Ferguson stepped into the cottage, spinning to the side to wait for his assassin, but the only thing the man did was push the door closed.
Ferguson stood in the middle of the darkened room, waiting. Gradually, he realized there was no one else inside.
Maybe they were planning on blowing up the house.
He closed his eyes and waited.
After ten minutes passed, Ferguson realized nothing was going to happen. He made his way around the small room, banging into all four walls before determining that there was no furniture here, nothing, in fact, except plain wooden planks and a dirt floor. When he had covered every inch, he dropped down to the ground, took a deep breath, then lay flat to sleep.
26
News of the North Korean troop movements had finally reached the media, and the White House congressional people found themselves talking nonstop to congressmen worried about the treaty. Already there were rumors that the vote would be put off for at least a month.
Just before noon, the Department of Energy called to tell Corrine that the soil tests from Science Industries had been finished ahead of schedule; they were negative. She immediately called Slott and told him.
“Dan? What’s going on with Ferguson?”
“Still no word.”
“I can talk to the president about a reconnaissance mission, if you think it’s a good idea.”
“It’d be suicidal under the circumstances. It’s too close to the capital.”
“I see.”
“We had a Global Hawk fly down the coast,” added Slott, referring to an unmanned spy plane. “It was tracked briefly but got away. Even that was a risk I probably shouldn’t have taken.”
“Did it see anything?”
“Nothing out of place. It looks abandoned.”
The spy flight was little more than a gesture, but it was something at least.
“I’ll keep you informed,” said Slott, abruptly hanging up the phone.
27
Thera spent the day doing a lot of nothing, installing GPS trackers in the trucks at the university, poking around Park’s planes and his hangar at Gitmo, even checking on a few more trucks. It was all a waste of time. She was supposed to concentrate on finding the plutonium, not Ferguson.
On their first mission together, an attache case of jewels had gone missing. She’d become the obvious suspect. Ferguson stood by her — and checked her out at the same time, believing she was a thief and yet not wanting to believe it either.
She’d been
She wanted to take it all back.
God, he couldn’t be dead.
Fergie, you handsome son of a bitch. Come back and laugh at me, would you?
She got back to her hotel around eleven and checked in with The Cube. Lauren was on duty, shuffling time slots with Corrigan.
“What’s going on?” Thera asked.
“Nothing new.”
“Listen, I want to talk to the people who went north with Ferguson. They have to know something.”
“Slott wants you to work on the plutonium angle, Thera. He needs to know what’s going on with that.”
“We need to find Ferguson.”
“We’re working on it.”
“How? Analyzing intercepts? Looking at satellite data?”
“Well, yeah. Things like that.”
“That’s a waste.” Anger swelled inside her. “Let me talk to Slott. Better yet, give me Corrine.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“You can get her.”
“I’ll call back.”
Thera turned on the television, checking the local news. So far, there was no word of the troop movements across the border.
A half hour later, Corrine called on the sat phone.
“You needed to talk to me?” Her voice sounded distant and hollow, more machinelike than human.
“I wanted to know what we’re doing to find Ferg.”
“We’re working on it.”
“I want to interview the people he went north with. They may have information.”
“Have you talked to Dan?”
“No. You’re the one who’s really in charge, right?”
“Dan handles the specifics of the mission,” said Corrine coldly. “You have to do what he says.”
“We have to find Ferg.”
“I realize the situation is difficult, Thera. It’s hard for everyone. We all have to do our jobs.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s not easy for me, either.”
It’s a hell of a lot easier for you, Thera thought, but she didn’t say anything.
“Do you need anything else?” Corrine asked.
“I’m fine.” She turned off the phone.
28
Ferguson woke to the sound of waves crashing against rocks. At first he thought it was a dream — his mind had tangled through several while he slept — but then he realized his body ached too much for him to still be asleep.
Light streamed through a thin curtain next to the door of the hut. Ferguson got up slowly and went to the window. He saw the back of a soldier ten yards away. Beyond him, the horizon was blue-green: the sea.
A tray of food sat on the floor a short distance away. Ferguson got down on his hands and knees and looked at it. There was rice, some sort of fish stew, and chopsticks. A bottle of water sat at the side.
A short distance away sat two buckets, one with cold water, presumably so he could wash, the other empty, for waste.
Ferguson opened the bottle and gulped the water, so thirsty there was no way to pace himself. He jammed the rice into his mouth with his fingers, barely chewing before swallowing. But as hungry as he was, the fish stew smelled too awful to eat. He left it and began exploring his prison.
Flimsy wooden boards nailed to cross members made up the walls. They were arranged in two separate
