Fires of War (11 page)

Parnelles didn’t consider that a problem. Slott, though, felt the director not only second-guessed him but also undercut his authority, giving many of his deputies too much leeway, in effect encouraging them to subvert the normal chain of command. Parnelles wanted results above all; Slott often found himself trying to rein in operations that were veering toward the sort of abuses that had laid the agency low in the past.

Not that Slott would discuss this with Corrine.

“Maybe you and I should get started,” said Corrine. “And when he comes in—”

The door opened before she had a chance to finish the sentence. Parnelles stalked in, a frown on his face. Slott put the pencil down.

“Ms. Alston. Daniel.” Parnelles pulled a chair out and sat. “What’s going on?”

“The First Team found evidence of bomb material in South Korea,” said Slott.

It took Corrine a second to process what he had said. “
South
Korea?”

“Yes, South Korea. At the Blessed Peak South Korean Nuclear Waste Disposal and Holding Station, thirty miles northwest of Daejeon. Thera brought tags in to get a baseline so the scientists could compare it to the North Korean waste site. All of the tags were somehow exposed. Ferguson thought it might be a mistake or a screwup in the instruments. The devices are new, and since the underlying nanotechnology—”

“We don’t really need the details, Dan,” said Parnelles. “We stipulate that they made the right decision to double-check.”

“They planted a full set again,” said Slott. “One showed a serious exposure. It’s on its way back to the States to be examined.”

“Is it a bomb or bomb material?” asked Parnelles.

“We can’t be sure,” said Slott, going on to explain that the sensors were “tuned” to discover the main ingredient of a bomb and one common contaminant. The ratio indicated that weapons-grade plutonium was present, but they could not definitively say how it had been used.

Parnelles rolled his arms in front of his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Has the president been told?”

“No. I only just found out about this through Lauren. I haven’t spoken to Ferguson myself.” Slott glanced at his watch. “It’s roughly six a.m. in Korea, and they’d been working on getting this all night. I figured I’d let him sleep.”

“But you’re sure of the results?” said Parnelles.

Slott bristled. “There’s always a possibility that the sensors malfunctioned,” he said. “But the technology people tell me it’s unlikely. They’ve been tested, I’m sure you recall.”

“I think we have to tell the president immediately,” said Corrine.

“That goes without saying.” Parnelles’s voice boomed in the small, sealed room. “Are you sure, Daniel, that this isn’t a mistake?”

“We have two scientists on their way out to a lab in Hawaii. We should know more definitely in eight or nine hours. But I don’t think it’s a mistake, not with two sets.”

“It makes sense that they have a weapon,” said Parnelles. “It makes a lot of sense.”

“Whether it makes sense or not, it’s going to be a problem,” said Corrine,

Parnelles held out his hands. The skin around his eyes was thick and rugged, as textured as a rubber Halloween mask, but his hands were remarkably smooth and unblemished.

“This could kill the nonproliferation treaty and God knows what else,” said Corrine.

“I think it’s still a little premature to jump to the conclusion that they have weapons,” said Slott. “It’s possible this is just part of an exploratory program.”

“You think they stole the material from the North Koreans?” asked Parnelles.

Slott hadn’t considered that. “Maybe,” he said.

“Why didn’t we know about it?” asked Parnelles.

All Slott could do was shake his head.

“Nothing anywhere in any of the analyses hints at it?” asked Parnelles.

Slott shook his head again. While he couldn’t be expected to know everything the CIA knew—no one did—Asia was an area of special interest. So was Korea, where he’d been station chief. There had been South Korean programs in the past but none aimed at plutonium-fueled weapons. At least as far as the Agency knew.

“Who’s going to tell the president?” said Parnelles, looking over at Corrine.

Corrine interpreted it as a challenge. “I will.”

“You’ll want to tell him in person,” suggested Parnelles, “and alone.”

Corrine nodded. The president was in Maine this evening, staying at a private home; he’d be in New Hampshire tomorrow. She’d catch an early flight and meet him there.

“We should have the report from the scientists within a few hours,” said Slott, screwing the lead all the way out his pencil. “I can get you a copy.”

“All right. Start reviewing what we already know,” Parnelles told Slott. “See what’s there.”

“Absolutely. But it’s a sensitive time. Thera’s on her way to Korea.”

“It’s always a sensitive time,” said Parnelles, rising. “Better talk to Ferguson and find out exactly what the hell he knows. The president is bound to ask some very uncomfortable questions.”

~ * ~

lott waited until the others had left the room before getting up from the table. The discovery of the plutonium had shaken him, not merely because it implied that the South Koreans were doing something he’d never believed they would but also because it implied that the CIA’s operations in the country had failed miserably. No matter where the radioactive material had come from, the Agency surely should have known about it before now.

