by Larry Bond
“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” he told her.
“You don’t trust Slott?”
He didn’t answer.
“You trust me?” said Corrine finally.
“I pretty much can’t stand you, Corrine. But I think you have a different agenda than those people do.”
“You saved my life,” she said.
Ferguson had to think for a moment before remembering. It had been in a nightclub in Syria. Or was that Lebanon?
“Yeah, well, that was a job thing,” he told her. “Anyway, don’t get your underwear all twisted up. I don’t know that anything’s going on. I just want to make sure I’m not screwed by it if it is.”
“Well—”
“A deep subject. Now how about that flight number?”
Ferguson spent a few hours looking for more of the National Truck Company vehicles. None of the ones he checked out seemed like very good candidates for the truck he’d seen at the waste site. Four of the seven had open beds in the back. One was painted a garish pink that he thought would have glowed in the dark. The other two were in various states of disrepair and looked as if they hadn’t been moved in months or maybe even years.
Checking on the trucks was the sort of necessary but tedious detail work that Ferguson had little patience for. The more he did it, the more he was convinced that Science Industries was the best lead he was going to get for the time being, and that he ought to concentrate there until something told him he was wrong.
In the early afternoon he took the train to Seoul but got off a stop before the city, showing up at a hotel that advertised it had a “business center” with high-speed computer access. Ferguson inserted what looked like a small memory key into the hotel computer’s USB slot and trolled for information on Kang Hwan, the scientist Corrigan had mentioned. The key contained a series of programs that enabled anonymous surfing and allowed him to erase any trace of the web pages and files he looked at.
The Google search brought up several hundred references, but most were about a half-dozen papers the scientist had written. The English synopsis of two of the papers said they were on the possibility of using lasers to speed up the separation of radioactive isotopes, especially in uranium.
Almost as interesting was a fact Corrigan had neglected to mention: The scientist, fifty-three, had died two months earlier. None of the obituaries in the translated Korean newspapers gave the cause of death, but a small item in the Asian edition of the Wall Street Journal said it was suicide.
26
NORTH P’YŎNPAN PROVINCE, NORTH KOREA
Tak Ch’o took one last look around the small apartment where he had lived for the past year. It was not a look of nostalgia; he was glad to be gone. He just wanted to make sure that he wasn’t leaving anything that would show where he had gone.
The bed was unmade; the medicine he had obtained for his supposed stomach ailment lay open on the table. It would look as if he had just stepped out when he left.
Ch’o had no way of knowing if the Greek girl on the inspection team had found either of the messages in the cigarette box, let alone if she had passed them along or been able to arrange for help. It didn’t really matter; he knew that his time at the plant was over. He’d only been kept on because the governor did not want to cause any problems before the inspection team came.
Tomorrow, Tak Ch’o would be fired. If he was extremely lucky, he would be stripped of his job and made a nonperson, allowed to scrounge his way back to his ancestors’ village on the eastern side of the country.
If he was not extremely lucky—and Ch’o had never been a man who believed much in luck—he would be put in prison for the rest of his life.
Not because he had committed a crime or even because he had failed to do his job well. On the contrary, he was being persecuted because he had dared to tell the ministry that several trucks had been turned away from the gate because they did not come with the proper paperwork.
Ch’o hadn’t even mentioned that the men in the trucks had thrown their barrels into a field along the highway. He had not said that the waste was from Pyongyang’s hospitals. He had not made a guess about the threat it might pose to the villagers who farmed the field and drew their drinking water from shallow wells nearby; in truth that was difficult to assess precisely, and Ch’o would not make an estimate without a great deal of study. The fact that the number of birth defects in the region, long used for haphazard dumping, was significantly higher than elsewhere in the country, was alarming, but not necessarily relevant to this particular case, from a scientist’s point of view.
Even so, Ch’o knew that simply writing the report would have severe consequences. It implicitly alleged all of these things, and implied that powerful men were not doing their jobs.
But reporting it was his duty. And so he did.
For a while, he naively believed that it would not have dire consequences.
No, he’d always known. What he hadn’t known was that he would be willing to leave Korea behind. Not to preserve his life, but to help his countrymen. The IAEA people would help him get the word out, and there would be a crackdown.
The officials, of course, would deny it. But then, quietly, the material would be picked up and dumped, the countryside scoured for similar transgressions. Party members would be reminded that they must follow the proper procedures—procedures Ch’o had helped write—or face dire consequences.
That was the best he could hope for.
Assured that everything was ready, Ch’o closed the door on his apartment and went outside, walking swiftly down the street to the shed where he had left the bicycle two days before. The bike lay against the brown grass where had left it, wet now from the day’s intermittent rain. Ch’o picked it up, tried in vain to dry the seat with the sleeve of his coat, then gave up and got on. He had a long way to pedal—more than seventy kilometers—and five hours to do it.
No matter. If he missed the rendezvous—if, as he feared, no one showed up—he would continue on. He would pedal south all the way to the border area, then find someone to help him across. Others had done it.
