Fires of War

1

“Jesus, Ferguson.”

“No, it’s just me, Corrigan. Jesus is holding off until the Second Coming.”

“Ferg, where are you?”

Ferguson’s laugh turned into a cough. “North Korea. Where the hell do you think?”

“Ferg—”

“Puzzle it out, Corrigan. Check the line. The sat phone. I’m at Cache Point Zed.”

Each satellite radio phone included in the cache gear was hard-wired to a specific frequency; these phones also included GPS gear that showed their location at The Cube.

“That’s not what I meant,” said Corrigan. “I meant are you OK?”

“I’m better than OK,” said Ferguson, eying the small tool kit to see what he could use for a lock pick. “But I need a ride.”

“Oh, jeez.”

“Not the response I want to hear, Corrigan. You’re supposed to tell me the bus will be here in a half hour.”

“I have to get a hold of Slott.”

“Well, let’s move.”

“Hang tight, Ferg. We’re with you.”

Yeah, right beside me, thought Ferguson.

He put the radio down and took the smallest screwdriver from the pack, but the blade and shaft were too large to fit in the lock. A small metal clip held two of the MRE packages together. He bent it straight, then broke it in two. But the wire was a little too rounded and not quite springy enough, or maybe he was just so tired that he couldn’t get it to work.

The lock itself was extremely simple, little more than a kid’s toy, which added to Ferguson’s frustration. After trying to work the clip in for a half hour, he gave up and tried something new: chiseling the metal off with the help of a rock and the large screwdriver in the kit.

He’d just broken the link on his left hand when the phone buzzed, indicating an incoming transmission.

“Ferg?”

“Hey, Evil Stepmother. How are ya?”

“Corrigan arranged a conference call. I’m on with Mr. Slott and Parnelles.”

“Guys.”

“You sound terrible,” said Slott.

“Good to talk to you, too, Dan.”

“We’re going to get you out of there, Ferg,” said Slott. “We will.”

“Yeah, Great place to visit but… shit.”

Ferguson stopped midsentence. He could hear the sound of a truck, several trucks, coming toward him. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Ferg—”

“I’m OK.”

He snapped the phone off and ran toward a clump of bushes to his right, stumbling over the rocks before reaching the thick cover. The first truck that passed was a military transport, similar to an American deuce-and-a-half. A stream of similar vehicles, some open in the back, some with canvas tops, followed. All were jammed with troops. Ferguson counted thirty-six.

He waited a few minutes after the trucks had passed, then called back.

“Robert, are you OK?” asked Parnelles.

“Yeah, General, I’m fine. Cold, though. And hoarse.” He grabbed the broken chain in his hand and threaded his arms into the jacket, zipping it tight.

“Ferg, North Korea is going crazy,” said Slott. “They’re mobilizing. It looks like a coup, or maybe even an attack on the South.”

“I just counted thirty-six trucks heading south. Troop trucks. Mostly full,” said Ferguson. “So what would you figure that: thirty-six times twenty, thirty? About a thousand guys?”

“The point is,” said Slott, “we want to know if you can wait until tonight for a pickup.”

“Actually, Robert, waiting is imperative,” said Parnelles.

“Sure,” said Ferguson. “Not a problem. I’ll work on my tan in the meantime. Maybe go a few rounds of golf later.”

“We have a team off the coast, but it will take a while for them to get into position. The North Korean navy is on patrol all up and down the coastline, and army units are moving up to the border and down to the capital,” said Slott. “Waiting for nightfall will be much safer.”

Ferguson hunched over the packs and the bicycles. There was a pair of simple pants and a long shirt. Once he got the other chain off, he could pull them over the pajamas.

He wasn’t going to fool anyone into thinking he was local, but the pants had to be warmer than the prison clothes.

“Ferg,” said Corrine, “are you really OK?”

“Hell, yeah. All right, here’s what I got.” He told them that Park had probably had him arrested because it looked like he knew something was up.

“Why didn’t he just kill you?” Slott asked.

“Because I’m a nice guy, Dan. He thought I was Russian. They couldn’t decide whether I was working for the Kremlin or the mafyia. The North Koreans didn’t want to piss off one of their major creditors, so they put me on ice.”

Ferguson took a breath. He could feel the mucus in his chest, as if he had bronchitis.

He might actually have bronchitis, now that he thought about it.

“Park met with a Korean general named Namgung. There’s something up between them. Something big enough that Namgung had me taken out of jail because they thought the Russians would be pissed off at him, not Park.”

“General Namgung?” said Slott, pronouncing the name differently. “The head of People’s Army Corp I?”

“Is that around the capital?”

“Yes. It includes Air Force Command One and some security forces as well as a dozen divisions.”

“That’s my man.”

“That’s interesting,” said Slott. “Because our people in Seoul think Namgung’s trying to stop the attack on the South. He may be involved in the coup.”

“Our people in Seoul don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground,” said Ferguson.

“That’s your opinion, Ferg,” said Slott.

“Based on experience.”

“This isn’t the time to discuss this,” said Parnelles. “Robert, how long can you hold out?”

“Forever,” said Ferguson.

“Check in every half hour,” said Slott.

“Try every three,” said Ferguson. He wanted to save the battery, just in case.

Just in case?

Just in case, because there was no way to trust these guys. No way. No, no, no way.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Ferg?” said Corrine.

“Hell, no. I’m lying through my teeth,” said Ferguson cheerfully, before pressing the End Transmission button.

2

Corrine had just hung up from the conference call and reached for her computer to check her messages when the secure line rang again.

“We may not be able to pick up Ferguson at dusk,” said Parnelles when she answered the phone.

“Why not?”

“The North Korean mobilization has reached the critical point: They can launch an attack at any point now. Given that, the failure of a mission might be catastrophic,” the CIA director told her. “The decision has to be left to the president.”

“I see.” Corrine glanced at the clock at the bottom of her computer screen. It was not quite five o’clock; McCarthy had cut short his trip and was due back within another two hours. “I’ll bring it up with him.”

“Actually, Corrine, I think I should be the one who talks to him about it. Ferguson works for me, and I’d rather be the one making the recommendation.”

“Sure,” said Corrine. Then she realized why he wanted to do it. “What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m afraid my recommendation at the moment would have to be…” Parnelles paused. “I would have to say we should not proceed.”

3

Colonel Van Buren’s voice crackled in Rankin’s headset, barely emerging from the static. It was one of the worst connections Rankin could ever remember.

“We have a location,” said Van Buren. “A definite location.”

“Hot shit,” said Rankin.

“It’s Cache Zed. You have your map?”

Rankin unfolded the map across the console in the Peleliu’s secure communications center, studying it as Van Buren ran down the situation in North Korea. Several divisions were now poised along the DMZ, with additional units ringing the capital. The coastal highway was a major north-south route, and Ferguson had already reported troop movements along it.

“So we’ll have to plan accordingly. I’ll get with the ship’s captain,” added Slott, “but from my calculations it should take the ship roughly three hours to get into position to launch. We want to time the mission so that you’re crossing land well after nightfall.”

“Long time for him to wait,” said Rankin. “We could launch now, use some of the marine helos instead of ours. They’ll get us there and back with plenty of gas to spare.”

“No. Washington gets final say on this,” said Slott. “You don’t step off until I hear from them.”

“Say, Colonel—”

“It’s not my decision, Skip. He has a good hiding place. Ferg told Corrine and Slott he was fine.”

“He’d always say that.”

The funny thing was, Rankin couldn’t stand Ferguson, didn’t like him at all. But Rankin felt as strongly about rescuing him as he would have about his own brother.

Whom, come to think of it, he also couldn’t stand.

“I have an MC-130 in the air ready for an emergency mission,” said Van Buren. “They can be over the site within an hour. Less. If the word comes, we’ll have the teams on the MC-130 drop in, then you go in and pick them up. Set that up with the Marines.”

Rankin grunted. He knew it was a plan that would never be implemented, the kind that sounded good in theory but didn’t work in real life. An hour would be forever on the ground. By the time Ferguson called for help, he’d be dead.

“What was that, Stephen?” asked Van Buren.

“I got it. Backup plan.”

“We’ll get him. I’ll be aboard the MC-17 before nightfall. I’ll check with you.”

“Got it.”

“We will get him back.”

“If Washington approves.”

“If Washington approves, yes.”

Rankin’s noncom training kicked in, and he let the colonel have the last word.

4

“Harry Mangjeol is on the phone, Senator. He says it’s urgent, and he won’t talk to anyone but you.”

Tewilliger looked over at his legislative assistant, who’d stuck his head in the door. The senator really didn’t feel like talking to Mangjeol, who would probably ask why he had given the press a “no comment” when asked about the fate of the disarmament treaty when news of the troop movements broke. He’d done it because this was the time to be subtle, to maneuver behind the scenes while the president sweated in front of the cameras. As a rule, constituents didn’t understand that.

On the other hand, now was not a good time to blow Mangjeol off.

“When are the aluminum can people coming?” Tewilliger asked the assistant.

“Should have been here five minutes ago,” said Hannigan, looking at his watch.

That frosted him — senators kept lobbyists waiting, not the other way around. Especially greedy sons of bitches like Mo and Schmo, Tewilliger’s pet names for the two lobbyists who wanted more waivers in the upcoming environmental bill.

“Which line?” Tewilliger asked.

“Two.”

“Keep Mo and Schmo outside at least ten minutes before telling me they’re here,” Tewilliger told his assistant before picking up the phone. “Harry, how the hell are you?”

“Senator, I have important information from a friend in Korea. Very important,” said Mangjeol breathlessly. “It is… incredible.”

“What’s that?”

“Kim Jong-Il is to be deposed. A defector will take off tonight with a list of his foreign bank accounts.”

