NIS Headquarters, Seoul, South Korea.

Kim Joo-won, National Intelligence Service’s Director, was pacing around anxiously in his office. He checked his watch. It was past time, and the person he was waiting for had not yet come. The phone in his office started ringing. He walked over to pick it up.

“Yes?” he asked, crisply.

“Director, Mr. Kim has arrived and is waiting for you. Shall I send him over?” asked Ed, his secretary.

“Yes.” He hanged up the call.

There was a knock on the door. The camera showed the person outside.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened and in walked a young man. He had trim sandy hair and light blue eyes. Joo-won frowned when he saw the young man’s attire. He was wearing a black cable-knit sweater and jeans.

“Good morning, Mr. Kim. I was afraid that you wouldn’t come,” politely said Joo-won.

“A very Good Morning, father,” replied the young man, smirking. Joo-won’s jaw tightened. “Even I was afraid that I wouldn’t make it here. But then, I decided that I shouldn’t disappoint my dear father anymore. So here I am.”

Joo-won grimaced. “You’ve not changed yet, have you?”

“Nope! Six months isn’t going to start any forgiving process. And, yeah, you’d better tell me what you want from me. I know that you haven’t suspended my one-year-leave to call me here and talk to me about me seeing the light.”

Joo-won closed his eyes. He couldn’t help but admire his son in times like this. He always acted to the point. Joo-won had great plans for his son. He wanted to see his son in the current chair in which he sat. But the last year had changed a lot of things. The last year had damaged their relationship beyond repair.

“Would you like to have something?” asked Joo-won.

“Wine please, if you have it. White wine will do good,” replied his son.

Joo-won walked over to the wine cabinet and drew out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. He filled two glasses and handed one to his son.

“Cheers!” they muttered. There were a few minutes of silence as they sipped the wine. Joo-won noticed his son fingering the chain around his neck.

“So?” prompted his son.

Joo-won closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I have a job for you.”

“I’m on a leave.”

“I suspended it.”

“I can always resign.”

“This is regarding Jia.”

That stopped his son in his tracks. “Jia?” he asked slowly, as if he was coming out of a daze, “What about her?”

Joo-won smiled to himself in satisfaction. He knew that this would hold his son’s attention. “Well, you seem to insist that you want to resign. So I guess that it’s alright. I’ll hand over the Assignment to somebody else!”

“Cut the crap, father. Tell me what’s wrong right now!” snapped his son. Joo-won couldn’t help but smile again. He was watching his son as he was a year ago—that driven control, that firm stance. The façade of cockiness which he had built around himself crumbled when he heard her name.

He took his time in sipping the wine, and then slowly met his son’s eyes. He calmly said, “Jia’s life is in danger. We suspect that her father has caught on to her at last. After Mina’s death, he had become even more aggressive.” Joo-won noticed his son’s hand still when he heard her name, but he continued,

“Only we know why he’s been so desperate to find her. Well, now that he found her, he won’t leave it alone. You know everything. You have a copy of the folder on her. I will disclose the rest of the details of the Assignment, only if you accept to do it again.”

His son looked back into his eyes defiantly. His jaw tightened. His hand stiffened on his chain.

“I will.”

Unknown Market, Pyongyang, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (North Korea).

Three hooded figures walked into the bustling café in the market and sat down on a cranky wooden bench.

What nobody else in the café knew was that the two hooded men flanking the middle one were heavily armed with Kalashnikovs.

A boy walked over to the trio and asked for their order.

“Four Bitter Coffees,” replied the man sitting in the middle. The boy seemed puzzled, as the order did not tally with the number of men sitting. But nevertheless, he walked away without protest.

The two armed men were looking around nervously, alert for attacks. They tensed as a young man dressed in informal Western clothing approached them purposefully.

The young man had jet-black hair and dark eyes. He had sharp and handsome features. His gait was like that of a lion’s—leisurely and yet regal.

The man in the middle raised his hand slightly, to signal them not to act. The young man walked over to their table and drew out a chair.

“Greetings, Master,” murmured the young man.

The hooded man in the middle nodded. The other two hooded men relaxed. The boy who had taken their order returned with four small glasses on a tray. He served one to each and left. The four men sat sipping their coffees. The man in the middle, Master, lit his cigar.

“What is the matter, Master?” asked the young man, frowning.

The Master closed his eyes and sighed before answering in a raspy voice, “I have a…problem.” The young man seemed surprised, but held his tongue. “A problem that only you can solve.”

The young man took a deep breath. “I’m all yours, Master.”

The Master smiled. “I knew that I could count on you, my boy. You’re not just my student. You’re my weapon. The most powerful weapon I’ve ever created.”

The young man was still waiting for his Master to open up. The Master took one more whiff of cigar, before sighing. “I brought you up as though you’re my own son. I taught you everything I could—from martial arts to shooting guns. I sent you away only so that you could blend in with those Western and South Korean infidels and that you can do your duty without attracting suspicion, when your time comes.”

The young man stayed silent.

The Master continued, “Tell me, boy, of your time away from me.”

“I have graduated out of high school in London, Master. And my pretense is still the same—I’m the heir of a long-dead Britain-settled South Korean oil baron. You promised me that you will hand me a mission once my schooling is done—when my time will come.”

The Master laughed. “You have a sharp memory, my boy. A very sharp one.”

He looked at the young man with a strange light in his eyes. “I found my one big mistake at last,” he said, taking a whiff from the cigar, “The last time, I was fooled by a decoy. But this time, I know that it’s her.”

The young man frowned. The Master’s voice was like sandpaper rubbing on stone, as he said, “I found my daughter. I found my mistake where I committed it. And I feel that your time has come.”

Finally, the young man showed an emotion—surprise.  “Master, do you mean…”

“Yes. And I have a mission for you. Are you willing to take it up?”

The young man’s eyes blazed with pride. “I am, Master!”

The Master nodded and his face was expressionless. He took another whiff from his cigar. Then he looked into his protégé’s eyes. His voice was like a knife being rubbed on a stone floor.

“Clean up the mess I’ve made.”