Fires of War

by Larry Bond

  The problem with this, though, was that often his thoughts tended to wander, his mind drifting from the very real dangers of his covert job to other things, some trivial, others not. Looking out the window at the well-lit city, he saw a massive crane in a cramped, tiny alley and wondered how it had been positioned there. He also thought of the cancer count and the fact that his body was gradually turning against him.

  How would he go out? Die of thirst in a hospital bed? Plug himself with a Glock or a PK pistol when the end was in sight?

  Maybe that had been Kang Hwan’s problem; maybe he’d chosen to hang himself rather than drain away. Working around radioactive materials could cause any number of cancers, including thyroid cancer.

  The doctors talked in percentages, possibilities, never in absolutes. Ninety percent chance of survival.

  Which was great, unless you were in the ten percent that didn’t make it.

  Fifty-fifty chance of one-year survival.

  Twenty-two percent possibility of breathing the fresh air of Maine two Christmases from now.

  Was it twenty-two or eighteen? Thirteen?

  Was the air fresh in Maine anymore?

  The car whisked up the driveway of the Daejeon Science & Arts University, where Park was due to attend a gala reception announcing the construction of a new physics laboratory. Work had already begun on the building: Dump trucks and bulldozers and cranes were lined up in the lot. Ferguson looked at them, then saw the sign announcing the project. The main words were in Korean and English: “Home of a new nuclear research reactor.”

  Had the reactor been built already, the dots would have connected perfectly.

  “Whoa,” said Ferguson, spotting a pair of trucks in the parking lot. They were the same type he’d seen at the waste-processing area and at Science Industries.

  Ferguson leaned forward and tapped on the driver’s shoulder.

  “That lot,” he said in English. “Can you go there?”

  The man gave him an odd look.

  “Jeogi,” he told him, pointing. “There.”

  The man replied in Korean that the reception was in the main administrative building, dead ahead.

  Ferguson waved his hand and settled back, telling him to never mind.

  Mr. Li was waiting at the door with two large bodyguard types behind him. Their black suits blended into the night.

  “I am very glad you made it,” said Li in Russian as Ferguson climbed the concrete steps.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “I have to ask—”

  “Yes, of course,” said Ferguson. He reached beneath his jacket and pulled out the two Glocks he was carrying—what was a Russian arms dealer without weapons?

  Li turned to one of the bodyguards, who took the weapons.

  Ferguson saw a gun detector in the foyer. “You want this, too,” he told Li, reaching down and taking the last Glock from the holster near his ankle.

  “More?” asked Li, looking at the other leg.

  “I dress very light in Korea. A very civilized country.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Mr. Li, handing over the gun to one of the guards.

  “My pleasure.”

  Inside, they took an elevator to the top floor. The reception was already in full swing. Guests, the majority of whom were male and over the age of sixty, milled around a large ballroom, replete with crystal chandeliers and a floor so polished Ferguson could see his reflection.

  “Dance a big major here?” Ferguson asked Li as they made their way toward the bar area.

  “The room is often used for receptions.”

  “I can see why.”

  “Mr. Park paid for its construction.”

  “Generous man.”

  “The most generous in Korea.”

  A guest took hold of Li and Ferguson drifted off, nodding politely but not speaking as he strolled across the room. As he reached the table with the food he heard two men talking about Park in what seemed to be negative tones, using phrases that meant “aggressive” and “too fond of the North.” He smiled at them; their conversation immediately ended.

  “Ivan Manski,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  The men looked at each other, then introduced themselves. A polite exchange of business cards followed.

  “So you know Mr. Park?” said Ferguson in English.

  The men claimed not to understand. Ferguson switched back to Korean, telling them that he was Russian and that his company sold many important scientific instruments. Both men smiled but said nothing.

  “So you are Russian?” said another man by his side. He was a thin rail with glasses, so short Ferguson had to practically bend over to see his face.

  “Dah. Yes. Russian.”

  “You’re not a spy, are you? KGB?”

  Ferguson laughed. “KGB no more.”

  “FSB, sorry. I was joking,” said the man. “I teach the history of the Cold War. From the viewpoint of its technology. Professor Wan.”

  “Ivan Manski.”

  “I have a very good collection of Soviet and American bugging devices,” said Wan.

  “Really?”

  “Very good. And encryption devices.”

  “Oh really?”

  “I have a Fialka machine.”

  “What’s that?”

  The professor explained that the Fialka was a cipher machine based partly on the Germans’ World War II-era Enigma device. It was quite a find if you were interested in how secret messages were sent during the early days of the Cold War.

  Ferguson was spared a detailed dissertation on how the machine worked when the room erupted in applause. All eyes turned toward a man dressed in a tuxedo who was walking to the center of the room. He had a microphone in his hand.

  “Thank you, honored guests,” he said in Korean. “I have the privilege to introduce our dean of science and physics, who wishes to say a few words in tribute to your generosity.”

