become when visiting one of his great aunts. He could do it in his sleep, or at least in bed, and in fact had.
The problem with this, though, was that often his thoughts tended to wander, his mind drifting from the very real dangers of his covert job to other things, some trivial, others not. Looking out the window at the well-lit city, he saw a massive crane in a cramped, tiny alley and wondered how it had been positioned there. He also thought of the cancer count and the fact that his body was gradually turning against him.
How would he go out? Die of thirst in a hospital bed? Plug himself with a Glock or a PK pistol when the end was in sight?
Maybe that had been Kang Hwan’s problem; maybe he’d chosen to hang himself rather than drain away. Working around radioactive materials could cause any number of cancers, including thyroid cancer.
The doctors talked in percentages, possibilities, never in absolutes. Ninety percent chance of survival.
Which was great, unless you were in the ten percent that didn’t make it.
Fifty-fifty chance of one-year survival.
Twenty-two percent possibility of breathing the fresh air of Maine two Christmases from now.
Was it twenty-two or eighteen? Thirteen?
Was the air fresh in Maine anymore?
The car whisked up the driveway of the Daejeon Science & Arts University, where Park was due to attend a gala reception announcing the construction of a new physics laboratory. Work had already begun on the building: Dump trucks and bulldozers and cranes were lined up in the lot. Ferguson looked at them, then saw the sign announcing the project. The main words were in Korean and English: “Home of a new nuclear research reactor.”
Had the reactor been built already, the dots would have connected perfectly.
“Whoa,” said Ferguson, spotting a pair of trucks in the parking lot. They were the same type he’d seen at the waste-processing area and at Science Industries.
Ferguson leaned forward and tapped on the driver’s shoulder.
“That lot,” he said in English. “Can you go there?”
The man gave him an odd look.
The man replied in Korean that the reception was in the main administrative building, dead ahead.
Ferguson waved his hand and settled back, telling him to never mind.
Mr. Li was waiting at the door with two large bodyguard types behind him. Their black suits blended into the night.
“I am very glad you made it,” said Li in Russian as Ferguson climbed the concrete steps.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“I have to ask—”
“Yes, of course,” said Ferguson. He reached beneath his jacket and pulled out the two Clocks he was carrying — what was a Russian arms dealer without weapons?
Li turned to one of the bodyguards, who took the weapons.
Ferguson saw a gun detector in the foyer. “You want this, too,” he told Li, reaching down and taking the last Glock from the holster near his ankle.
“More?” asked Li, looking at the other leg.
“I dress very light in Korea. A very civilized country.”
“Thank you very much,” said Mr. Li, handing over the gun to one of the guards.
“My pleasure.”
Inside, they took an elevator to the top floor. The reception was already in full swing. Guests, the majority of whom were male and over the age of sixty, milled around a large ballroom, replete with crystal chandeliers and a floor so polished Ferguson could see his reflection.
“Dance a big major here?” Ferguson asked Li as they made their way toward the bar area.
“The room is often used for receptions.”
“I can see why.”
“Mr. Park paid for its construction.”
“Generous man.”
“The most generous in Korea.”
A guest took hold of Li and Ferguson drifted off, nodding politely but not speaking as he strolled across the room. As he reached the table with the food he heard two men talking about Park in what seemed to be negative tones, using phrases that meant “aggressive” and “too fond of the North.” He smiled at them; their conversation immediately ended.
“Ivan Manski,” he said, sticking out his hand.
The men looked at each other, then introduced themselves. A polite exchange of business cards followed.
“So you know Mr. Park?” said Ferguson in English.
The men claimed not to understand. Ferguson switched back to Korean, telling them that he was Russian and that his company sold many important scientific instruments. Both men smiled but said nothing.
“So you are Russian?” said another man by his side. He was a thin rail with glasses, so short Ferguson had to practically bend over to see his face.
“You’re not a spy, are you? KGB?”
Ferguson laughed. “KGB no more.”
“FSB, sorry. I was joking,” said the man. “I teach the history of the Cold War. From the viewpoint of its technology. Professor Wan.”
“Ivan Manski.”
“I have a very good collection of Soviet and American bugging devices,” said Wan.
“Really?”
“Very good. And encryption devices.”
“Oh really?”
“I have a Fialka machine.”
“What’s that?”
The professor explained that the Fialka was a cipher machine based partly on the Germans’ World War II-era Enigma device. It was quite a find if you were interested in how secret messages were sent during the early days of the Cold War.
Ferguson was spared a detailed dissertation on how the machine worked when the room erupted in applause. All eyes turned toward a man dressed in a tuxedo who was walking to the center of the room. He had a microphone in his hand.
“Thank you, honored guests,” he said in Korean. “I have the privilege to introduce our dean of science and physics, who wishes to say a few words in tribute to your generosity.”
Polite applause followed. The dean recited a number of statistics about the new science facility that was being constructed, then began praising the Korean educational system, which the year before had turned out more engineers and scientists per capita than any country in the world. The university was proud to be part of this “Korean Revolution,” which was bringing the country to the forefront of scientific achievement.
“When the science reactor is built, Korean science will advance ten thousand years,” said the dean. Impressed by the overstatement, the crowd once more applauded. “Until now we have had to make due with the government-sponsored reactors for our studies. This has been most generous. But the future will be grander.”
Ferguson followed the two men he’d tried to make conversation with as they slipped toward the table with the food. Halfway there, he spotted a familiar face: the female CIA officer who’d rousted him from bed several days before.
She stared directly at him, mouth open.
Li stood to her right. He saw the expression on her face and glanced across at Ferguson.
Ferguson smiled and walked directly to her.
