ASSOCIATED PRESS
PYONGYANG
The next morning, Talmadge sat down with Kae Myung Bin, his assistant, and Lee Song Hui, the AP photographer.
“I have an idea for a story,” said Talmadge.
Lee Song Hui sat up enthusiastically. She was only twenty-two years old and dreamed of someday working for the AP outside North Korea, so whenever Talmadge had ideas for stories she became excited. There were only so many stories a reporter could write about North Korea that avoided controversial topics.
“Let me guess,” said Kae Myung Bin, lighting a cigarette. “A story about a certain reporter’s decision to donate the rest of his care package to one of his colleagues?”
Talmadge laughed.
“No, nothing so absurd,” said Talmadge. “You’ve seen the tourism statistics. Tourism is up. Just this past week, a delegation of more than thirty people from Sweden came to Pyongyang.”
“We’ve written about the rise in tourism, Ross.”
“Yes, but how about a series of articles on some of the things to do and places to go when visiting?” said Talmadge. “Starting with the national museum.”
“I like it,” said Lee Song Hui.
“It’s boring,” said Kae Myung Bin.
“That’s the point,” said Talmadge.
“Yes, I suppose it will fly by the censors,” agreed Kae Myung Bin.
* * *
Talmadge was brought by two operatives from the North Korean Information Bureau to the national museum. He spent the morning walking through the entire museum. Whenever he wanted to take a photo, he asked permission.
Finally, they arrived at a large, high-ceilinged room with only one painting: a massive portrait of Kim’s grandfather, Kim Il-sung, the founder of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Both government officials, as well as Talmadge, bowed before the painting.
“Would it be permissible if I sit down?” asked Talmadge in Korean, pointing at a bench across from the great portrait. “I would like to describe the painting as I look at it. It might take a few minutes.”
The two men looked at each other, then one of them shrugged, as if to say to the other, “Fine with me.”
“Please do so,” said one of them to Talmadge.
Talmadge sat down and started to write. After several minutes, he shook his pen, trying to get more ink. Mildly frustrated, he took the pen and put it in the pocket of his blazer. He removed another pen—as well as the antidote, which was in a small syringe, with an adhesive on one side. He pretended to start writing again, watching the agents, making sure they weren’t looking, then quickly reached beneath the bench. He pressed the small syringe against the wood on the underside of the bench, making sure it held. Then he started writing again.