rationed. In the middle of the room sat a large table, the folding sort often used at banquets. The four chairs next to it were heavy metal affairs with vinyl cushions. Lia walked toward the table but waited to sit until instructed to do so—an important point her briefer had emphasized.
    Outside, she heard the sound of the 737’s engines being spooled up.
    “I hope my papers are in order,” she told the officer in Korean. “My time here has been wonderful and productive. I have met with many important people.”
    She continued on with a standard formula about how helpful the local officials had been and how indebted she was to Korea’s great leader, Kim Jong II. She stuck to the official cover that she was a journalist; the officer would know and probably care nothing about the business arrangements.
    The phrases did nothing to soften the officer’s grimace. He requested her travel documents. Lia hesitated, worrying that the officer intended on taking her place on the plane himself, a contingency she had not considered until now. But she had no choice but to hand over the small sheaf of papers.
    As she did, she mentioned that she hoped all of the proper fees had been paid. The lieutenant did not take the hint. Nor did he seem all that interested in the documents themselves. He pushed the papers to one side and stared at her.
    “My superiors would not wish me to be late arriving in Beijing,” she said in Chinese. She wanted the Korean translation—she thought it likely now that the officer did not speak Chinese very well, if at all—but the Art Room had gone silent. Possibly they had decided to communicate as little as possible, which was standard procedure when a field op was in a difficult situation.
    And this definitely qualified. The aircraft engines seemed to kick up another notch.
    Lia decided to turn her communications system on and off, in effect flashing her runner back home. But as she reached for the belt buckle, one of the guards grabbed her arm. His fingers dug into her bicep. It took all of her self-restraint to avoid turning on the man and taking him down.
    Could I if I have to?
    Absolutely. She could have his rifle in a breath, club his companion in the stomach—no, the head or neck—then bring the gun to bear on the officer.
    And then?
    The officer said something in Korean. Lia did not catch it all, but the words she understood were ominous: he called her a tasty plum.
    The Art Room translator started to supply the words, but Lia didn’t wait. “My employer wishes me home on time,” she said in Chinese. “And unhurt. I do not work for a mere newspaper,” she added. And then, switching from Chinese to Korean, she asked if she had to pay a customs tax: “Gwanserui neya hamnikka?”
    Her sharp and quick tone conveyed her anger and emotion quite clearly, just as her snapping open the purse showed she was willing to pay for her freedom.
    The lieutenant leaned forward, eyes locking on hers. He told her in Korean that she was not in China. As the translator began translating in her head, Lia placed her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward.
    “I’m in a hurry,” she said in Korean. The phrase sounded like “ku-p’haiyo” and under the best of circumstances would not have been considered particularly polite.
    “You’re going too far,” hissed the Art Room supervisor, Marie Telach. “Relax. He just wants money. And to see you