During my briefings in Seoul, I’d been told about the corruption among the staff of the People’s Hall of International Friendship. I’d even been told that some of the bolder foreign sailors had smuggled in contraband and then paid staff members to lead them to illicit dealers who operated near the port. The North Korean authorities almost certainly knew about these things but turned a blind eye, probably because much of the profit ended up in their pockets. It was a safe bet that Commander Koh, the customs officer in charge of the Port of Nampo, kept the lion’s share of the money earned not only from smuggling but also from Food Worker Pei, with her voluptuous figure and her rubber glove.
After the dinner plates had been removed, the half-dozen older women brought out glass bottles, about the size of American pop bottles, filled with a clear fluid. They plopped three bottles in the center of each table. The label said Red Star Soju, in both Korean and English. Immediately, the sailors started squabbling over the bottles. The Korean women shook their heads in disgust. The custom is to pour for your comrades first and then one of your comrades pours for you. Mergim, who’d been here before, offered to pour some of the clear rice liquor into my tin cup. I refused. I’d stick with barley tea.
“You don’t want to get drunk?” he asked.
I nodded toward Food Worker Pei. She stood in the foyer, flirting with one of the guards.
“Ah, that first.” Mergim tapped the side of his head. “Smart.”
The Albanian sailors were tossing back huge shots of the fierce rice liquor, and some of them had already called for more. Once they laid Hong Kong dollars on the table, the old women delivered.
A shrill voice erupted from ancient speakers. Static screeched but the voice kept on, unperturbed, extolling the glories of the Great Leader and the paradise that was the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. The strident message was delivered first in Korean, then in English. None of the Albanian sailors paid any attention; they were more interested in guzzling soju. But then the voice stopped and strains of martial music erupted out of the old speakers like an ancient brass band. A side door opened and a troupe of men and women wearing the brown-wool, high-necked uniforms of the Korean People’s Army marched in. The men wore round caps lidded like ancient jars, the women soft caps with short brims, both emblazoned with huge red stars. They goose-stepped toward the front of the hall, swinging their fists as they marched. Soon they were posing before us, raising the red-star flag of North Korea, singing, striking new poses, and finally engaging in something that could loosely be called a dance. It was more like a series of poses that they switched to on cue, creating a tableaux that illustrated events narrated by the lyrics. When one song stopped, another started without pause. As best I could gather, they were telling the tale of the Korean people’s epic struggle against colonial forces-the Japanese, who had occupied Korea from 1910 to 1945; and then, to hear the North Koreans tell it, the United States from 1945 onward, in the southern portion of the country. The twentieth century had been a constant struggle for them, a series of tribulations they saw as ongoing.
The sailors glanced occasionally at the entertainment but mostly ignored it. The men in the troupe were all baby-faced and slender, their movements nothing less than effeminate. The women were strong, determined, and assertive, and their cheeks glowed crimson when they belted out tunes praising the Great Leader. Since they were fully clothed in heavy wool uniforms, including thick tunics, long skirts, and black combat boots, the sailors didn’t have much to look at.
It was an hour before the performers took a break, promising to be back for more. Finally, the scratchy speakers subsided into silence.
“I want to go back to Hong Kong,” Mergim said, slugging down another shot of soju.
I’d noticed some movement in the front hallway. “I’ll be back,” I told him, then stood up and strode past drunken and arguing Albanian sailors.
The truth was that I didn’t plan to return at all, not if I could help it. I hoped Mergim would be all right. He’d been a good friend to me, and even though he’d been well paid for his efforts, I’d grown fond of him and respected the tough life he’d led. My handlers in Seoul had assured me that the Communist Albanian government would look after him. I prayed they had been telling the truth.
The guard talking to Food Worker Pei noticed my approach and turned and sauntered away. Without looking at me, she stepped into a hallway that led toward the back of the building.
I followed.
It was dark back there, but I saw her a few yards ahead, moonlight filtering though a smoke-smudged window. She was slipping something on over her right hand, something that creaked and flapped like thick rubber. Not supple like the synthetic materials made in the West. More like a flipper.
My mission was to avoid another war between North and South Korea. Or at least that’s what Major Bulward, the executive officer of the 501 ^st Military Intelligence Battalion, told me. I didn’t really believe him. The military of both the North and the South had been longing for war ever since the ceasefire had been signed in June of 1953, more than twenty years ago. The Korean War had settled nothing, despite the death of two or three million people-depending on whom you asked. Korea, a four-thousand-year-old society, was still divided. Families were unable to communicate, either by phone or by letter, and people who were separated by the Demilitarized Zone that slashed through the center of the country couldn’t even be sure if their loved ones were dead or alive. And the U.S. military, despite all its talk of peace, was aching to become involved in another conventional conflict. Now that the Vietnam War was all but wound down, the American brass was sick of guerilla warfare. They wanted a good old-fashioned head butt: major armies, tank battalions, naval armadas, squadrons of jet fighters-the fun stuff-all slugging it out in a defined field of conflict. So when Major Bulward told me that my mission would help us avoid war, I knew it was bull. I also knew that if I were successful, the information I sought might actually ignite a war, by encouraging the South Koreans to go north. I hoped not, but I knew it was possible.
My mission-my real mission-was to find an ancient manuscript that contained a description of a vast network of caverns and underground waterways that led from an area in North Korea near Mount Osong to an area in South Korea near Mount Daesong. In other words, a secret passageway beneath the DMZ. The existence of such a manuscript had been rumored amongst scholars for centuries, but I’d come into possession of physical proof that it actually existed, a fragment that had been confirmed to be genuine by experts.
Despite its name, the Korean Demilitarized Zone-or DMZ-is the most heavily militarized border in the world. An estimated 700,000 heavily armed Communist soldiers guard the northern side and an estimated 450,000 ROK soldiers guard the southern side, assisted by 30,000 American GIs of the United States Army’s Second Infantry Division.
For years, the North Koreans had been diligently tunneling beneath the DMZ. Two of the tunnels had been discovered by Southern forces. They were impressive constructions, high enough for a grown man to walk through. Down the center of one of the tunnels, railroad track had been laid. Military intelligence estimated that with the help of rolling transport, a battalion of armed North Korean infantry could be smuggled beneath the DMZ to the southern side within two hours, an entire division in one night. According to aerial reconnaissance, the scope of the North Korean drilling effort on their side of the DMZ indicated that there were at least a dozen more tunnels that had yet to be intercepted. In addition to the threat of the tunnels, Major Bulward told me, the entire logistical effort of the North Korean military in the last few months had been moving steadily south.