Fires of War (50 page)

The assistant secretary of defense continued, laying out the case for a preemptive strike in a calm tone, though the action he proposed was anything but. Corrine glanced at Tuttle, wondering if she would come to Franklin’s defense as the others began poking holes in his argument.

She didn’t. Her boss told the group that he agreed with the secretary of defense, and Tuttle sank lower in her seat.

“Are we agreed then?” said Manzi, as the conversation became repetitive. “We go to alert but hold off on aggressive action?”

She looked around the room. “Then that’s the recommendation I’ll take to the president.”

Belatedly, she glanced at the vice president, who nodded.

Corrine took her time packing her things as the meeting broke up. She fell in alongside Parnelles as he walked out of the room.

“Mr. Director,” she said.

“Ms. Alston, how are you?”

“Fine.”

“I’m glad you’re taking an interest in foreign affairs.”

“The president asked me to sit in. In case there was anything of interest regarding the treaty.”

“Yes. He mentioned he would do that. Was there?”

“Not directly. Though if news of this comes out, it won’t help.”

“No. But I would suggest it’s a matter of when, not if.”

Corrine nodded. It wasn’t simply that many people knew about it; now that a decision had been reached on what to do, there was bound to be dissension.

“Any word on Ferg?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not. We think we know now where they stayed during the visit. Park uses a hunting lodge northwest of the city. But the satellite photos show nothing unusual there.”

“Van suggested a mission to North Korea,” said Corrine. “Can we go there?”

“Out of the question.”

“Is it?”

Parnelles stopped, glancing around to make sure they were alone in the hall. His eyeballs seemed to bulge slightly as they moved, before returning to their sockets as he fixed his gaze on her.

“The great problem here, Corrine, is that Mr. Ferguson is entirely expendable. We can’t decide what to do based on the small possibility that we might get him back.”

“I understand that. But—”

“There are no buts,” said Parnelles. “His father was my closest friend. I’ve known Bobby since he was born. Don’t you think I want to save him? Duty comes first. The fires of war, Corrine, they always burn what we love.”

He turned and walked away, a much older man than the one who’d come to the meeting.

~ * ~

DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

Thera scanned the room for bugs as soon as she got back to the hotel. Still wearing her slinky dress, she collapsed in the chair and called The Cube to report in.

“Are you OK?” were the first words out of Corrigan’s mouth.

“Of course I’m OK.”

“It’s past one o’clock there.”

“Well, I didn’t get lucky, if that’s what you’re trying to ask.”

“Jeez, Thera.”

“Park tried to buy me off. He claimed Ferg had business with people in the North, but then he tried to buy me off. And intimidate me.”

Thera described the dinner and Park’s house, recalling the conversation almost word for word.

“I want to talk to other people who were on the trip, and I want to bug his house. The security there didn’t look all that difficult to get around.”

“I have to clear that first.”

“Why?”

“I just do. Anything that’s going on in Korea, I have to clear.”

“They stayed in some sort of lodge near the capital and hunted. Park’s family owned it. Can you find it?”

“We already did. Ciello made the connection a few hours ago.”

“Well, let’s go search it.”

“We can’t, at least not until we get evidence that he’s there.”

“Screw waiting. Where else could he be?” said Thera. “We should kidnap the son of a bitch Park and find out what the hell happened.”

“You can’t do that, Thera,” said Corrigan. “Jesus. Don’t do that.”

“We should.”

“Listen. You’re supposed to concentrate on the plutonium now. Slott says—”

“Whose side are you on, Corrigan?” she said angrily. “Ferg is part of the team. I can’t just leave him.”

“We’re not leaving him.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“We’re all on the same side.”

“Then act like it. If we don’t do something, he’ll be dead.”

Thera ended the call, fearing Corrigan might say the obvious: There was a very good chance Ferguson was already dead.

~ * ~

23

OUTSIDE CHUNGSAN, NORTH KOREA

Ferguson lay face up on the cot, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember the Chaucer he had learned with the Jesuits in prep school.

Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote

The drought of Marche hath perceed to the roote,

And bathud every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertue engendred is the flour;—

What Zephyrus eek with his swete breeth

What did Zephyrus
eek?

Eek, eek, eek. Something, something, “. . . the tendre croppes.”

Ferguson pictured his teacher, Father Daedelus, saying the words.

