Fires of War (12 page)

“I’ve been in Korea three months,” managed the man.

“That’s long enough to know better.”

Ferguson quickly searched him; he wasn’t carrying a weapon. His business cards indicated he was Sean Gillespie and a member of the U.S. Commerce Department’s Asian Trade Council, the cover du jour obviously.

“What’s going on in there?” yelled his teammate from the hall, pounding on the door.

“Let her in,” Ferguson said, getting up. “Before I shoot her.”

Gillespie opened the door, and his fellow CIA officer, a thin brunette with thick glasses, came inside, her face flushed. Like Gillespie, she looked about twenty-three going on twelve.

“What is this?” she sputtered, mesmerized by Ferguson’s gun.

“Lock the door and lower your voice,” Ferguson told her. “Then you have about ten seconds to tell me why you’re here blowing my cover.”

The brunette’s cheeks went from red to white.

“Why are you here?” said Ferguson.

“You’re supposed to come right away to the embassy and call home,” said Gillespie. “We were told to bring you.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t say.”

“You’re not on official cover?” asked the brunette.

“Do these boxers look official?” said Ferguson.

~ * ~

fficial cover” meant that the officers held positions with the government and had diplomatic passports. It also meant that just about anyone who counted knew they were CIA.

Someone traveling on unofficial cover, like Ferguson, had no visible connection with the Agency or the government. Other officers were supposed to be extremely careful when approaching them, since anyone watching might easily put two and two together and realize the other person was a spy.

Unsure whether the two nuggets had been followed, Ferguson told them to leave without him. They refused; they had their orders after all and insisted on accompanying him to Seoul. After considerable wrangling, he convinced them to meet him on the train to Seoul. Ferguson gave them a head start, then he called The Cube and asked what the hell was going on.

“There you are,” said Corrigan.

“Two bozos from the embassy just woke me up. What’s the story?”

“Oh. Slott needed to talk to you and—”

“So you got Seoul to blow my cover?”

“No.”

“You need to talk to me?”

“Dan does. Listen—”

“I’ll call back.”

Ferguson hung up, looked at his watch. Guns wouldn’t be up for several hours. He decided he’d let him sleep; they weren’t supposed to meet until the afternoon anyway.

Ferguson turned off the phone, gathered his gear in an overnight bag, then left. Outside, he took a cab to a hotel near the science museum, checked in, then strolled downstairs to the coffee shop. When he was sure he wasn’t being followed, he went out on the street and caught another cab at random, waving the first one off, and took it a few blocks to a park they’d scoped out the other day where he had a good view of the surrounding area.

He dialed into Slott’s number but didn’t get an answer, so he called back over to The Cube.

“Where have you been, Ferg?” asked Corrigan.

“Hello to you, too, Jack. Where’s Slott?”

“Seoul called me—”

“Yeah?”

“They were supposed to meet you on the train, and you didn’t show up. They thought you were dead.”

“Tell them I jumped out the window.”

“Hang on. Slott’s standing right here.”

“Ferg, what’s going on?” said Slott when he came on the line.

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“You found bomb material.”

“Lauren didn’t tell you?”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“The tags were hot. All of them the first day, one the second. We didn’t find the material itself. I have an idea where it might be, though. I’ll go back tonight.”

“No. I don’t want you going anywhere until you hear from me.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I really don’t feel like discussing this with you right now.”

“Well maybe you better,” said Ferguson.

“At the moment, I don’t want to do anything that will jeopardize Thera.”

“How is this going to affect her?”

“I understand you contacted her—”

“No, she contacted me. Look, Dan, if you want to second-guess me, fine, but I’m a little cold right now, so why don’t we do it some other time?”

Ferguson glanced around, making sure no one was near.

“I’m not second-guessing you, Ferg,” snapped Slott.

Ferguson, realizing he was feeling a little cranky himself, remembered he’d forgotten to take his morning dose of thyroid-replacement medicine. He reached into his pocket for the small pillbox he carried, and slipped out the three small pills.

Amazing how such a small amount of chemical could have so much control over a person.

Ferguson recounted what had happened, essentially repeating everything he had told Lauren before going to sleep a few hours earlier.

“The tag that went red the second night was the one next to the entrance to the low-level waste area,” added Ferguson. “I want to get a look at it. I’ll bring a gamma meter in, look around, take some soil samples, plant some more tags.”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet? How long do you want me to wait?”

“Until I decide what I want you to do.”

Ferguson put his head back on the bench and looked at the thick layer of clouds overhead. He exhaled slowly.

