Fires of War (34 page)

“The most generous in Korea.”

A guest took hold of Li and Ferguson drifted off, nodding politely but not speaking as he strolled across the room. As he reached the table with the food he heard two men talking about Park in what seemed to be negative tones, using phrases that meant “aggressive” and “too fond of the North.” He smiled at them; their conversation immediately ended.

“Ivan Manski,” he said, sticking out his hand.

The men looked at each other, then introduced themselves. A polite exchange of business cards followed.

“So you know Mr. Park?” said Ferguson in English.

The men claimed not to understand. Ferguson switched back to Korean, telling them that he was Russian and that his company sold many important scientific instruments. Both men smiled but said nothing.

“So you are Russian?” said another man by his side. He was a thin rail with glasses, so short Ferguson had to practically bend over to see his face.

“Dah.
Yes. Russian.”

“You’re not a spy, are you? KGB?”

Ferguson laughed. “KGB no more.”

“FSB, sorry. I was joking,” said the man. “I teach the history of the Cold War. From the viewpoint of its technology. Professor Wan.”

“Ivan Manski.”

“I have a very good collection of Soviet and American bugging devices,” said Wan.

“Really?”

“Very good. And encryption devices.”

“Oh really?”

“I have a Fialka machine.”

“What’s that?”

The professor explained that the Fialka was a cipher machine based partly on the Germans’ World War II-era Enigma device. It was quite a find if you were interested in how secret messages were sent during the early days of the Cold War.

Ferguson was spared a detailed dissertation on how the machine worked when the room erupted in applause. All eyes turned toward a man dressed in a tuxedo who was walking to the center of the room. He had a microphone in his hand.

“Thank you, honored guests,” he said in Korean. “I have the privilege to introduce our dean of science and physics, who wishes to say a few words in tribute to your generosity.”

Polite applause followed. The dean recited a number of statistics about the new science facility that was being constructed, then began praising the Korean educational system, which the year before had turned out more engineers and scientists per capita than any country in the world. The university was proud to be part of this “Korean Revolution,” which was bringing the country to the forefront of scientific achievement.

“When the science reactor is built, Korean science will advance ten thousand years,” said the dean. Impressed by the overstatement, the crowd once more applauded. “Until now we have had to make due with the government-sponsored reactors for our studies. This has been most generous. But the future will be grander.”

Ferguson followed the two men he’d tried to make conversation with as they slipped toward the table with the food. Halfway there, he spotted a familiar face: the female CIA officer who’d rousted him from bed several days before.

She stared directly at him, mouth open.

Li stood to her right. He saw the expression on her face and glanced across at Ferguson.

Ferguson smiled and walked directly to her.

“Эдравствуйте,”
said Ferguson. “Hello. And how is the U.S. trade council today?”

The CIA officer’s mouth dropped even wider.

“Can I buy you a drinkski?” Ferguson asked, switching to Russian-accented English.

She shook her head.

“Very good whiskey. But the vodka, eh.”

Another head shake.

“My loss,” he said, turning to continue toward the bar.

Li pounced before he got there. “You know her?”

“I know all pretty women. Personal motto.”

“She told you she is with the American trade council?”

“One never questions beauty.” Ferguson shrugged. He could tell that Li knew she was CIA; it was a good bet that half the room suspected it, assuming they cared. “You have a diverse guest list.”

“Many people come, whether invited or not.”

“I have the same problem when I throw a party,” said Ferguson, ordering a fresh drink from the bartender.

“Drink later,” said Li.

He took Ferguson’s elbow and steered him toward a small conference room at the right. They walked through it, then down the hall to one of the administration offices.

Park was already waiting. A silver-haired man in his early sixties, he had the quiet air of an ancient village elder. Short and squat, with a buzz cut that flattered his face’s rounded features, he looked like a retired wrestler sitting on the long couch.

Mr. Li introduced him, using Korean and then switching to English. Park could not speak Russian.

“A great honor to meet you,” said Ferguson in English. “I’ve heard very much about you.”

The corner of Park’s mouth turned up in a faint smile, but he said nothing. Ferguson remained silent as well, the two men staring at each other for a few seconds, their smiles gradually increasing.

“He is a sagacious one,” Park told one of the men behind the couch in Korean. “Useful in his profession.”

Park rose. “Take a walk with me,” he told Ferguson in English. “Come.”

