hours from where you are.”

“What’s that got to do with Ferg?”

“You’re not looking for Ferg, remember? You’re looking for the plutonium. That’s our priority.”

“I just came back from the hospital looking for him.” Thera realized she’d spoken far too loudly. “I have to go.”

“Thera.”

“I’ll call back,” she said, hanging up.

32

ON THE KOREAN COAST, WEST OF SUKCH’ON

The pungent smell of the awful fish stew woke Ferguson. The room was dark; he was lying on his side near the wall, the parka still wrapped around him, his book on the floor where he had dropped it when he fell asleep.

Fear shot through him. Had he slept through the night?

He leapt to his feet, chains clanking dully on the dirt, and went to the window. A few faint lines of purple curled around the shadowy outline of the horizon. The sun had only just set.

Ferguson crawled to the food. He wolfed it down, then drank half the bottle of water. He’d save the rest for his journey.

Finished eating, he went back to the window, looking to see if he could spot his guards. One stood about ten yards in front of the door, near the road. He couldn’t find the other man.

If the guard was behind the house, he’d see Ferguson when he came out, but taking that chance was the only way to escape.

Ferguson, his hands still chained, pushed the boards to get them out of the way. The first came off easily, but the next stuck. Frustrated, he lost control for a moment, launching his fist toward the wall. He pulled it back at the last moment and collapsed on the floor, wrestling with his anger.

This is because I don’t have the right hormones.

Do it step by step.

Don’t go weird.

Step by step.

He retrieved the fork and pried at the pair of nails holding the bottom of the board. The wood came loose but then stuck somewhere toward the top. Ferguson pushed, gentiy at first, then more forcefully. Suddenly whatever was holding it gave way, and the board slipped from his grasp, clanking onto the ground outside.

Ferguson froze.

Don’t stop now. Go!!!

He squeezed through feet first, rolling onto the ground. He sprung up, chain between his hands, a weapon, ready to confront the guards.

No one was there. The sound had been too faint to be heard over the lapping waves.

Ferguson propped the board back against the house, then crept to the corner of the building. The two soldiers were together now, standing next to the road a few yards from the front of the cottage.

He gave them a wide berth, circling out about a hundred yards before crossing the road and then going over to the path. His feet had swollen so much that the clogs were now tight. This was an advantage, really; it meant he could trot without worrying about losing them.

The parka flew behind him. He felt like a kid on Halloween, pretending to be a super hero.

“Trick or treat, Kim Jong-Il,” he whispered to the moon over his shoulder as he ran north. “Trick or fuckin’ treat.”

* * *

It seemed to take the entire night to get to the mouth of the river. Ferguson jogged as much as he could, bouncing along to keep warm, never stopping. The highway was deserted, but he was too fearful to walk along it for very long. Instead he kept within ten or twenty yards, using paths and fields and occasionally hard-packed roads that led to the sea. Twice he had to backtrack to skirt small villages that lay near the water, then walk along the shoulder of the highway until he was safely past.

Eventually Ferguson found that the land on both sides of the road was too marshy to walk on, and he had no choice but to walk along the main road. He kept looking over his shoulder, prepared to jump into the nearby ditch or a clump of reeds if a vehicle appeared.

After what seemed like hours — the moon had arced high across the sky — Ferguson gave in to fatigue and stopped for a rest. He decided he had gone much farther than a few miles; the Korean who had told him the river was nearby had been lying to throw him off.

Maybe he could steal a boat from the next village he came to, take it north across the mouth of the river, find the cache from the water.

Or go south. It was farther, but he wouldn’t have to wait to be rescued. He wouldn’t have to depend on anyone but himself.

The waters were patrolled, but smugglers made it past all the time; surely he could.

Ferguson got up and started walking again. He began humming “Finnegan’s Wake” to himself, then whispering the lines from Chaucer, whipping up his strength. There was no wind to speak of, and while the prison pants he wore were thin, the parka was relatively warm, even as a cape.

I’m so cold I don’t even know I’m cold anymore, he realized. Then he pushed the thought away.

It was just a matter of time before he found a boat. Maybe the river really was close. He’d steal a boat and paddle across the muddy mouth of the sea, skirting the shallow mud flats.

Make land, keep going, keep going, always keep going.

Keep going.

Keep…

The horizon brightened as Ferguson pushed on. He walked and ran along the road, moving as quickly as he could. His side ached, and his legs stiffened. He didn’t want to stop, fearing that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to get back up. But finally he had no choice. He felt his balance slipping. He steadied himself, then took a few steps off the road, slipped down the embankment and let his legs slowly collapse beneath him. He slid onto the ground.

Lying in the damp coldness, he thought how ironic it would be to die here, but then realized that irony and death didn’t really go together; irony was something for the living. Death was just death, and this was as good a place to die as any.

He thought of Chaucer, then of his father, wishing he could have seen the old man one more time before he’d died, have a drink maybe, a lot of drinks, talk to him in ways they hadn’t talked since he was small, about things they’d never had the strength to mention.

Have that chance in heaven. Maybe. If it worked that way. If he got there.

In the distance, a seabird called. His body suddenly felt warmer.

The bird called again.

Dawn, thought Ferguson.

He pushed upright. In the gray twilight, a flock of shadows crossed overhead, descending to his right. As they passed just out of sight, he heard the sound of pebbles being thrown into the water.

Rocks maybe.

Or the birds, landing in a sheltered arm of water.

Ferguson stared in the direction the birds had taken for several minutes, before realizing he had come to the river.

33

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