  Polite applause followed. The dean recited a number of statistics about the new science facility that was being constructed, then began praising the Korean educational system, which the year before had turned out more engineers and scientists per capita than any country in the world. The university was proud to be part of this “Korean Revolution,” which was bringing the country to the forefront of scientific achievement.

  “When the science reactor is built, Korean science will advance ten thousand years,” said the dean. Impressed by the overstatement, the crowd once more applauded. “Until now we have had to make due with the government-sponsored reactors for our studies. This has been most generous. But the future will be grander.”

  Ferguson followed the two men he’d tried to make conversation with as they slipped toward the table with the food. Halfway there, he spotted a familiar face: the female CIA officer who’d rousted him from bed several days before.

  She stared directly at him, mouth open.

  Li stood to her right. He saw the expression on her face and glanced across at Ferguson.

  Ferguson smiled and walked directly to her.

  said Ferguson. “Hello. And how is the U.S. trade council today?”

  The CIA officer’s mouth dropped even wider.

  “Can I buy you a drinkski?” Ferguson asked, switching to Russian-accented English.

  She shook her head.

  “Very good whiskey. But the vodka, eh.”

  Another head shake.

  “My loss,” he said, turning to continue toward the bar.

  Li pounced before he got there. “You know her?”

  “I know all pretty women. Personal motto.”

  “She told you she is with the American trade council?”

  “One never questions beauty.” Ferguson shrugged. He could tell that Li knew she was CIA; it was a good bet that half the room suspected it, assuming they cared. “You have a diverse guest list.”

  “Many people come, whether invited or not.”

  “I have the same problem when I throw a party,�
� said Ferguson, ordering a fresh drink from the bartender.

  “Drink later,” said Li.

  He took Ferguson’s elbow and steered him toward a small conference room at the right. They walked through it, then down the hall to one of the administration offices.

  Park was already waiting. A silver-haired man in his early sixties, he had the quiet air of an ancient village elder. Short and squat, with a buzz cut that flattered his face’s rounded features, he looked like a retired wrestler sitting on the long couch.

  Mr. Li introduced him, using Korean and then switching to English. Park could not speak Russian.

  “A great honor to meet you,” said Ferguson in English. “I’ve heard very much about you.”

  The corner of Park’s mouth turned up in a faint smile, but he said nothing. Ferguson remained silent as well, the two men staring at each other for a few seconds, their smiles gradually increasing.

  “He is a sagacious one,” Park told one of the men behind the couch in Korean. “Useful in his profession.”

  Park rose. “Take a walk with me,” he told Ferguson in English. “Come.”

  Ferguson fell in alongside him as Park slipped out of the office and walked down the hall. His aides and Mr. Li trailed along at a respectful distance until Park reached a set of double doors. Then two of the assistants sprang forward and held open the doors.

  Ferguson and Park walked through a small vestibule, and then out onto an open terrace. The city spread out before them, a million lights glittering in the night.

  “Progress,” said Park in English.

  “Yes,” said Ferguson.

  “Three decades ago, this was a poor place. Then, men with vision for Korea stepped up. The nation began to move ahead.”

  “Looks like it,” said Ferguson.

  “What is it you want, Mr. Manski?” said Park, still gazing at the lights.

  “To be rich.”

  Once more, a smile grew in the corner of Park’s mouth.

  “That is a dangerous desire,” said the billionaire.

  “Life is dangerous.”

  “The Russian embassy claims not to have heard of you.”

  “I hope they would say that.” Ferguson scanned the well-lit horizon, wondering how much of what he saw Park owned. “I was told that if I made myself available, there might perhaps be a market for certain items difficult to find elsewhere.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Dah.”

  “And who told you this?”

  “Some information, it is in the air.”

  “Korea has its own industry. We can make whatever we need.”

  “Truly. And Koreans are very discreet. But Russians can be even more discreet, for some matters require discretion as well as expertise. That is what I deal in: discretion.”

  Park turned around and went back through the doors. Ferguson started to follow, but found his way barred by two of the men in the black suits. He was just debating whether to push through them when Mr. Li appeared. Though Li said nothing, the two men separated.

  “Mr. Park is planning a journey the day after tomorrow,” said Mr. Li in Russian. “Perhaps you would like to join him. He finds it considerably easier to talk to people while he is traveling. He’s very busy otherwise.”

  “How long?”

  “A few days.”

  “I might be able to arrange that.”

  “Very good.”

  “If he tells me what sort of items he would be interested in, I can be better prepared—”

  “That would be for Mr. Park to say, not for me.”

  “Very good.” Ferguson, getting cold, rubbed his shoulders. “Where are we going?”

  “Don’t you follow the news?”

  “No.”

  “Mr. Park is leading a group of businessmen to North Korea, to encourage cultural and business exchanges. His friends meet informally with ministers and others, at receptions, hunting, dinner . . . You might find some business yourself.”

  “That territory is already taken,” said Ferguson.

  Mr. Li nodded. “There will be diversions. It is a pleasant time in a secluded lodge outside the capital. You will have an opportunity to talk to Mr. Park then. Of course, if you wish not to come . . .”