Ferguson fell in alongside him as Park slipped out of the office and walked down the hall. His aides and Mr. Li trailed along at a respectful distance until Park reached a set of double doors. Then two of the assistants sprang forward and held open the doors.

Ferguson and Park walked through a small vestibule, and then out onto an open terrace. The city spread out before them, a million lights glittering in the night.

“Progress,” said Park in English.

“Yes,” said Ferguson.

“Three decades ago, this was a poor place. Then, men with vision for Korea stepped up. The nation began to move ahead.”

“Looks like it,” said Ferguson.

“What is it you want, Mr. Manski?” said Park, still gazing at the lights.

“To be rich.”

Once more, a smile grew in the corner of Park’s mouth.

“That is a dangerous desire,” said the billionaire.

“Life is dangerous.”

“The Russian embassy claims not to have heard of you.”

“I hope they would say that.” Ferguson scanned the well-lit horizon, wondering how much of what he saw Park owned. “I was told that if I made myself available, there might perhaps be a market for certain items difficult to find elsewhere.”

“Is that so?”

“Dah.”

“And who told you this?”

“Some information, it is in the air.”

“Korea has its own industry. We can make whatever we need.”

“Truly. And Koreans are very discreet. But Russians can be even more discreet, for some matters require discretion as well as expertise. That is what I deal in: discretion.”

Park turned around and went back through the doors. Ferguson started to follow, but found his way barred by two of the men in the black suits. He was just debating whether to push through them when Mr. Li appeared. Though Li said nothing, the two men separated.

“Mr. Park is planning a journey the day after tomorrow,” said Mr. Li in Russian. “Perhaps you would like to join him. He finds it considerably easier to talk to people while he is traveling. He’s very busy otherwise.”

“How long?”

“A few days.”

“I might be able to arrange that.”

“Very good.”

“If he tells me what sort of items he would be interested in, I can be better prepared—”

“That would be for Mr. Park to say, not for me.”

“Very good.” Ferguson, getting cold, rubbed his shoulders. “Where are we going?”

“Don’t you follow the news?”

“No.”

“Mr. Park is leading a group of businessmen to North Korea, to encourage cultural and business exchanges. His friends meet informally with ministers and others, at receptions, hunting, dinner . . . You might find some business yourself.”

“That territory is already taken,” said Ferguson.

Mr. Li nodded. “There will be diversions. It is a pleasant time in a secluded lodge outside the capital. You will have an opportunity to talk to Mr. Park then. Of course, if you wish not to come . . .”

“No, no,” said Ferguson. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

~ * ~

14

ABOARD THE USS
PELELIU,
IN THE YELLOW SEA

“Dr. Ch’o, are you awake?”

Thera squatted next to the prone scientist, who didn’t appear to have moved on his cot since she had last seen him. His dinner sat nearby, untouched.

“You were so kind to give me cigarettes. Are you sure you don’t smoke?”

She took the pack out and held it where he could see it. Then, carefully, she unwrapped the top and tapped out a single cigarette. Smoking was forbidden inside the ship, but Thera lit up anyway, thinking it might break the spell. She felt bad for the scientist, worried about him, as if he were an old friend.

“Remember?” she asked as she took the first draw.

The sulfur smell of the match and the whiff of tobacco pushed at Ch’o’s consciousness. A flood of thoughts came to him, ideas that were in numbers as well as sights and emotions: the half-life of isotopes, his father’s slow death from radiation sickness, his mother’s cancer, his own attempt to save others from their fate.

The girl. It was the girl he had passed the message to. She had come—they had captured her, too.

“You,” said Ch’o.

Thera reached to help the scientist as he pushed to get up.

“You,” he said again.

“It’s me, Dr. Ch’o. They told me you were sick.”

Ch’o shook his head.

“Are you in trouble?” he asked her. “You must be in trouble. The Americans . . . We’ve been captured.”

“It’s OK,” she said, clasping his hand. “The Americans are helping us.”

“The Americans do not control the IAEA.”

“No. They don’t. They’re here to help you. You needed help.”

Thera steered him to the chair. When he sat, she pulled over the other chair and sat in front of him.

“The Americans can help,” said Thera. “They want to know what’s going on. I know you’ve heard many bad things about them, but you have been outside Korea. You know they are not all evil. Not all of them.”

That much was true, Ch’o thought.

“They’re working with the IAEA. They can get your message out. And you don’t have to stay with the Americans; you can go where you want. You were in Europe when you were younger.”