Fires of War (53 page)

What was the Korean? He tried retrieving the words from the corner of his brain where they’d fled.

The figures blurred in front of Ferguson’s eyes. The book dropped from his hand, and he fell back against the wall of the hut, fast asleep.

~ * ~

29

CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

“If it’s not a mobilization for an attack, it’s a damn good approximation,” said Ken Bo as the secure conference call wound down. “ROK Army intelligence now thinks it’s for real.”

“Not much of an endorsement,” said Verigo Johnson, the Agency’s chief Korean expert.

Slott cut the conversation off before it degenerated. The evidence remained contradictory. Key elements of the North Korean army were moving toward the border, and the navy was on high alert. But the transmissions from army and air force units in the eastern parts of the country intercepted by the National Security Agency were entirely routine. Johnson interpreted this to mean that they were seeing the early stages of a coup, a significant change in what he had told the National Security Council only a few hours before.

Parnelles wasn’t convinced, holding on to the blackmail theory. Slott was trying to stay neutral: No matter what was going on, the situation was extremely dangerous.

“Ken, I need to have a word with you now that we’re done,” said Slott as the others signed off. He glanced across the secure communications center at the specialist handling the call, waiting for the signal that he and Bo were the only ones on the line.

“What’s up?” asked Bo.

“I’m looking for an update on the South Korean plutonium.”

“Two of our people are going into Blessed Peak today,” Bo told him. “I’ll send a report as soon as I hear from them.”

“Good.”

“Listen, Dan. How much priority do you want us to give this thing? It’s obviously nothing.”

“Why are you dismissing it?”

“You saw my note, right?”

Bo was referring to the theory that the material was the remains of the earlier South Korean project.

“I saw it,” said Slott.

Bo was silent.

“All right,” the station chief said finally. “Ferguson is still working on this?”

“Ferguson went across the border a few days ago and hasn’t been heard from since,” said Slott, deciding there was no sense keeping it from him any longer.

“You’re kidding. He went north?”

“He traveled with Park Jin Tae.”

“About the plutonium? Jesus. He’s off on this one, Dan. I know he has a great reputation, but, honestly, he doesn’t know garbage about Korea.”

“Maybe not,” said Slott.

“You want us to put feelers out?”

“No.” Putting feelers out—asking about Ferguson, even in his covered identity—might inadvertently tip off the North Koreans to his true identity. That would be tantamount to signing a death warrant. A crooked Russian arms dealer was far safer in North Korea than a CIA officer.

“Do you want to give me some information about his cover? Maybe we’ll hear something unusual.”

“Let’s leave it the way it is for now, Ken. Update me on the waste site as soon as you can.”

~ * ~

30

FIRST AIR COMBAT COMMAND, KAECH’N,

NORTH KOREA

“The plane is prepared,” General Kang told Namgung. “You have only to choose between the two pilots.”

Namgung nodded. He had known the head of the First Air Combat Command since he was six years old; he trusted Kang with his life.

Literally, now, since word from Kang could ruin the plan and brand him as a traitor.

“How will you choose?” asked General Kang.

Namgung had pondered the question for the past several days. Both pilots were highly qualified; both were committed to striking a blow against their ancient enemy. They were so evenly matched that he could have them simply draw straws and be pleased with the result.

But it was his job as commander to decide.

“I will make a decision right before takeoff,” he said. “I will be there personally. One shall go.”

“And the other?”

“He, too, will do his duty.”

“Very good,” said Kang. “As it should be.”

Namgung held out his arms, and the two old friends embraced.

“We will succeed,” said Namgung. “I have no doubt.”

~ * ~

31

NEAR DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

The Cube had used a Korean speaker to call hospitals in the area along the DMZ, inquiring about Caucasian patients who had been admitted unconscious. They found one in a small facility northeast of Seoul, and sent Thera to check it out.

She hadn’t realized exactly how much she was hoping she’d find him until she broke into tears when she saw that the patient, who was hooked into life support in the critical center, wasn’t him.

CIA officers weren’t supposed to cry—women CIA officers especially. If a woman wasn’t ten times as tough as a man, she was labeled a liability.

~ * ~

hera couldn’t help herself, though. She was still sobbing when she boarded the train back to Daejeon.

T
hera’s sat phone rang when she was about ten minutes from the Daejeon station.

“Yes?”

“Can you talk?” asked Corrigan.

“A little.” The two rows around her were empty.

“We have something new for you to check out. It’s a real long shot but that’s all we’ve been playing.”