  “No, no,” said Ferguson. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  14

  ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, IN THE YELLOW SEA

  “Dr. Ch’o, are you awake?”

  Thera squatted next to the prone scientist, who didn’t appear to have moved on his cot since she had last seen him. His dinner sat nearby, untouched.

  “You were so kind to give me cigarettes. Are you sure you don’t smoke?”

  She took the pack out and held it where he could see it. Then, carefully, she unwrapped the top and tapped out a single cigarette. Smoking was forbidden inside the ship, but Thera lit up anyway, thinking it might break the spell. She felt bad for the scientist, worried about him, as if he were an old friend.

  “Remember?” she asked as she took the first draw.

  The sulfur smell of the match and the whiff of tobacco pushed at Ch’o’s consciousness. A flood of thoughts came to him, ideas that were in numbers as well as sights and emotions: the half-life of isotopes, his father’s slow death from radiation sickness, his mother’s cancer, his own attempt to save others from their fate.

  The girl. It was the girl he had passed the message to. She had come—they had captured her, too.

  “You,” said Ch’o.

  Thera reached to help the scientist as he pushed to get up.

  “You,” he said again.

  “It’s me, Dr. Ch’o. They told me you were sick.”

  Ch’o shook his head.

  “Are you in trouble?” he asked her. “You must be in trouble. The Americans . . . We’ve been captured.”

  “It’s OK,” she said, clasping his hand. “The Americans are helping us.”

  “The Americans do not control the IAEA.”

  “No. They don’t. They’re here to help you. You needed help.”

  Thera steered him to the chair. When he sat, she pulled over the other chair and sat in front of him.

  “The Americans can help,” said Thera. “They want to know what’s going on. I know you’ve heard many bad things about them, but you have been outside Korea. You know they are not all evil. Not all of them.”

  That much was true, Ch’o thought.

  “They’re working with the IAEA. They can get your message out. And you don’t have to stay with the Americans; you can go where you want. You were in Europe when you were younger.”

  “People are being poisoned,” said Ch’o.

  “And you can stop that.”

  Someone pounded at the side of the cabin.

  Not now, thought Thera, but the young ensign who’d been assigned to liaison with the First Team people came in anyway.

  “Ma’am, the psychologist is in-bound. . . . Uh, you can’t smoke in here,” he said. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  Thera shot the private a look of death. She was about to tell him what he could do—a direction that would have been physically impossible—but then remembered that she was supposed to stay in character for Ch’o.

  “I’m sorry,” Thera said meekly, stabbing out the cigarette.

  A wave of indignation rose up in Ch’o. “Get out,” he told the man at the door. “Out!”

  The ensign ducked away. Ch’o pushed his legs over the edge of the bed and put his arm around the young woman.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’ll be all right.”

  I told him I have my own cabin and would see him in the morning,” Thera told Rankin two hours later.

  “He totally snapped out of it?”

  “Whatever shock he was in, he’s out of that. But he’s still wary. Very, very wary.” Thera explained that Ch’o seemed to think that he was protecting her in some way. He was confused by the fact that he had been picked up by the U.S. and not the IAEA.

&n
bsp; “The North Koreans think we’re pretty close to devils,” Thera told Rankin. “They have museums devoted to our criminal acts, so he doesn’t understand how the U.S. could be helping.”

  “You helped him.”

  “He thinks I’m Greek, remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He wants to talk,” she told Rankin. “He has information that will save a lot of people. Thousands.”

  “A bomb would kill millions.”

  “This isn’t about a bomb. He’s concerned about waste. That’s what he wants to talk about—pollution. Radiation poisoning.”

  “A dirty bomb?”

  “Pollution. He was going to be put into prison and maybe shot because he tried to alert the authorities. It’s North Korea he’s worried about.”

  “That’s what we rescued him for?” said Rankin. “We went through all this trouble because he was worried about pollution?”

  “Sometimes you can be a real jerk, Stephen,” said Thera, storming away.

  15

  DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

  Jogging was as popular in Korea as it was in the U.S., and an early morning jogger, even a Caucasian one, rarely attracted attention on a college campus. Ferguson waved to the security men at the gate as he came up the university drive; the one paying attention shook his head at him, mouthing words in Korean to the effect of “you’re a crazy nut job.”

  Crazy nut jobs could go just about anywhere, and ten minutes later Ferguson entered the parking lot where he’d seen the two trucks the night before. He took a lap around the perimeter, made sure he wasn’t being watched, then stopped to tie his shoe near the first truck.

  When he got up, he slipped one of the gamma-ray counter tabs into the back, wedging it into the space near the door. Then he took pictures of the license plates with the small camera he had in his fanny pack; it was easier than trying to remember the numbers.

  Ferguson stretched out a cramp, sticking another tab in the second truck. Then he resumed his exercise, taking a lap near the building where the test reactor was being constructed.

  Under normal circumstances, such reactors could not produce weapons-grade plutonium, nor could the government research reactor the school was currently using. But that assumed that no one wanted them to.