Ferguson’s room in the lodge was bugged and not very creatively: A relatively large microphone was wired right into the light socket and “hidden” in the shade. Professor Wan would have been appalled.
Changing for dinner, Ferguson serenaded the North Korean secret service with a medley of Russian drinking songs. He carried the overine-briated Russian act into dinner. To have acted sober would have been out of place; nearly all of his fellow travelers were legitimately snockered.
Hostesses led each man to a seat at one of two long tables in the cramped dining room. Ferguson’s shadow, Chonjin—hopelessly sober—was on his left. Mr. Ha, the Korean who had told Ferguson about Park’s airplane investment, was on his right.
Park sat at the head table with General Namgung, a North Korean general so important that he was introduced by name only.
“General Namgung is in charge of the guards here?” Ferguson asked his minder in Russian.
“General Namgung is one of the most important people in Korea,” responded Chonjin.
“Do you know him?”
The question surprised Chonjin. “Of course not. He’s too . . . He’s too important. Much of the army, the air force—they answer to him. He would not know me.”
“Maybe he can act on a contract for me,” suggested Ferguson.
Chonjin shook his head. “You have a lot to learn about doing business in Korea.”
“Teach me.”
“The first step, have good time, mingle. On the next visit, then you bring up the subject.”
“I don’t talk business until the next visit?”
“You mention it on the next visit. Not talk. Talk—negotiate, a sale—that happens in the future.”
“How far in the future?”
“Hard to say. Some day, perhaps.”
Park stayed at the head table for only a few minutes before disappearing. Namgung stayed through the meal and led several toasts. Then he went off with some of the other North Korean officials.
The other guests were led back to the great hall for a reception that consisted of several rounds of drinks followed by several more rounds of drinks, topped off by many more drinks. The businessmen poured glass after glass for their companions, drinking and passing them on.
The Korean style of drinking, with companions essentially supervising one another into a stupor, made it hard to stay sober, and Ferguson finally retreated to a chair and pretended to nod off. When Chonjin woke him and suggested that he go to bed, he protested, but within a few minutes he had nodded off again, this time on a fellow guest. When a North Korean official sat down next to him, Ferguson flopped in his direction, his chin landing on the man’s shoulder.
“Mr. Manski?”
“Oh, yeah.” Ferguson roused himself. “Bedtime, I think.”
“Yes.”
Chonjin helped him up to his room. Ferguson’s energy grew with each step.
“Open the window,” he proclaimed as he entered the room. “Air, we need good cold air! All windows!” He flopped face down on the bed, mumbling a Russian drinking song.
Chonjin and the attendant opened the windows, threw a blanket on him, and retreated.
Ferguson had no intention of spending the rest of the night sleeping, let alone singing. He’d staged his little act so he could go exploring, but to do that he needed to come up with a proper finale.
Ferguson started another drinking song, this one an obscure lament about the darkness of crows’ feathers. As he sang, he studied the lamp where the bug was, considering how to best muffle it. Raising his voice ever higher and further off-key, he stumbled around, went to the bathroom, fell, got up, and finally knocked over the lamp.
The shade flew to the middle of the floor. Cursing, Ferguson stumbled around some more, left arm flailing while his right separated the bug from the shade. He left it on the floor near his bed and continued to sing, repeating the song over and over again, hoping to lull anyone unlucky enough to be listening into an autistic state.
Climbing into bed, Ferguson’s lyrics gave way to snores. These slowly decreased in volume, until after a few minutes he began breathing normally. He wadded the blanket on top of the bug, grabbed his shoes, and tiptoed to the window.
Ferguson was on the third floor, facing the back of the compound. The window formed a small dormer similar to those in the Cape Cods he knew from Maine. Getting out as quietly as possible and climbing up onto the roof was more an exercise in nostalgia than a physical challenge.
The problem was to get down without being seen or breaking a leg. The front side of the lodge would have been easy to climb because of the logs, but the two guards at the front of the building meant this was out of the question. Besides being too smooth to offer any obvious handgrips, the opposite side featured the great room’s large window as well as windows looking out from the kitchen and staff room. Likewise, the southern side, where Ferguson’s room was, had far too many windows with light shining through them.
The north side had no windows above the first floor, but the only thing to climb on as he went down was the gutter at the corner. Ferguson had had bad experiences with gutters in the past, but it seemed his only option.
He worked his way down the peak and tested the metal by putting his right leg on it. The gutter groaned but didn’t collapse.
Ferguson swung around, hung off the top, and then began pushing down the corner, using the downspout the way he would use a rope to climb down a mountain. By the time he reached the top of the second floor, the leader had pulled out several inches. Then, when he was just above the first floor he heard a loud and ominous creak from above.
There was no other option but to let go.