As he drew even with the sixth doorway, the beacon symbol on his OPSAT started blinking rapidly. He pressed himself against the wall and peeked around the corner.
Inside, a figure lay curled on the floor. Fisher stepped closer. Next to the body was a white iPod. He flipped his goggles first to infrared, then to EM, checking for patterns that might suggest a booby trap. There was nothing. He reached out with his foot and rolled the figure over. It was Heng.
Fisher stood still for a moment. His first thought was
The back of Heng’s head was encrusted in blood. Fisher probed with his fingers until he found a serrated hole in his scalp. He’d been shot in the head. The skull bones beneath were shattered and partially pushed inward. Fisher kept probing until he found a hard lump — a.22-caliber bullet, he guessed — beneath the skin above the forehead.
Fisher felt his stomach boil with anger. They’d shot him execution-style, but botched it and then left him for dead. The bullet had entered the back of his scalp at an angle rather than straight on, then flattened itself on the bone, and followed the curve of the skull to its resting place.
Careful to keep Heng’s head immobile, Fisher rolled him onto his back. He opened each eyelid, checked his eyes. The left one was fixed, the pupil blown. Brain damage. The impact of the bullet had caused bleeding and swelling in his brain. It was a miracle he’d survived this long. Fisher checked his ears; both were leaking blood.
He checked Heng’s body for other wounds but found none. He broke open a smelling-salts capsule beneath Heng’s nose. Heng sputtered and his eyes popped open. Fisher held him down, held his head still. “Don’t move,” he whispered.
Heng blinked a few times, then focused his one good eye on Fisher. “You… What are you… ”
“I couldn’t find an iPod like yours, so I came to borrow it from you.”
This elicited a weak smile, but only one side of his mouth turned up. “They shot me… ” he murmured. “They put me on my knees. I heard the gun’s hammer being cocked… I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“You’re alive, that’s what’s going on,” Fisher said. “The doctors are going to call you a miracle.”
Heng let out a half chuckle. His left pupil rolled back in his head and stayed there.
“Heng, I need to find Zhao. Where is he?”
“Not here.”
“What?”
Heng blinked a few times as though trying to gather his thoughts. “We came here yesterday — no, the day before yesterday. The North Koreans were supposed to, uhm… ”
“I know about the North Koreans. What happened next?”
“They found my iPod… figured it out. Zhao took three or four men with him and left the others here with me.”
“How long ago?”
“A few hours after we got here.”
“Sam, he’s got more.”
“What? He’s got more what?”
“More material… from Chernobyl. I saw it.”
OSPREY
Fisher wasn’t two steps up the ramp before he said to Redding, “Get Lambert on the line.”
“Problem?”
“You could say that.” Fisher made his way to the cockpit. “Bird, how long to Kunsan?”
“Gotta stay under the radar until we’re clear of Korea Bay. Past that, figure an hour or so.”
“Fast as you can without getting us shot down.”
“You’re the boss.”
Redding called, “Sam, I’ve got Lambert.”
Fisher sat down at the console. On screen, Lambert said, “Well?”
“Zhao’s gone — been gone for two days or more. The monastery was a diversion.”
“What about Heng?”
Fisher sighed.
Kneeling next to the man watching him die, Fisher considered his options, then made his decision. Given what Heng had had been through — what he’d done for the U.S. — he deserved a chance to live, even if that chance was too slim to calculate.
Using remnants from the wooden bunks and some para-chord he kept in one of his pouches, he cobbled together a cage he hoped would keep Heng’s head as stable as possible. In the back of his mind he knew it probably wouldn’t make any difference, but the less Heng moved his head, the longer he might last.
Once done, he left Heng lying still and made one more ciruit of the monastery, both inside and out to make sure there would be no surprises, then went back inside, picked up Heng, and carried him down the slope and into the river. He draped Heng’s arms over a bundle of planks he’d tied together, then pushed them off into the current.
Ten miles and two hours later they reached the village of Gulouzi. On Fisher’s OPSAT map, a waypoint was flashing; next to it was set or longitude and latitude coordinates. He pushed Heng to the bank and then, following the coordinates, picked his way down an inlet until he came to a small pier.
As promised, the river sampan was waiting. How the CIA had arranged the transportation Fisher didn’t know, nor did he care. With luck and guile, the single-masted fishing boat would take them the rest of the way to the extraction point.
Fisher donned the local clothes he found stuffed beneath the stern seat, then pushed off and poled back to where he’d left Heng.
It took the rest of the night, but with only a few hours of darkness left, Fisher reached the Yalu Estuary, where he hoisted the sail and pointed the bow into Korea Bay. An hour after that the Osprey appeared out of the gloom, skimming ten feet off the ocean’s surface, and slowed to a hover beside the sampan.
“He didn’t make it,” Fisher told Lambert. “He died on the way down the river.”
“I’m sorry, Sam. We’ll get Zhao. The world’s not big enough for him to hide in anymore.”
“And the material? Heng claims he had a couple hundred pounds of the stuff.”
“Zhao’s running for his life. Even if he’s still got it, he’ll get tired of lugging it around. We’ll find him
59
