by Larry Bond
“You’re assuming he’s religious.”
“Maybe. But your ancestors . . .” Sonjae explained how there would be a shrine in the home where offerings were made to make sure the deceased passed to heaven.
“If he killed himself, there would be no one to perform those duties,” said Sonjae.
“Yeah, but he’s a scientist. He probably doesn’t believe in that,” said Ferguson.
“I don’t know. It’s a very powerful pull.”
“Not against depression.”
“You’re assuming he’s depressed. His neighbor was surprised. He was relatively young, in good health. He had no reason to commit suicide.”
“Maybe.” Ferguson could think of plenty of reasons. And as far as being in good health, someone who spoke to him once a week wouldn’t know.
Someone who spoke to him many times a week might not know either.
“The only circumstance I can think of that would make it all right,” said Sonjae, “would be if he wanted to avoid bringing shame to his ancestors, but there was no note.”
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“That seems odd.”
“Who would he leave it to?” said Sonjae.
“People at work.”
“Maybe he wasn’t that close to them. Besides, what’s he going to say?”
“Good-bye?”
The doors opened. Ferguson thought about who he would say goodbye to.
Maybe Sonjae was right. What would be the point?
“Breakfast?” Ferguson asked as they walked toward the car.
“Coffee, and lots of it.”
“Let’s see what we can find.”
Fortified by several cups of strong coffee, Ferguson and Sonjae drove to the train station and took a train to Seoul and then the airport. Once the ticket was squared away, they found a phone booth near the entrance to the departure gates.
“She’s a secretary,” said Ferguson, handing Sonjae the number of the woman whose card he had stolen.
“She’ll know I’m not a native Korean speaker.”
“Yeah, be straight with her. Tell her you’re an American colleague trying to figure out what happened to him. Then we can go from there.”
That wasn’t exactly being straight with her, Sonjae thought as he began punching the numbers written on the small card.
“Annyeonghaseyo,” he said to the operator at Science Industries when she picked up the line. “Good morning. Can I have Bae Eun please?”
The line buzzed and clicked as he was put through. Sonjae’s brain was still have trouble translating the words.
“Who is this?” demanded an angry male voice.
Taken off guard, Sonjae gave the name he’d made up and repeated that he was looking for Bae Eun.
“Why are you calling Miss Bae?” said the man, not mollified in the least.
Sonjae wanted to say it was a personal matter, but the words wouldn’t come. He stuttered, then started to apologize, hoping the words would somehow work themselves into his mouth. “Sagwa deuryyeoyo . . . I really apologize . . . I—”
“Where are you calling from?” demanded the man.
Sonjae hung up the phone.
“What’s up?” asked Ferguson.
Sonjae explained what had happened.
Ferguson glanced at the card where he had written the phone number. “Try changing the last two digits. See if we can get another extension and have them transfer us.”
Sonjae got a message that he had dialed a nonworking number. Then he tried an old Bureau trick, dialing in and asking for Mr. Kim, essentially asking for Mr. Smith.
“One minute,” said the operator.
Sonjae found himself talking to a jocular young man who laughed when he heard that there had been a mistake and that Sonjae really wanted Miss Bae Eun.
“Everyone wants Eun,” said the man. “She’s very pretty.”
“I think so, too,” said Sonjae.
“Are you her boyfriend?”
“A relative,” he said quickly. “But how do I get her?”
“Wait, I’ll connect you.”
“What is the extension in case I lose you?”
The man laughed as if this were the funniest joke he’d heard all week. “I won’t lose you. But it is . . . Let me see . . . secretary section two, four-four-seven-eight. Wait. I will forward the call.”
A second later, Sonjae found himself talking to the same gruff man he’d been speaking to earlier.
“You had better turn yourself in and cooperate,” he told Sonjae.
Sonjae glanced up at Ferguson. “Same guy,” he said, holding his hand over the phone. “Wants me to turn myself in.”
“Why?” prompted Ferguson.
Sonjae put the phone back to his ear. “Turn myself in, why?”
“Where are you?” said the man, softening his tone ever so slightly.
“I’m in Daejeon,” Sonjae lied. “What sort of trouble is she in?”
“You’re lying to me!” The man exploded. Obviously he had a caller-ID device or some other way of seeing the phone number Sonjae was calling from.
Caught in a stupid lie. He should have said Seoul from the start.
“What trouble is Eun in?” said Sonjae. “I am her . . . a cousin.”
“Where are you?”
Sonjae hung up.
“Call the first guy back and tell him that you missed your cousin,” said Ferguson. “See if you can get the extension of someone who knows her.”
“Not Kang Hwan?”
“If you ask for the scientist, they’ll automatically be suspicious. It’s more natural to be looking for her.”
Sonjae nodded. This sort of thing used to be second nature to him. Was it the jet lag, his language difficulties, or was he just getting old?
“It’s me again,” he told Mr. Kim a few minutes later. He claimed that there had been no answer at Bae Eun’s extension. This was a real problem, Sonjae said, because his cousin was supposed to pick him up at the airport; he was just in from America.
“America. Oh, you live in L.A.?”
