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to oblivion in the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea—especially for a man in Kang’s position.
    “Tell me, Comrade Kang, you’ve been following recent events in the South?”
    “Yes, Dear Leader.” What did the man think that he did all day? Read film magazines?
    “Excellent. Then tell me, Comrade, how you would analyze these events. Specifically, these massive student protests in Seoul.” Kim folded his hands over his stomach and rocked back in his chair.
    Kang couldn’t read anything in the man’s expression. He took refuge in the time-worn language used in official propaganda and shrugged. “It is the old story, Dear Leader. The summer Olympics and orchestrated elections bought the Seoul regime a small measure of peace, but the progressive elements are once again trying to pressure the imperialist-controlled puppet government for significant reforms.”
    “And their chances of success?”
    Kang shook his head. “Nonexistent. Uncoordinated street protests are of little use against an entrenched fascist occupation.” What was the man driving at?
    Kim Jong-Il sat forward in his chair. “Why then are we not doing more to assist these progressives in their cause? Surely you see these demonstrations as an opportunity. As a chance to bring these students into a united front against the American oppressors and their lackeys.”
    Oh, oh. Kang wondered which of his rivals had been filling Kim’s head with such nonsense. Too many carefully placed agents had already been “blown” in futile, wasted efforts to control South Korea’s seasonal student protests. He’d better squelch this dangerous line of thought while he had the chance. “Naturally such a development would be welcome indeed. Unfortunately, most of these students have not reached the proper level of revolutionary consciousness. They want reunification with us, but they’ve been unwilling to accept the discipline needed to make that happen. As a result, several of our best networks were compromised during the last round of demonstrations. The benefits do not yet outweigh the costs, Dear Leader.”
    Kim’s smile faded into an impassive, unreadable expression, and Kangthought it best to temporize. “Naturally, we continue to reevaluate each opportunity as it arises.”
    Kim’s smile came back. “I am delighted to hear that, comrade. I have always known you to be a man of great sense.” He gestured airily. “But of course I shall accept your advice on this matter as the last word. We’ll leave these Southern students to their own devices.”
    Kang dipped his head in gratitude. It was a rare thing to be able to so easily persuade the Dear Leader to abandon a pet proposal—even one so cautiously advanced.
    “Tell me, how is the Scorpion Project proceeding?”
    For a moment the rapid change of subject took Kang by surprise. He looked at Kim carefully. This must be what he had really been summoned to discuss. The talk of aiding South Korea’s rioting students had been a blind, a way to ease into something much more important to Kang and to the Research Department—the Scorpion Project.
    In a way the Scorpion Project was Kang’s special pride and joy. It had occupied him for most of his career, and in fact, it had carried him to the upper echelons of the Research Department.
    Scorpion was an agent—a deep-cover agent planted in South Korea in 1950, during the confusion caused by the North Korean invasion. Beria, Stalin’s feared KGB chieftain, had first suggested it to Kim Il-Sung as an insurance policy against military failure. He believed that it should prove comparatively simple to build an airtight “legend” or cover for such an agent amid the ongoing devastation, slaughter, and chaos.
    He had been right. The man known by the code name Scorpion had been recruited, carefully trained and indoctrinated, and then sent south through the enemy lines—armed only with the identity of an anticommunist long since dead in a North Korean