CHAPTER: 05
The First Meeting
Gyeongseong, Jongno District
October 1934
The woman was running.
Min-jae was walking—back from a meeting with a timber supplier, his mind full of numbers and logistics—when she burst out of an alley and collided with him so hard they both nearly fell.
She recovered first. Grabbed his arm to steady herself, then let go immediately, stepping back, bowing.
"I'm sorry, yangban-nim, I'm so sorry, I didn't—"
He looked at her. Young—mid-twenties, maybe. Wearing simple clothes, the kind worn by market women and peddlers. Her hair was escaping its pins. Her face was flushed. And she was clutching a cloth bundle to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world.
From the alley behind her, he heard voices. Angry voices. Japanese.
She heard them too. Her eyes widened. "Please—" She looked around desperately, saw nowhere to hide, and did something Min-jae would remember for the rest of his life: she thrust the bundle into his hands.
"Hold this. Please. Just for a moment. I'll come back. I swear I'll come back."
And then she was gone, running down the street, disappearing into the maze of alleys on the other side.
Min-jae stood there, holding the bundle, trying to look like a young nobleman who had absolutely nothing to do with whatever was happening.
The Japanese men emerged from the alley. Two of them. Colonial police, by their uniforms. They looked at Min-jae—at his clothing, his bearing, the obvious signs of a yangban family—and dismissed him immediately. Not worth the trouble.
"Did you see a woman run past here?" one of them asked in Japanese. "Short, dark clothes, carrying a bundle?"
Min-jae shook his head. "I just came from the timber market. I haven't seen anyone."
The policeman grunted. They moved on, heading in the opposite direction from the woman's flight.
Min-jae waited until they were out of sight, then walked—calmly, casually, as if he had nothing to hide—to a small tea house he knew, where the owner was a distant cousin of his father's and would ask no questions.
He ordered tea. Sat in a corner. Opened the bundle.
Cloth. Several bolts of it, folded carefully. Good quality—better than most of what was available in Korean markets, where Japanese imports dominated and Korean-produced cloth was generally inferior. This looked like... Japanese cloth? No. Chinese? He couldn't tell.
There was something else. A small notebook, tucked between the folds. He opened it.
Accounts. Names. Dates. Amounts. The handwriting was careful, precise—the handwriting of someone who had learned to keep records despite limited education.
He was still reading when the door of the tea house opened and the woman walked in.
She spotted him immediately, crossed the room, and sat down across from him without asking permission. Her eyes were red—she had been crying, or running, or both—but her voice was steady.
"You kept it."
"You asked me to."
"I could have been anyone. A criminal. A thief. You didn't know."
"You asked me to." He pushed the bundle across the table. "Everything is there. I didn't look at the accounts for long—just long enough to see that you're running a business. A small one. Probably illegal."
Her face tightened. "Not illegal. Just... unlicensed."
"Black market."
"If you want to be crude about it."
He shrugged. "I don't care about crude. I care about competence. Your accounts are well-kept. Your cloth is good quality. You found a gap in the market—Japanese imports are expensive, Korean production is poor, and there's demand for something in between. That's not a crime. That's business."
She stared at him. "Who are you?"
"Kwon Min-jae. My family has land in Gyeongsang. We run a trading company—Sejin Trading. You've probably heard of it."
She hadn't. He could tell from her face.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated. Then: "Lee Jeong-suk. My family is from Pyongyang. We came south three years ago, after my father got into trouble with the Japanese. He's dead now. It's just me and my mother."
"And the cloth business?"
"Keeps us alive."
He nodded. Looked at the accounts again. Did some calculations in his head—the numbers told him things she probably didn't realize she was revealing.
"You're selling at a 40% markup from your cost base. That's reasonable—the Japanese would charge 60-70% for comparable quality. But your volume is limited because you can only buy what you can carry, and you can only carry what the police won't notice. You need a warehouse. You need transport. You need someone who can move goods without attracting attention."
She was watching him with an expression he couldn't read. Suspicion, maybe. Or hope. Or both.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I might be able to help."
"Why would you help me?"
He considered the question. The honest answer was complicated: because I need allies who aren't part of the established order, because I need people who understand the underground economy, because I need information networks that don't run through the Japanese, because I looked at your accounts and saw someone who thinks in numbers the way I do.
He gave her a simpler version: "Because you ran into me in an alley, trusted me with your entire livelihood, and didn't collapse when the Japanese were looking for you. That's not nothing."
She was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiled. It transformed her face—made her look younger, less guarded, more like the person she might have been in a different world.
"You're strange, Kwon Min-jae."
"I've been told that."
"If you really can help—if you're not just another man who talks big and delivers nothing—then maybe we can do business."
"Maybe we can."
He held out his hand. She looked at it—the gesture was unfamiliar, Western—then took it. Her grip was firm.
"Lee Jeong-suk."
"Kwon Min-jae."