Father Daedelus was the only fat Jesuit Ferguson could ever recall meeting. Jesuits as a rule were tall and thin, and most often gray, at least at the temples.

Ferguson went back to the beginning of the poem. Chaucer was harder than Shakespeare because Middle English was almost a different language, so this must have been tenth grade when he learned it.

Tenth or twelfth or college?

Where did you go to college, lad? Do you recall?

Tenth.

Princeton. With summers off to get shot at.

Taking the training and then the mission to Moscow, pressed into service, and almost getting his balls cut off—literally—by the Red Giant.

Now that was a close escape. Seeing the girl cut up before his eyes . . .

Jesus.

So this is what you do for a living, Dad?

Yet he came back, kept coming back.

The knife against his thigh.

Really he
is
going to do it.

Jesus H. Christ.

Ferguson forced himself to concentrate on Chaucer, vanquishing the other jagged tatters of memory from his mind.

About midway through the third line of the poem, he heard someone walking down the hallway for him. He remained staring at the ceiling, reciting the poem in his mind as the door was opened.

Expecting Owl Eyes, Ferguson was surprised when he tilted his head and saw two guards in the cell. They ordered him to rise.

Make a break for it? Make them kill him now?

Ferguson hesitated, then gave in, rising slowly and letting himself be prodded, gently, into the corridor.

The guards led him down the hall to a lavatory and shower. There was no soap and the water was close to freezing, but he stayed under the water for several minutes. The chill gave him a rush, pushed him forward.

Onward, Christian soldier!

A towel waited on the rack. There were also fresh prison pajamas and wooden clogs. The two guards who’d come in with him gazed discreetly to the side as he dried and dressed.

Ferguson felt a chill on his damp hair as he followed his minders out of the shower room and back into the hall. They stopped in front of a rusted steel door that was opened to reveal a set of rickety wooden steps upward.

As Ferguson reached the top of the steps, a flood of sunlight blinded him. It was daytime; he’d thought it was night.

He rubbed his eyes open and saw that he was rising in the middle of a very large room, bounded on both sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. A pair of long tables were set up in the middle of the floor to his right; a man in a uniform sat at the table to the right.

Captain Ganji.

Ferguson’s jailers remained behind him as he sat across from the captain.

“Do you speak Korean?” asked Ganji.

Ferguson shook his head.

“I do not speak Russian,” said Ganji, still using Korean.

“Français? Deutsch?”
said Ferguson, asking if he spoke French or German. He could tell from Ganji’s expression that he did not.

“We can use English, if you know this,” said the captain.

“English will do,” said Ferguson. The room was cold and seemed to steal his voice. He wasn’t sure if the room was really cold, or if it was a symptom of the lack of thyroid hormones.

He glanced back at the guards. “You should send them away.”

“They do not English speak.”

Ferguson shook his head slightly. “You shouldn’t take chances.”

Ganji stared at him. His English was not very good: He had trouble with word order, which had a significance in the language that it didn’t have in Korean. But the Russian’s warning was clear enough. He looked over at the men and signaled with his hand that they should leave him. They were reluctant; the prisoner was taller than Ganji, and, while depleted by his captivity, still looked considerably stronger. But Ganji was not intimidated.

“Who are you?” the Korean captain asked Ferguson when the men retreated down the steps.

“Ivan Manski. I was to help Mr Park on some small items, but there was a disagreement, apparently, with some of my superiors.” Ferguson paused between his words, as if picking them out carefully. “A business disagreement they neglected to inform me of. Nothing personal. Or political.”

“How does this concern me?”

“It doesn’t,” said Ferguson. His voice was hoarse and cracking. He needed a drink of water, but there was none on the table, and he didn’t want to risk being interrupted by asking for it. “I was at the guest house when General Namgung met with Mr. Park. I felt that the general should understand that I was there and that I would not want to be responsible for what happened, for what I might say if I were tortured.”

“You will not be tortured.”

Ferguson didn’t answer, staring instead at the captain.

“You were not at the meeting,” Ganji said finally.

“The house was down a twisting road a half mile from the lodge and the old barn,” said Ferguson. “There were two men out front, guards. Others were inside, though not in the room with you. You met in the large room on the first floor at the back. When you were almost through, you went out with Mr. Li and gave him envelopes. I assume he gave you money.”