Fires of War (45 page)

Slott continued, explaining that, if legitimate, the order would be hand delivered to units throughout the country. They would begin mobilizing within a few days.

“The order would seem to set the stage for an attack,” added Slott. “So far, nothing has happened.”

“All right.”

“I’m going to ask Ferguson to report on anything he might have heard when he comes back. I’ve asked Thera to meet him in Seoul to make sure he calls in. Being Ferguson, that’s not always something you can count on. I thought you’d want to know.”

“I do. Thank you,” said Corrine.

“There’s no new information on the computer disk. They’re still working on it. I checked this morning.”

The words sounded almost like they were a challenge, or maybe a question: Is there something else I should know?

“I see,” said Corrine. “If I hear anything myself, I’ll let you know.”

It was a lame reply. She thought maybe she should apologize or at least get him to admit he was mad, but he hung up before she could think of a way to say any of that.

~ * ~

9

GIMPO AIRPORT, SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

Thera got to Gimpo about seven a.m., driving over after landing at Osan Air Base, a U.S. Air Force facility not far from Seoul. She’d had her hair cut before leaving the
Peleliu
and picked up a pair of glasses to help change her appearance.

Once Korea’s largest airport, Gimpo had been overshadowed in recent years by the larger Incheon Airport, but it was still a busy place, with over a hundred passenger flights every day. Park’s 727 had been directed to use a special gate in the domestic terminal; a Customs officer had already been sent to meet them. A guard stood outside the waiting area, but Thera could see in easily enough by standing in the hallway. She leaned against a large round column, sipping a coffee as if she were waiting for a friend.

The first clump of men off the plane looked seriously hung over, shielding their eyes from the overhead fluorescents. The second and then a third group of men came in, looking even worse. The men were all in their forties and fifties, all Korean.

It was just like Ferguson to keep her waiting, she thought. At any second, she expected him to come sauntering out of the boarding tunnel, a big, what-me-worry grin on his face.

But he didn’t.

As Park’s guests were led through a nearby door to their vans waiting below, Thera slipped into the jetway, walking toward the cabin of the 727.

“Nuguseyo?”
said a startled steward, turning around as she entered the plane. “Who are you?”

“Hello?” said Thera in Korean. She glanced down the wide aisle of the jet. “No one aboard?”

“What are you doing?” asked one of the pilots, appearing from the nearby cockpit.

“Just looking for a passenger.”

“They’re gone. All gone.”

Thera craned her neck, making sure. The pilot started to grab her wrist. Thera jerked her hand up and grabbed his instead, pressing it hard enough to make him wince.

“Not a good idea,” she told him in English before letting go.

~ * ~

10

OUTSIDE CHUNGSAN, NORTH KOREA

Oh, they were dead, they were dead, they were all dead, bodies leaping out of windows and doors at him, faces contorted, leering, falling with blood and bruises and obscene grins.

I’m not going to die damn it,
Ferguson told himself. Not today today today, and who cares about tomorrow?

A snatch of a song came into his head, then a memory of a mission, a flash-bang grenade going off almost in his ear.

He had to push on anyway.

Ferguson got up from the cot, shaking off the nightmare. He began pacing the cell.

He was hungry and cold and his legs hurt like hell, but the thing he couldn’t stand was his brain bouncing back and forth, gyrating with thoughts.

He couldn’t turn it off.

They hadn’t tortured him yet. They must believe that he was
someone.

Or else they were saving all their fun for later.

The dank air pushed against his lungs. His body ached where he’d been pummeled. His knee felt as if it had snapped. But the worst thing was that he couldn’t think.

“I need to focus on something,” he said as he paced.

Belatedly, he remembered that his cell was probably bugged.

Better not to show them any sign of weakness.

Ferguson sat back on the cot, willing himself back into control.

He tried thinking of fun times with his dad, but that was no good; within seconds images of missions just came flooding in, the association too strong.

He pictured Maine, thinking of what it would look like now, an early snow on the ground.

Thanksgiving dinner.

That was a safe image, except it made him hungry.

Better to starve than go insane, he thought, picturing himself eating a large bowl of sausage stuffing.

~ * ~

11

DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

Thera took the train to Daejeon. When she got there, she checked the hotel where Ferguson had been staying as Ivan Manski. His room was empty, and he wasn’t in the restaurant or one of the nearby shops.

Needing a place to stay herself, she took a room two floors above where he’d been staying. Then she called The Cube.

“Ferguson didn’t make the flight,” she told Lauren DiCapri. “He’s not in Daejeon, either. Has he checked in?”

“No.”

