by Larry Bond
“I’m sorry I messed up, Ferg.”
“The bug fell off the truck. What are you going to do?”
“I shoulda been closer.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Rankin, tossing his gear in the trunk, couldn’t help thinking that Ferguson would have ridden his butt if it had been him rather than Guns who’d lost the truck.
“I checked the area out. Couldn’t find anything,” said Guns as they got in the car. “I took a picture of the truck coming into the plant. Maybe we can use that.”
“Maybe,” said Ferguson.
“Probably getting around some no-dumping law,” said Rankin.
Ferguson plopped into the front seat of the car. He’d hurt his right knee getting down off the roof, and he grimaced as he pulled it in.
“What’d ja do?” asked Guns.
“Roof was a little higher than I thought it was,” Ferguson told him. “I tried sliding down the ribs, but it didn’t work too well. Nothing a good belt of Irish whiskey wouldn’t cure,” he added.
Rankin snorted from the back.
“They have Irish whiskey in Korea?” asked Guns.
“Guns, they have Irish whiskey everywhere,” said Ferguson. He dug into his pocket and took out the sensors, examining them. Only one had gone red, the one that had been on the barrel. It had been positioned near the tracks to the permanent low-level waste area, right next to the route the truck had taken.
“Gonna be a nice day for a change,” said Rankin, looking out the window. The sun had just started to peek over the horizon.
Ferguson repacked the tags in an envelope, then sealed everything in a large carrying case. He snapped the lock closed, then reset the digital lock.
“Give this to Van and tell him to send it back ASAP,” he told Rankin, handing it back to him. “I’ll let Corrigan know it’s coming.”
“I thought we were all going to shadow Thera,” said Guns.
“This is more interesting,” said Ferguson. “Besides, Skippy likes to be alone with the Delta boys. They stay up late and talk all that blanket-hugger stuff while they roast MREs over the fire.”
“You’re a laugh a minute, Ferg,” said Rankin. “You oughta go on Jay Leno.”
“Keep working on it, Rankin. There’s a comeback in there somewhere,” said Ferguson.
17
CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA
Corrine Alston got out of the elevator and walked down the narrow hallway to a stairwell guarded by two CIA security officers. The men stared straight ahead as she approached, doing their best to pretend that they didn’t notice her. She descended one level—the stairwells and elevators were separated to prevent a smart bomb from flying all the way down—and walked through a well-lit hallway. The walls had recently been painted a soft blue on the advice of an industrial psychologist to add an air of calm, but it was a futile gesture. So much went on here that it was difficult for anyone to be calm.
Corrine put her thumb on a small panel next to the first doorway on the right. After a second’s delay, the doors swung apart, and she entered a vestibule leading to a small, secure conference room. In contrast to the rest of the building, the room was bereft of high-tech gadgetry. There was a whiteboard at the front and an old-fashioned slide projector on the table. The table and chairs were at least thirty years old, having been salvaged from another building.
Daniel Slott, the CIA’s deputy director of operations and the head of the agency’s covert operations division, sat alone at the table, fiddling with a plastic Papermate mechanical pencil. He looked up when Corrine entered, nodded, then went back to staring at his pencil.
Corrine pulled out a seat opposite him and sat down.
“So?”
Slott cleared his throat. “I thought I’d wait for the DCI.”
DCI was Agency-talk for “director of Central Intelligence Agency”—the head of the CIA, Thomas Parnelles.
“When will he be here?”
“Hard to tell.” Slott twisted the lead from the pencil. “He said he was on his way an hour ago.”
When she had first become involved with Special Demands, Corrine had assumed that Parnelles and Slott—generally considered the number-two man at the CIA—were close allies, but over the course of several operations she had come to realize they weren’t close at all.
Parnelles didn’t consider that a problem. Slott, though, felt the director not only second-guessed him but also undercut his authority, giving many of his deputies too much leeway, in effect encouraging them to subvert the normal chain of command. Parnelles wanted results above all; Slott often found himself trying to rein in operations that were veering toward the sort of abuses that had laid the agency low in the past.
Not that Slott would discuss this with Corrine.
“Maybe you and I should get started,” said Corrine. “And when he comes in—”
The door opened before she had a chance to finish the sentence. Parnelles stalked in, a frown on his face. Slott put the pencil down.
“Ms. Alston. Daniel.” Parnelles pulled a chair out and sat. “What’s going on?”
“The First Team found evidence of bomb material in South Korea,” said Slott.
It took Corrine a second to process what he had said. “South Korea?”
“Yes, South Korea. At the Blessed Peak South Korean Nuclear Waste Disposal and Holding Station, thirty miles northwest of Daejeon. Thera brought tags in to get a baseline so the scientists could compare it to the North Korean waste site. All of the tags were somehow exposed. Ferguson thought it might be a mistake or a screwup in the instruments. The devices are new, and since the underlying nanotechnology—”
“We don’t really need the details, Dan,” said Parnelles. “We stipulate that they made the right decision to double-check.”