He’s finally lost it, Tewilliger thought, trying to decide how to deal with him. Sane or not, Mangjeol represented considerable contributions.

“Well, that is… incredible information,” said the senator. “But… Well, to act on it…”

“I will forward you the e-mail. If you can get it into the right hands.”

“Of course I can get it into the right hands,” said Tewilliger. Perhaps Mangjeol wasn’t insane. Perhaps the e-mail had some small piece of truth in it.

More likely it was part of a complicated phishing scam launched by Chinese pirates.

Then again, it might have some value. He could forward it to the CIA..

No, send it directly to McCarthy, or one of his people. Let them take the fall if it was phony.

“I would not believe that it was real,” said Mangjeol, “but it does contain specific details, including a location of a secret air base.”

“Send it, please,” Tewilliger told Mangjeol. “And how are your children?”

5

“Ms. Alston, this is Senator Tewilliger. I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

Corrine glanced at her watch. It was only a quarter past five.

“Not at all, Senator. How can I help you?”

“As it happens, I may be able to help you. Or, rather, the president. Some important information has come to me and I want to deliver it to Jonathon personally.”

“He’s not back yet.”

“So I heard. This is very important, perhaps time critical. I was wondering if you could meet me in my office.”

Corrine hesitated.

“I realize it’s an unusual request, but the matter is unusual. It pertains to Korea, which I know the president has been asking you to help him with.”

“I can be over in an hour,” she told him.

“The sooner the better.”

Even though he’d had her rush over, Senator Tewilliger kept Corrine waiting in his outer office nearly fifteen minutes. She spent the time staring at the senator’s appointment secretary, a young woman roughly her age, whose long, elaborately painted nails made working the phone an adventure. The senator’s legislative assistant, James Hannigan, appeared from the inner office every few minutes to assure her that the senator was “just about ready.” Finally, the door to the office opened and two men Corrine recognized as lobbyists for the aluminum industry emerged just ahead of Tewilliger. The senator greeted her in a booming voice, then introduced her to the two lobbyists.

“The president’s counsel. I’m sure you know her,” said Tewilliger.

Corrine smiled politely and shook the men’s hands, convinced the senator had called her over primarily to impress the lobbyists; her presence would suggest he was very close to the president.

The lobbyists gone, Tewilliger ushered her inside, then stepped out to check to see if any important messages had been left while he’d been “in conference.” It was an old Washington game, puffing up one’s importance, but all it did was antagonize Corrine further.

“Important news,” said Tewilliger when he came back in. “I have something that came from unofficial sources.”

“OK.”

“A North Korean pilot is going to defect in the next twenty-four hours. He’ll be in a MiG-29, one of their newest planes. He’ll have records with him relating to Kim Jong-Il.”

“What sort of records?”

“Financial records.” Tewilliger opened his top desk drawer and took a folded piece of paper out. “This is a copy of the e-mail. It’s in Korean, unfortunately. I had James make a copy of the file. Apparently you need some sort of special keyboard or letter set to read the characters right or they come out as you see.”

“Where exactly did this information come from?”

“A constituent with very high-level contacts over there, business contacts,” said the senator. “I don’t know much about these things, but I’ve heard that you can trace e-mail. Supposedly there are map coordinates and actual place names my constituent claims are real.”

Corrine glanced at the e-mail header. There was quite a bit of data there, but it was not very difficult to spoof or fake an e-mail address or the path it had taken to its recipient.

“I don’t want to sound skeptical…” started Corrine.

“But you are.”

“I guess I am.”

“So am I. As I say, I don’t read Korean.”

“Have you contacted the CIA?”

“I thought you would prefer to do that,” said Tewilliger.

“I will,” said Corrine. She rose.

“Ms. Alston, I know the president and I… at times we haven’t always agreed on policy. The treaty is an example of that. The incident in the North, with the army mobilizing… Well, it made me decide I have to oppose the treaty at all costs. But I assure you, what Jon McCarthy and I agree on far surpasses our few disagreements.”

“I’m sure the president would agree.”

“And with you I have no disagreements,” said Tewilliger.

“Thank you, Senator.”

Tewilliger got up from behind his desk and took the door as she opened it. “If you ever decide to look for a new boss, come see me,” he told her. “I intend to be at this game a long time.”

Corrine couldn’t think of anything to say, so she only smiled.

6

“This is a wonderful present, Mr. Park,” said Yeop Hu, studying the jeweled hilt. “I am quite honored to receive it.”

“It’s a small token of friendship.” Park nodded to the president.

“We’ve never been very good friends,” admitted South Korea’s president. He smiled at his staff members.

“This is true,” said Park, “but there is the future, and perhaps we will find our way then.”

“Certainly.”

The president placed the knife back in its scabbard and returned it to the wooden box Park had presented it in.

“I have something else for you,” the billionaire told the politician. “Given the present crisis, it may be of use.”

“It’s just another bluff by the dictator to show that he is alive,” said Yeop. “In a few days, it will blow over.”

“Perhaps.” Park reached inside his jacket and took out two large envelopes. “A friend asked me to deliver these personally. I do not know what they contain.”

“A friend?”

“An important man in the North. General Namgung.”

At the mention of the North Korean general, the president reached for one of the ceremonial letter openers on his desk. This disappointed Park; he had hoped the president would use the knife.

One of the envelopes contained detailed orders similar to those that had been carried by the “defector” who’d been shot at the DMZ a few days before. The second was a brief, handwritten letter. The letter stated that the author would do whatever he could to preserve peace between the people of Korea.

“It’s not signed,” said the president, holding it up for Park to see.

“As I said, I haven’t looked at the letters. They were not addressed to me.” Park nodded again. “But perhaps the general thought it unwise to put his signature to anything.”

The president handed both documents to his chief of staff, directing that they be sent to the National Security Council immediately.

“You know Namgung well?”

“Our families were in business together many years in the past,” said Park. “Before the barbarians raped our people in the world war.”

The president’s mood had deepened considerably. “Let us have lunch,” he said. “We can discuss this further.”

Park bowed. As they left the room, he shot a glance back toward the ancient knife he had brought as a present. How long would it take the president, he wondered, to learn that the man for whom it had been made, a thirteenth-century traitor to one of the great lords of Korea, had used it to commit suicide after his crime was discovered?

7

To get beyond the crisis, Slott knew he had to put his personal feelings aside, but it was difficult, very difficult.

He took a deep breath, then used the secure line to call Corrine Alston.

“This is Corrine.”

“The e-mail you sent over, we’ve translated it,” he told her. “It has flight coordinates, not an actual base. But we have a reasonable idea where it would have had to start from.”

“It’s a real e-mail?”

“It appears so. The course here would take the aircraft to Japan. As it happens, it’s almost precisely the course a North Korean defector took a decade ago, bringing his MiG-27 west.”

“Did the message come from North Korea?” Corrine asked.

“Ultimately? It’s possible. We’re not sure.”

The National Security Agency had intercepted a similar e-mail to someone in the Japanese consulate in Seoul a few hours ago. Tracing the e-mails’ origin was not as easy as people thought, however, since someone who knew what he or she was doing could employ a number of tricks to disguise the true path. There were enough arguments for and against authenticity in this case that the NSA had held off on an official verdict. At the very least, it was an elaborate fake — so elaborate that it had to be taken seriously.

“Can I ask where this came from?” said Slott, trying his best to keep his voice level.

“Gordon Tewilliger got it from a constituent. He called me over to his office about a half hour ago.”

“Why you?”

“I don’t know. He wanted me to give it to you — to the Agency — and to alert the president. He’s opposed to the treaty, though. So I don’t know his angle precisely. It’s political, obviously.”

Slott wasn’t convinced that the e-mail had simply dropped into her lap. But there was no point in pursuing it. If Corrine Alston — if the president — was running some sort of backdoor clandestine service, he wasn’t in a position to stop it.

“We should share this with the South Koreans and the Japanese.”

“By all means.”

“Who is it who’s defecting?” asked Corrine. “Does it say?”

“It’s not just that they’re going to defect,” explained Slott. “This mentions financial records of the leader. Presumably, those are foreign bank accounts belonging to Kim Jong-Il. That’s immensely valuable information. Far more valuable than any aircraft the pilot will take with him.”

“That’s good.”

She didn’t sound like someone making an end run around him, thought Slott. That was what was so damn annoying about her. She seemed so… not naive but up-front. Honest.

The best liars were like that.

“I’m going to attend the National Security Council meeting this evening,” said Slott. “There may be more information by then.”

“I’ll see you there.”

“Yup,” he said, hanging up.

8

The Seven Sisters Medical Treatment Corporation provided diagnostic services to local doctors and hospitals. Patients went there for everything from old-fashioned X rays to elaborate positron emission tomography (PET) scans. Radioactive materials — technically referred to as radiopharmaceuticals — were used in many of the tests, and the facility generated a small but steady stream of waste each week. Special trucks were used to transport the waste to the disposal site.

Thera had no trouble finding this out. She simply joined the flow of patients going in the front door and then, before taking a seat in the large reception area, picked up one of the four-color brochures printed in Korean and English explaining the lab and a few of its more “popular” tests. It even contained a photo of the trucks — Hyundais.

When she was done reading, Thera headed down a back hall where the restrooms were and kept going, passing a number of test suites and arriving at a loading dock at the rear of the building. No one gave her a second look.

Thera slipped down off the loading area and walked around, spotting the two Hyundai transports and looking over the employee cars parked nearby. Then she circled back around to the front of the building, returning to her car to get satellite tracking devices and gamma tabs to put in the trucks.

As she pulled her car around the back, she saw two employees come out on the loading dock for a smoking break. She kept going, passing around the back of the building and following the road to the right, killing time until they were done.

