Fires of War (48 page)

Longer. And he hadn’t eaten and was run down to start with.

If his hands were this cold, it had to be three days at least, and it felt like twice that, maybe because he hadn’t eaten and had had almost nothing to drink.

Plus, it was cold, cold and damp. So maybe it wasn’t the lack of drugs but just something stupid like lack of sleep and isolation.

Stupid things he could beat. Those things he could beat. He couldn’t get by the lack of the hormones, but thirst and fatigue he could beat. He’d been cold before and hungry plenty of times.

So, really, Ferguson told himself, things weren’t that bad. Because he’d only been off the drugs two or three days, maybe just one now that he really thought about it, now that he decided it was one day, twenty-four hours, and probably, certainly, not even that.

What was that? Nothing. Nothing at all.

He could last for a long time. He’d gone two weeks without them during the worst of the treatments . . . two whole weeks.

A
hell
of a two weeks. But he’d made it.

So this was nothing. He could do this on his head. He could last months if necessary.

And when the time came, when he couldn’t do it, he’d make the bastards shoot him.

“Ivan, are you ready for your medicine?”

Ferguson looked up from his cot.

“I don’t need it,” he told Owl Eyes.

“You look tired.”

“I’ve been sleeping like a baby.”

The North Korean took the bottle from his pocket and popped off the cap with his thumb. The white disk rolled across the floor.

The two men locked glares. Owl Eyes raised his hand, then slowly upended the bottle. The pills, large T3s, small T4s, tumbled out to the ground.

The North Korean put the toe of his right foot over the ones closest to Ferguson’s cell. Well in reach if he dove for them, Ferguson thought.

He wasn’t going to; that was what Owl Eyes wanted.

Diving was the same as giving in. Diving was surrender. And he would never ever fucking surrender.

Slowly, the North Korean put his foot down and crushed the pills as if he were putting out a cigarette. He dragged his foot back across the floor, pulling the powder back out of reach.

Owl Eyes systematically crushed the remainder, one by one. When he was done, he motioned to someone down the hall, and had him bring a mop and bucket.

“When you are ready,” Owl Eyes told Ferguson as the floor was mopped, “perhaps we will be able to find replacements.”

“Have you spoken to the embassy yet?” said Ferguson, staring at Owl Eyes.

“I have no need to speak to your embassy.” He started to walk away.

“Then do me a favor and call General Namgung. Tell him the Russian who was outside during his meeting at the lodge hopes to be of use.”

Owl Eyes continued to walk down the hall.

“If the general isn’t around, have him send Captain Ganji,” Ferguson said, his voice just under a shout. “Mention the meeting. It was at the lodge. I was there. Tell him.”

~ * ~

19

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Corrine had arranged her schedule today so she could start by going to the dentist. Not among the most pleasant ways of beginning a day, though it had one benefit: She could stay in bed until seven, since her dentist’s office didn’t open until eight So when the phone rang at six, her response was to curse and roll over in bed, trying to ignore it.

Then she realized it was her secure satellite phone that was ringing. She grabbed for it, hoping it was The Cube telling her that Ferguson had just shown up in some bar in South Korea.

But it wasn’t The Cube.

“Stand by for the president,” said the operator.

“Well, dear, I hope I did not get you out of bed too early,” said McCarthy a moment later.

“No, sir.”

“Good. We are on our way to Green Bay this morning to see some dear friends and even more fervent enemies, so I wanted to make sure I caught you early. You have been following the information the CIA has developed out of Korea, I would imagine.”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“Good. What do you make of that bucket of string beans?”

“Twisted and gnarled,” she said. “As your grandmother would say.”

“She put it that way many times,” said the president. There was a faint hint of nostalgia in his voice, as if he were picturing her in his mind. The tone always accompanied that expression, which he used at least twice a week. Corrine had never been able to determine if it was genuine or just part of his shtick. Perhaps it was both.

“I wonder if you would mind doing me a favor today?” McCarthy added.

“Sir?”

“I wonder if you would sit in on a briefing that is being arranged for the Security Council this morning. I believe the time is eleven. You may have to check on that.”

“That’s not in my job description, Mr. President.”

“Well, now, are we going to have the job description conversation again, Miss Alston?”

She could practically see his smile.

“It would be unusual for me to attend,” she said.

“Well now, tongues may wag. That is very true,” said McCarthy before turning serious. “I want you there to consider the implications of our treaty with the North. Officially.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unofficially, of course, the information may be useful to you in your dealings with our First Team. And as always I would
appreciate
your perspective. Now, dear, this all may well prove to be a wild rumor,” continued the president. “The timing of it seems very suspicious to me. Consider: the North has been making
conciliatory
gestures over the past year. The dictator is rumored to be ill. All of this is not a context for planning an invasion. Assuming they are sane, which some might argue is a poor assumption.”