The wind blew a fresh spray of rain in his face. Even Nature was against him, he thought, as he started to pedal.
27
SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA
James Sonjae stepped through the Customs area, joining a surge of people flooding into the reception terminal at Incheon International Airport. He looked around at the waiting limo drivers, unsure whether Ferguson would send someone for him or meet him himself. When he didn’t find his name on a placard, he began walking around the hall, scanning slowly and expecting at any moment to spot Ferguson’s grin and raised eyebrows.
He didn’t, though.
For nearly half an hour he walked from one end of the terminal to the other, unsure exactly where to wait. He felt off balance, his equilibrium disturbed by the cacophony of sounds around him. The chatter sounded both familiar and strange at the same time.
Though born in America, Sonjae had been taught Korean as a child and had used it a great deal at home and with close relatives. Over the past two decades, he’d practiced it less and less; with the exception of some old people he looked in on for his church every few weeks, he rarely used it these days. The Incheon terminal overloaded his ears, overwhelming him with a strange sense of déjà vu and eliciting all sort of memories and associations—grandparents visiting when he was a child, distant relatives tearfully saying good-bye at Dulles. He struggled to keep his mind focused on the present, looking for Ferguson.
Sonjae tried to have Ferguson paged, but found it impossible to correctly decipher the operator’s instructions. Finally he gave up and found a place to sit where he could gather his wits and decide what to do next.
Thirty seconds after he plopped down, Bob Ferguson hopped over the row of seats and sat down beside him.
“Had a good tour of the airport?”
“Ferg.”
“Were you making sure you weren’t followed?” F
erguson asked. “Because you know, you walked back and forth about twenty million times.”
“A dozen. I wasn’t followed,” said Sonjae defensively.
“You’re right. At least I think you are,” said Ferguson. He pointed to the small carry-on bag perched on Sonjae’s knees. “That all you got?”
“I didn’t know what to pack.”
“Don’t worry. It’s all you need.” Ferguson grabbed the handle of the bag. “Come on. I have a limo waiting for us outside.”
Ferguson led him out to the drop-off area, where the driver he’d hired was arguing vehemently with someone. The man raised his hand to pop the trunk with his key fob, not even bothering to interrupt the argument.
“What are they saying?” Ferguson said as they climbed into the car.
“Damned if I know.”
Ferguson laughed. “Some translator you are.”
Sonjae flushed. “I, uh . . . I’m out of practice.”
Ferguson looked at his friend’s face, tired and worn. Just as well that he’d decided to send him back tomorrow.
“You all right?” Ferguson asked.
“I’m OK. What are we doing?”
“Depends on whether you’re going to fall asleep on me or not.”
“I’m awake.”
“Good. Then let’s go barhopping.”
28
APPROACHING THE NORTH KOREAN COAST, NEAR KAWKSAN
“Iron Bird One, this is Van. Rankin, you hear me?”
“Iron Bird One. Rankin.”
“Cinderella has gone over the line.”
“Roger that,” said Rankin. The message meant that the plane with Thera on it had crossed out of North Korean air space. She was safe. “We are zero-five from Potato Field.”
“Be advised there is a flight of MiGs coming from the south on a routine patrol. Stand by for exact position and vectors.”
Rankin turned to the pilot and tapped his headset, making sure he’d heard.
The helicopter bucked as they passed over the coastline. They hit a squall of rain head-on. Water shot against the bubble canopy as if bucket after bucket were being thrown against them.
“Rain’s bitchin’,” said the pilot, struggling to hold the small chopper on course. “Sixty seconds.”
Rankin tensed. The rain made their infrared sensors almost useless. If anyone had seen or heard them the night before, a good hunk of the North Korean army might be waiting for them.
Buffeted by yet another gust, the helicopter tipped hard to the right. The pilot overcorrected, pitching the craft so low the skid bumped against the ground. The next thing Rankin knew they were down, stopped, in one piece and without crashing.
He jumped into the downpour, running toward the wall near the road as he had the day before.
“See anything?” he barked into the squad radio as he reached the stones.
A chorus of no’s jammed the circuit.
Sergeant Barren cursed somewhere behind him.
Rankin leapt over the wall, landing in a ditch at the side of the road. He sunk in water up to his thigh. Climbing out, he pulled his binoculars from his tac vest and looked down the road. The glasses fogged; even when he cleared them, all he could see was rain and blackness.
It was two minutes to midnight.
29
ON THE ROAD SOUTH OF KAWKSAN, NORTH KOREA
Tak Ch’o hunkered against the handle bars, fighting to stay upright as the wind pushed against him. He’d stopped looking at his watch more than an hour ago when it became obvious that he wouldn’t make it to the field by midnight. Now he simply pedaled, determined to get there as soon as he could, determined that he would at least accomplish the first stage of his journey. If he made it to the field at all, Ch’o thought, he would make it to South Korea and freedom as well.
Headlights appeared behind him. Taken off guard, Ch’o felt his entire body freeze. He tumbled into the road, a truck looming down on him.
