“Can it wait a few minutes?” she asked.
“Not a problem.”
“Can you call me in fifteen minutes at my office?”
“Perfect.”
Exactly fifteen minutes later, out of breath, Corrine rushed into her office at the White House. Corrigan had set up the connection to the
“Sergeant Rankin?”
“Ma’am, sorry to bother you.”
“It’s not a bother, Stephen. What can I do?”
“Ch’o — the scientist we picked up — he’s bugged out. Spooked. Like from shock, either from what he’s seen or what he’s gone through or just being here. I don’t think the CIA debriefer really understands the situation,” said Rankin.
“I heard that there’s a psychologist on his way,” said Corrine.
“Yeah. The shrink. But I had another idea,” said Rankin. “It might be faster. Because, you know, we don’t know if there’s a time limit or something.”
“What’s that?”
“If we could get someone he already trusts.”
“Who?”
“Thera.”
“Did you talk to Slott about it?”
“Am I supposed to? Ferguson usually—”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
9
Ferguson sat in the lounge area across from the phone Sonjae had used for a half hour, hoping someone might show up looking for them. But either he had missed them while he was getting Sonjae to the gate and aboard the plane, or they hadn’t sent anyone.
Assuming it was the latter, the people Sonjae had called at Science Industries probably weren’t connected with the government. The South Korean security forces were nothing if not efficient; they would have had the phone staked out by now.
Ferguson got up from his chair and stretched his arms, looking around nonchalantly, checking for a tail. No one seemed to be watching him, but he took a wide turn around the terminal anyway, moving back and forth, thoroughly checking his back.
Outside, he took a taxi to the city. As they were nearing downtown, he asked the driver in halting Korean if he could be dropped off at a park.
The driver obliged by leaving him at Tapgol Park, a tourist landmark. Ferguson got out and wandered near a tour guide, who was explaining the significance of the bronze relief on the outer wall.
“The historical protest movement known as March 1 began on these streets,” said the guide, immediately catching Ferguson’s attention. “The Korean people protested the Japanese occupation. Though Korean protest was nonviolent, the Japanese reaction was not. By early spring 1919, seven thousand five hundred Koreans were killed. At least fifty thousand were arrested. A great tragedy for my country.”
Enlightened as to the significance of the name of Park’s political party, Ferguson edged away from the tourists. He found a spot where he couldn’t be overheard, took out his sat phone and called Corrine. By now it was after lunchtime here and close to midnight back in D.C.
She picked up her office phone on the first ring.
“Hey, Wicked Stepmother. Can you talk?”
“I’m in my office.”
“That’s a yes?”
“Yes.”
“You sure you’re a government employee? It’s gotta be going on midnight, right?”
“Ferguson, what’s going on?”
“I need you to meet a flight at Dulles tomorrow around five p.m. You’ll see someone you know who’ll have something for you.”
“Someone I know?”
“Vaguely. Make sure you get to the airport on time.”
“What’s he bringing back?”
“You’ll see when he gets there.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Ferg, why don’t you trust Slott?”
“Who says I don’t?”
He killed the transmission.
10
After Korea, Japan was a vacation. Thera felt as if an immense block of concrete had been chiseled off her shoulders. She stayed next to Julie Sven-son during the orientation tour of the waste treatment plant, joking about which of the dour-faced executives would ask them out at the reception planned that evening. They decided the most likely was a fish-faced man in his late forties who spoke of “mechanical containment systems” in the tones of a Baptist preacher.
Neto Evora, the Portuguese scientist who’d been flirting with her on and off since South Korea, jokingly berated her for avoiding him as the morning tour ended.
“We will have a proper party after the reception tonight,” he told her. “We will celebrate our escape from the dour dominion known as the People’s Democratic Republic.”
He sounded so portentous that both women laughed. Evora told them that a number of nightclubs had already been scouted out; festivities would continue “till dawn or collapse.”
“Collapse comes first,” Julie said.
“With luck,” said the scientist.
“He’s cute,” said Julie after he had left them. “Handsome. And he likes you.”
“You think?”
Julie rolled her eyes. “If you play it right, he would be in the palm of your hand.”
“Not my type.”
“Does that matter?”
“Definitely.”
They were on their way to lunch when Dr. Norkelus called Thera’s name so sharply a shudder ran through her body. The grim look on his face seemed to foretell a serious scolding, and she braced herself for a tirade about misspellings in one of her reports, or perhaps a more serious warning about making fun of their hosts.
“Thera, please,” he said, abruptly turning and walking from the caravan of trucks.
Norkelus reminded her of her parochial school principal, a Greek Orthodox priest who had run the elementary with an iron fist. Even now, two decades later, she remembered trembling as she walked down the hall to tell him her teacher had banished her from class for “being a Miss Chatty-Chat-Chat.”
