by Larry Bond
“Maybe.” Tewilliger had already begun to discount the information, at least as a harbinger of any sort of attack by the North. Still, it would help torpedo the treaty. “I appreciate the heads-up, Josh. I’ll remember it.”
“Thank you, Senator.”
Tewilliger went across the room to his desk and began flipping through his Rolodex. It was never too late to call a sympathetic reporter, especially with information like this.
~ * ~
25
OUTSIDE CHUNGSAN, NORTH KOREA
Ferguson was well into the “Knight’s Tale” in Chaucer’s poem when he was interrupted by two guards who told him in Korean it was time for him to get up from his cot. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d met Ganji. He’d eaten once, a few fingers’ worth of rice. That had been hours and hours ago.
The guards put iron manacles on his hands and legs, then brought him to the front hall, where he had first entered the prison. A car waited outside. It was dusk.
Ferguson’s clogs crunched through a small crust of snow as he was led into the sedan. Two large, uniformed men slid in on either side of him. The doors closed, and the car sped down the rutted dirt road.
Within a few minutes Ferguson had lost track of the direction. He reverted to Chaucer, going back to the Prologue where the knight was introduced:
A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man,
That from the tyme that he ferst began
To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye,
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie,
Ful worthi was he in his lordes werre
The poem sprung up from his unconscious, unraveling from the depths of his memory. His old teacher stood before him, regaling the class. “Great literature, boys. Great lit-er-a-ture.”
Ferguson and his friends would roll their eyes and in the hallway mimic the portly priest’s pronunciation, “lit-er-a-ture.” But he was a good man, a good teacher who’d tried to share some of his experience. Left his mark on the world, however humble.
What mark had Ferguson left?
Well, there were the missions. Saving lives.
Dust scattered on a car window.
“Truth and honor, freedom and courtesy, full worthy was the knight.”
Full worthy, are you.
Lit-er-a-ture boys. Lit-er-a-ture and death, the only real things in life.
~ * ~
A
fter two or three or four hours of driving, the car pulled up in front of a small hut.
“I overplayed my hand,” Ferguson mumbled to himself as the car stopped.
Namgung had decided he was too much of a liability and would simply kill him here, out in the woods, where no trace would be found.
“Good, then. Better this way than other ways.”
He’d pushed the damn thing to its limit. Better to die like that than like a slug attached to the hospital’s death support, everything but your soul pumped out of you.
The North Koreans got out of the car. Ferguson leaned toward the door, debating whether it would be better to make a break for it and be shot or simply to let them do it at their own choosing.
No, he had a better idea, a much better idea. He’d use the chain holding his hands together, take someone down with him.
“Out of the car,” said one of the guards.
Which would it be? Who would get close enough to die with him?
All three kept their distance as he got out. The wooden clogs hurt his feet; he stumbled, almost lost his balance, but the men didn’t help him.
“Inside,” said one, pointing at the dark hut.
Ferguson decided he would wait to be pushed. Then he would twist around into the next nearest man, throw his chain around his neck, throttle him.
“Please,” said the North Korean. “The hut will be warm. There are clothes inside. Go ahead.”
The man’s voice was soft and pleading. He turned and walked to the door, pulling it open.
OK, thought Ferguson. You’re it.
He made his way around the front of the car, trying to catch up to the man. But the chains on his legs and his awkward clogs made it hard to walk fast.
The North Korean stepped aside. Ferguson gathered his energy, ready to spring.
The man smiled.
For some reason, Ferguson found that amazingly funny, hilariously funny: an executioner who would smile at his victim.
The man took a step backward, then another. He was gone, out of reach.
Ferguson tensed, waiting for him to pull a gun from his pocket. He’d lost his chance and now would have to die alone.
All right, then.
“Go ahead,” said the man.
No gun.
Ferguson glanced over his shoulder. The others were back near the car. If they had weapons, they weren’t showing them.
Ferguson stepped into the cottage, spinning to the side to wait for his assassin, but the only thing the man did was push the door closed.
Ferguson stood in the middle of the darkened room, waiting. Gradually, he realized there was no one else inside.
Maybe they were planning on blowing up the house.
He closed his eyes and waited.
After ten minutes passed, Ferguson realized nothing was going to happen. He made his way around the small room, banging into all four walls before determining that there was no furniture here, nothing, in fact, except plain wooden planks and a dirt floor. When he had covered every inch, he dropped down to the ground, took a deep breath, then lay flat to sleep.