As supervisors went, Slott was generally reasonable; Ferguson couldn’t remember being second-guessed, let alone being jerked around like this.

“This is a bad decision, Dan,” said Ferguson finally. “You’re not thinking this through.”

“Why is this a bad decision?” snapped Slott.

“Because they could move the material.”

“I’m not debating this with you.”

“Does Seoul know about all this?”

“Not yet.”

“You telling them?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I don’t think we should get them involved. They sent a couple of rookie bozos down to Daejeon and blew my cover. I don’t think they can be trusted.”

“That’s not really up to you, is it?” snapped Slott, instantly defensive.

“You sure they don’t know about this already?”

“Good-bye, Ferg.” Slott cut the line.

~ * ~

19

P’YŎNGYANG AIRPORT

A gust of wind rushed into the plane as the steward folded the 737’s forward passenger door back. Thera, standing directly behind Dr. Norkelus, hunched her shoulders together under her parka to ward off the cold, watching as a boarding ladder was rolled across the concrete toward the airplane. The metal stairway, a throwback to the 1950s, groaned and shook ominously as Norkelus stepped onto it.

“Come along,” Norkelus said to Thera under his breath. “Let’s look professional.”

Two men in heavy military overcoats stood at the bottom of the steps, their right hands welded beneath the visors of their caps in salute.

Norkelus, who did not speak Korean, addressed them in English. The men apparently didn’t understand what he was saying, for they responded by gesturing in the direction of one of the two large buses that were parked nearby. A short woman in an oversized parka stepped from the bus and began walking slowly toward them, taking tiny steps, her head bowed as if she were a beaten dog.

By now a good portion of the inspection team had come out of the plane and formed a small knot behind Norkelus. Most stared at the nearby three-story terminal building, where a large photo of North Korea’s supreme leader, Kim Jong-Il, returned their gaze.

P’yŏngyang Airport was the country’s main international airport, but it typically saw no more than four flights in any given week. No other aircraft were parked on the expansive concrete pad in front of the terminal. A half-dozen old Russian airliners, turboprops mostly, and all showing signs of serious neglect, stood in a row by the taxiway closer to the runway, or the place might not have seemed like an airport at all.

“You will board bus, please,” said the translator, looking at her shoes as she spoke.

“I am Dr. Norkelus,” said the director. “Please tell our hosts we are happy to be here.”

“You will please now board bus,” said the woman.

Norkelus, slightly confused, began shepherding his people toward the bus. Two of the techies stayed behind to supervise the unloading of the equipment. This bothered the two military men, and it took quite a while for Norkelus to explain through the translator that the protocols called for the equipment to remain in the team’s custody and care. The words
regulations
and
our orders
seemed to impress them finally, and they stopped complaining. But then came a fresh problem: Some of the gear was too bulky to fit in the bottom luggage compartments of the bus. A pair of military vehicles were finally called to transport the boxes.

During this entire time, the bulk of the inspection team remained on the bus. Thera, whom Norkelus wanted to “chronicle the events of the trip,” was among the handful of exceptions. She stood a few feet from the inspection team leader, shivering in the cold. Finally, with the gear loaded and the military leaders satisfied, Norkelus boarded the bus, and the inspection team rolled out... to the terminal building, all of two hundred feet away.

The inspectors were led to a set of tables in one of the large downstairs rooms. Even though they were traveling under special UN-issued passports guaranteeing them diplomatic immunity, the North Koreans insisted on detailed checks of the baggage and personal items being brought into the country. Norkelus decided this wasn’t worth a fight, and the team members queued up with their bags.

Thera took her red suitcase and rolled it behind Julie Svenson, listening as the scientist complained. Submitting to a search set the wrong tone, Julie said. It would make the Koreans think they were in charge.

“Wrong, wrong message,” said the scientist as she hoisted her bag up and then banged it onto the table. “They’ll think they can boss us around.”

One of the engineers nearby had an American Tourister bag with its red, white, and blue logo on the ID tag. The North Koreans pointed at the logo and began questioning the man closely. In a country still officially at war with the U.S.—and with a museum dedicated to America’s “war crimes”— even such a seemingly innocuous commercial symbol aroused suspicion. The fact that the engineer was from South Africa hardly seemed to matter.

Thera’s stomach began churning as the customs official rifled through Julie’s bag. She saw herself being hauled away, dragged out the large glass doors behind them, and shot on the stained cement.

“OK, Miss,” said the young man, pushing Julie’s bag to the side and turning to Thera. His light tan shirt had ballooned up from his waistline, and he was sweating, despite the fact that the terminal was rather cool. “We check. OK?”