“No.”
“New York?”
“Yes, New York,” said Sonjae.
Kim gave him some instructions on how to deal with taxi drivers and how to get a train to Daejeon, then put him through to a woman whose office was next to Bae Eun’s so Sonjae could leave a message.
“I’m looking for Bae Eun,” said Sonjae, his Korean growing smoother as his cover story became more polished. “I’m her cousin from America and—”
The woman who’d answered the phone burst into tears.
Sonjae asked her what was wrong. The woman told him she couldn’t talk.
“But my cousin—”
“They’re watching,” said the woman, and then she hung up.
Ferguson had already guessed what had happened: The security people had realized that her card had been used to gain access to the building. The card readers hadn’t seemed that sophisticated, but it wouldn’t take all that much to simply record reads.
He didn’t explain to Sonjae. Instead, he had him make one more call to Science Industries.
“Ask for Mr. Park’s office. See what happens. If you get a secretary, ask when he’s usually there. Then let’s get out of here. They probably have someone on their way here right now.”
6
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Corrine’s secretary, Teri Gatins, segregated her phone messages into three main piles: important, really important, and obscenely important. Messages in those categories were placed on the top of her computer monitor, an old-style CRT.
Messages in two other categories were placed on the ledge between the monitor and the keyboard: personal, and no idea.
Josh Franklin fell into the latter category, primarily because he wouldn’t tell Teri what he was calling about, a fact the secretary noted on the pink slip with several exclamation marks.
Remembering their conversation abou
t Korea, Corrine pushed the message to the head of the line and called Franklin back.
“This is Josh.”
“This is Corrine Alston, Mr. Franklin. What can I do for you?”
“For starters, call me Josh,” he said. “Mr. Franklin’s my dad. I was wondering . . .”
He paused. Corrine stopped sorting through the messages, waiting for Franklin to continue.
“Maybe we could have dinner,” he said finally.
“Dinner?”
“Just, uh . . . I wanted to hear your thoughts on Korea. The treaty—legally enforcing it, which I thought might be a problem. Just informal thoughts.”
“I really don’t have any thoughts,” said Corrine
“Oh,” he said.
He sounded so dejected Corrine felt sorry for him. Then she remembered him sitting near her in the president’s limo: handsome, earnest, a nice smell.
And nearly fifteen years her senior.
But that wasn’t a big difference by Washington standards. Not in the right context.
“I’m not doing anything for dinner tonight,” she told him. “If that’s really what you’re asking.”
“Yeah. That’d be great.” He sounded like a teenager, surprised and happy.
“Let’s pick a place to meet.”
Franklin suggested a Tex-Mex place not far from the Pentagon. He was waiting when Corrine got there, sipping a Beefeater martini. Corrine ordered a glass of the house chardonnay.
“You’re really going to want a beer with dinner,” said Franklin. His tie was still knotted at the collar of his gray suit. “Goes better with the food.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Corrine.
“This place isn’t too informal for you, is it?”
“No, it’s fine,” said Corrine. She glanced around at the soft-hued walls and granite tabletops.
“In D.C., I never know whether someone might be a foodie or not,” said Franklin. “Where I grew up, food was just food; this would pass for fancy.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“Idaho,” said Franklin.
“And you like Tex-Mex?”
“I love the spices.”
They traded innocuous small talk for a few more minutes, both sipping from their drinks. Franklin’s nervousness, not far from the surface, added to his charm. It made him seem more real.
He told Corrine that he’d come from a small town in Idaho, was an only child, still had a house there he never went to. His parents owned a ranch. Small by local standards, it sounded immense to Corrine.
Along the way he mentioned that he’d been divorced, no kids. Didn’t work out.
He quickly moved on to other topics.
When he spoke about hunting and hiking his voice hit a different pitch; he was more relaxed, not shy and anxious anymore. Corrine liked that.
Their dinners came. Corrine had ordered a fish dish in a lime sauce; it was a little overcooked.
“See I told you not to order that,” Franklin said as she inspected it.
“Did you?” She was annoyed by his tone, but hid it.
“This steak is great. Want a taste?”
“No, thanks.”
“So, Korea,” said Franklin.
“I really don’t have much of an opinion on Korea.”
“Well, it’s a very important place these days. As Senator Tewilliger was saying, it’ll be the fulcrum of Asia for the next decade.”
“Isn’t that an overstatement?”
Corrine nibbled at her fish as Franklin held forth on why it wasn’t. The tone he’d used when suggesting she’d ordered the wrong entree was back. He was earnest, but he was strident as well.
Not for me, she thought to herself, with the sort of sharp finality a judge’s gavel might signal dismissing a case.
“Do you think the treaty will pass?” he asked finally.
“I really couldn’t say. I don’t watch Congress really.”
“Not even on this?”
“Well, if the president asks me to do something, then I do.”
“I got the impression the other day that you were really involved.”
“Not really.”
“You disagree with me, but you don’t want to say that,” said Franklin. “About the treaty . . . You think it’s a good idea.”
“I don’t have a position on the treaty one way or another.”
