Fires of War (51 page)

Ganji felt his face flush. The Russian had been there, surely. But why had Park brought him, only to then discard him?

“If you’re thinking of having me shot,” added Ferguson, “that is a solution. But you should know that the people I work for, the people who know where I was, they will not be happy. They had me tape the meeting as a precaution, and they have the tape.”

Ferguson spoke in a monotone, his voice no more than a rusty croak in a dry throat.

“They hold no enmity toward the general,” he added. “They can be incredibly helpful to you if things go as planned. Or, they could be very angry.”

Ganji leaned back in his seat. Park’s aide, Li, had claimed the man was a Russian arms dealer, but the way he held himself, the calm manner in which he spoke—clearly he must work for the Foreign Intelligence Service, the
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki
or SVR.

Namgung did not like the Russians, but angering them was not wise.

“How much do you know?” Ganji asked, trying to decide what to do.

“I’m just a foot soldier,” said Ferguson, staring in Ganji’s face, soaking in his fear. The man had been chosen for his intelligence, not his courage—a good thing for Ferguson.

“I know nothing,” Ferguson told him. “I don’t even know my own name.”

Ganji rose without saying another word.

Ferguson raised his eyes toward the window. He thought it must be morning, perhaps as late as noon, and even though the sun was still out, he noticed that it had just begun to snow.

~ * ~

24

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

When he had no evening engagements, Senator Tewilliger liked to end his day by riding his exercise bike, taking a shower, and then relaxing with a Southern Comfort Manhattan. Or two.

His staff was not supposed to call him after ten p.m., which gave him a solid half hour to ride, and thirty minutes for a shower and a nice drink before catching the network news and nodding off.

So why was the phone ringing at 10:32, just as he got off his bike?

The answering machine picked up. He heard a male voice he didn’t recognize at first tell him something was up with Korea.

Tewilliger realized it was Josh Franklin. He grabbed the phone just before Franklin hung up.

“You’re working very late, Undersecretary,” said Tewilliger.

“I apologize for calling you at this hour,” said Franklin. “But I wanted to make sure you’d heard: The North Korean Army is mobilizing.”

“What?”

“We had a National Security session on it. It’s still pretty tightly wrapped, but I would imagine word will start to leak out tomorrow or the next day, if not from us then from the Australians or the Brits, whom we’ve been updating. I would have called sooner, but I didn’t get the chance.”

Of course not, thought Tewilliger; Franklin wanted to use a phone whose calls weren’t logged.

“What’s going on?”

“I really shouldn’t go into detail, Senator.”

“Josh. Come on now.”

Franklin told him what he knew, including the administration’s planned response, which he characterized somewhat harshly as sitting around until the peninsula caught fire.

“There have been troop movements and mobilizations in the past,” said Tewilliger. “What makes you think these are different?”

“The timing is suspicious,” said Franklin. “I would bet that they used the treaty as a way of lulling us into complacency.”

“Maybe.” Tewilliger had already begun to discount the information, at least as a harbinger of any sort of attack by the North. Still, it would help torpedo the treaty. “I appreciate the heads-up, Josh. I’ll remember it.”

“Thank you, Senator.”

Tewilliger went across the room to his desk and began flipping through his Rolodex. It was never too late to call a sympathetic reporter, especially with information like this.

~ * ~

25

OUTSIDE CHUNGSAN, NORTH KOREA

Ferguson was well into the “Knight’s Tale” in Chaucer’s poem when he was interrupted by two guards who told him in Korean it was time for him to get up from his cot. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d met Ganji. He’d eaten once, a few fingers’ worth of rice. That had been hours and hours ago.

The guards put iron manacles on his hands and legs, then brought him to the front hall, where he had first entered the prison. A car waited outside. It was dusk.

Ferguson’s clogs crunched through a small crust of snow as he was led into the sedan. Two large, uniformed men slid in on either side of him. The doors closed, and the car sped down the rutted dirt road.

Within a few minutes Ferguson had lost track of the direction. He reverted to Chaucer, going back to the Prologue where the knight was introduced:

A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man,

That from the tyme that he ferst began

To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye,

Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie,

Ful worthi was he in his lordes werre

The poem sprung up from his unconscious, unraveling from the depths of his memory. His old teacher stood before him, regaling the class. “Great literature, boys. Great lit-er-a-ture.”

