by Larry Bond
Large boards of plywood and a chain-link fence ringed the construction area. Curious, Ferguson squeezed beneath the metal chain holding the gate closed. Once inside, he saw that work hadn’t progressed very far at all; at the moment the building consisted of a concrete slab and massive steel pillars, with cladding only on the corner facing the building where the reception had been held the night before. He took some pictures anyway.
Sight-seeing done, Ferguson stopped at a PC bang, a public-access computer cafe not far from the campus. It was early, but already most of the fifty seats were filled. He slid his security dongle into the USB port and pulled up the browser. Then he typed the secretary’s name into a general search engine and was rewarded with six million matches. Nine-tenths of the results, to judge by the first two pages, were of pornographic sites.
Not of her.
“Whoa,” said the teenager sitting next to him, glancing over. “How’d you get past their filter?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Ferguson told him. “I’m looking for a girl’s address, but I don’t do Korean very well. Think you can help me?”
“You American?”
“Russian.”
Ferguson put his hand out. The kid shook it, then wrinkled his nose.
“Yeah, I gotta take a shower. This is the name.”
Ferguson took out the card with the secretary’s name, then got out of the way so the kid could sit down. Barely containing his drool, the teen called up a phone directory and then typed the name into the search box.
“What is her husband’s name?” asked the kid.
“Not married.”
“No phone with this name.”
“Maybe she lives with her parents.”
“Many, many Kims,” he told Ferguson.
“Give it a try.”
The teenager typed the surname into the computer. Sure enough, there were over a hundred pages of results.
“OK for now,” said Ferguson. He reached over and slid the dongle out of the slot.
“Mister?”
“Be my guest,” said Ferguson. When he left the store, the kid was still bent over the computer keyboard, trying to figure out what combination of keys Ferguson had used to conjure porn past the browser filter.
16
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
Corrine saw James Sonjae as soon as he cleared Customs. He looked tired, even more tired, in fact, than he had when she’d met him in the middle of the night.
“Need a ride?” she asked.
“Oh, thank God. I thought I was never going to get out of there. The line was endless.”
“Did you have trouble?”
“Not really. The line was a bit long, but it moved pretty quickly.”
“My car’s this way.”
It had gotten dark and cold since Corrine had arrived at the airport. Her thin sweater did little against the wind.
“It’s all in the bag,” Sonjae told her as they drove. “Computer disks, a big tape, and dirt.”
Corrine said nothing, deciding it would be best if she acted like she knew what the items were.
“How’s Ferg doing, anyway?” Sonjae asked.
“You would probably know better than me,” she said. “You just saw him.”
“No, I mean, with the cancer.”
What cancer? thought Corrine. But she kept her lawyer’s face on.
“I think he’s doing pretty well,” she said.
“I hope so. He looked a little run down. Probably the jet lag and everything.”
“Probably.”
“Shame,” said Sonjae. “I’ve known Fergie since he was a little kid, off and on. His dad and I go back. Long story.”
Corrine nodded. “So you knew him before the cancer?”
“Oh yeah. I only found out about that because I was visiting his father a few years back, before he died. Ferg’s kind of quiet about that. Always kept things to himself. Probably the way he was raised, I guess.”
Sonjae fell silent. Corrine tried to think of something to say to prompt him to continue. His exit was coming up.
“Hungry?” she asked as she took the turn onto the ramp.
“I could use some food, yeah.”
“Come on. I’ll buy you dinner.”
17
DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA
When Ferguson returned to his hotel, he discovered that during his absence the room had been bugged—a very promising sign. He put the bug to good use, pretending to use his sat phone to call a contact in Russian Georgia and telling him that things were going nicely. Then he removed the bug. While it would have better to leave it in place, he wasn’t an expert on them and would need to give it to someone who was to have it identified.
With the room now clean, he called Corrigan to check in and to tell Slott he was going to North Korea.
“Ferg, where the hell have you been?”
“Good morning to you, too, Jack.”
“What are you doing over there?”
“Sight-seeing.”
“Slott is pissed. He wants to talk to you right away. And I mean right away.”
“Here I am. Listen, before you get him on the line, I’m going to be out of touch for a couple of days. I’m going north of the border on a business trip.”
“What?”
“Mr. Park is getting up a junket. I’m going as Manski, the notorious Russian arms dealer.”
“Why are you going to North Korea?”
“Park wants to talk about something, but I get the feeling that he doesn’t think it’s safe in the South. I don’t know exactly what he’s up to.”
“Ferg. You can’t go north.”
“I am Russian citizen. I go anywhere.”
Corrigan slapped him on Hold. Slott, breathing hard and talking a mile a minute, came on a few seconds later.
“What the hell are you doing?” Slott asked. “Are you out of your mind? Have you lost your senses?”
“Following a couple of leads. I don’t think so. And no. In that order.”