Seven Sisters Medical Treatment Corporation was situated at the front of a commercial park. A long open field sat behind it. Beyond the field, four cement-block buildings were arrayed one after the other. In contrast to the medical testing center, they were old and appeared abandoned, with weeds growing in the lots that surrounded them.

Thera pulled into the second lot to turn around and go back; as she did, she saw there was a large truck parked next to the back of the building. Curious, she continued toward it, realizing as she got closer that it was the same make as the trucks Ferguson had been interested in in Daejeon.

Thera parked at the far end of the lot and got out. The building was definitely abandoned: The rear windows were boarded up, and a pile of scrap wood sat near a rusted steel fire door.

The truck didn’t have a license plate, but it looked drivable. The interior was clean, and the gas gauge read full.

The back roll-up door was secured by a combination padlock. Armed with a pen and pad, Thera began working on cracking the combination lock, a ten-gate device only a little more complicated than the locks high school kids used on their gym lockers. She found the gates, then began working through a list of likely combination sequences based on usual lock patterns. It took her about ten minutes to snap the lock open.

The truck was empty. She stuffed the tab near the door the same way Ferguson had, closed it up and returned the lock to its place.

She’d just climbed down when she heard a car approaching. Thera reached beneath her coat for one of her pistols and started to walk back toward her car.

A white sedan pulled alongside her. She resisted the urge to pull the gun.

“Annyeonghaseyo, manaseo ban-gawoyo,” yelled a voice from inside the car as the window rolled down.

“Hi, nice to meet you.” A pickup line.

Thera glanced at the man sitting in the passenger seat. He looked about twenty. So did the driver.

“Eodiseo wasseoyo?” said the kid, asking where she was from.

“Far away,” said Thera in Korean.

“You’re on your own?”

Thera smirked and resumed walking.

The car stayed alongside her.

“You cute,” said the kid, this time using English.

“Yeah,” muttered Thera under her breath.

She walked a few more steps, trying to ignore them. The car slowed, and the passenger jumped from the car.

Thera spun around to face him.

“Get lost,” she said sharply.

The young man laughed.

“I’m warning you,” she told him.

He took a step toward her. Thera, her patience gone and her heart starting to thump, dropped into a combat crouch, pointing her gun at his head.

The man’s grin faded. He put up his hands and began backing toward the car.

“That’s it,” she told him. “Go.”

He made a mad dash for the vehicle as his friend began backing up. Once he was inside, the driver spun the car around and sped away.

Thera ran to her car and got in, driving away as deliberately as she could. When she stopped in the city a short time later, her hands started to shake.

She pulled her things out, wiped down the interior and the door, then left the car in the lot, walking several blocks to rent a new one.

Were they kids or security or what?” asked Corrigan when she checked in.

“Probably ‘or what.’ They seemed pretty young, twenties, like they were cruising and saw somebody they could hit on. Macho shit. You know men.”

Corrigan didn’t say anything.

“I’ll go back tonight and check out the building once it’s dark,” added Thera. “See if you can find out who owns it.”

“Ten bucks says it’s Park.”

“Probably.” Thera looked around the mall where she was sitting.

“We have some good news,” said Corrigan. “Ferg’s OK.”

“He is?”

Thera felt tears coming to her eyes. She brushed them back, took a long breath.

She was sitting on a bench in a park. A little boy and his parents were walking nearby. She waited while they walked to the swings, well out of earshot.

“You there?” asked Corrigan.

“People playing on the swing.”

“Can you talk?”

“Go ahead.”

“When you were with Park, did he say anything about a General Namgung?” continued Corrigan. “According to Ferguson, they had a secret meeting.”

The little boy jumped from the swing, a big smile on his face. Proud of himself, he waved at her. Thera waved back.

“Thera? Are you there?”

“I’m here,” she told him. “What general were you talking about?”

“Namgung. I think I have the pronunciation right. He’s in charge of all North Korean forces in the capital region.”

Hadn’t Tak Ch’o mentioned that he worked with him?

“Corrigan, can you hook me into Rankin on the Peleliu?”

“Why?”

“Because Ch’o worked with Namgung and did some shielding for air transport.”

“The containers the university truck moved!”

“Just get me Rankin.”

9

Jiménez had already finished the morning session with Tak Ch’o and was about to leave when Rankin arrived, fresh off the phone with Thera.

“I have a couple of questions for you,” Rankin told the scientist. “If you don’t mind.”

Ch’o nodded and lay back on his bed. Not only was it more comfortable to rest while he talked, but it was also practical, since the cabin was so small.

“You helped a general named Namgung on a project recently,” said

Rankin. “He headed the army around Seoul. I wonder if you could tell me about that.”

Ch’o glanced at the interviewer, then back at Rankin.

“General Namgung,” said Ch’o, correcting the American’s mispronunciation. “I have worked under his command several times. He is not simply the head of the army around Seoul but an important man in other respects as well. Very influential with the leader.”

“Was he involved in the production of nuclear weapons?”

“Not directly. As I said the other day,” Ch’o glanced at the interpreter, “my role in the weapons program was extremely limited. My field is primarily dealing with by-products. Waste.”

“You had a way of moving waste so it wouldn’t harm people. In airplanes,” said Rankin. He knew he needed to prompt Ch’o to fill in the details, but he wasn’t sure how to get him to do it.

“The project I was doing with the general involved finding a way to move rods of fuel around the country safely,” said Ch’o. “The rods come from reactors. When the operation is stopped and they are removed, first they must cool, of course. After a period of time they can be moved and stored at a facility such as the one where I was working. From there, they would be taken to Russia or somewhere else for processing. The general was interested in doing so in standard jetliners. This would have presented a grave problem without shielding.”

“Airliners with passengers?”

“No,” said Ch’o. “But there would have been danger to the crews.”

Ch’o wasn’t telling the entire truth. While the general had mentioned safety as a concern, shielding the rods would also make them nearly impossible to detect. That was the general’s real purpose. Namgung had never said that; it was understood.

“These rods were for weapons fuel?” said Jiménez.

“It doesn’t exactly work that way,” said Ch’o. “Plutonium can be used for weapons, but the danger has nothing to do with that fact. The radiation—”

“So were these used?” asked Jiménez.

“No. The rods are still in storage.”

“How do you know?”

“When they are removed from the reactor, they’re very hot. They’re placed in pools of water. It can take considerable time for them to cool off.”

“Weeks?”

“Months. In some cases, years. The rods have been accounted for. The UN, the Chinese, the International Atomic Energy Agency — all of the inspections have certified this.”

Rankin remained skeptical. “Maybe some were hidden.”

“Plutonium is very expensive and difficult to obtain.”

“Would you know of other control rods?” Jiménez asked.

“I might not,” admitted Ch’o.

“So you were making containers that could carry hot plutonium?” said Rankin.

“No, the material would have to be cool.”

“So wait.” It still didn’t make sense to Rankin. “When were you doing this?”

“Six months ago. No, perhaps three or four.”

“You designed these things. Were they built?”

“I don’t know. I gave him the plans.”

“Your containers would have allowed you to transport the material without calling attention to it, wouldn’t they?” said Jiménez. “In secret, on aircraft that weren’t specially modified.”

Ch’o nodded.

“Why would you worry about that in North Korea?” said Rankin.

“It was to protect people,” said Ch’o, “and, maybe, if there were spies. That is what the general said: to keep them away from spies.”

“Yeah,” said Rankin. “That’s one reason.”

10

“I have always heard that the mice will play while the cat is away, but I did not believe that would apply to the president of the United States and his staff.”

McCarthy’s rich southern voice jolted Corrine from the paper she was reading; she nearly fell out of her chair.

“Now, relax, dear,” said the president, closing the door to her office. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“I’m sorry, Jonathon. I didn’t realize you’d come back.”

“An hour ago. I’ve been busy.” McCarthy sat down in a chair across from her. “And so, I understand, have you.”

“Tom Parnelles wants to talk to you,” she said, “before the NSC meeting later.”

“Mr. Parnelles has already spoken to me,” said McCarthy. “About your operative.”

“Bob Ferguson.”

The president put up his hand. He didn’t want to hear any more about the mission than absolutely necessary, and he particularly didn’t want to know the name of the man stranded in North Korea.

“We have a plan to get him,” said Corrine. “They’re going to take off in a few hours, as soon as it’s dark.”

McCarthy pressed his lips together. Corrine felt a hole open in her stomach.

“I am afraid, dear, that we cannot do that. The life of a single CIA officer, no matter how skilled he may be, cannot justify provoking a war between North and South Korea.”

“But—”

“There are no buts. It is, unfortunately, my duty to make the decision.” McCarthy rose. “I am sorry. It is the way it must be.”

Corrine stared at her computer screen.

“You will attend the National Security session, will you not, dear?”

“Now that you’re back, I don’t—”

“Now that I’m back, I find myself very much in need of the services of my legal counsel.”

“Of course, Mr. President. Whatever you want.”

11

More and more trucks. This time, Ferguson counted over fifty before he lost track. They were speeding south, hurrying in the direction of the capital… or maybe South Korea.

Ferguson dutifully reported what he saw when he called in but didn’t bother asking Corrigan what was going on. He figured there wasn’t anything Corrigan could tell him that would help him much.

If something truly bad happened — if the North went ahead and attacked — then they’d come. Then it’d be cool. Or if everybody stepped back, relaxed, then they’d come ahead.

But like this, with everybody moving around, rushing, on high alert but not actually shooting, Slott would hold back. He wouldn’t want to be the match that set the shed on fire.

Ferguson knew that. He’d known it when they all talked to him. Now, with all the trucks passing, it was even more obvious.