“Hmmph,” said Franklin, not believing her. “I guess I just don’t trust North Korea.”
“I don’t know that I do, either.”
“Hmmph,” he said again.
The waiter arrived to ask if they wanted anything for dessert.
“Try the flan,” suggested Franklin.
“I think I’ll have some of the cheesecake.”
“Flan’s better.”
“Just cheesecake, thanks,” said Corrine, handing the menu back to the waiter.
7
ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, IN THE YELLOW SEA
“You appear in good health, Mr. Ch’o,” said the doctor. “Your blood pressure is a little high.”
Ch’o wanted to tell him that he was in perfect health, but his tongue wouldn’t move.
The doctor packed up his stethoscope and blood-pressure cup.
“I can give you a pill for anxiety,” said the doctor. “It might make you feel more at ease. I think you’re just—It was probably quite an ordeal coming here. You’re still not over it.”
Ch’o couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He simply couldn’t talk. He remained motionless on the bed.
“Do you want the pill? It’s very safe.”
With the greatest effort, Ch’o shook his head.
“No?” said the doctor.
No, thought Ch’o, shaking his head again. No devil poison. You’ll have to kill me yourself.
The doctor found Rankin and the CIA people standing like bookends, arms folded and backs against the bulkhead a short distance from the cabin.
“It looks a lot like post-traumatic stress, something along those lines,” said the doctor. “What happened to him?”
“I’m not sure,” said Rankin. “He wanted to be rescued from North Korea.”
“This happens,” said Jimenéz. “Let me try talking to him.”
“No,” said Rankin, putting out his hand to bar the way.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I don’t want to spook him worse than he’s spooked now.”
“He can’t get much worse.”
“Pushing him around’s not going to help us.”
“I’m only going to ask him some questions. Relax.”
“We have to go slow. I’ve seen people like this. It doesn’t do any good to push them.”
“You’ve been in combat, Colonel?” said Jimenez.
“Yeah, I’ve been in combat,” Rankin told him. “And I’m not a colonel.”
Jiménez scowled but said nothing.
“I agree with you,” the doctor told Rankin. “I’d go very, very easy on him. I offered him a pill for anxiety, but he shook his head.”
“Give it to me and I’ll give it to him,” said Jimenez.
“Absolutely not,” said the doctor.
“We can go easy on him,” said Rankin. “There’s no rush.”
“How do you know there’s no rush?” said Jimenez. “If we don’t talk to him, we don’t know anything.”
8
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
Corrine was just turning her car out of the parking lot when her cell phone rang.
“Sergeant Rankin wants to talk to you on a secure line,” Corrigan told her. “He says it’s pretty urgent. I can hook up a sat phone call.”
Corrine had the phone in her pocketbook. She’d have to find a spot to pull over, a place where she could think.
“Can it wait a few minutes?” she asked.
“Not a problem.”
“Can you call me in fifteen minutes at my office?”
“Perfect.”
Exactly f
ifteen minutes later, out of breath, Corrine rushed into her office at the White House. Corrigan had set up the connection to the Peleliu and put her through as soon as she called.
“Sergeant Rankin?”
“Ma’am, sorry to bother you.”
“It’s not a bother, Stephen. What can I do?”
“Ch’o—the scientist we picked up—he’s bugged out. Spooked. Like from shock, either from what he’s seen or what he’s gone through or just being here. I don’t think the CIA debriefer really understands the situation,” said Rankin.
“I heard that there’s a psychologist on his way,” said Corrine.
“Yeah. The shrink. But I had another idea,” said Rankin. “It might be faster. Because, you know, we don’t know if there’s a time limit or something.”
“What’s that?”
“If we could get someone he already trusts.”
“Who?”
“Thera.”
“Did you talk to Slott about it?”
“Am I supposed to? Ferguson usually—”
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
9
INCHEON AIRPORT, SOUTH KOREA
Ferguson sat in the lounge area across from the phone Sonjae had used for a half hour, hoping someone might show up looking for them. But either he had missed them while he was getting Sonjae to the gate and aboard the plane, or they hadn’t sent anyone.
Assuming it was the latter, the people Sonjae had called at Science Industries probably weren’t connected with the government. The South Korean security forces were nothing if not efficient; they would have had the phone staked out by now.
Ferguson got up from his chair and stretched his arms, looking around nonchalantly, checking for a tail. No one seemed to be watching him, but he took a wide turn around the terminal anyway, moving back and forth, thoroughly checking his back.
Outside, he took a taxi to the city. As they were nearing downtown, he asked the driver in halting Korean if he could be dropped off at a park.
The driver obliged by leaving him at Tapgol Park, a tourist landmark. Ferguson got out and wandered near a tour guide, who was explaining the significance of the bronze relief on the outer wall.
“The historical protest movement known as March 1 began on these streets,” said the guide, immediately catching Ferguson’s attention. “The Korean people protested the Japanese occupation. Though Korean protest was nonviolent, the Japanese reaction was not. By early spring 1919, seven thousand five hundred Koreans were killed. At least fifty thousand were arrested. A great tragedy for my country.”
