If he’d done that a few days ago, before sending the Seoul people down to get Ferg, would the op still trust him?
But it wasn’t his fault the Seoul people had been so inept or that Ferguson had overreacted to the situation.
But he couldn’t let it go, not completely.
“Should I call?” repeated Corrigan.
“No,” said Slott. “When is he due back?”
“Sometime soon. The 727 that brought them is still in P’yongyang. It hadn’t been refueled the last time the satellite passed overhead. The billionaire’s plane came back this evening. He generally leaves the night before his guests do. But the schedule isn’t always predictable. Could be a few hours, could be a day or two.”
“Let’s get someone to wait for him at the airport. Tell him to call in as soon as he gets back. And I mean the second he gets there. Tell him to go right over to the embassy and get on the line back here.”
“Uh, boss?”
“Yeah?”
“Last time, uh, we used the Seoul office, it didn’t go too well. Ferguson—”
“Well, that’s too bad. I need to talk to him.”
“How about Thera? She’s just killing time offshore with the scientist. We could fly her in, have her wait.”
Slott thought about it. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll call her.”
“What’s going on?”
Slott explained, briefly.
“Should I tell Ms. Alston?” asked Corrigan.
Slott felt instant heartburn.
“I’ll tell her myself when she gets in. Get Thera for me.”
6
Thera typed the notes on what Ch’o had said during their morning session for the CIA debriefer. She’d come to a working relationship with Jimenez, each taking turns listening to him talk.
The scientist was truly concerned about the effects of radiation poisoning on sites throughout North Korea and had provided her with a long list of sites that he said were poisoning people. Ch’o also told her, almost as an aside, that there were no other weapons aside from those that had been announced. Two of the weapons had been assembled without the proper amount of weapons-grade material, a fact supposedly kept from the dictator. It was a critical piece of information, since it could be verified during the inspection process and then used to test Ch’o’s real knowledge of the program.
“Hey,” said Rankin, popping his head into her cabin. “You busy?”
“No.”
“Slott wants to talk to you. Up in the communications shack or whatever the hell name these navy people use for como.”
Thera followed Rankin up to the communications department, where she picked up a secure phone and found Corrigan on the line.
“Stand by,” said the mission coordinator.
“Thera, this is Dan Slott. How are you?”
“Fine, Dan. What’s up?”
“I’d like you to go over to Gimpo Airport in Seoul and wait for Bob Ferguson. We need him to call us right away, as soon he’s back from North Korea.”
“He’s in North Korea?”
Slott explained that Ferguson had gone north with Park, trying to talk to the billionaire because of the possible link to the plutonium.
“This isn’t about that, though,” he added, explaining the situation.
“I realize this is a messenger’s job,” he added. “But it’s important, and for reasons I don’t want to go into, you’re the best person available.”
“Not a problem. I’ll leave as soon as I can say good-bye.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing. I can go as soon as you want.”
“Good. Corrigan will give you the details.”
7
Ferguson found himself running across the desert, going up a dead ringer for a hill he’d ridden over near the Syrian border with Iraq a few months before. Thera was there, running a few yards in front of him. Every so often she would turn around and glance over her shoulder. She had a terrified look on her face.
She wasn’t scared of him, but just what she was frightened of he couldn’t tell.
Metal clanged.
Ferguson fell out of the dream and onto the cot in the North Korean prison.
He looked up. A guard was walking away.
The man had slid a plate through a metal hole at the front of the cell. A half cup of cold rice sat in a mound near the middle.
Ferguson got up and carried the plate back to his cot. His hyper phase was over. He felt as if he’d been up all night and gotten only an hour or so of sleep, which was pretty much the case.
Picking up a few grains with his fingers, Ferguson forced himself to chew as slowly as possible. He was halfway through the dish when footsteps approached down the hall. He steadied his gaze on his food, concentrating on each grain of rice.
“Are you ready?”
Ferguson raised his head slowly. Owl Eyes blinked at him from behind the bars.
“Have you called the embassy?” asked Ferguson.
“Why would I call the embassy?”
Ferguson took another bite of the food. He heard a clicking noise and looked up. Owl Eyes was shaking his pill bottle.
Ferguson went back to eating. When he looked up again, the interrogator was gone.
8
Corrine sat down at her computer, checking her e-mail before leaving for an early-morning meeting at the Justice Department. The first note was from Slott, who’d posted it nearly two hours ago. It read simply:
Call me. First thing. Secure line.
She picked up the phone and dialed. As it connected, she braced herself, expecting he was still mad about her going around him.
Or actually Ferguson going around him, though she’d taken the blame.
