Fires of War

“Visiting the temples. I’m thinking of becoming a Buddhist.”

“You’d have to give up meat. And booze.” Rankin took a sip of his Coke. “Corrigan was looking for you. You didn’t answer his call.”

“Oh, gee. Must’ve forgotten to turn the phone on again. Tsk, tsk.”

Rankin smirked. He liked Corrigan even less than Ferguson did.

“There’s a complication,” said Ferguson.

The bartender came over. Ferguson leaned on the bar, eyeing the bottles of Western liquor. “Scotch,” he said finally. “Let’s try the Dewar’s, on the rocks.”

“He doesn’t speak English, Ferg.”

“Dewar’s,” said Ferguson. “That’s Korean.”

“So what’s going on?” asked Rankin.

“The sensors say there’s plutonium somewhere in the waste site.”

“What, here?”

“Maybe it’s a screwup, maybe not.”

Ferguson glanced across the bar. There were about a dozen other people, all Japanese businessmen, gathered in different knots, all stooped over their drinks and conversations.

“So what do we do?” Rankin asked.

“Hang tight. Thera’s planting some more tags. She’ll pick them up day after tomorrow; we’ll get them from the hotel and fly them home.”

“You tell Corrigan?”

“No sense telling him yet.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t want to be wrong on this. Washington’ll freak.”

“That’s it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Thera had let the tags get out of her possession. Because of that, the results were automatically suspicious; she really had no way of knowing where they had gone. If he told The Cube, Ferguson would have to explain what had happened. It wasn’t a major screwup, given the circumstances, but he didn’t trust Corrine or the CIAs deputy director of operations, Dan Slott, to know that. Corrine especially.

The bartender brought over a glass and the bottle of Scotch. Ferguson took the glass and handed it to Rankin.

“What’s this for?”

“In Korea, you always fill the other guy’s glass.”

“I don’t like Scotch.”

“You should’ve thought of that before I ordered it.”

9

SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE, KOREA

The Korean security guards accompanying the inspectors called Thera “Cigarette Queen,” snickering among themselves as she tagged along behind a group of technicians setting up monitoring equipment at the reception building. She acted like she didn’t understand the jokes, helping the techies lug the gear over and unpack it. It was gofer work, but it suited her just fine.

On her third trip back to the truck, she veered in the direction of the embedded rail line used to ferry material to the recycling holding area. Thera slipped her hand in her pocket and took one of the tags from the shielded envelope she’d hidden there. Then she got down on one knee and pretended to tie her shoe. As she did, she slid the thin tag into the narrow furrow next to the rail.

Thera took a breath, then started to rise. All of a sudden she had a premonition: The guards were about to arrest her.

She sensed — she knew — that they were right behind her and that in the next second would grab her. The sensation was as strong as anything she had ever felt in her life. Thera held her breath, but nothing happened.

She took a step. Nothing. Another step. Nearly trembling, she continued on her way to the truck.

It’ll get easier as it goes, she told herself, walking back with the bag she’d been sent to retrieve. She made a show of being cold, stamping her feet and rubbing her hands. One of the engineers took the hint.

“You ought to go over to the administration building and warm up in the lounge,” he suggested.

“Good idea.”

Thera had always despised the helpless-female routine, but the role came in handy now; her shivers were so convincing she almost fooled herself. She did the shoelace trick again, this time with the other foot, planting a tag in another truck, then presented herself at the door of the administration building, where the two young guards were happy to let her inside.

Yesterday she’d been a prisoner, now she was a princess; the male engineers in the monitoring station practically tripped over themselves as they rushed to show her to the lounge. They found tea and some cookies, telling her in halting English that it was unusual to have such beauty in a person so intelligent. They thought she was one of the scientists; Thera didn’t correct the mistake.

She was just getting up to go back outside when one of the guards from the day before appeared in the doorway to the lounge. With a stern face, he beckoned her out into the hallway, then smiled, opening his palm to reveal a pack of cigarettes. He gave them to her, then motioned with his head for her to follow him outside.

Thera sensed a trap.

“Gomapjiman sayanghalkkeyo,” she told him. “No thank you. I really can’t; we’ll get in trouble.”

“No trouble. Ssssh,” said the man, putting his finger to his lips.

Trust him or not?

Fear swept over her again. Thera forced herself to nod, forced herself to go with him.

The guard practically bounced his way outside, leading her around the corner of the building and out toward the yard, where some empty train cars were parked.

“Here,” he said, sliding a cigarette into her hand. He cupped one as well.

Thera waited until he lit up, then did so herself, puffing with her hands hiding her face.

The spot was perfect, out of range of any of the surveillance cameras but strategically located. She had no trouble planting a tag as they finished their cigarettes, partners in crime.

And so it went. By the time the inspection team broke for lunch — a catered affair in the administration building — Thera had planted all of the sensors. She spent the rest of the day doing odd jobs for different members of the team, trying to get a feel for the plant’s routine so that she would have no trouble picking up the tabs tomorrow.

The ride back to the hotel was unusually quiet, the scientists and engineers feeling the effects of jet lag. Thera stared out the window, going back over the site’s layout in her mind, comparing it to North Korea’s. There’d be more guards there, but the video coverage would undoubtedly be poorer.

The cigarette trick would work.

What if it didn’t?

She needed a new gimmick.

“You must be thinking of a statue,” said Neto Evora, leaning forward from the seat behind her. Evora headed the ground sampling team; he and his crew had spent the day in the recycling area shoveling random half-kilogram piles of dirt into boxes.

“Why a statue?” said Thera.

“Because your eyes seem to see beauty,” explained the Portuguese scientist.

“Thank you.”

“Maybe you’ll have dinner with us.”