Rankin. “He headed the army around Seoul. I wonder if you could tell me about that.”
Ch’o glanced at the interviewer, then back at Rankin.
“General
“Was he involved in the production of nuclear weapons?”
“Not directly. As I said the other day,” Ch’o glanced at the interpreter, “my role in the weapons program was extremely limited. My field is primarily dealing with by-products. Waste.”
“You had a way of moving waste so it wouldn’t harm people. In airplanes,” said Rankin. He knew he needed to prompt Ch’o to fill in the details, but he wasn’t sure how to get him to do it.
“The project I was doing with the general involved finding a way to move rods of fuel around the country safely,” said Ch’o. “The rods come from reactors. When the operation is stopped and they are removed, first they must cool, of course. After a period of time they can be moved and stored at a facility such as the one where I was working. From there, they would be taken to Russia or somewhere else for processing. The general was interested in doing so in standard jetliners. This would have presented a grave problem without shielding.”
“Airliners with passengers?”
“No,” said Ch’o. “But there would have been danger to the crews.”
Ch’o wasn’t telling the entire truth. While the general had mentioned safety as a concern, shielding the rods would also make them nearly impossible to detect. That was the general’s real purpose. Namgung had never said that; it was understood.
“These rods were for weapons fuel?” said Jimenez.
“It doesn’t exactly work that way,” said Ch’o. “Plutonium can be used for weapons, but the danger has nothing to do with that fact. The radiation—”
“So were these used?” asked Jimenez.
“No. The rods are still in storage.”
“How do you know?”
“When they are removed from the reactor, they’re very hot. They’re placed in pools of water. It can take considerable time for them to cool off.”
“Weeks?”
“Months. In some cases, years. The rods have been accounted for. The UN, the Chinese, the International Atomic Energy Agency — all of the inspections have certified this.”
Rankin remained skeptical. “Maybe some were hidden.”
“Plutonium is very expensive and difficult to obtain.”
“Would you know of other control rods?” Jimenez asked.
“I might not,” admitted Ch’o.
“So you were making containers that could carry hot plutonium?” said Rankin.
“No, the material would have to be cool.”
“So wait.” It still didn’t make sense to Rankin. “When were you doing this?”
“Six months ago. No, perhaps three or four.”
“You designed these things. Were they built?”
“I don’t know. I gave him the plans.”
“Your containers would have allowed you to transport the material without calling attention to it, wouldn’t they?” said Jimenez. “In secret, on aircraft that weren’t specially modified.”
Ch’o nodded.
“Why would you worry about that in North Korea?” said Rankin.
“It was to protect people,” said Ch’o, “and, maybe, if there were spies. That is what the general said: to keep them away from spies.”
“Yeah,” said Rankin. “That’s one reason.”
10
“I have always heard that the mice will play while the cat is away, but I did not believe that would apply to the president of the United States and his staff.”
McCarthy’s rich southern voice jolted Corrine from the paper she was reading; she nearly fell out of her chair.
“Now, relax, dear,” said the president, closing the door to her office. “I did not mean to startle you.”
“I’m sorry, Jonathon. I didn’t realize you’d come back.”
“An hour ago. I’ve been busy.” McCarthy sat down in a chair across from her. “And so, I understand, have you.”
“Tom Parnelles wants to talk to you,” she said, “before the NSC meeting later.”
“Mr. Parnelles has already spoken to me,” said McCarthy. “About your operative.”
“Bob Ferguson.”
The president put up his hand. He didn’t want to hear any more about the mission than absolutely necessary, and he particularly didn’t want to know the name of the man stranded in North Korea.
“We have a plan to get him,” said Corrine. “They’re going to take off in a few hours, as soon as it’s dark.”
McCarthy pressed his lips together. Corrine felt a hole open in her stomach.
“I am afraid, dear, that we cannot do that. The life of a single CIA officer, no matter how skilled he may be, cannot justify provoking a war between North and South Korea.”
“But—”
“There are no
Corrine stared at her computer screen.
“You will attend the National Security session, will you not, dear?”
“Now that you’re back, I don’t—”
“Now that I’m back, I find myself very much in need of the services of my legal counsel.”
“Of course, Mr. President. Whatever you want.”
11
More and more trucks. This time, Ferguson counted over fifty before he lost track. They were speeding south, hurrying in the direction of the capital… or maybe South Korea.
Ferguson dutifully reported what he saw when he called in but didn’t bother asking Corrigan what was going on. He figured there wasn’t anything Corrigan could tell him that would help him much.
If something truly bad happened — if the North went ahead and attacked — then they’d come. Then it’d be cool. Or if everybody stepped back, relaxed, then they’d come ahead.
But like this, with everybody moving around, rushing, on high alert but not actually shooting, Slott would hold back. He wouldn’t want to be the match that set the shed on fire.
Ferguson knew that. He’d known it when they all talked to him. Now, with all the trucks passing, it was even more obvious.
What he didn’t know was what he was going to do next.
He sat down in the bushes as twilight came on, trying to remember how Chaucer had begun the “Pardoneres
