cowboy.”
Ferguson Senior was cut loose by the Agency. The only person who stood up for him was his old friend and fellow officer Thomas Parnelles, the General. But Parnelles, who’d essentially been exiled to a meaningless headquarters job for his own supposed indiscretions, had little influence within the Agency and none outside of it. Ferguson Senior was forced to retire; he was told he was lucky he wasn’t going to jail.
Maybe it was his family history, but Ferguson couldn’t help but feel he’d fallen into a snake pit here in Korea. Even if he accepted Bo’s story at face value, which meant that Bo was a dope, how could the South Koreans have produced plutonium without the local CIA people finding out about it?
In some ways, it was an unfair question. The CIA operation was designed to spy on North Korea, not the South. Besides, intelligence agencies were historically more notable for their failures than their successes. This wasn’t quite on the scale of Pearl Harbor or 9/11.
Still, by definition it was an intelligence failure. And it seemed to Ferguson that something else was going on here that he didn’t know about. Slott had never directly interfered in an operation before.
If he’d been in the Middle East or Russia, Ferguson would have felt much more sure of himself, but Korea was very foreign. He needed some sort of backup, a check on his superiors just in case they were gaming him.
The sole possibility that came to mind was Corrine Alston.
A measure of his desperation, that.
But he needed some sort of insurance, just in case.
In case what?
He stared out the window of the train, not wanting to answer his own question.
14
Thera was walking with Julie Svenson toward the lunch buffet in the reception building when Dr. Norkelus stormed up, an angry look on his face. She looked at him expectantly, trying to think what she would say if he asked about the package of cigarettes she’d just been given. She knew there’d be another message in them, though she hadn’t had a chance to look for it.
She had the first pack, which was almost empty. She’d give that to him.
“I need a message sent to the secretary general’s special committee,” said Norkelus, practically shouting at her. “It’s absurd.”
“You want me to help prepare it?” said Thera, trying not to let her relief show.
“Yes.” He took a voice recorder from his pocket. “The details are there. It must go out by one p.m., our time.”
“One?”
“I know. It’s ridiculous. Bureaucratic fools,” replied Norkelus, turning on his heel and stomping off.
15
Corrine Alston was just about to curl up in bed with a good mystery when the phone rang. Thinking it was her mother, she picked up the phone on the night table in the bedroom.
“Hey, Wicked Stepmother, it’s Prince Charming.”
“Ferg?”
“I need you to get to a secure phone, but don’t go to The Cube.”
“Ferguson, what the hell are you doing?”
“Encrypted phone. Call me. You have my number.”
“But—”
“No buts. You have five minutes.”
The phone line went dead. Corrine scrambled to get her secure satellite phone. She punched the buttons, not entirely sure she remembered Ferg’s number.
“Grimm Brothers. Fairy tales are our business.”
“You’re not very funny, Ferguson, especially at midnight.”
“It’s only two o’clock here,” he said. “Must be the problem. Humor’s jetlagged.”
“What’s going on?”
“I need you to do me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Guns is on his way back home with a soil sample. He messed up his leg. Corrigan tell you that?”
“No.”
“One of the reasons he messed up his leg is that the South Koreans tripled security at the waste site where we found the plutonium. You know about the plutonium, right?”
“Yes, of course. Why did they up the security?”
“Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. The leading theory is that our CIA station chief here is a boob, but there are other suspicions.”
“Like what?”
Ferguson ignored the question. “I have some things to check out, and I need, uh, I just need someone I can trust.”
“You mean from the Team?”
“This isn’t a team job I have in mind. I want them to do some translating maybe, and I may send them back with something for you.”
“For me?”
“Maybe more soil samples… I don’t know. I don’t want to use Seoul.”
“Why not, Ferg?”
Ferguson didn’t answer.
“Ferg.”
“Because, Wicked Stepmother, if they’re merely incompetent, they’ll screw it up. If they’re more than merely incompetent, who knows what will happen?”
So why was he cutting out Corrigan, Corrine wondered. And why had Slott decided to get the Seoul office involved in a First Team mission without telling her?
“You still there, Stepmother?”
“I’m here, Ferg.”
“Hey listen, one of these days you’re going to have to trust me,” he told her.
“I trust you.”
“Then see if you can find this guy for me. He’s retired. Used to work for the Bureau. Name is James Sonjae. Call him now and wake him up. Tell him to come to Seoul.”
“Ferg, it’s two o’clock in the morning.”
“He doesn’t sleep very well anyway.”
“But—”
“Like I say. Trust me, OK? Gotta go do some barhopping now. I’ll talk to you in a bit.”
Two hours later, Corrine arrived at a diner about a mile and a half off the Beltway. James Sonjae sat in the far corner, slumped down in the booth, a coffee and half-eaten bagel sitting on the table in front of him. He kept his gaze toward the window as she approached; it was only when she leaned over to ask who he was that she realized he was able to watch everything from the reflections there.