And for it to involve Korea, of all places, a country he knew intimately having spent the better part of his career there . . .

Granted, he hadn’t been back in a number of years. Still, he knew Ken Bo, the station chief in Seoul, reasonably well. Until now, Slott thought he was a very good officer.

Knew
he was a good officer.

Careers were going to be ruined if the information panned out. Including his, maybe.

He should take steps . . .

All his life he’d derided officers who put their careers above the needs of the country and the Agency. He hated the cover-your-ass mentality. But as he walked down the hall toward the Special Needs communication center, he realized he was thinking along those very lines.

He wasn’t going to do that. He was going to take it step by step, do what
should
be done, no matter the personal consequences.

Jack Corrigan was just coming on duty as mission coordinator and was being briefed by Lauren. They stopped talking as he walked across the “bridge,” an open area of space between the communications consoles and the high-tech gear that lined the room.

“I’d like to talk to Ferguson as soon as possible,” Slott told them.

“He’s still sleeping I think,” said Lauren. “His phone isn’t on—”

“Why the hell isn’t his phone on?”

Lauren glanced toward Corrigan. Ordinarily Slott was the personification of cool; he showed so little emotion at times, she was tempted to take his pulse.

“Ferg’s afraid that the phone might, you know, that there would be a bad time or something,” said Corrigan. “And I don’t think he totally trusts the encryption either.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Slott. The encryption was an NSA standard, all but theoretically impossible to crack.

“He usually leaves it off unless something important’s going on,” said Lauren. “The transmissions can be detected and—”

“Something damn important is going on,” said Slott. “Who’s with him? Sergeant Young?”

“Um, Guns turns his phone off, too,” said Lauren. “I’m sure Ferg tells him to.”

Slott struggled to control his anger. It wasn’t Lauren or Corrigan’s fault that he couldn’t talk to Ferguson—they couldn’t control what the op did—and, to be honest, neither could he.

He liked Ferguson’s results—who didn’t?—but the op had always struck him as being arrogant, acting as if he didn’t have to follow the rules everyone else did.

“I called the hotel desk,” said Lauren. “He left orders not to be disturbed. Maybe—”

“I want to talk to him now,” Slott told them. “Get somebody to get him. Have him call me.”

“Colonel Van Buren’s operation has his men tied up,” said Corrigan.

“Tell Seoul to send someone down there,” snapped Slott, referring to the CIA’s South Korean office.

“How much should I tell them?” asked Lauren.

Slott hesitated. There were two separate problems he had to deal with: the plutonium itself and his people’s failure to discover it. If he had Seoul work on problem number one, he might not be able to discover the seriousness of problem number two. What he needed for now was to keep the two problems separate if at all possible.

On the other hand, he needed to talk to Ferguson ASAP, not when Ferguson felt like checking in.

“Dan?” said Corrigan.

“Don’t tell them anything. Ferguson is just an American who’s supposed to call home.”

Corrigan and Lauren glanced at each other.

“I’ll come up with something,” said Corrigan.

~ * ~

18

DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

The knock on the hotel-room door was not quite loud enough to wake the dead, but it was sufficient to jostle someone with a mild hangover. Ferguson lifted his head and grunted, “Yeah?”

“Robert Christian?”

It was the cover name Ferguson had used to check in. The voice speaking was English with an American accent.

“Yeah?”

“Your uncle wants to talk to you.”

“What time is it?”

“Going on ten o’clock.”

Ferguson groaned and slipped out of bed. “My uncle, huh?” At least his knee felt better. “Where’s he live?”

“Washington.”

He grabbed his Glock and a flash-bang grenade and walked to the door, flipping on the TV as he went. Ferguson had chosen the hotel because it had eyepieces in each room’s door; Ferguson had replaced his with a wireless video camera whose wide-angle lens allowed it to view the entire hallway.

The image on the TV screen showed that there was a man and a woman outside, both dressed in suits, both Western, more than likely American. They didn’t have guns showing, and they didn’t have backup down the hallway, unless they were hiding in the stairway. No headsets, no radios.

The man leaned against the door, apparently in a misguided attempt to peer through the spyglass.

“My uncle hasn’t lived in Washington in twenty years,” said Ferguson. Silently, he slid back the dead bolt and unhooked the chain.

“We’re from the embassy,” said the man, still leaning against the door.

“Which embassy would that be?” asked Ferguson. As he did, he yanked the door open. The man fell inside, helped along by Ferguson, who grabbed his arm and threw him against the bureau. Ferguson kicked the door closed behind him, then knelt on the man’s chest, his pistol pointed at his forehead.

“I’m hoping you’re new,” Ferguson told the CIA officer, who clearly was. “Like maybe you just got off the plane.”