Fires of War (36 page)

“And what else?”

“You know Park Jin Tae?” Ferguson asked.

“Park Jin Tae? I know of him.”

“What do you know?”

“Billionaire. Extreme nationalist.” Slott calmed down as he spoke. “He was connected with March 1, a political movement. They may have been thinking about rioting. It was hard to know where the South Korean’s charges ended and the truth began. In any event, he bought his way out of trouble.”

“Well, he owns Science Industries. He wants to talk to a notorious Russian arms dealer up in the People’s Democratic Hell Hole tomorrow.”

“What arms dealer?”

“Me.”

“You?”

“I figured it was the easiest way to talk to him.”

Slott exhaled so loudly Ferguson had to move the phone away from his ear.

“Sometimes you go too far, Ferg.”

“I don’t think so, Dan.”

“North Korea’s pretty risky.”

“Park goes there a couple of times a year. Something’s gotta be up, right? Arms dealer comes to him, says I can get you whatever you want? And Park says, hey, take a trip to the outlaw paradise of the world.”

“All right. I’ll tell Seoul. We’ll set up—”

“I wish you wouldn’t tell them.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t trust them. I barely trust you.”

Actually, he wasn’t sure that he
did
trust Slott, but saying that wouldn’t be particularly helpful.

Slott didn’t answer.

“You still there, Dan?”

“Just because you’re Parnelles’s fair-haired boy, don’t think you can get away with everything,” said Slott.

Ferguson laughed. “My hair’s black, Dan.”

“Bo’s thinking about bringing formal charges against you for outing his agent.”

“That’ll be fun.”

He’d hedge his bets. Have Corrine take the dirt to the DOE, the disks to the NSA. He’d tell her where he was going, and why.

Not that that would save his sorry butt if Slott really was out to screw him. But at least he wouldn’t get away with it.

“You still there, Bob?”

The truth was, though, Ferguson wanted to trust Slott. Bo seemed like a boob, but Slott had a good track record, a history. And he’d helped Ferguson do his job, which was pretty much the best thing you could say about any manager.

Not trusting him meant not trusting the Agency—and, ultimately, not trusting his country.

Was that how they got his dad? Was it your sense of loyalty to your nation that screwed you in the end?

“I’m still here,” Ferguson told him.

“I won’t tell Seoul. But take care of yourself. You don’t have any backup.”

“Always,” said Ferguson, hanging up.

~ * ~

18

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

Corrine was in her car when the secure satellite phone rang.

“Corrine here.”

“Wicked Stepmother, we really have to stop meeting this way.”

“Ferg.”

“Did you get the bag?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Everything in that bag comes from a place called Science Industries in Daejeon.”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“That’s the ten-million-dollar question. I don’t trust Seoul, so I didn’t want them getting their paws on it.”

“Do you trust Slott?”

“Yeah.”

Corrine heard a note of hesitation in his voice.

“I think I do,” Ferguson added, “but that’s not good enough. He’s going to hate me, he may even fire me, but I want you to have them all independently tested. Take the computer things to Robert Ferro at the NSA. You know him?”

“Deputy director.”

“Yeah. You can drop my name if you have to to get it done quick.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” As the president’s counsel, Corrine had more than enough political muscle of her own.

“Dirt goes to DOE. Tell them to test for plutonium.”

“I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

“Do it tonight,” Ferguson told her. “It may take days to get the results. Tell Slott what’s going on once you have a good idea what’s on the computer disks or the tape, or once it’s gone far enough that you’re reasonably sure no one’s going to lie to you.”

“Why don’t you trust Slott?”

“I told you, I think I do. But he was in Korea for a long time. And these guys over here work for him. See, if there is plutonium there, the fact that they didn’t find it and we did is pretty embarrassing. So they have an incentive to keep it quiet.”

“You’re talking about treason, Bob.”

“Maybe just incompetence,” said Ferguson.

“How mad is Slott going to be that you went behind his back?”

“Real mad,” said Ferguson. “Real, real mad. But maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll never talk to me again. Look, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to get going.”

Corrine wanted to ask about Ferguson’s cancer, but it was too late; he hung up before she could find the words to bring it up.