And that was how it began.
---
Part : Yamamoto
Tokyo, Nihonbashi District
May 1935
The letter had arrived in March.
Dear Kwon-san,
I have followed your investments with great interest. Your timing is remarkable. If you ever visit Tokyo, I would be honored to meet you in person.
Respectfully,
Yamamoto Kenji
Yoshida Securities
Min-jae had shown the letter to his father, who had raised an eyebrow but said nothing. A trip to Tokyo was not unusual for a young Korean merchant—many made the journey to build relationships with Japanese suppliers and brokers. The colonial administration encouraged it, within limits.
The real purpose of the trip was something else: to meet Yamamoto, to assess him, to decide whether to deepen the relationship. Yamamoto had been useful—more than useful—but Min-jae had never met him face to face. All their communication had been through letters and telegrams, mediated by Tanaka in Gyeongseong.
It was time to change that.
---
Tokyo in 1935 was a city in transformation. The earthquake of 1923 was still visible in empty lots and new construction, but the city was rebuilding with a kind of desperate energy. Trams clattered through the streets. Department stores displayed the latest fashions. Men in Western suits walked alongside women in kimono, and everyone seemed to be in a hurry.
Min-jae walked through it all with the peculiar double vision that had become his normal state: seeing the city as it was in 1935, and simultaneously seeing it as it would be—firebombed in 1945, rebuilt in the 1950s, transformed into the global metropolis of the 1980s, fallen into stagnation in the 1990s. He saw the future in the present, and it made him feel both powerful and profoundly alone.
Yoshida Securities occupied the third floor of a small building in Nihonbashi, near the bridge that gave the district its name. The stairs were narrow, the office cramped—a few desks, a clerk, a row of filing cabinets. It looked like exactly what it was: a small brokerage serving clients who couldn't access the larger houses.
The man who rose to greet him was younger than Min-jae had expected. Early thirties, maybe. Thin, with the intense look of someone who spends his days watching numbers move.
"Kwon-san." He bowed—a deep bow, deeper than Min-jae's status as a Korean warranted. "Thank you for coming."
"Yamamoto-san. Thank you for the invitation."
They sat. Tea was served by the clerk, who then retreated to his desk and pretended not to listen.
"You have made a great deal of money through my firm," Yamamoto said. "More than any other client. More, I suspect, than you have told anyone."
"I've been fortunate."
"Fortunate." Yamamoto smiled—a thin, knowing smile. "I have been in this business for ten years. I have seen fortunate clients. They make money when the market rises. They lose it when the market falls. You—" He shook his head. "You bought Nippon Steel in 1933, before anyone knew the military contracts were coming. You bought Mitsubishi Heavy in 1934, before the navy expansion was announced. You bought a dozen other companies at exactly the right moment. That is not fortune. That is something else."
Min-jae said nothing.
"I don't know what that something is," Yamamoto continued. "I don't need to know. What I need to know is whether you will continue to trade through my firm, and whether there is more we can do together."
"What did you have in mind?"
Yamamoto leaned forward. "The big houses—Nomura, Nikko, Daiwa—they have resources I don't. Research departments. Institutional clients. Access to capital. But they also have rules. Compliance departments. Limits on what they can do for certain clients." He paused. "I have no such limits. If you need to trade in size, I can execute. If you need access to markets that are... complicated... I can provide it. If you need someone to hold assets in their name, to create structures that obscure ownership—I can do that too."
Min-jae studied him. The offer was clear: Yamamoto was willing to be more than a broker. He was willing to be a partner, a front, a facilitator. In return, he wanted a share of the profits and a guarantee of loyalty.
"What would you want in return?"
"A percentage of each trade, as now. Plus—" Yamamoto hesitated. "Plus the right to invest alongside you. Not in everything. Just in the things where you have the strongest conviction. I have watched you for two years. I have seen you be right again and again. I want to learn from that."
"You want me to teach you."
"I want to watch. To listen. To understand." He spread his hands. "I am not asking for your secrets. I am asking for the opportunity to learn from someone who sees things others don't."
Min-jae considered. Yamamoto was useful. More than useful—essential, if Min-jae wanted to expand his Japanese operations. But he was also a risk. The closer they became, the more Yamamoto would know. And if Yamamoto ever decided to share that knowledge with the authorities...
But he won't, Min-jae thought. He's too ambitious. Too hungry. He wants what I have—the ability to see around corners—and he thinks proximity will give it to him. It won't. But it will keep him loyal.
"All right," he said. "We have an understanding. But I need something from you first."
"Name it."
"I need access to Hong Kong. I need a banking relationship there—a real one, not just correspondent accounts. I need someone who can introduce me to the right people at HSBC, at Standard Chartered, at the trading houses. Can you do that?"
Yamamoto smiled. "I have a cousin. Works for a trading company in Hong Kong. He owes me several favors. I think we can arrange an introduction."