What he didn’t know was what he was going to do next.

He sat down in the bushes as twilight came on, trying to remember how Chaucer had begun the “Pardoneres Tale.”

12

“What the hell do you mean we’re not going?” Rankin slammed his helmet on the chair next to him in the secure communications space. The sailors on the other side of the room jerked around and stared.

“The order is from Parnelles himself,” said Van Buren over the secure satellite radio. “We’re on Hold.”

“Aw, screw that, Colonel. Screw it. We gotta go in.”

“We are not, Sergeant. We are standing by until we have further orders.”

Sergeant. The chain of command always came up when the shit hit the fan, thought Rankin.

“Stephen?”

“Yeah, all right. We’ll stand fucking by,” said Rankin. He tossed the microphone down and stalked from the compartment.

13

Thera stopped the car about a mile down the road from the Seven Sisters Medical Treatment Corporation, parking in the lot of a vast apartment complex. She smiled at a young couple walking toward the high-rise, then removed the bicycle from the rental’s trunk. Tucking her hair under a watch cap, she strapped on her backpack, then cycled out of the lot, riding down a small service road in the direction of the business park.

The road ended about forty yards from the parking area. She turned off the macadam and began pedaling across the field. The sun had only just set, but the field was already so dark she could barely see the building she was aiming at. Thera bumped along on the bike, steering between the rocks and scraping against the tall clumps of underbrush.

A chain-link fence separated the field from the parking lot behind the buildings. Thera rode along it until she spotted an opening, then turned, gliding through and bumping down onto the pockmarked asphalt.

She stopped near the pile of discarded wood, not far from the truck, dropping the bike against the pile. It was nearly invisible from five feet away.

Crouching next to the truck, Thera made sure she hadn’t been followed. Then she went over to the corner of the building where a large power cable fed into a box and meter. The meter showed that the power was off; she confirmed this with a handheld current meter, the same one she used to detect alarm wiring. Then she checked the rest of the perimeter, making sure she was alone before returning to the back of the building.

The window frames were made of metal, and the plywood covering them had been attached with thick screws. Thera took a large Phillips-head screwdriver from her rucksack and began backing the screws out of the frame closest to the truck. She took out six screws, leaving only the two at the very top, which were hard for her to reach. The wood creaked and split as she pried the board away from the bottom and squeezed underneath.

The glass windows were still intact under the board. Thera smacked her gloved fist and then her elbow against the pane, but it wouldn’t shatter. She had to use a glass cutter, and even then it took several minutes to get past the thick outer glass.

The inside pane gave way more easily. Thera made a large hole, then stuck her head through to look around with the help of her night-vision goggles.

Metal studs crisscrossed the vast space. The place smelled as if it were filled with fine metallic dust.

She climbed inside. Though empty, the interior looked in better shape than the outside, clean and neat, the polished concrete floor smooth. Thick canvas tarps covered a cluster of objects of different sizes at the extreme right side of the building.

Choosing one at random, Thera cut away the belt securing the canvas and found a drill press. She reached into her backpack and took out a plastic bag, collecting some of the fillings in the work tray below the table. Then she took a radiation meter and held its wand over the machinery.

The needle didn’t move.

She went to the wall, making sure it was the outer one, then began looking around the floor, searching for a trapdoor or some other hiding place. But the floor was solid concrete and had been swept so clean that even her great grandmother would have approved.

Wouldn’t a shuttered factory like this be filled with dust?

Puzzled, Thera began pulling the tarps off the machines one by one. Most were specialized fabrication tools she was unfamiliar with; she took pictures with the infrared digital camera, just in case.

The shavings in some of the machines were plastic. Thera found a table stacked with thin sheets of metal she thought was lead. Unsure, she took the smallest piece she could find, a narrow strip about a quarter-inch thick and eight inches long.

As she cinched her backpack to go, Thera heard a sharp snap behind her. She spun back in the direction of the sound. In that instant, the lights came on.

14

General Namgung had still not made up his mind which pilot to choose when he arrived at the small airstrip south of Kusŏng. This was uncharacteristic; throughout his career he had decided most important matters literally in seconds. Now, as his most important moment neared, he found it impossible to pick its agent.

Perhaps he needed to look each man in the eye, to feel his grip. Perhaps it was the human connection that he lacked, the spark that would set everything in motion.

It was already in motion, moving across the country. There was grumbling, questions from P’yŏngyang, from the Great Leader himself. The Southerners were slow to react, obviously thinking it was some sort of bluff, but that was just as well.

Several generals had refused to follow his orders, and Namgung knew he might not be able to trust all of the units near the capital. But he had never counted on one hundred percent support in any event. Once the attack was launched, the reactions from the Americans and from the Chinese would propel events. His position would carry him.

Namgung’s car stopped in front of a small concrete building. Next to the building, concealed by a large camouflaged net, was a ramp that led to an underground aircraft shelter.

Nearly all of North Korea’s air force facilities had underground concrete hangars. This one, however, was unique in that it was occupied by a single plane, a MiG-29 the country had acquired within the past few months, partly with money made available by Park. The aircraft, an improved version of the already formidable fighter-bomber, combined the latest Russian and Western technologies, and was considered superior even by the Americans to all but a handful of fighters. Small and fast, it could avoid the most powerful radars until it was too close to its target to be stopped.

Strapped to its belly was a nuclear device built with the billionaire’s help. Park had supplied the plutonium; North Korean scientists working for Namgung had done everything else.

“General, everything is in order,” said Lee, saluting as the general approached. “The fuel truck will arrive within ninety minutes, as soon as the satellite passes.”

“Very good,” said Namgung. “Where are the pilots?”

“Practicing with the simulator, as you ordered. Should I get them?”

Namgung turned back toward the airfield, looking at the dark sky. Clouds obscured the moon. It was perfect.

“Let them practice a little longer,” he said.

15

Three men stood at the far end of the empty factory.

“Back for fun?” yelled one of them, his English heavily accented.

It was the kid who’d bothered her earlier in the day.

Thera threw herself behind the nearest machine as one of the men began firing a submachine gun. The others yelled at him in Korean to stop wasting his bullets and be careful; they would get in trouble if they damaged the machines.

Thera pulled one of her Glocks out from beneath her coat.

“You remember me from this afternoon?” said the man with the machine gun. “You were very brave when you were the one with the weapon. Let’s see how brave you are now.”

He fired off another burst.

Thera edged to the side of the machine. They’d have a clear shot at her from where they were if she moved, but staying here didn’t make sense; they could move down the side of the building and then attack her from behind the other machines.

She drew her second pistol, took a breath and held it midway. Then she pushed the rest of the air from her lungs and leapt upward, firing twice and taking down the man on her far right.

It took the others two or three seconds to return fire. By that time she had ducked behind the long bending press. Their bullets clinked and clanged as they ricocheted off the heavy machine. Thera scrambled behind it, then rolled to a second tarped hulk nearby.

The two men were cursing bitterly. That was good, she thought; they would react rather than think.

Thera worked her way toward the side of the building where she had come in. When she reached the last machine she slipped one of her guns into her coat pocket and got down on her belly, snaking out from behind the tarp to look for the Koreans.

They weren’t where she had left them.

Thera saw something move to her left and jerked back, firing as she ducked behind cover. Her first bullet got the Korean in the chest, where his bulletproof vest caught it, but her second rose all the way to his neck, slicing a hole in his windpipe.

The third went between his eyes. He blasted away with his machine gun as he hit the floor, his death jerk emptying the magazine.

The other man began screaming and firing wildly on the other side of the building, pouring his bullets in the direction of the machine where Thera had first hidden. He ran through the entire clip of his gun, yelling insanely in Korean. When the gun was out of ammo he began to retreat, running up the far side of the building.

Thera jumped to her feet and ran after him. When she was about six feet away she launched herself, landing on his back.

He collapsed. His gun flew across the floor, clattering against the wall. He struggled for a moment, but the fight was out of him; his courage had fled and left him a powerless shell. Thera pounded the side of his head once, then twisted him onto his back, her knees on his arms and her gun in his throat. Tears flowed from his eyes.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Who?”

He started to answer in Korean.

“English, damn you, or you join your friends.”

“We look after the buildings,” he said.

“You’re security?”

He couldn’t understand what she was saying.

“Explain what you do,” said Thera.

“We watch. There are cameras in the high-rise. We chase children away, mostly.”

“Where are your uniforms?”

“No uniforms; too much attention. Quiet. We must be quiet or no pay.”

“Who hired you?”

“Management company.” He gave a name in Korean that meant nothing.

“Where’d the electricity come from?” Thera asked.

He didn’t understand the question. Thera jumped up and hauled him to his feet.

“The lights,” she said. “The power line outside isn’t connected.”

“Underground. Keys… We have keys. Everything quiet. No attention.”

“What was this building used for?”

“I don’t know.”

Thera jabbed her pistol into his throat. “Talk to me or die.”

A fresh flood of tears rained down his cheeks. She smelled urine; he’d wet himself.

“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “No. I don’t know.”

“The other buildings. What’s in them?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? What did they make here?”

“A box. Big, like a… I don’t know the word in English. They took it away.”

“Use Korean.”

He described it in Korean. Thera understood maybe a tenth of the words.

She pushed him against the wall and patted him down quickly. He had another magazine of bullets for his submachine gun and a cell phone; she kicked both across the floor.

“Come,” she told him, leading him to her backpack at the other end of the building. She tied his hands together with plastic-zip handcuffs, then grabbed her sat phone and dialed into The Cube. Lauren was on the other end.

“Get a Korean translator on the line. Ask this guy what he saw in the building. See if it sounds like an airplane container.”

“Thera?”

“Do it.”

“I’m doing it. I’m doing it.”