“You outed a fellow officer. I can’t believe you did that, Ferg. That’s way over the line.”
“When?”
“You blew someone’s cover last night in Daejeon.”
“Jeez, I almost forgot about that.”
“Ferguson.”
“Look, I didn’t blow her cover. I didn’t say anything about her, except that she worked for the trade commission, which is her cover, right?”
“Why were you even near her?”
“I was undercover, she was staring at me, her jaw scraping the carpet; I had to do something. I left things vague.” Ferguson, annoyed, sat down in the chair and put his feet up on the bed. “It was a reception that Park went to. Park’s the guy who owns Science Industries.”
“What the hell is Science Industries?” said Slott.
“Science Industries has a guy on its staff who’s an expert in extracting bomb material. Or was an expert—he killed himself a couple of months back. It was a suicide. Suspicious.”
“And what else?”
“You know Park Jin Tae?” Ferguson asked.
“Park Jin Tae? I know of him.”
“What do you know?”
“Billionaire. Extreme nationalist.” Slott calmed down as he spoke. “He was connected with March 1, a political movement. They may have been thinking about rioting. It was hard to know where the South Korean’s charges ended and the truth began. In any event, he bought his way out of trouble.”
“Well, he owns Science Industries. He wants to talk to a notorious Russian arms dealer up in the People’s Democratic Hell Hole tomorrow.”
“What arms dealer?”
“Me.”
“You?”
“I figured it was the easiest way to talk to him.”
Slott exhaled so loudly Ferguson had to move the phone away from his ear.
“Sometimes you go too far, Ferg.”
“I don’t think so, Dan.”
“North Korea’s pretty
risky.”
“Park goes there a couple of times a year. Something’s gotta be up, right? Arms dealer comes to him, says I can get you whatever you want? And Park says, hey, take a trip to the outlaw paradise of the world.”
“All right. I’ll tell Seoul. We’ll set up—”
“I wish you wouldn’t tell them.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust them. I barely trust you.”
Actually, he wasn’t sure that he did trust Slott, but saying that wouldn’t be particularly helpful.
Slott didn’t answer.
“You still there, Dan?”
“Just because you’re Parnelles’s fair-haired boy, don’t think you can get away with everything,” said Slott.
Ferguson laughed. “My hair’s black, Dan.”
“Bo’s thinking about bringing formal charges against you for outing his agent.”
“That’ll be fun.”
He’d hedge his bets. Have Corrine take the dirt to the DOE, the disks to the NSA. He’d tell her where he was going, and why.
Not that that would save his sorry butt if Slott really was out to screw him. But at least he wouldn’t get away with it.
“You still there, Bob?”
The truth was, though, Ferguson wanted to trust Slott. Bo seemed like a boob, but Slott had a good track record, a history. And he’d helped Ferguson do his job, which was pretty much the best thing you could say about any manager.
Not trusting him meant not trusting the Agency—and, ultimately, not trusting his country.
Was that how they got his dad? Was it your sense of loyalty to your nation that screwed you in the end?
“I’m still here,” Ferguson told him.
“I won’t tell Seoul. But take care of yourself. You don’t have any backup.”
“Always,” said Ferguson, hanging up.
18
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Corrine was in her car when the secure satellite phone rang.
“Corrine here.”
“Wicked Stepmother, we really have to stop meeting this way.”
“Ferg.”
“Did you get the bag?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Everything in that bag comes from a place called Science Industries in Daejeon.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“That’s the ten-million-dollar question. I don’t trust Seoul, so I didn’t want them getting their paws on it.”
“Do you trust Slott?”
“Yeah.”
Corrine heard a note of hesitation in his voice.
“I think I do,” Ferguson added, “but that’s not good enough. He’s going to hate me, he may even fire me, but I want you to have them all independently tested. Take the computer things to Robert Ferro at the NSA. You know him?”
“Deputy director.”
“Yeah. You can drop my name if you have to to get it done quick.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.” As the president’s counsel, Corrine had more than enough political muscle of her own.
“Dirt goes to DOE. Tell them to test for plutonium.”
“I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
“Do it tonight,” Ferguson told her. “It may take days to get the results. Tell Slott what’s going on once you have a good idea what’s on the computer disks or the tape, or once it’s gone far enough that you’re reasonably sure no one’s going to lie to you.”
“Why don’t you trust Slott?”
“I told you, I think I do. But he was in Korea for a long time. And these guys over here work for him. See, if there is plutonium there, the fact that they didn’t find it and we did is pretty embarrassing. So they have an incentive to keep it quiet.”
“You’re talking about treason, Bob.”
“Maybe just incompetence,” said Ferguson.
“How mad is Slott going to be that you went behind his back?”
“Real mad,” said Ferguson. “Real, real mad. But maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll never talk to me again. Look, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to get going.”
“Corrine wanted to ask about Ferguson’s cancer, but it was too late; he hung up before she could find the words to bring it up.