“They planted a full set again,” said Slott. “One showed a serious exposure. It’s on its way back to the States to be examined.”
“Is it a bomb or bomb material?” asked Parnelles.
“We can’t be sure,” said Slott, going on to explain that the sensors were “tuned” to discover the main ingredient of a bomb and one common contaminant. The ratio indicated that weapons-grade plutonium was present, but they could not definitively say how it had been used.
Parnelles rolled his arms in front of his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Has the president been told?”
“No. I only just found out about this through Lauren. I haven’t spoken to Ferguson myself.” Slott glanced at his watch. “It’s roughly six a.m. in Korea, and they’d been working on getting this all night. I figured I’d let him sleep.”
“But you’re sure of the results?” said Parnelles.
Slott bristled. “There’s always a possibility that the sensors malfunctioned,” he said. “But the technology people tell me it’s unlikely. They’ve been tested, I’m sure you recall.”
“I think we have to tell the president immediately,” said Corrine.
“That goes without saying.” Parnelles’s voice boomed in the small, sealed room. “Are you sure, Daniel, that this isn’t a mistake?”
“We have two scientists on their way out to a lab in Hawaii. We should know more definitely in eight or nine hours. But I don’t think it’s a mistake, not with two sets.”
“It makes sense that they have a weapon,” said Parnelles. “It makes a lot of sense.”
“Whether it makes sense or not, it’s going to be a problem,” said Corrine.
Parnelles held out his hands. The skin around his eyes was thick and rugged, as textured as a rubber Halloween mask, but his hands were remarkably smooth and unblemished.
“This could kill the nonproliferation treaty and God knows what else,” said Corrine.
“I think it’s still a little premature to jump to the conclusion that they have weapons,” said Slott. “It’s possible this is just part of an exploratory program.”
“You think they stole the material from the North Koreans?” asked P
arnelles.
Slott hadn’t considered that. “Maybe,” he said.
“Why didn’t we know about it?” asked Parnelles.
All Slott could do was shake his head.
“Nothing anywhere in any of the analyses hints at it?” asked Parnelles.
Slott shook his head again. While he couldn’t be expected to know everything the CIA knew—no one did—Asia was an area of special interest. So was Korea, where he’d been station chief. There had been South Korean programs in the past but none aimed at plutonium-fueled weapons. At least as far as the Agency knew.
“Who’s going to tell the president?” said Parnelles, looking over at Corrine.
Corrine interpreted it as a challenge. “I will.”
“You’ll want to tell him in person,” suggested Parnelles, “and alone.”
Corrine nodded. The president was in Maine this evening, staying at a private home; he’d be in New Hampshire tomorrow. She’d catch an early flight and meet him there.
“We should have the report from the scientists within a few hours,” said Slott, screwing the lead all the way out his pencil. “I can get you a copy.”
“All right. Start reviewing what we already know,” Parnelles told Slott. “See what’s there.”
“Absolutely. But it’s a sensitive time. Thera’s on her way to Korea.”
“It’s always a sensitive time,” said Parnelles, rising. “Better talk to Ferguson and find out exactly what the hell he knows. The president is bound to ask some very uncomfortable questions.”
Slott waited until the others had left the room before getting up from the table. The discovery of the plutonium had shaken him, not merely because it implied that the South Koreans were doing something he’d never believed they would but also because it implied that the CIA’s operations in the country had failed miserably. No matter where the radioactive material had come from, the Agency surely should have known about it before now.
And for it to involve Korea, of all places, a country he knew intimately, having spent the better part of his career there . . .
Granted, he hadn’t been back in a number of years. Still, he knew Ken Bo, the station chief in Seoul, reasonably well. Until now, Slott thought he was a very good officer.
Knew he was a good officer.
Careers were going to be ruined if the information panned out. Including his, maybe.
He should take steps . . .
All his life he’d derided officers who put their careers above the needs of the country and the Agency. He hated the cover-your-ass mentality. But as he walked down the hall toward the Special Needs communication center, he realized he was thinking along those very lines.
He wasn’t going to do that. He was going to take it step by step, do what should be done, no matter the personal consequences.
Jack Corrigan was just coming on duty as mission coordinator and was being briefed by Lauren. They stopped talking as he walked across the “bridge,” an open area of space between the communications consoles and the high-tech gear that lined the room.
“I’d like to talk to Ferguson as soon as possible,” Slott told them.
“He’s still sleeping I think,” said Lauren. “His phone isn’t on—”
“Why the hell isn’t his phone on?”
Lauren glanced toward Corrigan. Ordinarily Slott was the personification of cool; he showed so little emotion at times, she was tempted to take his pulse.
“Ferg’s afraid that the phone might, you know, that there would be a bad time or something,” said Corrigan. “And I don’t think he totally trusts the encryption either.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Slott. The encryption was an NSA standard, all but theoretically impossible to crack.
“He usually leaves it off unless something important’s going on,” said Lauren. “The transmissions can be detected and—”
“Something damn important is going on,” said Slott. “Who’s with him? Sergeant Young?”