~ * ~
26
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
News of the North Korean troop movements had finally reached the media, and the White House congressional people found themselves talking nonstop to congressmen worried about the treaty. Already there were rumors that the vote would be put off for at least a month.
Just before noon, the Department of Energy called to tell Corrine that the soil tests from Science Industries had been finished ahead of schedule; they were negative. She immediately called Slott and told him.
“Hmphh,” he said. Then he fell silent.
“Dan? What’s going on with Ferguson?”
“Still no word.”
“I can talk to the president about a reconnaissance mission, if you think it’s a good idea.”
“It’d be suicidal under the circumstances. It’s too close to the capital.”
“I see.”
“We had a Global Hawk fly down the coast,” added Slott, referring to an unmanned spy plane. “It was tracked briefly but got away. Even that was a risk I probably shouldn’t have taken.”
“Did it see anything?”
“Nothing out of place. It looks abandoned.”
The spy flight was little more than a gesture, but it was something at least.
“I’ll keep you informed,” said Slott, abruptly hanging up the phone.
~ * ~
27
DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA
Thera spent the day doing a lot of nothing, installing GPS trackers in the trucks at the university, poking around Park’s planes and his hangar at Gitmo, even checking on a few more trucks. It was all a waste of time. She was supposed to concentrate on finding the plutonium, not Ferguson.
On their first mission together, an attaché case of jewels had gone missing. She’d become the obvious suspect. Ferguson stood by her—and checked her out at the same time, believing she was a thief and yet not wanting to believe it either.
She’d been so mad at him, so damn mad.
She wanted to take it all back.
God, he couldn’t be dead.
Fergie, you handsome son of a bitch. Come back and laugh at me, would you?
She got back to her hotel around eleven and checked in with The Cube. Lauren was on duty, shuffling time slots with Corrigan.
“What’s going on?” Thera asked.
“Nothing new.”
“Listen, I want to talk to the people who went nort
h with Ferguson. They have to know something.”
“Slott wants you to work on the plutonium angle, Thera. He needs to know what’s going on with that.”
“We need to find Ferguson.”
“We’re working on it.”
“How? Analyzing intercepts? Looking at satellite data?”
“Well, yeah. Things like that.”
“That’s a waste.” Anger swelled inside her. “Let me talk to Slott. Better yet, give me Corrine.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can get her.”
“I’ll call back.”
Thera turned on the television, checking the local news. So far, there was no word of the troop movements across the border.
A half hour later, Corrine called on the sat phone.
“You needed to talk to me?” Her voice sounded distant and hollow, more machinelike than human.
“I wanted to know what we’re doing to find Ferg.”
“We’re working on it.”
“I want to interview the people he went north with. They may have information.”
“Have you talked to Dan?”
“No. You’re the one who’s really in charge, right?”
“Dan handles the specifics of the mission,” said Corrine coldly. “You have to do what he says.”
“We have to find Ferg.”
“I realize the situation is difficult, Thera. It’s hard for everyone. We all have to do our jobs.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not easy for me, either.”
It’s a hell of a lot easier for you, Thera thought, but she didn’t say anything.
“Do you need anything else?” Corrine asked.
“I’m fine.” She turned off the phone.
~ * ~
28
ON THE KOREAN COAST, WEST OF SUKCH’ŎN
Ferguson woke to the sound of waves crashing against rocks. At first he thought it was a dream—his mind had tangled through several while he slept—but then he realized his body ached too much for him to still be asleep.
Light streamed through a thin curtain next to the door of the hut. Ferguson got up slowly and went to the window. He saw the back of a soldier ten yards away. Beyond him, the horizon was blue-green: the sea.
A tray of food sat on the floor a short distance away. Ferguson got down on his hands and knees and looked at it. There was rice, some sort of fish stew, and chopsticks. A bottle of water sat at the side.
A short distance away sat two buckets, one with cold water, presumably so he could wash, the other empty, for waste.
Ferguson opened the bottle and gulped the water, so thirsty there was no way to pace himself. He jammed the rice into his mouth with his fingers, barely chewing before swallowing. But as hungry as he was, the fish stew smelled too awful to eat. He left it and began exploring his prison.
