The sushi chef was leaving his apartment when he noticed the stranger outside.
He could tell by the man's suit—black and badly made—that he was North Korean.
Right away, the chef was nervous. Even in his midsixties, the chef is a
formidable man: He has thick shoulders, a broad chest; the rings on
his strong hands would one day have to be cut off. But he'd long since
quit wearing his bulletproof vest, and the last time a North Korean made
the journey to visit him in Japan, a decade ago, he was there to kill him.
Incredibly well-written first paragraph, it's been a while since I've read such an engrossing opening to an article.
"Kim Jong-il soon summoned him. Yes, Shogun-sama admitted, he'd sent an assassin to Okinawa, but he urged Fujimoto to forget about it. He was still alive, wasn't he? It was Kim's wife, Ko Young-hee, who'd reminded him of how funny and lovable his Japanese friend had been. Thus the killer was recalled."
