Fires of War

by Larry Bond

It was more cover-your-ass thinking, and he hated it. He absolutely hated it.

  When his four p.m. budget meeting finally dragged to a close, Slott headed toward his office, intending to call his daughter and apologize for being so abrupt.

  “Daniel, there you are,” said Parnelles, intercepting him just before he got there. “Come and let’s have a quick chat.”

  Slott followed silently as the CIA director led him down the hall to his office. Unlike many of the more recent DCIs, Parnelles was a CIA insider, a man who’d worked in the field as a case officer and held a host of other Bureau jobs before being appointed to head the CIA. There had been a gap of roughly ten years—he’d left the Agency and worked as, among other things, a bank vice president before being appointed—but otherwise he’d spent his entire adult life with the CIA, a throwback really to the handful of old hands who’d learned the business from the ground up.

  “Where are we with Korea?” asked Parnelles when Slott sat down.

  “Still trying to get more information.”

  “What’s Seoul’s opinion?”

  “I haven’t consulted them.”

  Parnelles raised his left eyebrow slightly.

  “I wanted to make sure we knew what we were dealing with,” explained Slott. “That it wasn’t a false alarm.”

  “Is it?”

  “The scientists say no. The first batch of tags were brought very close to a source, though it’s impossible to say where. The second set, which Ferguson recovered, had only one exposure. We’ve narrowed down the possible location, but we need more work.”

  “And you don’t think Seoul can help?”

  “I guess I’m wondering why they didn’t know about it in the first place,” said Slott. “Just as you are.”

  “Do you think they purposely withheld information?”

  “I’ve thought about that. I have thought about that.”

  He had, for hours and hours.

  “But I don’t,” Slott added. “I just can’t see Ken Bo doing that. I can see . . .”

  The word incompetence seemed too harsh, so he said nothing.

  “We may to have involve them,” said Parnelles, “if we’re going to find out anything. This has to have been a far-reaching operation, and I don’t know that we’ll gain anything from delaying at this point.”

  “If the information comes out, it will jeopardize the disarmament treaty,” said Slott. “And if Seoul gets aggressive about pursuing it, sooner or later the ROK government will realize what we’re doing. Once that happens, I doubt we can keep the information under wraps.”

  “That’s not really an intelligence concern, is it?”

  “I guess it’s not,” said Slott, “but I wouldn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize the disarmament treaty.”

  “How would you?”

  By having the information leak out, thought Slott. It was obvious. Any bad publicity now—and certainly a reaction by North Korea—would send the Senate running for cover.

  “I’m having a little trouble reading you,” said Slott. “I know you’re against the treaty, but—”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” said Parnelles. “I’m not interested in politics. I’m interested in information. And our security.”

  “If Seoul pokes its nose around, and something comes out, it would have a very negative effect.”

  “Why should something come out?”

  Slott couldn’t decide whether Parnelles was being disingenuous.

  “You don’t trust your people in Korea?” Parnelles asked.

  “I do trust them.”

  “Then tell them to be discreet, but let’s find out what’s going on.”

  “We’re going to have to find out why they missed this,” said Slott.

  “Yes, but that’s of secondary importance right now,” said Parnelles. “Find out what it is they missed, first.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Slott, guessing Parnelles had probably already decided to clean house there. “I’ll get on it.”

  3

  NORTH OF DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

  Park Jin Tae ran his fingers over the fabric of the twelfth-century armor, admiring the fine craftsmanship of his ancestors. Park had made several billion dollars in his sixty-seven years; he had built more than a dozen companies from scratch and taken over so many others he’d lost track. He was among the most important businessmen in South Korea and, though he operated entirely behind the scenes, an important player in its politics as well. But nothing brought the South Korean businessman more pleasure than his collection of antiquities, and this suit of armor was the pinnacle.

  The brigandine or fabric-covered armor had belonged to a high-ranking Korean official. The man’s wealth was evident from the rich cloth of the exterior. The metal plates beneath the armor were roughly nine and a half centimeters thick, strong enough to withstand a great blow. Yet the suit was constructed to allow the warrior great freedom of movement, for a Korean warrior expected to use his feet as well as his hands as weapons if need be.

  He would use his very breath, Park thought. The men of ancient times were different, hardier and tougher. Just to wear the suit into battle took great strength.

  What would such men say if they looked at Koreans now? They would scoff at their weakness.

  Not every Korean was weak—Park knew many brave men, hundreds who would gladly sacrifice themselves for Korea—but the country as a whole had been seduced by Western materialsm. It had forgotten its birthright and its past, both ancient and recent.

  How else could one explain the fact that the South Korean president had spent yesterday showing the Japanese emperor Korean factories? The Japanese emperor, son and grandson of a criminal, son and grandson of Korea’s most hated and brutal master.

  The South Korean government had suggested that some of Park’s companies be included in the tour. He had declined, even though this was a breach of etiquette. Ordinarily, one had to be polite when dealing with visitors, but politeness would only go so far. It would not extend to Japanese criminals.