16

The National Security Council meeting was scheduled to begin at eight p.m. President McCarthy practically leapt into the room at 7:58, full of energy. The laid-back southern gentleman always yielded to a purposeful commander in a crisis.

“Gentlemen, ladies. I’m glad we’re all here.” McCarthy’s drawl had a decidedly caffeinated flavor to it. “Korea. Update me, if you will.”

Verigo Johnson from the CIA began running down the latest intelligence. The key word seemed to be confusion; even the North Koreans didn’t seem to know what was going on.

The Japanese government had issued a terse though polite “we don’t comment on rumors” statement, while at the same time placing its self-defense forces on high alert. The Russians had issued a statement of support for Kim Jong II “during his illness”; the Chinese had remained characteristically silent. Behind the scenes, the British were suggesting a coup was underway and had notified the U.S. that two warships would be steaming toward the area and could be called on if necessary.

About halfway through the slides in Johnson’s PowerPoint presentation, one of Slott’s aides came into the room and whispered something in his ear. He grimaced, then looked across at Corrine and motioned with his head toward the door.

She waited a minute after he left, trying to preserve some pretense that she wasn’t working with him.

Slott had gone down the hall to the secure communication center and was talking to Thera in Korea when Corrine got there. The communications specialist on duty had already arranged for her to join the line; all Corrine had to do was pick up the phone.

“The cargo container was lined with lead,” Thera was saying. “That’s why it was so heavy. It must have gone north when the 727 brought Ferguson north.”

“What went north?” asked Corrine.

“The plutonium,” explained Thera. “Park had a special container made for his aircraft. We have the scientist who designed it in North Korea, and I’ve spoken to the people who moved it.”

“They must have used it to bring the plutonium south,” said Slott.

“No, not south,” said Thera. “It was south. It went north.”

“I doubt that,” said Slott. “Park must be buying it from the North Koreans. He wouldn’t be giving them plutonium.”

“Why do you think it went north?” asked Corrine.

“Because the plutonium was at the waste site when I was there, and now it’s not. Right? They must have moved it out. Maybe it was in one of those train cars near the tag. and then was removed by the truck that Ferguson saw.”

“That just means they moved it to a better hiding place,” said Slott. “Giving bomb material to the North would make no sense. They’re almost at war.”

“Maybe Park thinks he’ll somehow benefit if there’s an attack on South Korea,” said Corrine.

“I don’t think so,” said Thera. “He’s kind of nutty, but not in that way. He collects old Korean relics. He’s really into history. Really into it.”

Corrine glanced up at Slott. “What did Ferguson say about Park? He hates the Japanese.”

“Big time,” said Thera. “Can’t stand them.”

“The defector with the dictator’s bank data,” said Corrine, realizing where the senator’s e-mail had come from. “What if that plane were carrying a bomb?”

17

Ferguson lay in his hiding spot among the rocks, leaning on his elbows as he contemplated the stars. He hadn’t slept. He couldn’t sleep; his mind spun in a million different directions, just beyond his control.

“We’re all going to die,” a friend who had pancreatic cancer once told him, “but I’ve been blessed with the knowledge that it’ll be very soon.”

“That’s because you’re a priest,” Ferguson had answered. “You see everything as a blessing.”

“Aye, but truly it is, because it gives me a chance to do my best until then. Every day.”

“Shouldn’t we do that anyway?”

“If we did, Ferg, then what in the world would I have to preach about every Sunday? Will you tell me that, lad?”

“Will you tell me that, lad?” said Ferguson now, staring at the night sky. “Will you tell me that?”

The thick clouds refused to answer.

If living meant living like this — shaking from the cold, exhausted, his mind torn off its pegs — was it worth living?

No.

Why bother?

Ferguson rubbed his eyes. They were like hard marbles in wooden saucers.

The sat phone began to buzz. He grabbed it, held it to his ear expectantly.

“We leaving?” he asked.

“Ferg, this is Corrine Alston. I’m here with Dan Slott.”

“Wicked Stepmother,” he said, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. “You calling to tell me I’m going to have to walk to China?”

“Ferg, when Park met with the general, was there any talk about a MiG-29?” asked Corrine.

“I didn’t hear the conversation,” said Ferguson. “Why?”

“We’ve been told that a MiG pilot is going to defect and fly to Japan with documents saying where Kim Jong-Il has hidden his money. We’ve located what we think is the airport where he’s supposed to be taking off from. It has an unimproved strip.”

“Ferg, remember the airstrip A5?” asked Slott.

“More or less.”

“It’s south of Kusŏng. You looked at it as a possible evac base, but we couldn’t be sure if it was inactive.”

“Yeah, OK.” Ferguson didn’t remember it at all.

“It’s only about fifteen miles from where you are,” said Slott. “The satellite passed over it a few minutes ago, and there was nothing on the strip. But if the aircraft is in an underground hangar, it might be there.”

“Why do you think there?”

“We have coordinates that indicate something will take off from that area pretty soon. We’re arranging a Global Hawk surveillance flight with ground-penetrating radar, but it’s going to take about two hours at least for it to get up and get over there. If you were able to use the bike that’s in the cache kit, you’d get there in half the time. You could at least tell us if the runway’s clear.”

“Yeah.” Ferguson got up and started pulling the bike together. “Did you find the plutonium?”

Neither of them answered.

“All righty then. Hook me up with Corrigan so I can get a road map.”

18

The National Security briefing had already broken up by the time Corrine and Slott finished talking with Ferguson. They followed the president and a knot of aides up to the Oval Office. Corrine felt almost sheepish, as if she’d snuck out of class to meet a boyfriend and gotten caught.

Slott felt as if he were in the middle of a painful dream. He still wasn’t sure he believed Park and the North Koreans were actually aiming at the Japanese. It was a wild theory but too dangerous to ignore.

Parnelles, who was with the president, saw them in the corridor. The CIA director whispered something to McCarthy, and the president’s voice suddenly boomed through the hall.

“I require a few minutes to discuss something with my attorney,” McCarthy told the others. “Miss Alston, if you could meet me upstairs please. Tom, why don’t you and Dan stand by, and I’ll take you right after her. Everyone else, please have a very good dinner.”

When they got to the president’s office, Corrine insisted that Slott and Parnelles come in and then made Slott say what they had found. McCarthy leaned back in his leather chair, one foot propped against the drawer of the desk.

“It is an incredible theory, Mr. Slott. Very incredible,” he said when Slott finished.

“It’s out there, sir.”

“And we’re checking it out?”

“We have an officer nearby. A coincidence.”

But maybe it wasn’t much of a coincidence at all, Slott thought as he said that. Ferguson always managed to get himself in the middle of whatever was going on.

“Lucky for us, Mr. Slott. Can we stop this aircraft?”

“I can try and get it on the ground, Mr. President,” Slott said. “I have the Special Forces component of the First Team offshore. I can get them into position to make an attack. With your permission.”

McCarthy did not want to accidentally start a war between South and North Korea, but even that paled against the possibility of Japan being attacked with a nuclear weapon.

“If the aircraft is there, do it. In the meantime, alert the air force.”

“Jon, if this is a defector,” said Parnelles, “we don’t necessarily want to shoot him down.”

“Better to shoot him down than risk Tokyo being obliterated.” McCarthy picked up his phone. “Jess, run and get Larry Stich before he leaves for the Pentagon, would you? And the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Round him up as well. And the secretary of state and Ms. Manzi. Tell them I have some new developments that require their input.”

19

As tired as he was, as dead-dog beat tired as he felt, riding the bike made Ferguson feel incredibly better. It was something to do, a goal. He could turn off the rumbling in his brain and just push down on the pedals, pump up the road Corrigan said would take him directly to the airstrip.

Fifteen miles. That was about an hour’s ride at a decent, moderate pace.

I’m going to do it in less, he told himself, pushing. Much less.

Less.

20

Rankin raced into the gym his men were using as a ready room.

“Saddle up! We got a mission, let’s go,” he shouted through the doorway. “Let’s do it. Get aboard the choppers. Come on, let’s go.”

The men snapped to immediately, grabbing their gear and trotting in the direction of the flight deck.

“We getting Ferguson?” asked Michael Barren, the Special Forces’ first sergeant.

“No. We’re going to neutralize an air base. The Marines are going to back us up.”

“An air base?”

“I’ll lay it out in the helicopter. Come on.”

21

Corrine kept a low profile, sitting at the side of the Oval Office and saying absolutely nothing. Reactions to the theory that Park had made or helped make a bomb that would be used in an attack against Japan ranged from incredulous to… incredulous. Neither the secretary of state nor the secretary of defense thought it possible. Nor were they willing to accept that the South Korean government — let alone one of its citizens — had been working on a bomb.

“They have done such work before,” said Slott, referring to the extraction experiments a decade before. “They only came clean when the International Atomic Energy Agency caught them.”

“We can shoot the aircraft down,” said Defense Secretary Stich. “They know that. Their airplanes are ancient.”

“The North Koreans have purchased at least two new MiG-29s in the past few months,” said Parnelles. “Those are formidable aircraft.”

“We’ll still shoot it down.”

“There is at least a theoretical possibility that the aircraft could escape detection,” said Parnelles, “once it is in the air.”

Slott, impatient to get back to work, tapped his foot as a technical discussion continued about how exactly the aircraft could escape detection and whether the Japanese Self-Defense Force could stop it.

He could tell from the looks he was getting that the others thought he’d lost control of the Agency if not his mind. They were probably thinking of suitable replacements right now.

This was one part of the job he wasn’t going to miss, the meetings, the posturing, the backstabbing. Backstabbing, especially.

Slott passed a note to Parnelles saying he wanted to leave. Parnelles nodded. Slott waited for a lull in the conversation, then rose and excused himself, saying he had a few things he had to stay on top of.