“What?”

“We were checking a list of vehicles that used the Korean waste site where your tabs found the plutonium. There’s a truck used by a medical facility that happens to be owned by Park. It’s down in Jiro, which is a couple of hours from where you are.”

“What’s that got to do with Ferg?”

“You’re not looking for Ferg, remember? You’re looking for the plutonium. That’s our priority.”

“I just came back from the hospital looking for him.” Thera realized she’d spoken far too loudly. “I have to go.”

“Thera.”

“I’ll call back,” she said, hanging up.

~ * ~

32

ON THE KOREAN COAST, WEST OF SUKCH’ŎN

The pungent smell of the awful fish stew woke Ferguson. The room was dark; he was lying on his side near the wall, the parka still wrapped around him, his book on the floor where he had dropped it when he fell asleep.

Fear shot through him. Had he slept through the night?

He leapt to his feet, chains clanking dully on the dirt, and went to the window. A few faint lines of purple curled around the shadowy outline of the horizon. The sun had only just set.

Ferguson crawled to the food. He wolfed it down, then drank half the bottle of water. He’d save the rest for his journey.

Finished eating, he went back to the window, looking to see if he could spot his guards. One stood about ten yards in front of the door, near the road. He couldn’t find the other man.

If the guard was behind the house, he’d see Ferguson when he came out, but taking that chance was the only way to escape.

Ferguson, his hands still chained, pushed the boards to get them out of the way. The first came off easily, but the next stuck. Frustrated, he lost control for a moment, launching his fist toward the wall. He pulled it back at the last moment and collapsed on the floor, wrestling with his anger.

This is because I don’t have the right hormones.

Do it step by step.

Don’t go weird.

Step by step.

He retrieved the fork and pried at the pair of nails holding the bottom of the board. The wood came loose but then stuck somewhere toward the top. Ferguson pushed, gentiy at first, then more forcefully. Suddenly whatever was holding it gave way, and the board slipped from his grasp, clanking onto the ground outside.

Ferguson froze.

Don’t stop now. Go!!!

He squeezed through feet first, rolling onto the ground. He sprung up, chain between his hands, a weapon, ready to confront the guards.

No one was there. The sound had been too faint to be heard over the lapping waves.

Ferguson propped the board back against the house, then crept to the corner of the building. The two soldiers were together now, standing next to the road a few yards from the front of the cottage.

He gave them a wide berth, circling out about a hundred yards before crossing the road and then going over to the path. His feet had swollen so much that the clogs were now tight. This was an advantage, really; it meant he could trot without worrying about losing them.

The parka flew behind him. He felt like a kid on Halloween, pretending to be a super hero.

“Trick or treat, Kim Jong-Il,” he whispered to the moon over his shoulder as he ran north. “Trick or fuckin’ treat.”

~ * ~

t seemed to take the entire night to get to the mouth of the river. Ferguson jogged as much as he could, bouncing along to keep warm, never stopping. The highway was deserted, but he was too fearful to walk along it for very long. Instead he kept within ten or twenty yards, using paths and fields and occasionally hard-packed roads that led to the sea. Twice he had to backtrack to skirt small villages that lay near the water, then walk along the shoulder of the highway until he was safely past.

Eventually Ferguson found that the land on both sides of the road was too marshy to walk on, and he had no choice but to walk along the main road. He kept looking over his shoulder, prepared to jump into the nearby ditch or a clump of reeds if a vehicle appeared.

After what seemed like hours—the moon had arced high across the sky—Ferguson gave in to fatigue and stopped for a rest. He decided he had gone much farther than a few miles; the Korean who had told him the river was nearby had been lying to throw him off.

Maybe he could steal a boat from the next village he came to, take it north across the mouth of the river, find the cache from the water.

Or go south. It was farther, but he wouldn’t have to wait to be rescued. He wouldn’t have to depend on anyone but himself.

The waters were patrolled, but smugglers made it past all the time; surely he could.

Ferguson got up and started walking again. He began humming “Finnegan’s Wake” to himself, then whispering the lines from Chaucer, whipping up his strength. There was no wind to speak of, and while the prison pants he wore were thin, the parka was relatively warm, even as a cape.

I’m so cold I don’t even know I’m cold anymore, he realized. Then he pushed the thought away.

It was just a matter of time before he found a boat. Maybe the river really was close. He’d steal a boat and paddle across the muddy mouth of the sea, skirting the shallow mud flats.