~ * ~

19

ABOARD THE USS
PELELIU,
IN THE YELLOW SEA

The ship’s captain gave them the officer’s wardroom for the initial “debriefing.” A civilian psychologist who’d worked for both the CIA and the Defense Department was scheduled to arrive on the ship in a few hours, but Rankin saw no reason to wait, and the CIA interrogator was chomping at the bit. The interrogator suggested that Thera meet Ch’o and bring him to the wardroom for breakfast; once they were settled, the others could join and take it from there. Thera agreed, intending to leave as soon as the others came in, but from the moment she saw Ch’o dressed in the borrowed khakis and waiting for her she knew she wouldn’t leave unless he asked.

“Good morning,” he told her, rising and bowing his head stiffly

“Dr. Ch’o.” She bowed her head as well. “Are you feeling well?”

“I am feeling . . . prepared.”

“Prepared?”

Ch’o didn’t explain. He had decided that he must do his duty, and his duty as a Korean was to protect the people who would be poisoned by the improperly handled waste. He trusted the girl, and so he must believe that the Americans, whatever else was true about them, would give the information to the IAEA and the UN.

His own fate was immaterial. He was just an ant. He would move forward calmly, doing his duty.

“They have breakfast for us in the officers’ galley,” Thera told him. “Would you like to come?”

“I’m not very hungry.”

“You have to eat,” said Thera. “You look very pale. It’s more comfortable than your cabin.”

“I’ll have some tea.”

Ch’o had been aboard several ships during his career, but this was his first time aboard a fighting vessel of any type. The ship seemed several times more crowded than civilian boats. A brusque energy emanated from the young people; there were women as well as men in uniform, which surprised him. Ch’o recognized the energy as a kind of shared purposefulness, a common motivation that reminded him of his own youth and of Korea as it should be: everyone moving in the same direction.

Why the government had deviated from such a path, he did not know. It saddened him, and when he arrived finally at the wardroom he felt as if a cloud of doom had fallen around him.

“You can tell the seaman what you want,” Thera said to Ch’o. “He’ll get it.”

“Tea?”

“Tea, yes sir,” said the waiter, whose pronounced southern accent was difficult for the scientist to understand. “The cook made some mighty fine biscuits this morning. Y’all might try some of them.”

“Biscuits are a kind of bread,” explained Thera.

Ch’o shook his head. He only wanted tea.

“I’ll try some,” said Thera. “And coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am. Best coffee in the fleet, I promise.”

Neither Thera nor Ch’o spoke until the man returned. Ch’o found the tea very weak, but this did not surprise him; only Koreans made very good tea.

“Some of the people who helped you escape want to talk to you,” said Thera. “You may have information that could help save lives.”

“I do,” said Ch’o. “I have much information.”

“Will you speak to them?”

“Yes.”

“They should be here shortly.”

~ * ~

h’o spent two hours simply talking about his background, telling the CIA debriefer and the others where he had gone to school, what he had studied, the ministries he had served. Thera and Rankin listened, and occasionally the translator explained particular words and phrases, but for the most part, only Jiménez and Ch’o spoke.

Both grew slightly impatient as the conversation continued. Ch’o wanted to talk about the toxic wastes; Jiménez wanted to find out just how valuable the scientist really might be. Neither man, though, felt he could change the course of the interview, and so they plodded on, concentrating on Ch’o’s schooling and research interests until a chief petty officer came in and said it was almost time for lunch.

“Let’s all freshen up and get something to eat,” suggested Thera. “And then find a more comfortable place to talk.”

“What is ‘freshen up’?” asked Ch’o.

“Take a break,” she told him.

“Yes, very good.”

“We could all have lunch together,” suggested Jiménez.

“I think the doctor needs a break,” said Thera. “Let’s get some air and move around a bit.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” said Rankin.

Jiménez didn’t agree, but arguing in front of the subject was an even worse idea, so he got up without saying anything else.

A half hour later, the psychologist and translator met Ch’o at his cabin, and they went for a walk on the flight deck. Thera, Rankin, and Jiménez met in Rankin’s cabin to discuss what to do next.

“Definitely an important scientist,” said Jiménez. “But how important? We’re going to have to bring in experts to talk to him, people who can understand the technical stuff and know the history of the bomb program. I don’t have the background to question him; he lost me on his dissertation.”

“Yeah,” said Rankin.

“How long are we staying on this ship? I’d like to get someplace more comfortable, flexible.”

Rankin shrugged. Corrigan had told him they were “on hold” until the bosses figured it out.

“Where does he go after this?” Thera asked.