Take them.
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.
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’yongyang 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.
