“All hope to do business very soon,” said Chonjin as they reached the end. “We are the new China. Better.”
“Of course,” said Ferguson.
“You would like to open a factory here?”
“I keep an open mind.”
The visitors were herded upstairs for a brief welcoming speech by an official Chonjin said was the local mayor. When the talk was over—”Better Than China” seemed to be the theme of the day — they were treated to a reception table at the far end of the large room. A half hour later, the entourage was escorted outside to waiting buses. A school band, heavy on the tubas but otherwise remarkably tuneful, serenaded them as they walked the few feet to the vehicles.
Another band, this time more balanced instrumentally and composed of older musicians, greeted them when they arrived at what Ferguson’s shadow called a guest house about thirty minutes away. Obscenely lavish by North Korean standards, it reminded Ferguson of a European-style hunting lodge, the sort of place the kaiser would have brought guests to before World War I. The wall at the front was made of large wooden timbers, like a massive log cabin. The sides, however, were smooth stucco. Here and there the shadows of the large stones peeked through thin layers of cement, as if they were fighting their way out from behind the protective covering.
Park was waiting for them inside, standing on a balcony overlooking a large great room just beyond the entrance foyer. There were scores of North Korean officials there as well, along with young waitresses who fanned out with bottles of champagne.
“My friends, I welcome you here on what I hope will be a prosperous and exciting visit,” said Park, raising his glass.
A long round of toasts followed. Park slipped out about midway through, leaving the others to mingle, drink champagne, and ogle the young women.
By the time the group began retiring to their rooms to get ready for dinner, Ferguson had introduced himself to nearly everyone and run out of business cards. Chonjin volunteered to get some made for him.
“That would be great,” Ferguson told him.
The interpreter bowed his head. “Anything for a guest. I will see you at dinner.”
“Can’t wait.”
23
General Namgung leaned forward and told the driver to stop. Instantly, the man obeyed, pulling to the side of the road.
Namgung ignored the questioning look from his aide, who was sitting next to him in the rear of the Russian-made sedan. He needed a moment to think. The enormity of what he was about to embark upon had settled on him, filling him with a dreadful sensation of foreboding. He knew from experience that he must take a few moments to let the sensation pass. Otherwise, he would not be able to make clear decisions. And the future depended very much on clear decisions.
At the age of fifty-three, Namgung was one of the top commanding generals in North Korea, in charge of the divisions around the capital and several in the northwestern provinces, including those on the Chinese border. Family connections had helped him launch his career, but in the thirty-plus years since he became a lieutenant he had worked extremely hard, out-hustling and outlasting many rivals. He knew the supreme leader, Kim Jong-Il, extremely well and visited him often — or had, until Kim’s recent sickness.
The dictator’s health was a closely guarded state secret — even those of importance, like Namgung, didn’t know exactly how bad off he was. But the general could guess that the supreme leader had perhaps six months to live.
After that, chaos supreme.
Unless Namgung acted.
There were many benefits to Namgung’s plans, for him personally as well as for the poverty-wracked People’s Republic, but avoiding chaos was Namgung’s primary objective. Chaos was an intense, immobilizing enemy, far worse than an opponent armed merely with guns and bombs. Chaos was to be defeated at all costs. It was a general’s duty, a Korean’s duty, to ward it off.
The general exhaled slowly. His moment of anxiety had passed.
“Mr. Park is waiting,” the general said, leaning forward to his driver. “Proceed.”
24
Corrine glanced to her left as she walked up the steps and was surprised to see CIA director Thomas Parnelles right beside her.
“Mr. Parnelles, how are you?” she said.
“Corrine, well hello.” Parnelles gave her a broad smile and gently prodded his wife. “Dianne, this is Corrine Alston, the president’s counsel. Ms. Alston is probably the most powerful woman in Washington.”
“Your husband is quite a charmer,” Corrine told Diane.
“A scoundrel, you mean,” said Dianne Parnelles, laughing.
“Are you here on a date?” Parnelles asked.
“Actually, with my secretary, Teri Gatins,” confessed Corrine. “She got tickets from her son. I’m supposed to meet her in the lobby.”
“Enjoy the show,” said Parnelles, starting away.
“Tom, I wonder if I could ask you something.”
“Classified?” He smiled, as if it were a joke.
“No. Not exactly.”
“Well, surely then,” said Parnelles. He told his wife he would meet her inside.
“I have a… theoretical question concerning a government employee. It just came up,” said Corrine. “I wonder if I could bounce a situation off you.”
“Theoretically.”
“If someone were… If they had a life-threatening disease, would you think… If you were their supervisor, how would you handle it?” Corrine danced around the wording, trying to come up with a way to say what she knew about Ferguson without actually identifying him.
“Life-threatening disease? I’d be sympathetic to the person, certainly. I’d make sure that they were getting the sort of care that they needed, that sort of thing.”
“Would you think it would affect their job performance?”
“I don’t see how it couldn’t. Assuming they’d be able to work in the first place.”
“Assume that they could.”
“I guess it would be a difficult situation. I think you would have to keep them on, though. By law, if nothing else,” said Parnelles. “Don’t you?”
“The Americans with Disabilities Act doesn’t apply to the executive branch,” said Corrine.
“I see. Well, in our agency, the decision would be rather easy if the person were on the operations side: A disease like that would eliminate them from active duty.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, of course. The officer’s judgment is the heart of the matter. You see, someone might be reckless if they knew or suspected they’d die anyway. That’s not what we want.”
“The decision would be that cut and dried?”
“We wouldn’t kick them out the door, of course. We’d find something
