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.
