There is nothing more useless than asking kids what they want to be when they grow up. One day, it’s the president, the next, a lawyer, then a doctor, astronaut, or celebrity. Their dreams change so often—and into fields so unrelated—that the question itself feels pointless.
Taekjoo was no exception. Even while taking his national standardized exam for university admission, he had no idea he would one day become an intelligence officer.
But his brother was different. From the moment he took his first steps, he had only one dream—to be a soldier like their father. During his doljabi[3], Taekjoo’s brother picked up a book, which brought their mother relief at the time. Little did she know, the book in question was on the art of war.
Their mother desperately hoped that neither of her sons would end up becoming something even remotely close to a soldier. Her own father had been a soldier who prioritized his country over his family. It was that same father who introduced her to a promising soldier under his command—and before long, she was married at a young age. With both her father and husband being soldiers, Taekjoo’s mother hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep in sixty years. Whenever her husband went on a mission, she would hold her sons close, staying up all night in anxious wait. She didn’t want the same fate for her children.
But as the saying goes, children never turn out the way their parents want them to. Taekjoo’s older brother was no exception—he defied their mother’s wishes, enlisted in the Navy, and died in service. It had been ten years since his death, and for ten years, their mother had clung desperately to her now-only child, Kwon Taekjoo. As soon as her firstborn’s funeral ended, she grabbed Taekjoo and begged him never to put her through that pain again. Alas, Taekjoo failed her too.
Under the rules and regulations of the National Intelligence Service, the identities of all intelligence officers and agents are classified—even from their immediate family, including their parents. But rule or not, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Taekjoo could never have been honest with his mother. She had already lost her father, her husband, and her eldest son to service. And now, her last remaining flesh and blood picked up a gun more often than he picked up chopsticks to feed himself.
If she ever learned the truth, the heartache and betrayal would destroy her. And so, Taekjoo’s mother lived under the illusion that her son was just a civil servant in a small town in the remote countryside. She could never have imagined—not even in her wildest dreams—that her son was on his way to Moscow, using a cover identity as a Japanese citizen.
Taekjoo shut his eyes, lost in memories of the past, before pulling out his phone. As expected, there was a message from his mother.
[Eat well and have a good day, my son!]
Taekjoo’s mother sent him a message around noon every day to check on him. If he didn’t reply, she’d send another message shortly after he finished work. Sometimes, she’d call. Taekjoo reminded himself to call her as soon as he landed. I was swamped with work today. Mondays are always hectic, you know how it is, Mother—this would do for an excuse. The son had become skilled at lying to her—just enough to keep her trust intact.
Taekjoo put his phone back in his pocket and checked the time. It had been nine hours since the plane took off, and the screen in front of him informed him that it would take about an hour more for the plane to arrive at its destination. Taekjoo felt that now would be a good time to check and fix up his mask. He got up from his seat.
Taekjoo was lucky—the plane lavatory was empty. He was just about to open the door and enter when he heard murmurs coming from the coach section. He peeked through a gap in the curtains and saw a passenger harassing a flight attendant. Nothing unusual, just another passenger who’d had a few too many free drinks. Taekjoo quickly lost interest and stepped into the lavatory. The light above his head flickered on as soon as the door clicked shut.
Taekjoo stared at the mirror, which showed him a stranger’s face. Whoever looked at him now, he was Sakamoto Hiro. The NIS had molded not just Hiro’s face, but his entire head—right down to his ears—and created a perfect replica. The only thing left of Taekjoo was his pitch-black eyes.
Taekjoo turned his face left and right and felt the material. The texture of the artificial leather felt like his own skin. He fixed his hair, then washed his hands. He was just wiping his hands on the paper towel when something hit the other side of the door.
The impact was hard enough to make the ceiling light flicker. Soon, Taekjoo heard what seemed like a commotion. Sir, are you okay?—the flight attendant asked from outside. Almost immediately, hurried footsteps, followed by an unintelligible shout from a man, filled the air.
Taekjoo unlatched the lock and yanked the door open. A man, leaning against the door, stumbled backward into the lavatory.
“Argh—what the fuck!”
The man was clearly drunk, his face flushed red. He seemed like a typical Russian man, holding a bottle of vodka in his hand. He must have bought it from the duty-free shop and started drinking it on board. Taekjoo had been wondering who could be shameless enough to ask for free drinks to get drunk on a plane. The man turned out to be even more shameless than he had assumed.
Taekjoo just stood still, watching the man flail and curse. The flight attendants, helpless, didn’t know what to do.
“Sir, let me help you stand up.”
“Ha! Who do you think you’re touching? Let me go! I said let me go!”
“Ahhh!”