“By all means, Daniel. You get back to work,” said McCarthy, rising. “We all should. I believe we’ve discussed this as far as it can be discussed at the moment.”

Corrine slipped out as well, ducking down the hall toward her office. Slott, momentarily detained by the chief of staff, followed behind her. She glanced at his face as she went into her office. It looked drawn and tired. Corrine felt as if she needed to say something encouraging to him.

“You’re doing a good job,” she told him.

“We can’t continue this,” he snapped.

Corrine stopped and stared at him. The remark seemed almost bizarre, as if they were continuing an affair.

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” he said, brushing past.

“No. What do you mean?” she insisted, going after him and grabbing his shoulder.

Slott stared at her. She was not quite young enough to be his daughter, but it was close.

“What experience do you have?” he said. “You’re a lawyer. You’ve only worked in Washington.”

“If you have some problem with me—”

“You bet I do.”

Slott’s voice was loud, too loud for the narrow hall. He glanced over his shoulder; the cabinet members were spilling out of the president’s office.

“I don’t need this now,” he said, turning to go.

“We can work this out.”

“Right.” He walked away.

Suddenly aware of the people behind her, Corrine clamped her mouth shut and went back to her office.

22

The engineer who designed Ferguson’s bicycle had spent considerable time making it light and easy to take apart. He’d given much less thought to making it easy to pedal and probably no thought at all to making it comfortable.

Ferguson’s legs felt as if they would fall off after about five miles. By the eighth, he’d lost all sensation in his lower back. There was barely enough light to see the road in front of him, and though he’d put on extra clothes, he was so cold his bones felt like ice.

But he kept pedaling, and the closer he got to the airstrip — he estimated the distance using his watch — the more confident he felt.

It’s delirium, he told himself. Then he started to laugh.

About three guffaws later, the front wheel of the bike hit a pothole, and he found himself flying through the air.

23

Corrine had left her office and was about to set out for The Cube when Jess Northrup flagged her down in the parking lot.

“President wants to talk to you,” said the assistant to the chief of staff. “I was calling to you. I guess you didn’t hear.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t hear,” said Corrine.

“Mustang’s almost ready,” added Northrup as they walked back inside.

“Still going to give me a ride?”

“Soon as I get an engine.”

You are doing a superb job on this, dear,” said McCarthy when she reached his office. The president had ordered his military aides to wait outside so he could talk to her alone. “I have a few questions I was hoping you could answer before I go downstairs to monitor the situation.”

“OK.”

“Is Park doing this himself? Or is the government involved?”

“I don’t know.”

McCarthy ran his fingers through his hair. “I think there is a strong possibility that the government is helping or at least turning a blind eye. I would like to know definitively.”

“How?”

“If you want to know who all the hens are, you’d best grab the rooster.”

“You want us to get Park?”

“If we don’t, I can only assume the South Koreans will. And I would be very surprised if he were able to be candid under such circumstances.” The president folded his arms. “The Japanese, for one, will not trust what he says if he is in Korean custody. It would be best for all concerned if he turned up here. A job for Special Demands, if ever there was one,” added McCarthy.

“All right,” said Corrine. “Dan Slott is pretty upset about the present arrangement.”

“Why is that?”

“I think he thinks I’m interfering with his job.”

“Are you?”

“No. But—”

She stopped, not sure exactly what she wanted to say.

“Pardon the expression, Miss Alston, but that is a pregnant pause if ever I have heard one.”

“You have to admit that the chain of command is confusing,” said Corrine. “And I realize that’s partly by design, but—”

McCarthy gave her his fox smile. “Are you accusing me of confusing my underlings?”

“I think you try and keep people on their toes.”

“I hope so. Don’t worry about Mr. Slott. Keep doing what you are doing.”

“Who’s in charge of the First Team?”

“I am, dear. I am in charge of everyone who works for this government. Their faults are my faults. They can take the credit if they want.”

“But as far as operations go—”

“You are my conscience and oversight in matters related to the Office of Special Demands, and the deputy director of operations of the CIA is in charge of Central Intelligence personnel. I see no confusion.”

Corrine knew she wasn’t going to get more of an answer, and this certainly wasn’t the moment to press him anyway.

“Work with him, dear. He’s a good man.”

“I know that. But I’m not the problem. Sir.”

24

Ferguson knew it was going to hurt when he landed.

He seemed to know that forever, flying forward in the blackness toward pain.

He managed to get his right hand up as he landed. This didn’t deflect the fall so much as it focused the anguish on the asphalt scraping his palm and forearm raw. He rolled over on the ground, the wind knocked out of him, unable even to scream.

There was no telling how long he might have lain there if he hadn’t noticed the faint light of headlights in the distance behind him. He pushed himself to his feet, grabbed the bicycle and dragged it off to the side as the lights rounded the curve behind him and became two distinct cones sweeping the night.

If he’d been in better shape, Ferguson might have leapt onto the back of the fuel truck as it passed, for it lumbered rather than sped. But he was too spent. He had barely enough strength to watch it as it passed.

Thirty yards down the road, the truck’s brake lights lit. It stopped, then began moving in reverse. With a groan, Ferguson grabbed for the pistol he’d tucked into the parka’s pocket, but the truck had only missed a turn. It took a right, the driver grinding the gears as he went up a winding path.

Ferguson got to his knees, then stood, watching the headlights disappear behind the trees. Corrigan had told him the airport was up about a hundred yards from the roadway, up a hill. There weren’t any settlements anywhere nearby.

Was this it already?

He pushed the bicycle into a clump of bushes and started in the direction the truck had taken. Ferguson walked until he came to a chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. His right hand hurt so much that he decided to look for a spot to crawl under rather than use it to pull himself over. Eventually he came to a hole made by a large tree trunk and managed to squeeze underneath.

Threading his way through a clump of young trees, Ferguson found himself at the edge of what he thought at first glance was a farm field. There were lights a few hundred yards away and a small building. It was only when he started walking toward them and dragged his feet across the ground that he was sure he’d found the airstrip.

He backtracked, walking along the perimeter near the fence until he found the road the truck had taken toward the building. As soon as he started down it, however, he caught a glimpse of two shadows moving a short distance away. He stopped, watching as they worked over a third lump. This one barrel-shaped. Fire suddenly erupted from it, and the two men held their hands out to warm themselves.

Can I take them?

I could use one of their uniforms.

Take them.

But if I’m asking the question, then I can’t do it. ‘Cause if I doubt myself, that’s a warning.

Find the plane and call it in. That’s most important.

Ferguson slid back in the direction of the fence, circling warily around the sentries. His hand was too mangled and his legs stiff. He couldn’t think quickly, and his body felt as if it were moving through mud.

He walked only another seventy or eighty yards before he had to stop and rest. There was definitely a plane there; he could see it in front of the hangar. The truck was nearby and must be refueling it.

What the hell else do I need to know?

Ferguson pulled out the sat phone.

“Corrigan, you awake?” he asked.

“I’m here, Ferg. Where are you?”

“I found your airstrip. There’s definitely an airplane here.”

“What kind?”

“Some sort of jet.”

“Is it a MiG?”

“Hang on, I’ll go ask them.” Ferguson put the phone down against his leg and shook his head. Then he picked the phone back up. “They say they don’t know.”

“I guess that was a dumb question, huh?”

“No, Jack, it was a ridiculously dumb question. I’m about seventy-five yards from them, maybe farther. I don’t know; my distance judgment’s off. They’re not using any lights. There’s a cube kind of building there, like a bunker. If all of that fits your description, this is the place you’re looking for.”

“Stand by.”

“I am standing.”

A moment later, Slott came on the line.

“Ferg?”

“Hey.”

“We’re sending in a team to take the plane out. Are you OK?”

“I really feel like horseshit to be honest.”

Slott sighed, as if the whole weight of the world had now settled on his shoulders.

Ferguson started to laugh. He had to put his arm against his mouth to keep his voice down.

The truck had started to move.

“Hey, when’s that team getting here?” he asked.

“Twenty minutes. Why?”

“Too late,” he told him, stuffing the phone in his parka as he began to run.

25

The kid watching the warehouse who’d lost his nerve would be an important witness, but Thera wasn’t sure what to do with him. Turning him over to the South Korean security forces didn’t make sense for many reasons. For one thing, it was very possible Park was working with the government in some way; handing him to the intelligence agency might be the same as giving him to the billionaire’s lackey, Li.

And for another, his two dead comrades would have to be explained, probably ad infinitum.

The only thing Thera could think of to do with him was to take him to Seoul, where she could leave him with the CIA people at the embassy. He sat meekly in the passenger seat, hands cuffed, oblivious as she attempted to pry a little more information out of him.

“I’ll put on music if you want,” she told him, trying to get him out of his fugue.

The kid continued to stare straight ahead.

Maybe there’s something about me that makes men go catatonic, she thought to herself.

She was about an hour out of Seoul when the sat phone rang. It was Corrine Alston.

“Can you talk?” asked Corrine.

“It depends,” said Thera. “What’s up?”

“We want you to get Park,” said Corrine. “Arrest him, offer him protection…whatever it takes.”

“Protection? He’s behind the whole thing.”

“Tell him whatever you want, just get him. We don’t want the South Koreans dealing with him on their own; they may have been in on it, and will simply use him as a scapegoat. You have to get him before they do.”

“I don’t know, Corrine.”

“It’s not a matter for debate.”

Right, thought Thera. Dumb ideas never are.

“Do you know where he is?” Thera asked.

“That’s your department. Colonel Van Buren is detailing you a Special Forces team.”

“I don’t think it’ll work.”

“You have to make it work. It’s what the president wants.”