  The enmity between Japan and Korea went back thousands of years, but Park’s familial hatred of the Japanese took its severe shape in 1941. It was the year Park Jin Tae was born. It was also the year his mother was made a “comfort woman,” a slave to the Japanese soldiers, an unwilling prostitute.

  She had triumphed in the end, ending her life and that of one of her tormentors in a glorious fury of blood and revenge. But it was a bitter victory for her family, who were persecuted as a result. Her husband and brother were killed and their children sent to an orphanage where they were given Japanese names and taught to hate their country.

  Park considered himself lucky. The war ended well before he attended school, and his personal memory of the outrages was, mercifully, dim. But his anger at the humiliation of his mother, the murder of his family, and the rape of his country burned ever stronger with each year he aged.

  It burned so fiercely that if he spent too much time thinking about it, he would surely explode.

  Park shook himself. There was considerable work to do. Thousands of employees worked for him—he was a man of great wealth and status, a respected man—and he could not afford to indulge himself in distractions. He left the display room and went to start the day.

  4

  DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

  It took Ferguson and Guns several hours to walk back to Guns’s hotel from Science Industries. Ferguson sat down on the couch; the next thing he knew it was several hours later and Guns was shaking him awake.

  “Corrigan needs to talk to you,” Guns told him. “Sorry to wake you up, Ferg.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Oh eight hundred hours.”

  “In real time that’s what, eight in the morning?”

  “Something like that. It’s six o’clock at night back home. Eighteen hundred.”

  “What, you got two clocks to keep track?”

  “Only my head.”

  Fe
rguson rolled out of bed, splashed some water on his face, and went down to the hotel café to get some coffee. All he could find was tea. He took two cups back to the room, did a quick scan for bugs to make sure no one had managed to sneak in while they were sleeping, and called The Cube.

  “Ferg, how are you?” asked Corrigan.

  “Can’t party like I used to,” he told him. “You get that information I told Lauren about? Science Industries?”

  “Yeah. There’s an encrypted PDF file waiting for you to download. You can read it at the embassy.”

  “Why the embassy?”

  “Slott will explain. Hold on.”

  “Great.”

  Slott came on the line after a short pause.

  “Good morning, Ferg.”

  “What’s this about the embassy?” said Ferguson.

  “We want soil samples from the waste plant, and as much other information as we can come up with. Seoul’s got to be involved.”

  “I can get the samples without them.”

  “There’s no need to cut Seoul out,” said Slott. “I want you to brief Ken Bo. He’s the station chief.”

  “Me?”

  “You have someone else in mind?”

  Ferguson scratched the side of his head. Tea was fine as far as it went, but it wasn’t a substitute for coffee.

  “It’ll take me a while to get up there.”

  “Listen, Ferg, this situation is volatile, seriously volatile.”

  “Yeah, I know the drill.”

  “Ferguson, for once, will you listen to what I say?” snapped Slott.

  “I always listen to you, Dan,” said Ferguson, who found Slott’s uncharacteristic anger amusing. “The question is whether I pay any attention to it.”

  “If you need backup, ask for it, all right?”

  “My middle name is Please,” said Ferguson. He took a swig of the tea and practically spit it out. “Listen, I gotta go. I think somebody’s trying to poison me.”

  5

  NORTH P’YŎNPAN PROVINCE, NORTH KOREA

  The North Koreans set up a midday feast for the inspection team in the reception building, once again importing massive amounts of Korean and Western specialties. Large banquet tables were placed in the center of the building with chairs clustered nearby. The team members and the Koreans escorting them ate with their plates in their laps.

  The lunch might have had the air of a picnic or perhaps a wedding, except that it was hard for the guests to ignore the fact that the space they were sitting in had been designed for vehicles carrying nuclear waste. Julie Svenson shook her head the whole time she was eating, gulping her food and then going to the far side of the building.

  When Neto Evora saw that Thera was alone, he came over and sat down beside her, asking how she was enjoying North Korea.

  “It looks like the perfect place for a nuclear waste dump, doesn’t it?” said the scientist. “Deserted, cold, and desolate.”

  “Actually, the countryside is very beautiful,” she said. “It looks almost like heaven.”

  “Heaven? I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t mean the government. Just the open fields.”

  “If you are like me, a city boy, then you want excitement.”

  “I guess I’m not like you,” said Thera.

  Evora smirked. “Maybe we’ll chance a party this evening.”

  “Here?”

  “You never know.”

  He got up. Thera watched him strut across the room, very full of himself. There was a thin line between confidence and conceit. Evora was far over the line.

  Why hadn’t she realized that the other night?

  Temporary insanity. And drinks.

  She hadn’t actually gone to bed with him, so she deserved some credit.

  Some people could push the line between conceit and confidence. Ferguson, for example. Fergie could push it very far. He exuded confidence but not really conceit—not in her opinion at least—maybe because he could back it up.

  Not that he was perfect. He could be casually cruel and impish, like the way he loved baiting Rankin, even though he trusted him with his life.

  He was nice to her. But maybe that meant he didn’t take her seriously.