“Um, Guns turns his phone off, too,” said Lauren. “I’m sure Ferg tells him to.”
Slott struggled to control his anger. It wasn’t Lauren or Corrigan’s fault that he couldn’t talk to Ferguson—they couldn’t control what the op did—and, to be honest, neither could he.
He liked Ferguson’s results—who didn’t?—but the op had always struck him as being arrogant, acting as if he didn’t have to follow the rules everyone else did.
“I called the hotel desk,” said Lauren. “He left orders not to be disturbed. Maybe—”
“I want to talk to him now,” Slott told them. “Get somebody to get him. Have him call me.”
“Colonel Van Buren’s operation has his men tied up,” said Corrigan.
“Tell Seoul to send someone down there,” snapped Slott, referring to the CIA’s South Korean office.
“How much should I tell them?” asked Lauren.
Slott hesitated. There were two separate problems he had to deal with: the plutonium itself and his people’s failure to discover it. If he had Seoul work on problem number one, he might not be able to discover the seriousness of problem number two. What he needed for now was to keep the two problems separate if at all possible.
On the other hand, he needed to talk to Ferguson ASAP, not when Ferguson felt like checking in.
“Dan?” said Corrigan.
“Don’t tell them anything. Ferguson is just an American who’s supposed to call home.”
Corrigan and Lauren glanced at each other.
“I’ll come up with something,” said Corrigan.
18
DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA
The knock on the hotel-room door was not quite loud enough to wake the dead, but it was sufficient to jostle someone with a mild hangover. Ferguson lifted his head and grunted, “Yeah?”
“Robert Christian?”
It was the cover name Ferguson had used to check in. The voice speaking was English with an American accent.
“Yeah?”
“Your uncle wants to talk to you.”
“What time is it?”
“Going on ten o’clock.”
Ferguson groaned and slipped out of bed. “My uncle, huh?” At least his knee felt better. “Where’s he live?”
“Washington.”
He grabbed his Glock and a flash-bang grenade and walked to the door, flipping on the TV as he went. Ferguson had chosen the hotel because it had eyepieces in each room’s door; Ferguson had replaced his with a wireless video camera whose wide-angle lens allowed it to view the entire hallway.
The image on the TV screen showed that there was a man and a woman outside, both dressed in suits, both Western, more than likely American. They didn’t have guns showing, and they didn’t have backup down the hallway, unless they were hiding in the stairway. No headsets, no radios.
The man leaned against the door, apparently in a misguided attempt to peer through the spyglass.
“My uncle hasn’t lived in Washington in twenty years,” said Ferguson. Silently, he slid back the dead bolt and unhooked the chain.
“We’re from the embassy,” said the man, still leaning against the door.
“Which embassy would that be?” asked Ferguson. As he did, he yanked the door open. The man fell inside, helped along by Ferguson, who grabbed his arm and threw him against the bureau. Ferguson kicked the door closed behind him, then knelt on the man’s chest, his pistol pointed at his forehead.
“I’m hoping you’re new,” Ferguson told the CIA officer, who clearly was. “Like maybe you just got off the plane.”
“I’ve been in Korea three months,” managed the man.
“That’s long enough to know better.”
Ferguson quickly searched him; he wasn’t carrying a weapon. His business cards indicated he was Sean Gillespie and a member of the U.S. Commerce Department’s Asian Trade Council, the cover du jour obviously.
“What’s going on in there?” yelled his teammate from the hall, pounding on the door.
/> “Let her in,” Ferguson said, getting up. “Before I shoot her.”
Gillespie opened the door, and his fellow CIA officer, a thin brunette with thick glasses, came inside, her face flushed. Like Gillespie, she looked about twenty-three going on twelve.
“What is this?” she sputtered, mesmerized by Ferguson’s gun.
“Lock the door and lower your voice,” Ferguson told her. “Then you have about ten seconds to tell me why you’re here blowing my cover.”
The brunette’s cheeks went from red to white.
“Why are you here?” said Ferguson.
“You’re supposed to come right away to the embassy and call home,” said Gillespie. “We were told to bring you.”
“Why?”
“They didn’t say.”
“You’re not on official cover?” asked the brunette.
“Do these boxers look official?” said Ferguson.
Official cover” meant that the officers held positions with the government and had diplomatic passports. It also meant that just about anyone who counted knew they were CIA.
Someone traveling on unofficial cover, like Ferguson, had no visible connection with the Agency or the government. Other officers were supposed to be extremely careful when approaching them, since anyone watching might easily put two and two together and realize the other person was a spy.
Unsure whether the two nuggets had been followed, Ferguson told them to leave without him. They refused; they had their orders after all and insisted on accompanying him to Seoul. After considerable wrangling, he convinced them to meet him on the train to Seoul. Ferguson gave them a head start, then he called The Cube and asked what the hell was going on.
“There you are,” said Corrigan.
“Two bozos from the embassy just woke me up. What’s the story?”
“Oh. Slott needed to talk to you and—”
“So you got Seoul to blow my cover?”
