Ferguson laughed. “My hair’s black, Dan.”
“Bo’s thinking about bringing formal charges against you for outing his agent.”
“That’ll be fun.”
He’d hedge his bets. Have Corrine take the dirt to the DOE, the disks to the NSA. He’d tell her where he was going, and why.
Not that that would save his sorry butt if Slott really was out to screw him. But at least he wouldn’t get away with it.
“You still there, Bob?”
The truth was, though, Ferguson wanted to trust Slott. Bo seemed like a boob, but Slott had a good track record, a history. And he’d helped Ferguson do his job, which was pretty much the best thing you could say about any manager.
Not trusting him meant not trusting the Agency — and, ultimately, not trusting his country.
Was that how they got his dad? Was it your sense of loyalty to your nation that screwed you in the end?
“I’m still here,” Ferguson told him.
“I won’t tell Seoul. But take care of yourself. You don’t have any backup.”
“Always,” said Ferguson, hanging up.
18
Corrine was in her car when the secure satellite phone rang.
“Corrine here.”
“Wicked Stepmother, we really have to stop meeting this way.”
“Ferg.”
“Did you get the bag?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Everything in that bag comes from a place called Science Industries in Daejeon.”
“What do you want me to do with it?”
“That’s the ten-million-dollar question. I don’t trust Seoul, so I didn’t want them getting their paws on it.”
“Do you trust Slott?”
“Yeah.”
Corrine heard a note of hesitation in his voice.
“I think I do,” Ferguson added, “but that’s not good enough. He’s going to hate me, he may even fire me, but I want you to have them all independently tested. Take the computer things to Robert Ferro at the NSA. You know him?”
“Deputy director.”
“Yeah. You can drop my name if you have to to get it done quick.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.” As the president’s counsel, Corrine had more than enough political muscle of her own.
“Dirt goes to DOE. Tell them to test for plutonium.”
“I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”
“Do it tonight,” Ferguson told her. “It may take days to get the results. Tell Slott what’s going on once you have a good idea what’s on the computer disks or the tape, or once it’s gone far enough that you’re reasonably sure no one’s going to lie to you.”
“Why don’t you trust Slott?”
“I told you, I think I do. But he was in Korea for a long time. And these guys over here work for him. See, if there is plutonium there, the fact that they didn’t find it and we did is pretty embarrassing. So they have an incentive to keep it quiet.”
“You’re talking about treason, Bob.”
“Maybe just incompetence,” said Ferguson.
“How mad is Slott going to be that you went behind his back?”
“Real mad,” said Ferguson. “Real, real mad. But maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll never talk to me again. Look, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to get going.”
Corrine wanted to ask about Ferguson’s cancer, but it was too late; he hung up before she could find the words to bring it up.
19
The ship’s captain gave them the officer’s wardroom for the initial “debriefing.” A civilian psychologist who’d worked for both the CIA and the Defense Department was scheduled to arrive on the ship in a few hours, but Rankin saw no reason to wait, and the CIA interrogator was chomping at the bit. The interrogator suggested that Thera meet Ch’o and bring him to the wardroom for breakfast; once they were settled, the others could join and take it from there. Thera agreed, intending to leave as soon as the others came in, but from the moment she saw Ch’o dressed in the borrowed khakis and waiting for her she knew she wouldn’t leave unless he asked.
“Good morning,” he told her, rising and bowing his head stiffly
“Dr. Ch’o.” She bowed her head as well. “Are you feeling well?”
“I am feeling… prepared.”
“Prepared?”
Ch’o didn’t explain. He had decided that he must do his duty, and his duty as a Korean was to protect the people who would be poisoned by the improperly handled waste. He trusted the girl, and so he must believe that the Americans, whatever else was true about them, would give the information to the IAEA and the UN.
His own fate was immaterial. He was just an ant. He would move forward calmly, doing his duty.
“They have breakfast for us in the officers’ galley,” Thera told him. “Would you like to come?”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“You have to eat,” said Thera. “You look very pale. It’s more comfortable than your cabin.”
“I’ll have some tea.”
Ch’o had been aboard several ships during his career, but this was his first time aboard a fighting vessel of any type. The ship seemed several times more crowded than civilian boats. A brusque energy emanated from the young people; there were women as well as men in uniform, which surprised him. Ch’o recognized the energy as a kind of shared purposefulness, a common motivation that reminded him of his own youth and of Korea as it should be: everyone moving in the same direction.
Why the government had deviated from such a path, he did not know. It saddened him, and when he arrived finally at the wardroom he felt as if a cloud of doom had fallen around him.
“You can tell the seaman what you want,” Thera said to Ch’o. “He’ll get it.”
“Tea?”
“Tea, yes sir,” said the waiter, whose pronounced southern accent was difficult for the scientist to understand. “The cook made some mighty fine biscuits this morning. Y’all might try some of them.”
“Biscuits are a kind of bread,” explained Thera.
Ch’o shook his head. He only wanted tea.
“I’ll try some,” said Thera. “And coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am. Best coffee in the fleet, I promise.”
Neither Thera nor Ch’o spoke until the man returned. Ch’o found the tea very weak, but this did not surprise
