called Science Industries and gathered some material there. He sent it back. It’s very interesting. There may be information on extracting plutonium. I don’t have all the details yet.”
“Corrigan didn’t mention that when he briefed me this morning.”
“I know.” Corrine had debated how to present the issue all the way to Slott’s office. She decided that the best way, for the good of the team, was to blame herself: protecting the client, an old lawyer’s trick. “I had Ferg use a back channel to get the data here because I wasn’t sure how much to trust Seoul, based on your comments the other day.”
Slott folded his arms and sank back into his chair as she continued. It’s me they don’t trust, he realized, and it wasn’t just Corrine. Ferguson was in the middle of it. And probably Parnelles, whom Ferguson was close to.
Because he’d worked in Seoul, and Ferguson figured he was covering up for the people there.
“The NSA has the tape and the disks,” said Corrine. “The Department of Energy has the soil samples and is scheduling the tests now. I’ll refer them to you.”
She got up to leave.
“Yeah,” said Slott, not bothering to get up. “Thanks.”
29
Korean breakfasts were traditionally skimpy, and when the party was roused at seven-thirty the morning following the reception, all that was available was a large metal pot of weak tea. Ferguson downed two cups, and was on his third when his “translator” Chonjin appeared.
Ferguson’s pretend hangover amused Chonjin greatly, and the North Korean quickly suggested a cure: an ill-smelling concoction mixed with goat’s milk from the kitchen.
Ferguson wouldn’t have trusted the remedy even if he’d had a
Another man came in as Ferguson wiped his face at the sink. He was a North Korean soldier in full uniform.
“Captain Ganji,” said Ferguson. “
The man, a corporal, looked at him and shook his head, explaining in Korean that he was not a captain and certainly not Ganji. Ferguson apologized, then switched to Russian, saying that he admired Ganji, a very shrewd thinker and a good drinker.
The soldier shook his head, and told him in Korean that he didn’t understand.
“English?” tried Ferguson.
That didn’t work either. The man rattled off something far too rapidly for Ferguson to understand.
“He was explaining that the captain is an aide to General Namgung,” said Chonjin, coming inside the room. “He spends all of his time at the capital, at headquarters.”
“Oh, very good,” said Ferguson in Russian. He laughed. “And did I meet the captain last night?”
“He wasn’t here.” Chonjin turned to the other Korean and began quizzing him. “He says you thought he was Captain Ganji,” Chonjin told Ferguson when he was finished.
“Oh. I was actually trying to say good morning.”
“Namgung,” said Chonjin curtly. There was no longer any trace of amusement in his voice. “He is a very important man.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ferguson. He turned to the other man, who had a very worried expression on his face. “I am very sorry.”
“You speak English very well for a Russian,” said Chonjin as the other man slipped past them.
“Thank you.”
“You know more Korean than you let on.”
“I keep trying.”
Chonjin told him in Korean that he was the bastard son of a three-legged pig.
Ferguson got the bastard but missed the rest.
“You may be right,” said Ferguson in Russian. “My mother was rather loose.”
“Come,” said Chonjin, switching to English. “Let’s go hunting, if your head has cleared.”
“
“Wait,” said Chonjin as they got to the door. He reached into his jacket, and for a moment Ferguson thought he was going to pull out a gun. Instead he presented him with a small package. “Your business cards,” he said in English.
Pickup trucks with benches mounted on the sides of the beds were lined up at the front of the lodge. When all the guests had boarded, the trucks set off, following the dirt road and passing the house where Park had met with General Namgung. They continued along the stream for about a half mile before coming to the edge of an overgrown field. Two other trucks were there already, waiting. These had shotguns for the men to use.
“What are we hunting?” Ferguson asked his escort in Russian.
“Grouse,” said Chonjin in English.
“I didn’t know there were grouse in Korea,” said Ferguson, sticking to Russian.
Chonjin shrugged, and led him toward the truck with the shotguns. Ferguson examined one. It was a Chinese pump design similar to a Winchester Model 12, with an inlaid pearl pattern in the highly polished stock.
“They loaded?” Ferguson asked.
“They will hand out ammunition when we reach the starting line for the hunt,” said Chonjin.
Ferguson checked the magazine anyway. As he did, he saw Li approaching out of the corner of his eye.
“Mr. Manski,” said Li, nodding to Chonjin. “Perhaps you would like to hunt with Mr. Park.”
“Love to.”
“Come with me then.”
Chonjin took a step to follow but stopped when Li shook his head.
“You have recovered from last night?” said Li, leading him around the trucks and back up the road.
“Yes,” said Ferguson.
“Remarkable.”
“No more remarkable than anyone else.”
“Tell me, Mr. Manski, how did you come to be locked out of your room?”
“I was locked out of my room?
“Where did you get a key?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
Li made a kind of humphing sound, but said nothing else, continuing in the direction of the house. As they rounded the first curve, a military-style jeep drove down the road. Ferguson stepped to the side, making room for it to pass.
The jeep stopped in front of them. Park sat in the front, next to a driver.