“I’d agree with that.”

“Well, now, of course we must take it very seriously. Very, very seriously, dear. And one of the things that taking it seriously entails ...”

The president paused. That
was
part of his shtick, to make sure the listener didn’t miss what followed.

“... would be
not
doing anything that would entice action by the North Koreans.”

“Understood, Mr. President. The portion of, uh, the matter in North Korea that might have caused concern has concluded. The results so far appear negative.”

“Very good timing, Miss Alston. And on our other matter, regarding the Republic of Korea?”

“We’re still working on it. Nothing new.”

“Very well. Do your best.”

Corrine put down the phone and got out of bed to start the coffee.

Oh, well, she thought to herself as she headed to the kitchen, at least I don’t have to go to the dentist.

~ * ~

20

DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

Thera had never been much of a clotheshorse, but even she had to admit that the clingy black and silver satin dress reflected in the elevator’s mirror looked stunning on her. She tossed her red hair back and set herself as the elevator reached the lobby, ready for dinner, and whatever else followed.

Park’s Mercedes waited at the curb outside the hotel. Thera slid in, sinking into the leather-covered seat. A passerby gave her a jealous glance as the chauffer closed the door, no doubt believing that the Westerner was living a fairy tale.

Which was true enough, in a way.

Roughly forty-five minutes later, the sedan pulled through a set of gates on the side of a mountain road north of the city and drove up a long, serpentine driveway. The concrete gave way to hand-laid pavers within a few yards of the road. The car’s headlights caught elaborate castings inset among the bricks: Dragons, gods, ancient Korean warriors lay at her feet as the Mercedes drove up the hill toward the mansion.

The house seemed like a gathering of squat, chiseled stones and clay-clad roofs, as if an old village had been compressed into a single building. The scale was deceiving; only as she reached the door did Thera realize that the single-level building was as tall as a typical three-story house.

A butler in formal attire met her at the door. The entry alcove was slightly lower than the rest of the floor, a reminder to guests that they should leave their shoes. A pair of slippers sat on a cushion nearby.

“Ms. Deidre, Mr. Park is waiting inside,” said the butler as Thera slipped off her shoes.

“Thank you,” said Thera.

“You understand, please, that it would be rude to search a guest.”

Thera smiled. Her dress was not so slinky that it couldn’t conceal two holsters, one on each thigh.

“A host should not stare,” Thera told the butler.

It took a second for him to get the hint and turn around. Thera hiked her skirt and removed the weapons, deciding that she would leave both out here. This proved a good call—as she passed through the nearby doorway she noticed a series of LED lights embedded in the molding; the polished wood hid a metal detector.

Park’s servant led her down the hall to a room that looked as if it belonged in a museum. Ancient pottery, small statues, and antique armor and weapons were displayed on boxlike pedestals in the low-lit, moisture-controlled hall. The walls were adorned with paintings and scrolls, all very old.

Park wasn’t here; clearly she was expected to spend a few minutes admiring his taste in antiquities, adding to the suspense of his grand entrance. Thera folded her arms and turned toward a grill she suspected of harboring a video cam, staring at it with her most cynical expression.

“Miss Deidre, good evening.”

“Mr. Park,” said Thera, turning as the white-haired gentleman appeared from the side of the room. He was in his midsixties, not much taller than she was, on the stocky side though not fat.

“I am so very glad you could make it,” said Park. He reached for her hands, grasping them with surprising strength. He kissed them as if she were a medieval princess. “Mr. Li told me that you were ravishing, but he did not do you justice.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Park. You have a wonderful collection,” she added, sweeping her hand around the room. “All Korean?”

“Most but not all. I have some Chinese and even Japanese items. Either for context or because they interest me.” Though accented, his English sounded as if he had lived in America for many years.

Park showed her around the room, talking about the antiquities and where they had been found. Thera let him lead her through, inserting the proper
oos
and
ahs.
Just as they were running out of display cases, the butler appeared in the doorway.

“Would you like to eat Western-style or Korean?” asked Park.

“Korean, of course,” said Thera.

Park told the butler in Korean that they would use the traditional dining room. He then led Thera through a door at the side of the room into a large dining room. Scrolls with Korean characters and ink-brush paintings lined the stucco walls. A low table surrounded by mats sat in the middle of the room. Two of his servants stood next to it.

Thera lowered herself to the table, curling her legs under her on the cushions. A stream of food began to appear: small dishes of different kim-chi, then a local fish dish, then another, then a grilled duck. Thera worried that she would split the dress when she got up.