Thera glanced at her passenger, still catatonic.

“You don’t really know what you’re asking,” she told Corrine. “It’s not going to work.”

“Well, try, damn it.”

26

The pilots were even the same height.

General Namgung studied Ri Jong-Duk and Lee Ryung, looking first at one, then at the other. The harsh overhead lights in the small underground training room turned each man’s face a fiery red.

Ryung, on the right.

Yes. That was it.

“You will take the plane,” he told the pilot. “Go.”

A broad smile spread across Ryung’s face, though he tried to keep it in check. The thirty-three-year-old turned into a teenager again, practically skipping from the room.

Ri Jong-Duk stood stoically, staring straight ahead.

“You, too, have done your duty as a Korean,” Namgung said to the pilot. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, feeling sincere compassion. The pilot had done nothing wrong; he had in fact been as brave and courageous as his fellow.

Ri Jong-Duk remained silent.

“You will be accorded a hero’s funeral,” said the general.

He stared into Ri Jong-Duk’s eyes. They began to swell.

General Namgung nodded, then turned away. The pilot’s stoicism inspired him. It was a propitious omen, a sign that they would succeed.

Very good. He would see the plane off, then drive to P’yŏngyang to begin things.

Namgung was six or seven steps from the flight room when he heard the gunshot signaling that Ri Jong-Dak had done his duty. He quickened his pace, determined to honor the young man’s courage with his own actions.

27

Ferguson’s lungs felt as if they were collapsing in his chest, compressed by the hard strokes of his legs as he ran across the field. The truck was moving, going off on the road to his right. There were two men near the jet, working on it, illuminated by work lights that made the aircraft seem like a bird of prey hiding in the night. A fat cylinder sat beneath its belly.

Ferguson kept his eyes fixed on the cylinder, which looked more like a fuel tank than the bomb he guessed it must be.

He had the Russian PSM pistol in his left hand; his right couldn’t close around the trigger.

He had to get close with that gun, real close. Right next to them.

Shoot them, grab their weapons, screw up the plane somehow.

Step by step.

Go, he told himself. Go, go, go, go!

Ferguson was less than thirty yards from the aircraft when he tripped the first time. He felt himself falling and managed to roll onto his left shoulder, curling around and getting back to his feet. The men at the aircraft, consumed by their work, didn’t notice.

Go, go, go!

The second time he tripped he was twenty yards away. This time he hit his elbow and lost his pistol.

He couldn’t find it at first. The men at the aircraft began shouting.

Ferguson spotted the gun and scooped it up. He was on both knees. He steadied his left hand with his right as best he could and fired.

He missed high, the bullet not even close enough to scare the men pointing at him.

Nothing to do now but go, he told himself, jumping to his feet.

Go!

General Namgung was still in the tunnel from the flight room when he heard the screams.

“An intruder!” he yelled, repeating what the others had said. “Quickly!”

He drew his pistol and began racing toward the airstrip.

The AK-47 sounded like a tin toy to Ferguson, the patter of its bullets the sound a child’s mechanical toy made when winding down. He saw the tracers spinning wildly to his left, the soldier’s aim thrown off by the shadows from the work lights.

The aircraft’s canopy was open and a ladder propped against its side. Two men were racing to the ladder.

Ferguson brought the pistol up and fired at the figures. His bullets missed both.

I’m not that bad a shot, damn it, he thought to himself. He aimed at the lights, got both, and continued running forward.

Pilot Lee Ryung was not sure what was happening, but he knew that he had to do his duty, and his duty now was to board the aircraft. He put his hands on the orange rail of the ladder, pushing away from the crewman trying to help him.

A bullet crashed through the metal hull of the jet a few inches from his head. A soldier ran from the hangar ramp on the other side of the aircraft. The pilot froze for a second as the man began to fire, mistakenly thinking the soldier was shooting at him.

He was so close now there was no way he could miss. Ferguson fired two shots into the face of the man at the base of the ladder and watched him peel off to the side. He leapt past him, raising his gun at the figure descending into the cockpit. He squared his aim and fired.

Nothing happened. The PSM was out of bullets.

General Namgung saw the soldier pull up his rifle as the pilot climbed up the aircraft boarding ladder.

“Don’t hit Lee Ryung!” he yelled. “Don’t shoot the pilot!”

The soldier stopped. Namgung yelled to the pilot. “Go, go!”

Then he realized the man on the ladder wasn’t dressed in flight gear and wasn’t in fact the pilot at all.

Lee Ryung slapped the controls, desperate to start the MiG and move it from danger. Then he realized it was too late for that; there was someone on the ladder. He grabbed at his holster, pulling out his service revolver.

Ferguson screamed as he climbed the ladder, pain, anger, and frustration boiling together. He lost his balance, and as he started to slip he threw the last bit of momentum he controlled toward the figure in the cockpit, grabbing at the pilot’s helmet.

Something exploded on his left.

A pistol, a big pistol.

Ferguson grabbed for it with his left hand, grappling for the barrel.

It felt like a hot pipe, a hot iron pipe on fire. He pulled it toward the other man, pushing it into his chest as it exploded again.

28

“They’ve lost contact with Ferguson,” Van Buren told Rankin over the radio.

Before Rankin could reply, the helo pilot pointed at the front of the windscreen.

“Airstrip dead ahead. There’s a plane at the far end.”

A thin line of tracers arced toward them from the right.

“We’re going in!” shouted Rankin. He meant to tell the rest of the team, but in his excitement left the radio channel on the control frequency with Van. “It’s hot! LZ is hot!”

“Godspeed,” said the colonel.

29

The man on the ladder dove into the cockpit.

Namgung cursed himself for being a fool. He took out his pistol and fired.

It had been so long since he used the weapon that the nose shot up and the bullet flew far from its mark. He fired again, with the same result.

Cursing, he ran toward the ladder, shouting for help.

Ferguson pulled the gun from the pilot’s hand, bashing the side of the man’s head with it, once, twice, a third time before realizing the man was already dead. The bullet the pilot had fired had gone up through his neck and into his brain.

There were more shouts, screams, gunfire. Ferguson was at the center of a roiling tempest, but all he could see was a small circle around him.

Someone was climbing the ladder. Ferguson leaned over and fired the revolver, felt it jerk up in his hand, the bullet sailing far from its intended target.

The plane’s the important thing, he told himself.

He put the pistol’s nose flat against the biggest screen and fired, then put the rest of the bullets through the panel on the right.

Ducking as the bullet flew past, Namgung lost his balance and slipped down the ladder. He struggled to get his boots back on the rungs, then clambered upward. As he did, the intruder flew over the side of the cockpit.

Namgung reached the cockpit, where the pilot sat upright in his seat.

“Go!” he commanded him. “Start the aircraft and take off! Go!”

Then he saw the blood covering the front of his vest, and realized all was lost.

Ferguson dropped from the MiG’s forward cowling, landing on his legs as he planned but immediately pitching forward, rolling in a summersault underneath the plane. He saw two boots in front of him, and grabbed at them, pushing a surprised North Korean soldier to the ground.

The man’s assault rifle skittered away. Ferguson dove at it, pulling it to his chest as the Korean recovered and grappled him, a fisherman reeling in an immense catch. But this catch slipped its hook: Ferguson rolled and mashed his mangled right hand onto the trigger of the AK-47.

The gun jerked wildly as the bullets spewed from its nose. Only two or three of the dozen bullets Ferguson fired found their target, but they laced across the North Korean’s head, killing him instantly.

There was a second of stillness, of no sound, as if a vacuum had been created beneath Ferguson’s body. He felt nothing, not cold or pain, certainly not triumph, nor even despair.

And then the tumult resumed: Helicopter blades whirled in the distance. Guns fired. Someone screamed.

It was Ferguson. He pushed himself out of the dead man’s grasp and ran back the way he had come.

Despair overwhelmed General Namgung. His future — Korea’s future — sat stone upright in his hands, empty.

“He’s escaping!” yelled one of the soldiers.

“Helicopters!” yelled another.

Namgung started down the ladder, moving deliberately. He felt nothing, not anger nor revenge.

The soldier he had stopped from shooting earlier lay on the tarmac a few feet away. Two other soldiers were crouched nearby, firing into the field.

Namgung went to them. He could tell they were firing blind, without a target. «

“Bring up more lights so you can see him,” he said calmly. He checked his own pistol, making sure it was ready to fire.

Ferguson threw himself down about thirty yards from the strip. He crawled forward, deeper into the darkness. All he had to do was crawl away, just crawl. Rankin and the rest of Van’s guys were here now, above, right here, on their way. They’d get the plane and then rescue him.

Or would it be better to die now?

He could stop, stand up, and burn the rest of the magazine, make himself an easy target.

Go out in a blaze of glory.

There was a certain romance in that, a fittingness. People would say he went out the way he wanted to. But the truth was, he didn’t want to go out like that. Not now, at least, not here.

There were many things to do, people to see, to talk to.

His dad. Always his dad.

He hunkered down as a fresh wave of bullets flew by, pushing deeper into the darkness.

He’s there!” yelled one of the soldiers, pointing at the shadow about forty yards away.

General Namgung grabbed the rifle from the nearby soldier. He would take care of the man himself.

30

Rankin saw the figures running from the airstrip toward the field.

They must be after Ferguson.

“There,” he shouted at the pilot. “I want to go there.”

“I thought you wanted the plane.”

“There’s no one in the cockpit. We get my guy first.”

The pilot started to answer, but Rankin didn’t hear. He’d already pivoted toward the open door of the helo and put his Uzi on his hip. He steadied the weapon as the aircraft swooped low and began to fire.

31

General Namgung stopped and lowered the nose of his rifle, aiming at the man crawling away.

