3
Park Jin Tae ran his fingers over the fabric of the twelfth-century armor, admiring the fine craftsmanship of his ancestors. Park had made several billion dollars in his sixty-seven years; he had built more than a dozen companies from scratch and taken over so many others he’d lost track. He was among the most important businessmen in South Korea and, though he operated entirely behind the scenes, an important player in its politics as well. But nothing brought the South Korean businessman more pleasure than his collection of antiquities, and this suit of armor was the pinnacle.
The brigandine or fabric-covered armor had belonged to a high-ranking Korean official. The man’s wealth was evident from the rich cloth of the exterior. The metal plates beneath the armor were roughly nine and a half centimeters thick, strong enough to withstand a great blow. Yet the suit was constructed to allow the warrior great freedom of movement, for a Korean warrior expected to use his feet as well as his hands as weapons if need be.
He would use his very breath, Park thought. The men of ancient times were different, hardier and tougher. Just to wear the suit into battle took great strength.
What would such men say if they looked at Koreans now? They would scoff at their weakness.
Not every Korean was weak — Park knew many brave men, hundreds who would gladly sacrifice themselves for Korea — but the country as a whole had been seduced by Western materialism. It had forgotten its birthright and its past, both ancient and recent.
How else could one explain the fact that the South Korean president had spent yesterday showing the Japanese emperor Korean factories? The
The South Korean government had suggested that some of Park’s companies be included in the tour. He had declined, even though this was a breach of etiquette. Ordinarily, one had to be polite when dealing with visitors, but politeness would only go so far. It would not extend to Japanese criminals.
The enmity between Japan and Korea went back thousands of years, but Park’s familial hatred of the Japanese took its severe shape in 1941. It was the year Park Jin Tae was born. It was also the year his mother was made a “comfort woman,” a slave to the Japanese soldiers, an unwilling prostitute.
She had triumphed in the end, ending her life and that of one of her tormentors in a glorious fury of blood and revenge. But it was a bitter victory for her family, who were persecuted as a result. Her husband and brother were killed and their children sent to an orphanage where they were given Japanese names and taught to hate their country.
Park considered himself lucky. The war ended well before he attended school, and his personal memory of the outrages was, mercifully, dim. But his anger at the humiliation of his mother, the murder of his family, and the rape of his country burned ever stronger with each year he aged.
It burned so fiercely that if he spent too much time thinking about it, he would surely explode.
Park shook himself. There was considerable work to do. Thousands of employees worked for him — he was a man of great wealth and status, a respected man — and he could not afford to indulge himself in distractions. He left the display room and went to start the day.
4
It took Ferguson and Guns several hours to walk back to Guns’s hotel from Science Industries. Ferguson sat down on the couch; the next thing he knew it was several hours later and Guns was shaking him awake.
“Corrigan needs to talk to you,” Guns told him. “Sorry to wake you up, Ferg.”
“What time is it?”
“Oh eight hundred hours.”
“In real time that’s what, eight in the morning?”
“Something like that. It’s six o’clock at night back home. Eighteen hundred.”
“What, you got two clocks to keep track?”
“Only my head.”
Ferguson rolled out of bed, splashed some water on his face, and went down to the hotel cafe to get some coffee. All he could find was tea. He took two cups back to the room, did a quick scan for bugs to make sure no one had managed to sneak in while they were sleeping, and called The Cube.
“Ferg, how are you?” asked Corrigan.
“Can’t party like I used to,” he told him. “You get that information I told Lauren about? Science Industries?”
“Yeah. There’s an encrypted PDF file waiting for you to download. You can read it at the embassy.”
“Why the embassy?”
“Slott will explain. Hold on.”
“Great.”
Slott came on the line after a short pause.
“Good morning, Ferg.”
“What’s this about the embassy?” said Ferguson.
“We want soil samples from the waste plant, and as much other information as we can come up with. Seoul’s got to be involved.”
“I can get the samples without them.”
“There’s no need to cut Seoul out,” said Slott. “I want you to brief Ken Bo. He’s the station chief.”
“Me?”
“You have someone else in mind?”
Ferguson scratched the side of his head. Tea was fine as far as it went, but it wasn’t a substitute for coffee.
“It’ll take me a while to get up there.”
“Listen, Ferg, this situation is volatile, seriously volatile.”
“Yeah, I know the drill.”
“Ferguson, for once, will you listen to what I say?” snapped Slott.
“I always listen to you, Dan,” said Ferguson, who found Slott’s uncharacteristic anger amusing. “The question is whether I pay any attention to it.”
“If you need backup, ask for it, all right?”
“My middle name is Please,” said Ferguson. He took a swig of the tea and practically spit it out. “Listen, I gotta go. I think somebody’s trying to poison me.”
5
The North Koreans set up a midday feast for the inspection team in the reception building, once again importing massive amounts of Korean and Western specialties. Large banquet tables were placed in the center of the building with chairs clustered nearby. The team members and the Koreans escorting them ate with their plates in their laps.
The lunch might have had the air of a picnic or perhaps a wedding, except that it was hard for the guests to