Flimsy wooden boards nailed to cross members made up the walls. They were arranged in two separate courses, the top row slightly misaligned with the bottom. The tongue-and-groove joints were mostly snug, but here and there daylight was visible where the edges had eroded away. They were flimsy, no more than a quarter-inch thick.
Someone knocked on the door. Ferguson reminded himself that he was Russian and started to say “come in.”
His mouth wouldn’t cooperate; somehow the word annyeonghaseyeo— Korean for “hello”—came out instead.
The door opened, and a thin man entered. He was a soldier with the insignia of a lieutenant, though he seemed far too young to be one.
“You speak Korean,” said the man.
“Jogeumbakke moteyo,” said Ferguson, admitting that he spoke a bit.
“A little. I see, yes. I was told you can speak English?”
“Yes.”
“You did not eat the stew,” said the lieutenant.
“I need a fork.”
“Fork? Not chopsticks?”
Ferguson could use chopsticks, but a fork would be more useful. He shook his head.
“I will bring you one. And more water. Would you like to read?”
“Sure.”
The man turned to leave. “Where am I?” asked Ferguson.
“Do you know Korea?”
“Not very well,” admitted Ferguson.
“We are on the Bay of Korea. The west coast. A beautiful place.”
“Near the capital?”
“Farther north. South of Unjon. Do you know that city?”
“Chongchon River?” said Ferguson.
Amused by the mispronunciation, the lieutenant corrected him and then told Ferguson that he was correct. Three rivers including the Chongchon came together near Unjon and flowed to the sea. They were a few miles south of that point.
“Do you know where you are now?” asked the North Korean.
“No,” confessed Ferguson. “Sorry.”
~ * ~
B
ut he did know, roughly at least. One of the three emergency caches that were to have been planted for a rescue mission North was located five miles north of the Chongchon along the coastal road. If Ferguson could reach it, he would be rescued.
Just ten miles, at the most, away.
Easy to do.
Easy, easy, easy to do.
Not with the leg chains and clogs.
The clogs were all right—his feet were so swollen he’d never get them off anyway—but the chains had to go. He’d have to swim to get across the river and hike through marshes.
Never. He’d never make it. Not like this, depleted, cold, half dead. His body felt as if it had been pushed into a crevice, squeezed there for days, pounded on.
Ferguson huddled against the wall, shivering beneath the blanket. The lieutenant returned about an hour later, a bag strapped over his shoulder.
“A fork,” said the North Korean proudly, holding it up. “Difficult to obtain. You must hold on to it.”
“Thank you.”
The lieutenant put down his bag.
“Books.” He pulled one out. “Finding things in translation, it is not very easy in our country. No Russian. These are Korean, children’s tales. Perhaps you can work on your language.”
“Yes.”
The man looked at him. “You should take a walk after eating,” he said.
“There’s an idea,” said Ferguson, some of his usual sarcasm slipping into his voice.
“Do you need anything?” asked the lieutenant.
The key for the chains, a plane south—those would be nice.
“I’m cold,” Ferguson said. “Very cold.”
The lieutenant said something in Korean that Ferguson didn’t understand, then said good-bye and left.
When he was gone, Ferguson forced himself to eat the stew. Then he examined the fork. It was made of thin metal, and the prongs were easily bent—just the thing to slip into the lock at his feet. But the prongs were too big to fit the manacles on his hands.
The door opened. Ferguson slipped the fork into his pants and looked up as one of the guards came in, holding a thick winter coat.
There was no way he could put it on properly because his hands were chained, and the guard wouldn’t remove them. Instead, he helped Ferguson drape the parka over himself and buttoned the top button, making it into a cape. It wasn’t exactly airtight, but it was far better than nothing.
“Fresh air?” asked the man in Korean.
Ferguson followed the soldier outside. The muscles in his face seemed to snap as the wind hit them. The air smelled of salt and raw sewage.
Ferguson rolled his head back and forth, vainly trying to stop the muscle spasms in his neck and shoulders. He walked a little way, getting his bearings, taking stock of what was around him.
A path nearby ran along the sea, paralleling the rocks and shoreline. The road zigzagged away to his right.
His escape route.
There weren’t many paved roads in this part of Korea, and this one must eventually go to the coastal highway, a two-lane hardtop road used mostly
by trucks and official vehicles. Like all roads in the North, it wasn’t very heavily traveled; if he could get there, Ferguson could follow it to the river, then find a place to get across.