19
ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, IN THE YELLOW SEA
The ship’s captain gave them the officer’s wardroom for the initial “debriefing.” A civilian psychologist who’d worked for both the CIA and the Defense Department was scheduled to arrive on the ship in a few hours, but Rankin saw no reason to wait, and the CIA interrogator was chomping at the bit. The interrogator suggested that Thera meet Ch’o and bring him to the wardroom for breakfast; once they were settled, the others could join and take it from there. Thera agreed, intending to leave as soon as the others came in, but from the moment she saw Ch’o dressed in the borrowed khakis and waiting for her she knew she wouldn’t leave unless he asked.
“Good morning,” he told her, rising and bowing his head stiffly.
“Dr. Ch’o.” She bowed her head as well. “Are you feeling well?”
“I am feeling . . . prepared.”
“Prepared?”
Ch’o didn’t explain. He had decided that he must do his duty, and his duty as a Korean was to protect the people who would be poisoned by the improperly handled waste. He trusted the girl, and so he must believe that the Americans, whatever else was true about them, would give the information to the IAEA and the UN.
His own fate was immaterial. He was just an ant. He would move forward calmly, doing his duty.
“They have breakfast for us in the officers’ galley,” Thera told him. “Would you like to come?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You have to eat,” said Thera. “You look very pale. It’s more comfortable than your cabin.”
“I’ll have some tea.”
Ch’o had been aboard several ships during his career, but this was his first time aboard a fighting vessel of any type. The ship seemed several times more crowded than civilian boats. A brusque energy emanated from the young people; there were women as well as men in uniform, which surprised him. Ch’o recognized the energy as a kind of shared purposefulness, a common motivation that reminded him of his own youth and of Korea as it should be: everyone moving in the same direction.
Why the government had deviated from such a path, he did not know. It saddened him, and when he arrived finally at the wardroom he felt as if a cloud of doom had fallen around him.
“You can tell the seaman what you want,” Thera said to Ch’o. “He’ll get it.”
“Tea?”
“Tea, yes sir,” said the waiter, whose pronounced southern accent was difficult for the scientist to understand. “The cook made some mighty fine biscuits this morning. Y’all might try some of them.”
“Biscuits are a kind of bread,” explained Thera.
Ch’o shook his head. He only wanted tea.
“I’ll try some,” said Thera. “And coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am. Best coffee in the fleet, I promise.”
Neither Thera nor Ch’o spoke until the man returned. Ch’o found the tea very weak, but this did not surprise him; only Koreans made very good tea.
“Some of the people who helped you escape want to talk to you,” said Thera. “You may have information that could help save lives.”
“I do,” said Ch’o. “I have much information.”
“Will you speak to them?”
“Yes.”
“They should be here shortly.”
Ch’o spent two hours simply talking about his background, telling the CIA debriefer and the others where he had gone to school, what he had studied, the ministries he had served. Thera and Rankin listened, and occasionally the translator explained particular words and phrases, but for the most part, only Jiménez and Ch’o spoke.
Both grew slightly impatient as the conversation continued. Ch’o wanted to talk about the toxic wastes; J
iménez wanted to find out just how valuable the scientist really might be. Neither man, though, felt he could change the course of the interview, and so they plodded on, concentrating on Ch’o’s schooling and research interests until a chief petty officer came in and said it was almost time for lunch.
“Let’s all freshen up and get something to eat,” suggested Thera. “And then find a more comfortable place to talk.”
“What is ’freshen up’?” asked Ch’o.
“Take a break,” she told him.
“Yes, very good.”
“We could all have lunch together,” suggested Jiménez.
“I think the doctor needs a break,” said Thera. “Let’s get some air and move around a bit.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” said Rankin.
Jiménez didn’t agree, but arguing in front of the subject was an even worse idea, so he got up without saying anything else.
A half hour later, the psychologist and translator met Ch’o at his cabin, and they went for a walk on the flight deck. Thera, Rankin, and Jiménez met in Rankin’s cabin to discuss what to do next.
“Definitely an important scientist,” said Jiménez. “But how important? We’re going to have to bring in experts to talk to him, people who can understand the technical stuff and know the history of the bomb program. I don’t have the background to question him; he lost me on his dissertation.”
“Yeah,” said Rankin.
“How long are we staying on this ship? I’d like to get someplace more comfortable, flexible.”
Rankin shrugged. Corrigan had told him they were “on hold” until the bosses figured it out.
“Where does he go after this?” Thera asked.
“Back to the States,” said Jiménez. “First to a military base where we can keep him secure, then maybe set him up in an apartment when he’s feeling comfortable. Your people should be working on the logistics right now.”
Jiménez took a gulp of his coffee. “Next thing we do this afternoon, we find out if he has family in North Korea. Who they are, where, etc.”
“Why?” said Rankin. “We’re not going to be able to protect them if he does.”