Fires of War

What Zephyrus eek with his swete breeth

What did Zephyrus eek?

Eek, eek, eek. Something, something, “… the tendre croppes.”

Ferguson pictured his teacher, Father Daedelus, saying the words.

Father Daedelus was the only fat Jesuit Ferguson could ever recall meeting. Jesuits as a rule were tall and thin, and most often gray, at least at the temples.

Ferguson went back to the beginning of the poem. Chaucer was harder than Shakespeare because Middle English was almost a different language, so this must have been tenth grade when he learned it.

Tenth or twelfth or college?

Where did you go to college, lad? Do you recall?

Tenth.

Princeton. With summers off to get shot at.

Taking the training and then the mission to Moscow, pressed into service, and almost getting his balls cut off — literally — by the Red Giant.

Now that was a close escape. Seeing the girl cut up before his eyes…

Jesus.

So this is what you do for a living, Dad?

Yet he came back, kept coming back.

The knife against his thigh.

Really he is going to do it.

Jesus H. Christ.

Ferguson forced himself to concentrate on Chaucer, vanquishing the other jagged tatters of memory from his mind.

About midway through the third line of the poem, he heard someone walking down the hallway for him. He remained staring at the ceiling, reciting the poem in his mind as the door was opened.

Expecting Owl Eyes, Ferguson was surprised when he tilted his head and saw two guards in the cell. They ordered him to rise.

Make a break for it? Make them kill him now?

Ferguson hesitated, then gave in, rising slowly and letting himself be prodded, gently, into the corridor.

The guards led him down the hall to a lavatory and shower. There was no soap and the water was close to freezing, but he stayed under the water for several minutes. The chill gave him a rush, pushed him forward.

Onward, Christian soldier!

A towel waited on the rack. There were also fresh prison pajamas and wooden clogs. The two guards who’d come in with him gazed discreetly to the side as he dried and dressed.

Ferguson felt a chill on his damp hair as he followed his minders out of the shower room and back into the hall. They stopped in front of a rusted steel door that was opened to reveal a set of rickety wooden steps upward.

As Ferguson reached the top of the steps, a flood of sunlight blinded him. It was daytime; he’d thought it was night.

He rubbed his eyes open and saw that he was rising in the middle of a very large room, bounded on both sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. A pair of long tables were set up in the middle of the floor to his right; a man in a uniform sat at the table to the right.

Captain Ganji.

Ferguson’s jailers remained behind him as he sat across from the captain.

“Do you speak Korean?” asked Ganji.

Ferguson shook his head.

“I do not speak Russian,” said Ganji, still using Korean.

“Francais? Deutsch?” said Ferguson, asking if he spoke French or German. He could tell from Ganji’s expression that he did not.

“We can use English, if you know this,” said the captain.

“English will do,” said Ferguson. The room was cold and seemed to steal his voice. He wasn’t sure if the room was really cold, or if it was a symptom of the lack of thyroid hormones.

He glanced back at the guards. “You should send them away.”

“They do not English speak.”

Ferguson shook his head slightly. “You shouldn’t take chances.”

Ganji stared at him. His English was not very good: He had trouble with word order, which had a significance in the language that it didn’t have in Korean. But the Russian’s warning was clear enough. He looked over at the men and signaled with his hand that they should leave him. They were reluctant; the prisoner was taller than Ganji, and, while depleted by his captivity, still looked considerably stronger. But Ganji was not intimidated.

“Who are you?” the Korean captain asked Ferguson when the men retreated down the steps.

“Ivan Manski. I was to help Mr Park on some small items, but there was a disagreement, apparently, with some of my superiors.” Ferguson paused between his words, as if picking them out carefully. “A business disagreement they neglected to inform me of. Nothing personal. Or political.”

“How does this concern me?”

“It doesn’t,” said Ferguson. His voice was hoarse and cracking. He needed a drink of water, but there was none on the table, and he didn’t want to risk being interrupted by asking for it. “I was at the guest house when General Namgung met with Mr. Park. I felt that the general should understand that I was there and that I would not want to be responsible for what happened, for what I might say if I were tortured.”

“You will not be tortured.”

Ferguson didn’t answer, staring instead at the captain.

“You were not at the meeting,” Ganji said finally.

“The house was down a twisting road a half mile from the lodge and the old barn,” said Ferguson. “There were two men out front, guards. Others were inside, though not in the room with you. You met in the large room on the first floor at the back. When you were almost through, you went out with Mr. Li and gave him envelopes. I assume he gave you money.”

Ganji felt his face flush. The Russian had been there, surely. But why had Park brought him, only to then discard him?

“If you’re thinking of having me shot,” added Ferguson, “that is a solution. But you should know that the people I work for, the people who know where I was, they will not be happy. They had me tape the meeting as a precaution, and they have the tape.”

Ferguson spoke in a monotone, his voice no more than a rusty croak in a dry throat.

“They hold no enmity toward the general,” he added. “They can be incredibly helpful to you if things go as planned. Or, they could be very angry.”

Ganji leaned back in his seat. Park’s aide, Li, had claimed the man was a Russian arms dealer, but the way he held himself, the calm manner in which he spoke — clearly he must work for the Foreign Intelligence Service, the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki or SVR.

Namgung did not like the Russians, but angering them was not wise.

“How much do you know?” Ganji asked, trying to decide what to do.

“I’m just a foot soldier,” said Ferguson, staring in Ganji’s face, soaking in his fear. The man had been chosen for his intelligence, not his courage — a good thing for Ferguson.

“I know nothing,” Ferguson told him. “I don’t even know my own name.”

Ganji rose without saying another word.

Ferguson raised his eyes toward the window. He thought it must be morning, perhaps as late as noon, and even though the sun was still out, he noticed that it had just begun to snow.

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