associations — grandparents visiting when he was a child, distant relatives tearfully saying good-bye at Dulles. He struggled to keep his mind focused on the present, looking for Ferguson.
Sonjae tried to have Ferguson paged, but found it impossible to correctly decipher the operator’s instructions. Finally he gave up and found a place to sit where he could gather his wits and decide what to do next.
Thirty seconds after he plopped down, Bob Ferguson hopped over the row of seats and sat down beside him.
“Had a good tour of the airport?”
“Ferg.”
“Were you making sure you weren’t followed?” Ferguson asked. “Because you know, you walked back and forth about twenty million times.”
“A dozen. I wasn’t followed,” said Sonjae defensively.
“You’re right. At least I think you are,” said Ferguson. He pointed to the small carry-on bag perched on Sonjae’s knees. “That all you got?”
“I didn’t know what to pack.”
“Don’t worry. It’s all you need.” Ferguson grabbed the handle of the bag. “Come on. I have a limo waiting for us outside.”
Ferguson led him out to the drop-off area, where the driver he’d hired was arguing vehemently with someone. The man raised his hand to pop the trunk with his key fob, not even bothering to interrupt the argument.
“What are they saying?” Ferguson said as they climbed into the car.
“Damned if I know.”
Ferguson laughed. “Some translator you are.”
Sonjae flushed. “I, uh… I’m out of practice.”
Ferguson looked at his friend’s face, tired and worn. Just as well that he’d decided to send him back tomorrow.
“You all right?” Ferguson asked.
“I’m OK. What are we doing?”
“Depends on whether you’re going to fall asleep on me or not.”
“I’m awake.”
“Good. Then let’s go barhopping.”
28
“Iron Bird One, this is Van. Rankin, you hear me?”
“Iron Bird One. Rankin.”
“Cinderella has gone over the line.”
“Roger that,” said Rankin. The message meant that the plane with Thera on it had crossed out of North Korean air space. She was safe. “We are zero-five from Potato Field.”
“Be advised there is a flight of MiGs coming from the south on a routine patrol. Stand by for exact position and vectors.”
Rankin turned to the pilot and tapped his headset, making sure he’d heard.
The helicopter bucked as they passed over the coastline. They hit a squall of rain head-on. Water shot against the bubble canopy as if bucket after bucket were being thrown against them.
“Rain’s bitchin’,” said the pilot, struggling to hold the small chopper on course. “Sixty seconds.”
Rankin tensed. The rain made their infrared sensors almost useless. If anyone had seen or heard them the night before, a good hunk of the North Korean army might be waiting for them.
Buffeted by yet another gust, the helicopter tipped hard to the right. The pilot overcorrected, pitching the craft so low the skid bumped against the ground. The next thing Rankin knew they were down, stopped, in one piece and without crashing.
He jumped into the downpour, running toward the wall near the road as he had the day before.
“See anything?” he barked into the squad radio as he reached the stones.
A chorus of no’s jammed the circuit.
Sergeant Barren cursed somewhere behind him.
Rankin leapt over the wall, landing in a ditch at the side of the road. He sunk in water up to his thigh. Climbing out, he pulled his binoculars from his tac vest and looked down the road. The glasses fogged; even when he cleared them, all he could see was rain and blackness.
It was two minutes to midnight.
29
Tak Ch’o hunkered against the handle bars, fighting to stay upright as the wind pushed against him. He’d stopped looking at his watch more than an hour ago when it became obvious that he wouldn’t make it to the field by midnight. Now he simply pedaled, determined to get there as soon as he could, determined that he would at least accomplish the first stage of his journey. If he made it to the field at all, Ch’o thought, he would make it to South Korea and freedom as well.
Headlights appeared behind him. Taken off guard, Ch’o felt his entire body freeze. He tumbled into the road, a truck looming down on him.
Everything blurred together — the rain, the bicycle, his fear.
The truck veered to the right, crashing over the bicycle but missing Ch’o. As the vehicle disappeared into the raging night, a scream erupted from the scientist’s belly, a curse that had been years in coming. He raged against the rain and fate, then, the yell still emptying his lungs, hurled himself forward.
30
“Car or a truck,” said Rankin, spotting the headlights as they came up over the hill. “This may be it. Hang tight.”
He hopped back over the wall to wait. The vehicle came forward at a steady pace, no more than twenty-five miles an hour.
It was an truck, an army vehicle.
So there was a defector, Rankin thought. Hopefully he was important enough to justify the risk they’d taken.
Rankin started to get up but then stopped, realizing the vehicle wasn’t slowing down.
“Shit,” someone said as it drove past.
“What the hell we do now, Stephen?” said Sergeant Barren. He might just as well have spit the words from his mouth.
Rankin checked his watch. It was oh-thirty, a half hour past midnight.
“All right. Load ‘em up,” he said. He leaned over the wall, gazing up and down the road. The whole mission was a washout, in every sense of the word.
