When he had no evening engagements, Senator Tewilliger liked to end his day by riding his exercise bike, taking a shower, and then relaxing with a Southern Comfort Manhattan. Or two.
His staff was not supposed to call him after ten p.m., which gave him a solid half hour to ride, and thirty minutes for a shower and a nice drink before catching the network news and nodding off.
So why was the phone ringing at 10:32, just as he got off his bike?
The answering machine picked up. He heard a male voice he didn’t recognize at first tell him something was up with Korea.
Tewilliger realized it was Josh Franklin. He grabbed the phone just before Franklin hung up.
“You’re working very late, Undersecretary,” said Tewilliger.
“I apologize for calling you at this hour,” said Franklin. “But I wanted to make sure you’d heard: The North Korean Army is mobilizing.”
“What?”
“We had a National Security session on it. It’s still pretty tightly wrapped, but I would imagine word will start to leak out tomorrow or the next day, if not from us then from the Australians or the Brits, whom we’ve been updating. I would have called sooner, but I didn’t get the chance.”
Of course not, thought Tewilliger; Franklin wanted to use a phone whose calls weren’t logged.
“What’s going on?”
“I really shouldn’t go into detail, Senator.”
“Josh. Come on now.”
Franklin told him what he knew, including the administration’s planned response, which he characterized somewhat harshly as sitting around until the peninsula caught fire.
“There have been troop movements and mobilizations in the past,” said Tewilliger. “What makes you think these are different?”
“The timing is suspicious,” said Franklin. “I would bet that they used the treaty as a way of lulling us into complacency.”
“Maybe.” Tewilliger had already begun to discount the information, at least as a harbinger of any sort of attack by the North. Still, it would help torpedo the treaty. “I appreciate the heads-up, Josh. I’ll remember it.”
“Thank you, Senator.”
Tewilliger went across the room to his desk and began flipping through his Rolodex. It was never too late to call a sympathetic reporter, especially with information like this.
25
Ferguson was well into the “Knight’s Tale” in Chaucer’s poem when he was interrupted by two guards who told him in Korean it was time for him to get up from his cot. He had no idea how much time had passed since he’d met Ganji. He’d eaten once, a few fingers’ worth of rice. That had been hours and hours ago.
The guards put iron manacles on his hands and legs, then brought him to the front hall, where he had first entered the prison. A car waited outside. It was dusk.
Ferguson’s clogs crunched through a small crust of snow as he was led into the sedan. Two large, uniformed men slid in on either side of him. The doors closed, and the car sped down the rutted dirt road.
Within a few minutes Ferguson had lost track of the direction. He reverted to Chaucer, going back to the Prologue where the knight was introduced:
A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man,
That from the tyme that he ferst began
To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye,
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie,
Ful worthi was he in his lordes werre
The poem sprung up from his unconscious, unraveling from the depths of his memory. His old teacher stood before him, regaling the class. “Great literature, boys. Great lit-er-a-ture.”
Ferguson and his friends would roll their eyes and in the hallway mimic the portly priest’s pronunciation, “lit-er-a-ture.” But he was a good man, a good teacher who’d tried to share some of his experience. Left his mark on the world, however humble.
What mark had Ferguson left?
Well, there were the missions. Saving lives.
Dust scattered on a car window.
Full worthy, are you.
After two or three or four hours of driving, the car pulled up in front of a small hut.
“I overplayed my hand,” Ferguson mumbled to himself as the car stopped.
Namgung had decided he was too much of a liability and would simply kill him here, out in the woods, where no trace would be found.
“Good, then. Better this way than other ways.”
He’d pushed the damn thing to its limit. Better to die like that than like a slug attached to the hospital’s death support, everything but your soul pumped out of you.
The North Koreans got out of the car. Ferguson leaned toward the door, debating whether it would be better to make a break for it and be shot or simply to let them do it at their own choosing.
No, he had a better idea, a much better idea. He’d use the chain holding his hands together, take someone down with him.
“Out of the car,” said one of the guards.
Which would it be? Who would get close enough to die with him?
All three kept their distance as he got out. The wooden clogs hurt his feet; he stumbled, almost lost his balance, but the men didn’t help him.
“Inside,” said one, pointing at the dark hut.
Ferguson decided he would wait to be pushed. Then he would twist around into the next nearest man, throw his chain around his neck, throttle him.
“Please,” said the North Korean. “The hut will be warm. There are clothes inside. Go ahead.”
The man’s voice was soft and pleading. He turned and walked to the door, pulling it open.
OK, thought Ferguson. You’re it.
He made his way around the front of the car, trying to catch up to the man. But the chains on his legs and his awkward clogs made it hard to walk fast.
The North Korean stepped aside. Ferguson gathered his energy, ready to spring.
The man smiled.
For some reason, Ferguson found that amazingly funny, hilariously funny: an executioner who would smile at his victim.
The man took a step backward, then another. He was gone, out of reach.
Ferguson tensed, waiting for him to pull a gun from his pocket. He’d lost his chance and now would have to die alone.
All right, then.
“Go ahead,” said the man.
No gun.
Ferguson glanced over his shoulder. The others were back near the car. If they had weapons, they weren’t showing them.
