only this bench, would do.

Maybe it was his usual place to sit early in the morning; maybe he often put on that green felt hat and came here to think about his life. Maybe in taking up his normal spot, I was interfering with a rite that had by now begun to define his existence. It seemed churlish of me to do so, and I almost got up to move. On second thought, I told myself, maybe being overseas, in unfamiliar surroundings, was causing me to philosophize myself into a corner. I’d only been here a day; it was too soon to feel guilty.

The man didn’t say anything at first, just sat looking out at the water with a completely relaxed air. He took off the hat and laid it on the bench so that it sat between us, the feather pointing at me. Then he pulled a croissant from his pocket and tore off a piece, which he chewed slowly. He stood up and threw the rest to the swans, who had assembled in the shallow water near the shore, about ten steps away. The strollers had gone past, and there wasn’t anyone else around except an elderly couple with a child, very subdued and with a serious look on his face. I wondered if the child had been vetted, or maybe the swans. This was a setup. I could feel it in my bones.

The man sat down again; he didn’t even turn his head when he spoke. “Against my advice, you were given permission to enter.” His English was deliberate, like a person might speak to a dog whose intentions are unclear. “I don’t control the border. But here, inside, you are mine. You understand? Your every move will be watched. If you enjoy the scenery, I will receive a report on what you looked at, how long you observed it, whether you took a picture. I’ll even know what exposure you used on the camera. If you stop for a drink at a bar, I’ll get word in a trice what you ordered, how big a tip you left, whether you stared at anyone, or made small talk, or winked at the Indonesian prostitutes hanging around at the entrance. I’m going to be all over you until you get back on an airplane and fly away—far, far away.” An insect landed on his shoulder. He crushed it quickly, examined what was left, and then flicked the pieces onto the grass. “Fine weather for February.” He stood up. “I wish you a pleasant stay in Geneva.” He left the hat on the bench. I don’t like green felt. As he strolled away, I had the feeling neither did he.

2

The entire team—all six of them—sat around a table in a small room that overlooked the entrance and the wide steps that came up from the driveway. The curtains were shut, and the air was stale, a little overheated, I thought, as soon as I walked into the room. Five heads turned and followed my progress to the one empty chair. Only the delegation leader ignored me. He sat hunched over an open binder of papers, occasionally marking a page or underlining a word. A tiny black notebook lay to one side. As I sat down, a young man across the table frowned. “You’re late,” he said.

His face rang a bell, but only faintly. “No one told me we were meeting until a few minutes ago,” I said mildly. “A bit more notice might have been helpful. It certainly would have been polite.” This was an awkward beginning to what already had all the hallmarks of an unpleasant assignment. They didn’t want me around; that much had been made perfectly clear.

“Never mind,” the head of delegation said, still studying his papers.

Nice touch, I thought. Busy man, too busy to look up. He might not know me, but I already had become as familiar with him as I wanted to be. His file had been handed to me before I left Pyongyang, two bulging folders stuffed with irrelevant gossip and a nugget or two of useful information. There had even been a fair character sketch by someone who had watched him closely for years. The photographs, as usual, were old. He had lost weight, and maybe a little bit of hair.

“You’re here. Exactly why or what you’ll be doing on this delegation isn’t clear to me. All we know is that your name was transmitted as a late addition. There aren’t