He showed great courage in attacking us, but now runs like a coward, thought the general.

As he pushed the trigger to fire, he felt the hot wind of hell swirling around him. He glanced up, realizing it was a helicopter.

In the next instant, a half-dozen 9 mm parabellum bullets riddled his neck and chest.

Rankin leapt out of the Little Bird as it touched down, running toward the body to the left of the chopper. At first glance, he thought he’d made a mistake; it looked like a Korean.

At second glance, it looked dead.

Ferguson pitched himself onto his back, trying to bring up the AK-47.

Rankin stepped on the gun. Ferguson was so weak he lost his grip on the weapon. He blinked, then realized who was standing there.

“About fuckin’ time, Skippy,” Ferguson croaked. “You missed all the fun.”

32

Corrigan looked up from the console.

“They’ve got him!” he yelled. “Ferguson is alive! They’ve got him!”

Tears began to stream from Corrine’s eyes.

“Aircraft is under their control,” added Corrigan, almost as an afterthought. “We have the bomb. The Marines are inbound!”

Corrine looked down at the communications panel controlling her headset and pushed the button to connect with Slott.

“You heard that, Dan?”

“Yes.”

“I think you should be the one to tell the president.”

“We should both tell him,” he said. “Corrigan?”

There was a light pop in the headphones.

“You’re on the line with the White House situation room,” said Corrigan.

Corrine waited for Slott to say something.

Slott, waiting for her, remained silent.

“I hope there is nothing wrong with this line,” said the president finally.

“Mr. President,” said Slott. “The First Team has stopped the aircraft. We are in the process of securing the weapon.”

“There is a weapon then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good work, Mr. Slott. How long will it take before the bomb is secured?”

“We’re going to use a marine helicopter to airlift it out,” said Slott. “We want to bring it to one of our assault ships offshore. It will take a few hours.”

“I would imagine that securing that weapon is a tricky thing.”

“Yes, sir. One of our people has experience with that,” he added, referring to Ferguson. “But, uh, every weapon is different.”

“Are the North Koreans in a position to stop us?”

“We don’t believe so at this time. We’re monitoring the situation closely. There are no units nearby. There’s a great deal of confusion in the capital.”

“You will tell me the moment the weapon is in our complete control aboard our ship,” said McCarthy.

“Yes, sir, I will.”

“We will keep a careful watch until then, and do nothing to alert either country.”

“I can’t guarantee we can keep this a secret,” Slott said.

“Then we had best move as quickly as possible,” said McCarthy. “Miss Alston, are you on the line?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Job well done to you as well.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, cringing as she heard Slott click off the line.

33

The idea was rather simple; the trick was in its execution. Fortunately, Thera’s plan relied heavily on the billionaire’s ego, which was commensurate with his wealth.

“I am calling from the BBC,” she told Park’s official spokesman by phone. ‘‘We have heard that the South Korean military has been put on alert because of a possible attack by the North. We would like to arrange an interview with Mr. Park on the situation because of his prominence. His opinion will be of great importance to the business community internationally.”

Thera hoped to worm Pack’s location out of the man or, failing that, to set up a trace on her line when Park came on to be interviewed. But the PR man did even better than she expected: He invited the BBC reporter and camera crew to Park’s home at six a.m. for an interview.

“A very complex situation, and Mr. Park can surely shed important light on it,” said the aide.

“We’ll be there,” said Thera.

She punched off the phone. It was half-past two; they were about thirty minutes from the compound.

“You have time to refuel,” Thera told the pilot. “I have some calls to make.”

34

So it was done.

Years of planning and maneuvering. The difficult arrangements with the scientists, the companies, the Northerners, the mobsters and criminals like Manski, so repulsive and yet so necessary — it had all paid off. The plan would be well underway by now. In less than an hour, the people of Korea would have their revenge and be launched on the road to reunion and strength.

Park knew he would not get any credit for it, but credit was never his goal or desire. It was enough to know what had been accomplished.

The billionaire ordinarily had no use for TV, especially the news. But he could not resist the pleasure of seeing the newscasters’ response to and coverage of the destruction of Korea’s traditional enemy. He went to his office and turned on the small set he kept there, surfing through the channels, though by his calculations it would be at least a half hour before the aircraft would reach Japan.

The half hour passed slowly. Park flipped through the channels, waiting.

Another half hour. He settled on a Japanese station, reasoning that it would carry the news first.

Nothing.

Another half hour. He flipped to CNN. The network was playing a feature about shearing sheep.

Park once more began flipping idly through the channels. There should be news any moment. Any moment.

The phone rang.

Park glanced at the clock on the desk before answering. It was nearly four.

“Something has gone wrong,” Li told him. “The Northern troops haven’t moved as planned. Namgung is not in the capital. And Tokyo—”

“Yes,” said Park, putting down the phone.

35

“Rankin is aboard the Peleliu,” Corrigan told Corrine. “The bomb is secure.”

Corrine glanced at her watch. It was precisely 2:15 p.m. — a quarter past four in Korea. She punched the line to connect with Slott.

“Give Thera the go-ahead,” Slott said.

Corrine nodded to Corrigan.

“Why don’t you talk to the president this time?” Slott said. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Sure,” said Corrine.

Corrigan made the connection.

“Mr. President, Dan Slott asked me to tell you that the bomb is aboard the Peleliu. The First Team is en route to secure Park.”

“Well done, dear. We will give your people forty minutes to complete their task, and then I will call Yeop Hu in Seoul. After that, I will share what we know with the American public. It has been a difficult time,” added McCarthy, “and I expect a few more difficult moments ahead. But you have all done yeoman’s service. Yeoman’s service.”

“Jonathon, there’s one thing you should know about where some of the information came from on this,” said Corrine. “There was an e-mail that we think, that I think, came originally from Park or one of his people. It was sent to Senator Tewilliger. He gave it to me, and I gave it to the CIA.”

“Gordon was involved in this?”

“Indirectly. And probably unwittingly.”

“Well now,” said McCarthy, “isn’t that a fine, fine twist in the old bull’s tail.”

“Sir?” Corrine had never heard that expression before.

“Keep that information to yourself a spell, would you, dear?”

“Of course.”

“I would imagine it will come out at some point in the future,” added McCarthy. “At a much more strategic moment.”

36

They did it by the book.

Two teams took the perimeter from the ground, surprising the guards at the main gate and subduing them without resistance. Within seconds, a pair of Marine helicopters swooped in over the grounds, depositing two Special Forces A Teams on the roof of the house. Roughly twenty seconds later, they came in three of the windows.

The lone security officer on duty in the house made the mistake of opening fire at one of the American soldiers. There wasn’t enough left of him to fit into a decent-sized garbage bag.

Thera came in behind the point team, racing toward the hallway that led to the residential suite and Park’s bedroom. Infrared surveillance of the house had given the assault troops a reasonably good idea of where he was.

“Park, I’m here to help,” she yelled as she and the soldiers reached the hallway. “Your government has declared you a criminal. I can offer you asylum.”

There was no answer. The plan was for Thera to wait until the Special Forces soldiers with her subdued the billionaire, but she was too juiced with adrenaline to slow down. She reached the door to the room where he’d been at the start of the assault, dropped to her knees, and grabbed a flash-bang stun grenade.

“Park? We know you’re in there. Come on. We don’t have much time.”

She waited a few seconds, pulled the pin out of the grenade, counted to two, and tossed it in the room.

Two soldiers leapt into the room a split second after the grenade exploded, jumping left and right, securing it before she even got to her feet.

It was empty.

“Shit.”

Thera thought for a second, then realized where he must be.

“This way, come on,” she yelled to the men, starting back down the hall. She ran through the study, turned right, and sped through the dining room.

The light was on in the museumlike room. Thera waved the others back behind her, slowing to a walk before entering.

“I believed it might be a trick. But of course there was no way to be sure.”

Thera froze. Park had dressed himself in one of the ancient sets of armor. He had a long sword in his hands, its jewels glimmering in the light.

“I’m with the American embassy, offering you asylum. Your government considers you an outlaw,” said Thera. “They’ll be arresting you.”

“Do they? Or is that another of the Americans’ many lies?”

Park mocked her, even though he suspected that what she said was true, or would be as soon as the Americans explained what had happened. The Korean security force would be ordered to shoot him as he resisted arrest.

He had planned to kill himself before they arrived, but the woman and her soldiers presented a better option.

“I’m with the American embassy,” repeated Thera. “I can get you out.”

“You were the arms dealer, the one with Manski,” said Park, recognizing the red hair beneath the watch cap. “You were both spies, then, both Americans. I was a fool to think he was just a greedy criminal.”

“I’m with the embassy,” said Thera. “I can get you out. We can give you asylum.”

“And what would be your price?”

“No price. Just come.”

“You would expect me to explain. You want me to betray my country.”

“Your country wants to arrest you.”

“The government is not my country. Korea is my country.” He raised the sword.

“Don’t do it,” said Thera. “I’m armed.”

Park felt his chest grow warm. All his life he’d had two dreams. The first was to see Korea unified, its ignominy under Japan avenged.

The second was to live the life of a warrior. He could not have the first, but he could achieve the second in this moment. He charged forward with a yell taught to him by his ancestors.

Thera waited until the last moment, then dove to the side, trailing her foot to knock the top-heavy Park off balance. As she dove, she pulled the pistol from her holster,

“Stop!” she yelled at him.

He scrambled upward before she could get to her feet.

“I’ll kill you,” she warned.

Park smiled and swung the sword down.

Thera fired three times, square into his face. The sword grazed her ear, drawing a trickle of blood and lopping off her hair as it flew to the ground.

“You made it too easy,” she told the dead man, pushing him off her chest. “Too damn easy.”