courses, the top row slightly misaligned with the bottom. The tongue-and-groove joints were mostly snug, but here and there daylight was visible where the edges had eroded away. They were flimsy, no more than a quarter-inch thick.
Someone knocked on the door. Ferguson reminded himself that he was Russian and started to say “come in.”
His mouth wouldn’t cooperate; somehow the word
The door opened, and a thin man entered. He was a soldier with the insignia of a lieutenant, though he seemed far too young to be one.
“You speak Korean,” said the man.
“A little. I see, yes. I was told you can speak English?”
“Yes.”
“You did not eat the stew,” said the lieutenant.
“I need a fork.”
“Fork? Not chopsticks?”
Ferguson could use chopsticks, but a fork would be more useful. He shook his head.
“I will bring you one. And more water. Would you like to read?”
“Sure.”
The man turned to leave. “Where am I?” asked Ferguson.
“Do you know Korea?”
“Not very well,” admitted Ferguson.
“We are on the Bay of Korea. The west coast. A beautiful place.”
“Near the capital?”
“Farther north. South of Unjon. Do you know that city?”
“Chongchon River?” said Ferguson.
Amused by the mispronunciation, the lieutenant corrected him and then told Ferguson that he was correct. Three rivers including the Chongchon came together near Unjon and flowed to the sea. They were a few miles south of that point.
“Do you know where you are now?” asked the North Korean.
“No,” confessed Ferguson. “Sorry.”
But he did know, roughly at least. One of the three emergency caches that were to have been planted for a rescue mission North was located five miles north of the Chongchon along the coastal road. If Ferguson could reach it, he would be rescued.
Just ten miles, at the most, away.
Easy to do.
Easy, easy, easy to do.
Not with the leg chains and clogs.
The clogs were all right — his feet were so swollen he’d never get them off anyway — but the chains had to go. He’d have to swim to get across the river and hike through marshes.
Never. He’d never make it. Not like this, depleted, cold, half dead. His body felt as if it had been pushed into a crevice, squeezed there for days, pounded on.
Ferguson huddled against the wall, shivering beneath the blanket. The lieutenant returned about an hour later, a bag strapped over his shoulder.
“A fork,” said the North Korean proudly, holding it up. “Difficult to obtain. You must hold on to it.”
“Thank you.”
The lieutenant put down his bag.
“Books.” He pulled one out. “Finding things in translation, it is not very easy in our country. No Russian. These are Korean, children’s tales. Perhaps you can work on your language.”
“Yes.”
The man looked at him. “You should take a walk after eating,” he said.
“There’s an idea,” said Ferguson, some of his usual sarcasm slipping into his voice.
“Do you need anything?” asked the lieutenant.
The key for the chains, a plane south — those would be nice.
“I’m cold,” Ferguson said. “Very cold.”
The lieutenant said something in Korean that Ferguson didn’t understand, then said good-bye and left.
When he was gone, Ferguson forced himself to eat the stew. Then he examined the fork. It was made of thin metal, and the prongs were easily bent — just the thing to slip into the lock at his feet. But the prongs were too big to fit the manacles on his hands.
The door opened. Ferguson slipped the fork into his pants and looked up as one of the guards came in, holding a thick winter coat.
There was no way he could put it on properly because his hands were chained, and the guard wouldn’t remove them. Instead, he helped Ferguson drape the parka over himself and buttoned the top button, making it into a cape. It wasn’t exactly airtight, but it was far better than nothing.
“Fresh air?” asked the man in Korean.
Ferguson followed the soldier outside. The muscles in his face seemed to snap as the wind hit them. The air smelled of salt and raw sewage.
Ferguson rolled his head back and forth, vainly trying to stop the muscle spasms in his neck and shoulders. He walked a little way, getting his bearings, taking stock of what was around him.
A path nearby ran along the sea, paralleling the rocks and shoreline. The road zigzagged away to his right.
His escape route.
There weren’t many paved roads in this part of Korea, and this one must eventually go to the coastal highway, a two-lane hardtop road used mostly by trucks and official vehicles. Like all roads in the North, it wasn’t very heavily traveled; if he could get there, Ferguson could follow it to the river, then find a place to get across.
He was guarded by two soldiers. Both had AK-47s. They kept their distance as he sat down on the rocks.
He could get out of here. He could do it. He
Two guards — that was child’s play.
Not now.
Wait until dark. Use the fork. Undo the lock on his feet, pry off a board, slip away.
They wouldn’t realize until dawn that he was gone. By then he’d be at the cache.
Or home. Probably home. Definitely home.
Wherever that might be. As long as it wasn’t here, anywhere would do.
He felt so tired and cold and dead.
Back inside the hut, Ferguson examined the boards and found two he thought he could push out. He used the fork to help ease them apart, moving slowly so he didn’t make too much noise. When the boards were loose enough, he went down and sat near the window, pretending to read one of the books while he bent the tines of the fork to use as a pick.
The lock was ancient and simple, but it still took over an hour for him to open. Finally it sprang free with a click so loud he was sure someone outside would hear.
Ferguson grabbed one of the books and held it over his lap. When he was sure no one was coming, he fiddled with the other chain and undid the lock, leaving the clamps over his ankles so it appeared he was still confined. He pulled the blanket over his legs.
Dark. When would it be dark?
Hours.
All he had to do now was wait. Ferguson picked up the children’s book again. He hadn’t learned enough
