“Slott.”
“It’s Corrine Alston, Dan. What’s up?”
“The South Koreans picked some interesting documents off a North Korean soldier who may have been trying to defect. They seem to indicate that a mobilization order has been issued, getting the country ready to invade the South.”
Slott continued, explaining that, if legitimate, the order would be hand delivered to units throughout the country. They would begin mobilizing within a few days.
“The order would seem to set the stage for an attack,” added Slott. “So far, nothing has happened.”
“All right.”
“I’m going to ask Ferguson to report on anything he might have heard when he comes back. I’ve asked Thera to meet him in Seoul to make sure he calls in. Being Ferguson, that’s not always something you can count on. I thought you’d want to know.”
“I do. Thank you,” said Corrine.
“There’s no new information on the computer disk. They’re still working on it. I checked this morning.”
The words sounded almost like they were a challenge, or maybe a question: Is there something else I should know?
“I see,” said Corrine. “If I hear anything myself, I’ll let you know.”
It was a lame reply. She thought maybe she should apologize or at least get him to admit he was mad, but he hung up before she could think of a way to say any of that.
9
Thera got to Gimpo about seven a.m., driving over after landing at Osan Air Base, a U.S. Air Force facility not far from Seoul. She’d had her hair cut before leaving the
Once Korea’s largest airport, Gimpo had been overshadowed in recent years by the larger Incheon Airport, but it was still a busy place, with over a hundred passenger flights every day. Park’s 727 had been directed to use a special gate in the domestic terminal; a Customs officer had already been sent to meet them. A guard stood outside the waiting area, but Thera could see in easily enough by standing in the hallway. She leaned against a large round column, sipping a coffee as if she were waiting for a friend.
The first clump of men off the plane looked seriously hung over, shielding their eyes from the overhead fluorescents. The second and then a third group of men came in, looking even worse. The men were all in their forties and fifties, all Korean.
It was just like Ferguson to keep her waiting, she thought. At any second, she expected him to come sauntering out of the boarding tunnel, a big, what-me-worry grin on his face.
But he didn’t.
As Park’s guests were led through a nearby door to their vans waiting below, Thera slipped into the jetway, walking toward the cabin of the 727.
“Hello?” said Thera in Korean. She glanced down the wide aisle of the jet. “No one aboard?”
“What are you doing?” asked one of the pilots, appearing from the nearby cockpit.
“Just looking for a passenger.”
“They’re gone. All gone.”
Thera craned her neck, making sure. The pilot started to grab her wrist. Thera jerked her hand up and grabbed his instead, pressing it hard enough to make him wince.
“Not a good idea,” she told him in English before letting go.
10
Oh, they were dead, they were dead, they were all dead, bodies leaping out of windows and doors at him, faces contorted, leering, falling with blood and bruises and obscene grins.
A snatch of a song came into his head, then a memory of a mission, a flash-bang grenade going off almost in his ear.
He had to push on anyway.
Ferguson got up from the cot, shaking off the nightmare. He began pacing the cell.
He was hungry and cold and his legs hurt like hell, but the thing he couldn’t stand was his brain bouncing back and forth, gyrating with thoughts.
He couldn’t turn it off.
They hadn’t tortured him yet. They must believe that he was
Or else they were saving all their fun for later.
The dank air pushed against his lungs. His body ached where he’d been pummeled. His knee felt as if it had snapped. But the worst thing was that he couldn’t think.
“I need to focus on something,” he said as he paced.
Belatedly, he remembered that his cell was probably bugged.
Better not to show them any sign of weakness.
Ferguson sat back on the cot, willing himself back into control.
He tried thinking of fun times with his dad, but that was no good; within seconds images of missions just came flooding in, the association too strong.
He pictured Maine, thinking of what it would look like now, an early snow on the ground.
That was a safe image, except it made him hungry.
Better to starve than go insane, he thought, picturing himself eating a large bowl of sausage stuffing.
11
Thera took the train to Daejeon. When she got there, she checked the hotel where Ferguson had been staying as Ivan Manski. His room was empty, and he wasn’t in the restaurant or one of the nearby shops.
Needing a place to stay herself, she took a room two floors above where he’d been staying. Then she called The Cube.
“Ferguson didn’t make the flight,” she told Lauren DiCapri. “He’s not in Daejeon, either. Has he checked in?”
“No.”
“He didn’t show at the embassy or anything like that, did he?”
“That would probably be the last place he’d go, knowing Ferg.”
“Check, would you?”
“Of course. Thera, are you sure he wasn’t on that plane?”
Thera laid her head back on the overstuffed chair. What the hell had happened to him?
