said Ferguson. “Stop it!”Sitting alone in the back of the SUV, Ferguson watched the countryside pass by. He determined that they were going northwest, but since he had only a general idea of North Korean geography, he had no idea where he was being taken.
There were two men in the truck with him, both in the front seat. While it was tempting to throttle one of the men and try and take his weapon, Ferguson realized that would be foolish; there was another vehicle behind him, and even if he managed to overcome the driver and his companion he’d almost certainly be outgunned.
The fact that he hadn’t been bound or blindfolded seemed significant. The North Koreans were dressed in plain work clothes, not military fatigues. They might be with the internal security force, but if that were the case, why hadn’t the pug-faced interpreter Chonjin come with them? He didn’t even seem to know what was going on.
Possibly this was simply Park’s way of testing him, though Ferguson couldn’t quite see the logic of that.
Had Park or Li realized he’d seen them meeting with the North Korean general?
Maybe, but if so it would have been much easier to dispose of him in the way Li hinted they could.
For the moment, he decided, he’d stay in character, angling to be released to the Russian embassy. That might involve other problems, but he’d worry about them when the time came. His cover was solid; he knew from experience it would check out, even in Moscow.
The SUV pulled down a dirt road lined with spools of barbed wire. It bumped through some ruts, then pulled up in front of a gate. The driver rolled down his window, and a man in uniform approached. After a few words, the guard looked into the back, glared at Ferguson, then waved them through.
The SUV drove past a pair of antiaircraft guns at least twice as old as the soldiers standing in front of the sandbags nearby. The truck rounded a curve, passed a small wooden building, and then stopped in the middle of a large parade ground in front of a large, dilapidated stone building.
The door opened, and a soldier ordered Ferguson out. As he stepped out, the man pulled him by the shirt and pushed him forward.
said Ferguson. “Stop it!”
The man continued to prod him toward the entrance. Ferguson dug in his heels and put out his hands, shrugging the man off. Then he began walking on his own power.
“Inside,” said his escort roughly in Korean. “Go.”
Ferguson entered a small room dominated by a fat coal stove. Red embers glowed behind its cast-iron gate.
A short, balding man in an officer’s uniform asked him his name in Korean.
“Ivan Manski,” Ferguson said. “Hanggungungmai mot hamnida. I don’t speak Korean.”
“That is of no concern to me,” said the man.
“I want to speak to the Russian embassy,” said Ferguson, first in Korean, and then in Russian.
“You will speak when spoken to,” said the man. He told the man who had pushed Ferguson inside to take him to a cell.
“I want to speak to the Russian ambassador,” said Ferguson. He reached for his passport, but before he could he was grabbed from behind and thrown against the wall. Two men held him there while he was searched; they found the passport and the business cards, along with the commercial sat phone Ferguson had purchased in Daejeon, his wallet, and thyroid pills. Ferguson was then pushed into another room and ordered to strip.
He began to undress slowly. This annoyed the man behind him, who pulled down the back of his shirt.
No self-respecting Russian, let alone an arms dealer with a background as unsavory as Ferguson’s, would stand for that. Ferguson spun and planted a fist in the man’s jaw so hard that the North Korean flew back against the wall, stunned. Instantly, the others were on top of him, pounding him with their fists. Ferguson fought back hard, drawing blood and breaking at least one nose, before finally the officer from the other room arrived, yelling that they were fools and to let the Russian pig alone.
Lying on the ground, Ferguson worked his tongue around his mouth, making sure he hadn’t lost a tooth. He rolled onto his knees and felt his face. His nose was bleeding, and he could feel the welts starting to swell around his eyes. His kidneys were sore.
“Much worse will happen if you do not cooperate,” said the man, standing over Ferguson. He pointed to a pair of blue prison pajamas. “Get up and get dressed in those clothes.”
Ferguson didn’t understand all the words, but the meaning was clear enough.
“I need my medicine,” he said in Russian, standing.
The officer didn’t understand.
“Pills.” Ferguson had learned the phrase in Korean but couldn’t get it out. “Figeum yageul meok,” he stuttered finally. “I need my medicine.”
The officer waved at him to go and take off the rest of his clothes.
“Meokgo isseoyo. Figeum yageul meokgo isseoyo,” repeated Ferguson.
They were the right words, though his pronunciation was halting. His head was still scrambled from the pounding he’d taken.
The officer said something to one of the men, who disappeared into the other room. Then he told Ferguson to get changed.
Not seeing another option, he did so.