“Come, let’s go back now,” JungHo said, but Cho shook his head obstinately, rooted to the frozen ground.
“My family was bu-bu-burned after the March. Th-th-that’s why I’m he-here,” Cho said in a burst of speech that he’d been composing in his head for some time.
JungHo looked at him, and felt sorry for thinking that Cho was simple. Or perhaps he was simple, but calling him so wasn’t entirely honorable. MyungBo would say so.
“Tomorrow, you’ll get your revenge. Then you’ll go back home, marry a pretty girl, and have lots of children. Now let’s go eat the best meal of our lives,” JungHo said, patting his young comrade in the back. Off in the distance the clock tower struck ten times, and JungHo held on to the misty halo of sound after each stroke.
*
THE SUN ROSE WITHOUT INSISTENCE; it was a visitor in the North, and as such always hurried away to its true home in the South. Under the monochrome sky, hundreds of white flags flashing their red dots were crisscrossed between the buildings. JungHo was standing among thousands of spectators filling up the length of Central Street like frosted trees in a birch forest. It was silent save for a military band playing a march on the stage, next to the podium where the governor would later speak. JungHo found Cho’s pale face some thirty yards to his right and gave the slightest nod.
The band wrapped up the song and the crowd’s energy shifted to the right side of the stage. JungHo could feel his hair standing on edge underneath his fedora, and his heart was pounding so much that he was sure it was rattling the pistol in his inner pocket. But his colleagues had already completed their missions and shown him what to do. He too would kill himself cleanly before they got to him. He only worried that he would miss and that his death would mean nothing.
As the images of his impending end reeled through his mind, a bird—some sort of heron—flew into his line of vision over the tops of the buildings. It was obscure and fleeting, like the death omens he’d seen and resisted in the past; but he knew instinctively that it was, in fact, an opposite force. It reminded him of his father, the famous marksman who could shoot a quail from a hundred yards away. His father’s father had once shot and killed a tiger with nothing but a bow and arrow. The same hunter’s gift ran through his veins as clearly as his name was Nam JungHo. The cigarette case, also in his inner pocket, was resting just over his heart.
A weathered old man covered in medals walked onto the stage, surrounded by his entourage. It was unmistakably the governor, judging by the purplish birthmark on his left cheek. JungHo had carefully studied his photographs, since the Japanese sometimes used doubles of important officials to appear in public. A wall of officers surrounded the governor almost completely as he took to the podium. The only way to get a good aim was to stand directly in front of the podium, and to do that JungHo would have to push his way through the crowd, attracting attention to himself. Seeing the guards scanning the crowd and standing ready to shoot, JungHo stayed rooted in his spot.
The governor finished his speech and there was an applause. JungHo had hoped that there would be an opening as the governor left the stage, but the wall of officers kept its formation around the leader and started moving away. He was running out of time, they were going to get offstage unharmed.
JungHo took out his pistol, aimed, and fired.
An officer keeled over with a scream, and the wall was breached. Others onstage instinctively threw themselves on the ground, and one of the guards tried to shield the governor with his own body. JungHo aimed at that guard and fired; the bullet went clear through his forehead and he was felled like a tree. People were screaming around JungHo, pushing to get out of harm’s way, but with so many bodies pressed together no one knew exactly where the shots were coming from.
Another shot was heard, and it wasn’t from JungHo’s gun. No one fell onstage that time. He looked to the right and caught a glimpse of Cho, gripping his pistol with both hands and shaking badly. Another guard was dragging the governor by the arm, taking him offstage. JungHo fired again and saw the old man fall down, clutching his chest.
“Go, Cho, Go!” JungHo shouted to his right. People around him had flattened themselves to the ground and he’d lost his cover. He ran without turning back to see if they were following him. He could hear shouts, screams . . . Above it all, someone yelled “K-Korea manseh!” followed by another gunshot. JungHo stopped in his tracks and turned his head toward the sound. Then there it was—the voiceless whisper in his ear, urging him to flee. He obeyed, changing direction and sprinting to his right. Soon he was shielded by hundreds of spectators on all sides.