“He didn’t show at the embassy or anything like that, did he?”

“That would probably be the last place he’d go, knowing Ferg.”

“Check, would you?”

“Of course. Thera, are you sure he wasn’t on that plane?”

Thera laid her head back on the overstuffed chair. What the hell had happened to him?

“Thera?”

“No, he wasn’t on the flight. I thought maybe I missed him.” She knew she hadn’t; it was a wish, not a thought. “Try his sat phone, all right?”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. I’ll wait.”

“It’s off-line,” said Lauren a minute later.

“I was afraid of that,” said Thera softly. She pressed the button to disconnect the call.

~ * ~

12

NORTH OF P’YŎNGYANG, NORTH KOREA

General Namgung stood at attention as the tanks passed out of the camp, returning the stiff salutes of the crews. Dust and exhaust swirled around him, but he didn’t flinch. His father had taught him long ago that a leader inspired with poise as well as words, and the old man would be proud of his bearing now.

What he would think of his plan to oust Kim Jong-Il was another matter entirely.

The senior Namgung had been a close comrade of Kim Jong-Il’s father, Kim Il-Sung, the father of modern Korea. Kim Il-Sung was a true liberator, a gifted ruler who had save d his people. Kim Jong-Il was a poor shadow of his father, a debauched tyrant who had contracted venereal disease as a youth and was now slowly dying of kidney disease brought on by alcohol abuse.

His son, Kim Jong-chol, promised to be even worse.

Not that he would have the chance to rule.

Namgung dropped his arm as the last tank rolled out of the camp. An American spy satellite should be almost directly overhead, recording the movement. By now, alarms were going off in Seoul, where Park would have delivered the bogus plan by Kim Jong-Il to mobilize and attack. Over the next few days, a variety of North Korean army, navy, and air force units would mobilize.

Then, the unthinkable would happen, and everything would fall into place.

Namgung glanced upward as he got into his car. He smiled at the thought that some intelligence expert back in Washington might get a glimpse of his face.

Let the smug Americans try and guess what was really going on.

~ * ~

13

DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

The black leather miniskirt was a little stiff, but there was no doubt it was effective; the security officer at the gate of Science Industries had trouble getting his eyes back in their sockets before waving Thera and her driver into the complex. The male receptionist was more influenced by cleavage; he stared at her chest as he dialed the managing director to tell him his appointment had arrived.

“But you do not seem to have an appointment,” he told Thera.

“I would think he’d talk to me, wouldn’t you? It has to do with a mutual business acquaintance, a Mr. Manski. The Russian. Would you remember him yourself?”

Thera leaned over the desk. The receptionist, in his early twenties, looked as if he was about to have a coronary.

“No. I wouldn’t remember anything,” said the man. He got back on the phone and persuaded the managing director’s secretary that the boss would definitely want to meet the visitor.

A few minutes later, Thera was escorted into the director’s office. She was playing the role of a jilted business partner, out to find Ferguson because he owed her money. In theory, she was Irish, the redheaded daughter of a one-time IRA member who’d done some business with Ferguson in the past, Deidre Clancy. There was a
real
Deidre Clancy, but she was presently serving time in an Angola prison after being caught short of bribe money on a deal Ferguson had arranged for her.

Thera told herself to tone down her performance, afraid she was going too far over the top. But it was like trying to stop yourself from skiing downhill in the middle of the slope.

And besides, wasn’t that one of Ferguson’s rules? When in doubt, push it as far as it will go?

The managing director’s secretary said that Dr. Ajaeng was very busy and might not be able to see her before lunch.

“Then perhaps he and I should have lunch,” suggested Thera. She took a seat opposite the secretary, adjusting her skirt.

The managing director’s schedule cleared up within minutes. The secretary personally escorted her, stroking the back of Thera’s fake fur coat.

“How can we help you?” said the managing director.

“I am looking for a friend. Or, rather, a business acquaintance. A special business acquaintance.”

As Thera sat in the seat near his desk, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to the managing director. He shook his head. There had been signs downstairs saying that smoking was not allowed in the building, but the director didn’t object as she lit up.

This was a trick she had learned from Ferguson. Breaking rules always had an effect on a subject. Sometimes it annoyed them and made them want to get rid of you. Other times it created an unspoken intimacy, making them a partner in crime. Either way, it gave you something to use.

The effect on Dr. Ajaeng was somewhere between the two.

“I don’t know what friend we might share,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Ivan Manski. Call it a business associate, for I’m not feeling very friendly toward him today. He was here some days ago trying to sell. . . ,” Thera paused. “Scientific instruments.”