Fires of War

“Very well. Do your best.”

Corrine put down the phone and got out of bed to start the coffee.

Oh, well, she thought to herself as she headed to the kitchen, at least I don’t have to go to the dentist.

20

DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

Thera had never been much of a clotheshorse, but even she had to admit that the clingy black and silver satin dress reflected in the elevator’s mirror looked stunning on her. She tossed her red hair back and set herself as the elevator reached the lobby, ready for dinner, and whatever else followed.

Park’s Mercedes waited at the curb outside the hotel. Thera slid in, sinking into the leather-covered seat. A passerby gave her a jealous glance as the chauffer closed the door, no doubt believing that the Westerner was living a fairy tale.

Which was true enough, in a way.

Roughly forty-five minutes later, the sedan pulled through a set of gates on the side of a mountain road north of the city and drove up a long, serpentine driveway. The concrete gave way to hand-laid pavers within a few yards of the road. The car’s headlights caught elaborate castings inset among the bricks: Dragons, gods, ancient Korean warriors lay at her feet as the Mercedes drove up the hill toward the mansion.

The house seemed like a gathering of squat, chiseled stones and clay-clad roofs, as if an old village had been compressed into a single building. The scale was deceiving; only as she reached the door did Thera realize that the single-level building was as tall as a typical three-story house.

A butler in formal attire met her at the door. The entry alcove was slightly lower than the rest of the floor, a reminder to guests that they should leave their shoes. A pair of slippers sat on a cushion nearby.

“Ms. Deidre, Mr. Park is waiting inside,” said the butler as Thera slipped off her shoes.

“Thank you,” said Thera.

“You understand, please, that it would be rude to search a guest.”

Thera smiled. Her dress was not so slinky that it couldn’t conceal two holsters, one on each thigh.

“A host should not stare,” Thera told the butler.

It took a second for him to get the hint and turn around. Thera hiked her skirt and removed the weapons, deciding that she would leave both out here. This proved a good call — as she passed through the nearby doorway she noticed a series of LED lights embedded in the molding; the polished wood hid a metal detector.

Park’s servant led her down the hall to a room that looked as if it belonged in a museum. Ancient pottery, small statues, and antique armor and weapons were displayed on boxlike pedestals in the low-lit, moisture- controlled hall. The walls were adorned with paintings and scrolls, all very old.

Park wasn’t here; clearly she was expected to spend a few minutes admiring his taste in antiquities, adding to the suspense of his grand entrance. Thera folded her arms and turned toward a grill she suspected of harboring a video cam, staring at it with her most cynical expression.

“Miss Deidre, good evening.”

“Mr. Park,” said Thera, turning as the white-haired gentleman appeared from the side of the room. He was in his midsixties, not much taller than she was, on the stocky side though not fat.

“I am so very glad you could make it,” said Park. He reached for her hands, grasping them with surprising strength. He kissed them as if she were a medieval princess. “Mr. Li told me that you were ravishing, but he did not do you justice.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Park. You have a wonderful collection,” she added, sweeping her hand around the room. “All Korean?”

“Most but not all. I have some Chinese and even Japanese items. Either for context or because they interest me.” Though accented, his English sounded as if he had lived in America for many years.

Park showed her around the room, talking about the antiquities and where they had been found. Thera let him lead her through, inserting the proper oos and ahs. Just as they were running out of display cases, the butler appeared in the doorway.

“Would you like to eat Western-style or Korean?” asked Park.

“Korean, of course,” said Thera.

Park told the butler in Korean that they would use the traditional dining room. He then led Thera through a door at the side of the room into a large dining room. Scrolls with Korean characters and ink-brush paintings lined the stucco walls. A low table surrounded by mats sat in the middle of the room. Two of his servants stood next to it.

Thera lowered herself to the table, curling her legs under her on the cushions. A stream of food began to appear: small dishes of different kim-chi, then a local fish dish, then another, then a grilled duck. Thera worried that she would split the dress when she got up.

Park did not speak during dinner. Thera remained silent as well.

When they were finished, he led her down the hallway to another room, this one a cross between a study and an artist’s gallery. Park showed her a minbwa, a traditional Korean painting, in this case a landscape that he had been working on. The rustic style was deliberately primitive, meant to evoke a simpler people living in a simpler time.

“You have many talents,” she told him.

He acknowledged the compliment by lowering his head.

“I would not have accused you of liking simple things,” added Thera. Deciding the time had come to push Park, she ran her fingers down his arm.

“The advantage to the style is that one’s lack of artistic skills are assumed,” said Park, ignoring the stroke of her hand.

“Your desk does not look very rustic.”

Thera let go and walked over to the desk, a modern glass and metal table. A computer and a phone sat to one side. A few mementos — a small car, a model airplane, a misshapen glass marble — sat at the front. Otherwise the surface was clear.

“Does your company make these planes?” Thera asked, pointing at the model.

“No,” said Park, amused. “Those are Russian planes, the latest MiG fighter. A handsome design, don’t you think?”

“Very. Are you buying these?”

“I don’t have a need for such a toy.”

“I meant for your business.”

“My venture in aircraft a few years ago ended poorly. One of my firms makes aircraft parts. We may try and make some parts for the Russians. Their designs are good, but the executions are not as dependable as Korean craftsmanship.”

“It depends on the item,” said Thera, a salesman sticking up for her wares.

“A Korean-built fighter would be very potent,” added Park. His voice was almost wistful. “Perhaps some day.”

“I would think it would be an excellent aircraft, especially if you were involved.” Thera put her finger on the tip of the plane, bobbing it on its stand. “I wonder, Mr. Park, what do you think happened to my friend Ivan Manski?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“He was with you in North Korea, wasn’t he?”

“He was with my party. I don’t believe we had a chance to say more than a few words.”

“And where was that?”

“A lodge near the capital where I often go. Very nice hunting. Once, it belonged to my family.”

“He didn’t return with the others.”

Park gave her an indulgent smile, then walked to a large lacquered chest at the side of the room. “Would you join me in a drink, Miss Deidre?”