Everything blurred together—the rain, the bicycle, his fear.
The truck veered to the right, crashing over the bicycle but missing Ch’o. As the vehicle disappeared into the raging night, a scream erupted from the scientist’s belly, a curse that had been years in coming. He raged against the rain and fate, then, the yell still emptying his lungs, hurled himself forward.
30
DUE SOUTH OF KAWKSAN, NORTH KOREA
“Car or a truck,” said Rankin, spotting the headlights as they came up over the hill. “This may be it. Hang tight.”
He hopped back over the wall to wait. The vehicle came forward at a steady pace, no more than twenty-five miles an hour.
It was an truck, an army vehicle.
So there was a defector, Rankin thought. Hopefully he was important enough to justify the risk they’d taken.
Rankin started to get up but then stopped, realizing the vehicle wasn’t slowing down.
“Shit,” someone said as it drove past.
“What the hell we do now, Stephen?” said Sergeant Barren. He might just as well have spit the words from his mouth.
Rankin checked his watch. It was oh-thirty, a half hour past midnight.
“All right. Load ’em up,” he said. He leaned over the wall, gazing up and down the road. The whole mission was a washout, in every sense of the word.
Had Thera screwed up? Had the people in Washington? Had something happened to the defector?
Most likely, no one would ever know. No one would care, probably, unless something else screwed up—if the choppers couldn’t make it back because of the weather.
A good possibility, Rankin thought, giving one last glance toward the road. The he turned and ran for the Little Bird.
Inside, he pulled off his sodden campaign hat and looked at the pilot.
“Ready, Skip?”
“Let ’er rock.”
The rotor blades began churning above his head. The other helicopter took off first, twisting backward toward the ship they were supposed to rendezvous with to the south.
Rankin held on as the Little Bird bucked forward, stuttering in the wind. The wall loomed in front of them, suddenly taller than it was in real life, a trick of the shadows dancing in the rain. As Rankin stared at it, something seemed to shoot across their path.
“Flip the searchlight on,” Rankin told the pilot.
“Searchlight?”
“I think there was something back by the wall, near the road.”
Silently, the pilot complied, circling back.
There was nothing by the wall. Rankin had seen an optical illusion, a shadow thrown by the helicopter, but further down the road, a tiny figure appeared, waving its hands.
“There,” he told the pilot, pointing. “There. Let’s get him.”
ACT III
The wide, dark road leads to hell,
The narrow to Buddha’s Heaven.
—from “The Seventh Princess,”
traditional Korean song for the dead
1
DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA
“I gotta be me . . . I just gotta be me,” bellowed Ferguson, smiling at Sonjae as the karaoke music track pounded out the Frank Sinatra track sans vocal. It was almost four a.m.; they’d been at this for hours, and it was time to call it a night.
Past time: Sonjae’s eyelids looked like disheveled bedcovers sagging toward the floor.
Ferg reached over and killed the machine midsong.
“Ready for some rest?”
“Sounds good,” mumbled the former FBI agent. “Real good.”
Ferguson gave him a thumbs-up. Despite hitting nearly every bar and karaoke joint within five miles of Science Industries, they hadn’t come across the secretary he’d stolen the ID tag from the night before. Nor had he seen any Science Industries employees, or at least none who had admitted to Sonjae that they worked there.
A disappointment.
One of the managers came over as they were getting ready to leave and began peppering Sonjae with questions.
“
He’s asking if everything was OK,” Sonjae told Ferguson. His Korean had started to improve, though he was a long way from being comfortable with it.
“Perfect.” Ferguson handed over his credit card. “Except, Sinatra was a off-key.”
“I don’t think I can translate that exactly,” said Sonjae.
“The hotel’s a couple of blocks away,” Ferguson told him. “You’ll be snoozing in a few minutes.”
“Great.” Sonjae shook his head, trying to clear it. “What do you have in mind for tomorrow?”
“We need to make a few phone calls, visit an apartment building, and look for nosey neighbors. Then I have you booked on an eleven a.m. flight to the States.”
“I’m going home?” Sonjae asked as they walked up to the limo. The driver was sleeping in his seat.
“I need you to deliver a few things for me.”
“Like what?”
“Dirt, mostly.”
2
THE HART SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.
“The president may already have the votes he needs,” Hannigan told Senator Tewilliger and Josh Franklin, the assistant secretary of defense. “My count shows the treaty will pass by two votes.”
The senator nodded. There was one thing you needed to be able to do in Washington to succeed—count—and Hannigan was a genius at counting.
“Even if we lose this one vote—admittedly it’s a big vote and I’m not ready to give up on it yet,” the senator told the assistant secretary of defense, “but even if we lose it, we’re not going to give up. Korea is the fulcrum of Asia, and it will be for the next ten years. We can’t lower our guard against North Korea.”
“I absolutely agree,” said Franklin. “I was afraid you wouldn’t. I got the impression in New Hampshire that the president was convincing you to change your mind.”
“The president can be very persuasive,” said Tewilliger, “but he hasn’t persuaded me on this.”