  Still hungry, Thera got up and went over to the food table.

  “You should try the bulgogi,” said Dr. Ch’o, the scientist who had helped her out of the SUV earlier. “It is beef, marinated and grilled.”

  “Thank you,” said Thera, holding her plate out for him to dish the food.

  “My pleasure,” said the scientist, bowing his head slightly.

  “You speak very good English,” said Thera. “Better than mine.”

  “Oh, you are very good. What language do you speak as a native?”

  “Greek.” Thera rolled off a few sentences about how she lived near Athens, then returned to English. “But everyone speaks English these days.”

  “You have an American accent.”

  “Yes, I have worked there. For the UN. A very interesting place.”

  “Yes. I have never been myself. But I have been to Russia and Europe.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes. Some years ago. When I received my degree.”

  Another member of the inspection team asked Ch’o where he had been in Europe. Thera drifted away, then returned to her seat and finished eating. The beef was tasty, but a bit too spicy for her.

  When she was done, she went outside to have a look around. Unwrapping her pack of cigarettes, she pounded the box end, then took one and put it into her mouth. She had just lit up when she saw Ch’o and another North Korean walking swiftly toward her, concerned looks on their faces.

  Oh, crap, they don’t allow smoking here either, Thera thought to herself. I’m going to be arrested.

  6

  SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

  Ken Bo glared at Ferguson as he walked into his office, both hands on his desktop as if he were bracing himself against a gale. Ferguson pointed at him, smirked and sat down.

  “How are ya?” said Ferguson. Bo had kept him waiting more than fifteen minutes in his outer office. Ferguson wouldn’t have minded so much if his assistant had had decent legs.

  “Why did you pull a gun on one of my people the other day?” said Bo.

  “I thought it was a cigarette lighter. He looked like he wanted a smoke.”

  “I’ve heard about you, Ferguson.”

  “Oh, good. You know why I’m here?”

  “Slott told me.”

  “Can we talk here?”

  Ferguson glanced around. Generally offices in embassies were not used for very sensitive conversations, even though there was only a remote chance that they would be bugged or overheard.

  Bo looked down at his desk, glancing around it as if looking for the answer. Suddenly he jumped into motion, leading the way out of the room.

  Halfway down the hall he stuck his head into a door and called in to his deputy chief.

  “Chris, I want you to hear this.”

  “No,” said Ferguson. “Only you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Take it up with the boss.”

  “Hey, no problem,” said the deputy chief, backing away.

  Bo shook his head and started walking again. Ferguson followed as the station chief went up two flights of stairs to a secure room within a room that had been built for sensitive discussions. There were no chairs or other furniture in the room—most likely to keep conversations short, Ferguson decided.

  “What do you know?” asked Bo.

  “Plutonium was detected at the Blessed Peak Nuclear Waste Processing Plant. An isotope that indicates there’s bomb fuel present. It looks like the South Koreans are building a nuke.”

  “Impossible!”

  “I wouldn’t say impossible.”

  “Your data is wrong.”

  Ferguson laughed. “You don’t even know what data I have.”

  “It’s impossible. I’m sure it’s wrong. Or can b
e explained.”

  “Yeah, probably you’re right.” Ferguson, realizing he was done, turned around.

  “Where are you going?” Bo grabbed his arm.

  “I have work to do.”

  Bo glared at him. Ferguson glared back.

  It didn’t take ESP to know what the station chief was thinking. A bomb project like this would have taken years to get to this point, and Bo had missed it. Good-bye job.

  Ferguson hadn’t really been sold on the idea of working with the locals to begin with, but even if he had, Bo’s attitude warned him away. The station chief was looking at this as a threat to his job. He was going to be interested in covering his butt, not in finding out what was going on.

  Not that he was surprised. Disappointed, maybe.

  No, not even that. It was to be expected.

  “Wait,” said Bo as Ferguson once more started for the door. “We can work together.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “That’s all the information you have?”

  Ferguson stopped and turned back around. “I don’t have much more, no. If you want the technical stuff, you’ll have to get it from Slott. I really don’t know it,” Ferguson said. “Listen, I need to use the secure communications center. If you don’t mind.”

  “Bob—Can I call you Bob?”

  “I really don’t know anything else. Honest.”

  They stared at each other. Ferguson was so much taller than Bo that he thought he might get a crick in his neck if Bo didn’t blink soon.

  “Well, keep us updated,” said Bo finally, looking away.

  Ferguson didn’t feel like lying, so he simply shrugged as he left the room.

  7

  NORTH P’YŎNPAN PROVINCE, NORTH KOREA

  Thera braced herself as the North Koreans approached. There was no sense hiding the cigarette; both men had clearly seen her.

  “You must be away from the building,” said Ch’o. “I’m sorry, Miss.”

  “It’s a nonsmoking area?”

  Ch’o gave her a strange look. “No. The train car. We are demonstrating the train car. You are on the track.”

  He pointed behind her. Thera turned and saw that one of the remote-controller train cars was heading slowly in her direction from the temporary waste-storage area.