nothing I could do but get in his way, and we both knew it. “See that you don’t, and everything will be fine. You probably have your own reporting channels.” There was a sense that he was trying hard not to sound irritated. “I realize you’ll write what you feel like writing, and it is unlikely you’ll show it to me before sending it out. That’s how these things usually work, isn’t it?” He pursed his lips and took off his glasses. That had been in his file, how he pursed his lips when he was displeased. “An unconscious pout,” one entry read.

“Do you need to see our reports as well?” His voice took on a mock-friendly ring. “Even if you read them, of course, you have no authority to make changes. I’ve already checked. The rules for outgoing telegrams from a permanent diplomatic mission are the same as those that apply to the embassies—the ambassador at post gets to comment on whatever goes through our channels if he wants to, but his is the last word. Especially”—he let that word burrow in nice and deep, and then repeated it to make sure there was no mistake—“especially here.”

“Unless, of course, there are overriding orders.” I threw that in the pot to see if it would unsettle him. It didn’t.

“There are no such orders. If any do come in, let’s deal with them then, shall we?”

It must have been something they taught in the Foreign Ministry. Never let a point go unchallenged. There were times we worked that way, too. But I wasn’t in the mood, and this didn’t seem like one of those times. Something about that episode on the bench earlier in the morning had set my teeth on edge. I wasn’t ready to battle with one of my own diplomats over millimeters. “Actually, I don’t need to see your reports; I’m not interested in reading fiction.”

There was an intake of breath from the delegation, which stared at me in unison like a set of oversharpened penknives. Then they each turned away and began going through their script for the meeting. One or two sneaked a glance at me. The young man smiled to himself. He looked like he might know a thing or two. I made a mental note to talk to him later, when I could get him alone.

3

On the day I left Pyongyang, almost at the last minute while we waited in a special room that kept me out of sight of the rest of the passengers and anyone else in the terminal building, Sohn finally told me why he was sending me to Geneva.

“You’ll be on the delegation to the talks.”

“What talks?”

“The missile talks.” He watched me closely. “Something the matter?”

“Nothing.” Missiles. Hwadae county. Pakistan. The dead woman. A lot of tabs were fitting into a lot of slots.

The first round of negotiations, Sohn said, had been in Berlin. They had produced nothing, other than the estimate that the second round wouldn’t produce anything, either. Just having another session was considered good enough. After some internal discussions in the Center, it had been decided that, off to the side during the next round of talks, there would be a chance to pass the following message: Beware, you never know when starving people might do crazy, irrational, dangerous things. They’d told Sohn to find someone who could do that, and after rummaging through the files, he’d selected me. I had been overseas, I didn’t freeze up around foreigners, and I had a good revolutionary pedigree. They also wanted someone to keep an eye on the delegation leader, but most of all, my assignment was to deliver that message. The messenger was important, and I checked all the boxes, that’s what Sohn said. I didn’t believe him. It was all smoke.

“How do I deliver this message? Over drinks? Crudely handwritten on a piece of paper?”

“Up to you,” Sohn said. “You’re smart. You assess the situation. But however you do it, slip it in like an assassin’s blade. Make sure they feel it. Make sure they don’t forget.”

Why not let the diplomats do it? I asked. It was their job, wasn’t it? It’s what they’re trained to do, to circle around the bush, dropping hints here and there, shards and splinters to be reassembled in faraway buildings. Sohn snorted. “I don’t trust them to do it right. Most of a message isn’t content anyway, but context, tone, the play of light and dark across the mind. These striped