The 100-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared

days of waiting didn’t bother Allan and Herbert at all, because the food was good and the beds were soft in the prime minister’s palace. Besides, it was rare for American bombers to come close to Pyongyang, as there were easier targets to aim for.
    Finally, however, the time came. Allan was fetched by the prime minister’s second-in-command’s second-in-command and was shown along the corridors of the palace to the second-in-command’s office. Allan was prepared for the fact that the second-in-command was little more than a boy.
    ‘I am the prime minister’s son, Kim Jong Il,’ said Kim Jong Il. ‘And I am my father’s second-in-command.’
    Kim Jong Il’s grip was firm even though his entire hand disappeared inside Allan’s hefty fist.
    ‘And I am Marshal Kirill Afanasievich Meretskov,’ said Allan. ‘I am thankful that the young Mr Kim agreed to receive me. Would the young Mr Kim allow me to present my mission?’
    Kim Jong Il would, so Allan continued with his lying: the marshal had a message for the prime minister directly from Comrade Stalin in Moscow. Since there were suspicions that the USA – the capitalist hyenas – had infiltrated the Soviet communication system (the marshal didn’t want to go into more detail, and hoped the young Mr Kim would understand), Comrade Stalin had decided that the message should be conveyed in person. And this mission of honour had fallen upon the marshal’s shoulders, and those of his aide (whom the marshal had left in their suite to be on the safe side).
    Kim Jong Il looked suspiciously at Marshal Allan and seemed to be almost reading from a text when he said that his job was to protect his father whatever the cost. And part of that job was to trust nobody, his father had taught him that, he explained. So Kim Jong Il could not contemplate letting the marshal visit his father, the prime minister, until the marshal’s story had been checked with the Soviet Union. Kim Jong Il intended to phone Moscow and ask whether Stalin had in fact sent the marshal.
    ‘It is, of course, not fitting for a simple marshal to sit here and object, but I will nevertheless allow myself to note that one perhaps should not use the telephone to check if it is true that one shouldn’t use the telephone.’
    The young Mr Kim could see Allan’s point. But his father’s words echoed inside his head: ‘Don’t trust anybody, my son!’ Finally, the boy thought of a solution. He would indeed phone Uncle Stalin, but he would talk in code. Young Mr Kim had met Uncle Stalin several times and Uncle Stalin used to always call him ‘the little revolutionary’.
    ‘So I shall phone Uncle Stalin, introduce myself as “the little revolutionary” and then ask Uncle Stalin if he has sent anyoneto visit father. Then I don’t think we will have said too much, even if the Americans should be listening. What do you think, Marshal?’
    The marshal thought that he was a devious devil, that boy. How old could he be? Ten? Allan had himself become an adult early. At Kim Jong Il’s age he was already working with dynamite for all he was worth at the nitroglycerine factory. Furthermore, Allan thought that things might be moving towards a nasty end, but he couldn’t say that. Anyway, things were as they were, and so on.
    ‘I do believe the young Mr Kim is a very wise boy and is going to go far,’ said Allan and left the rest to fate.
    ‘Yes, the idea is that I shall inherit father’s job after father, so the marshal might be right about that. But now, please have a cup of tea while I phone Uncle Stalin.’
    Young Mr Kim walked over to the brown desk in one corner of the room, while Allan poured the tea and thought about whether he ought to try to jump out of the window. But he immediately dropped the idea. For starters, he was on the fourth floor of the prime minister’s palace, and also, Allan couldn’t abandon his comrade. Herbert would have been more than happy to jump (if he had only dared) but of course he wasn’t here just now.
    Allan’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted when young Mr Kim burst into tears. He put the phone down, and rushed over to Allan, crying:
    ‘Uncle Stalin is dead! Uncle Stalin is dead!’
    Allan thought that such luck bordered on the absurd, and then he said:
    ‘There, there, young Mr Kim. Come now and Uncle Marshal will give the young Mr Kim a hug. There, there…’
     
    When the young Mr Kim was more or less consoled, he no longer seemed so precocious. It