Ferguson and his friends would roll their eyes and in the hallway mimic the portly priest’s pronunciation, “lit-er-a-ture.” But he was a good man, a good teacher who’d tried to share some of his experience. Left his mark on the world, however humble.

What mark had Ferguson left?

Well, there were the missions. Saving lives.

Dust scattered on a car window.

“Truth and honor, freedom and courtesy, full worthy was the knight.”

Full worthy, are you.

Lit-er-a-ture
boys. Lit-er-a-ture and death, the only real things in life.

~ * ~

fter two or three or four hours of driving, the car pulled up in front of a small hut.

“I overplayed my hand,” Ferguson mumbled to himself as the car stopped.

Namgung had decided he was too much of a liability and would simply kill him here, out in the woods, where no trace would be found.

“Good, then. Better this way than other ways.”

He’d pushed the damn thing to its limit. Better to die like that than like a slug attached to the hospital’s death support, everything but your soul pumped out of you.

The North Koreans got out of the car. Ferguson leaned toward the door, debating whether it would be better to make a break for it and be shot or simply to let them do it at their own choosing.

No, he had a better idea, a much better idea. He’d use the chain holding his hands together, take someone down with him.

“Out of the car,” said one of the guards.

Which would it be? Who would get close enough to die with him?

All three kept their distance as he got out. The wooden clogs hurt his feet; he stumbled, almost lost his balance, but the men didn’t help him.

“Inside,” said one, pointing at the dark hut.

Ferguson decided he would wait to be pushed. Then he would twist around into the next nearest man, throw his chain around his neck, throttle him.

“Please,” said the North Korean. “The hut will be warm. There are clothes inside. Go ahead.”

The man’s voice was soft and pleading. He turned and walked to the door, pulling it open.

OK, thought Ferguson. You’re it.

He made his way around the front of the car, trying to catch up to the man. But the chains on his legs and his awkward clogs made it hard to walk fast.

The North Korean stepped aside. Ferguson gathered his energy, ready to spring.

The man smiled.

For some reason, Ferguson found that amazingly funny, hilariously funny: an executioner who would smile at his victim.

The man took a step backward, then another. He was gone, out of reach.

Ferguson tensed, waiting for him to pull a gun from his pocket. He’d lost his chance and now would have to die alone.

All right, then.

“Go ahead,” said the man.

No gun.

Ferguson glanced over his shoulder. The others were back near the car. If they had weapons, they weren’t showing them.

Ferguson stepped into the cottage, spinning to the side to wait for his assassin, but the only thing the man did was push the door closed.

Ferguson stood in the middle of the darkened room, waiting. Gradually, he realized there was no one else inside.

Maybe they were planning on blowing up the house.

He closed his eyes and waited.

After ten minutes passed, Ferguson realized nothing was going to happen. He made his way around the small room, banging into all four walls before determining that there was no furniture here, nothing, in fact, except plain wooden planks and a dirt floor. When he had covered every inch, he dropped down to the ground, took a deep breath, then lay flat to sleep.

~ * ~

26

THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

News of the North Korean troop movements had finally reached the media, and the White House congressional people found themselves talking nonstop to congressmen worried about the treaty. Already there were rumors that the vote would be put off for at least a month.

Just before noon, the Department of Energy called to tell Corrine that the soil tests from Science Industries had been finished ahead of schedule; they were negative. She immediately called Slott and told him.

“Hmphh
,” he said. Then he fell silent.

“Dan? What’s going on with Ferguson?”

“Still no word.”

“I can talk to the president about a reconnaissance mission, if you think it’s a good idea.”

“It’d be suicidal under the circumstances. It’s too close to the capital.”

“I see.”

“We had a Global Hawk fly down the coast,” added Slott, referring to an unmanned spy plane. “It was tracked briefly but got away. Even that was a risk I probably shouldn’t have taken.”

“Did it see anything?”

“Nothing out of place. It looks abandoned.”

The spy flight was little more than a gesture, but it was something at least.

“I’ll keep you informed,” said Slott, abruptly hanging up the phone.

~ * ~

27

DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

Thera spent the day doing a lot of nothing, installing GPS trackers in the trucks at the university, poking around Park’s planes and his hangar at Gitmo, even checking on a few more trucks. It was all a waste of time. She was supposed to concentrate on finding the plutonium, not Ferguson.

On their first mission together, an attaché case of jewels had gone missing. She’d become the obvious suspect. Ferguson stood by her—and checked her out at the same time, believing she was a thief and yet not wanting to believe it either.