by Larry Bond
Because he’d worked in Seoul, and Ferguson figured he was covering up for the people there.
Damned if you do; damned if you don’t.
“The NSA has the tape and the disks,” said Corrine. “The Department of Energy has the soil samples and is scheduling the tests now. I’ll refer them to you.”
She got up to leave.
“Yeah,” said Slott, not bothering to get up. “Thanks.”
29
NORTH OF SUNG HO, NORTH KOREA
Korean breakfasts were traditionally skimpy, and when the party was roused at seven-thirty the morning following the reception, all that was available was a large metal pot of weak tea. Ferguson downed two cups, and was on his third when his “translator” Chonjin appeared.
Ferguson’s pretend hangover amused Chonjin greatly, and the North Korean quickly suggested a cure: an ill-smelling concoction mixed with goat’s milk from the kitchen.
Ferguson wouldn’t have trusted the remedy even if he’d had a real hangover. But with Chonjin watching, he decided he had to take at least a sip. His stomach revolted; he ran to the nearby washroom as Chonjin nearly doubled over laughing.
Another man came in as Ferguson wiped his face at the sink. He was a North Korean soldier in full uniform.
“Captain Ganji,” said Ferguson. “Annyeonghaseyo.”
The man, a corporal, looked at him and shook his head, explaining in Korean that he was not a captain and certainly not Ganji. Ferguson apologized, then switched to Russian, saying that he admired Ganji, a very shrewd thinker and a good drinker.
The soldier shook his head, and told him in Korean that he didn’t understand.
“English?” tried Ferguson.
That didn’t work either. The man rattled off something far too rapidly for Ferguson to understand.
“Mworago hasyeosseoyo?” said Ferguson. “I’m sorry, I missed what you were saying.”
“He was explaining that the captain is an aide to General Namgung,” said Chonjin, coming inside the room. “He spends all of his time at the capital, at headquarters.”
“Oh, very good,” said Ferguson in Russian. He laughed. “And did I meet the captain last night?”
“He wasn’t here.” Chonjin turned to the other Korean and began quizzing him. “He says you thought he was Captain Ganji,” Chonjin told Ferguson when he was finished.
“Oh. I was actually trying to say good morning.”
“Annyeonghaseyo.”
“Annyeonghaseyo,” repeated Ferguson. “Doesn’t sound like Captain Ganji or General Nagtum to me.”
“Namgung,” said Chonjin curtly. There was no longer any trace of amusement in his voice. “He is a very important man.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ferguson. He turned to the other man, who had a very worried expression on his face. “I am very sorry.”
“Joesonghaeyo,” prompted Chonjin.
“Joesonghaeyo,” said Ferguson.
“You speak English very well for a Russian,” said Chonjin as the other man slipped past them.
“Thank you.”
“You know more Korean than you let on.”
“I keep trying.”
Chonjin told him in Korean that he was the bastard son of a three-legged pig.
Ferguson got the bastard but missed the rest.
“You may be right,” said Ferguson in Russian. “My mother was rather loose.”
“Come,” said Chonjin, switching to English. “Let’s go hunting, if your head has cleared.”
“Dah,” said Ferguson, staying in Russian. “My head feels much better.”
“Wait,” said Chonjin as they got to the door. He reached into his jacket, and for a moment Ferguson thought he was going to pull out a gun. Instead he presented him with a small package. “Your business cards,” he said in English.
said Ferguson. “Thank you.”
Pickup trucks with benches mounted on the sides of the beds were lined up at the front of the lodge. When all the guests had boarded, the trucks set off, following the dirt road and passing the house where Park had met with General Namgung. They continued along the stream for about a half mile before coming to the edge of an overgrown field. Two other trucks were there already, waiting. These had shotguns for the men to use.
“What are we hunting?” Ferguson asked his escort in Russian.
“Grouse,” said Chonjin in English.
“I didn’t know there were grouse in Korea,” said Ferguson, sticking to Russian.
Chonjin shrugged, and led him toward the truck with the shotguns. Ferguson examined one. It was a Chinese pump design similar to a Winchester Model 12, with an inlaid pearl pattern in the highly polished stock.
“They loaded?” Ferguson asked.
“They will hand out ammunition when we reach the starting line for the hunt,” said Chonjin.
Ferguson checked the magazine anyway. As he did, he saw Li approaching out of the corner of his eye.
“Mr. Manski,” said Li, nodding to Chonjin. “Perhaps you would like to hunt with Mr. Park.”
“Love to.”
“Come with me then.”
Chonjin took a step to follow but stopped when Li shook his head.
“You have recovered from last night?” said Li, leading him around the trucks and back up the road.
“Yes,” said Ferguson.
“Remarkable.”
“No more remarkable than anyone else.”
“Tell me, Mr. Manski, how did you come to be locked out of your room?”
“I was locked out of my room? I guess I don’t remember much of anything.”
“Where did you get a key?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
Li made a kind of humphing sound, but said nothing else, continuing in the direction of the house. As they rounded the first curve, a military-style jeep drove down the road. Ferguson stepped to the side, making room for it to pass.
The jeep stopped in front of them. Park sat in the front, next to a driver.
Li took Ferguson’s shotgun, then gestured for him to get in the back of the vehicle.
“Mr. Manski, again we talk,” said Park. He used English and stared out the front of the jeep, not looking at Ferguson. Li remained on the road.
“Happy to have the opportunity.”
“Why would you come to me? What could you possibly have that might be of use to me?”
“That’s for you to decide.”
“Yes. I am a businessman, Mr. Manski, not a general or a politician. Not a terrorist.”
“Of course not.”
“But you deal with terrorists.”
“I deal with businessmen,” Ferguson replied. “And I am discreet.”
“Some of your customers are not. You have a reputation.”
“I can get things done when they need to be done. I can make arrangements that a man like yourself . . . You could certainly do what you want, but others might question it. It might look embarrassing.”
Ferguson expected that Park would stop the conversation soon, handing him back to Li to do the dirty work.
That was really all he needed. He’d spend the rest of the day hunting, drinking. Get back, make his report.
Probably be told to come home. Play it by ear then.
“I have a vision for Korea,” Park said. “We will be reunited. We will resume our historic place in the world.”
Park twisted back to look at him.
“Do you know any Korean history, Mr. Manski?”
“Not much,” said Ferguson. “I know the Japanese raped your country.”
“That doesn’t begin to describe what they did.” Anger flashed in Park’s eyes, but he quickly controlled himself. “The history I refer to goes much deeper. Koreans ruled Asia. A small nation ruled the larger ones.”
The Chinese had actually done most of the ruling in Asia, but Ferguson didn’t think it politic to interrupt.
“Korean intelligence, work ethic, tradition . . . We are a great people,” con
tinued Park. “Your country, Russia, it is large, too varied, and corrupt. There are many thieves in Russia.”
“I have to agree.”
“America . . . earnest but a mongrel nation.”
“At best.”
“Mongrels and thieves have no place in Korea.”
“Of course not,” said Ferguson.
Park smiled, then turned back to the front. “Mr. Li will speak with you now.”
“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Park,” said Ferguson, leaning to get out. “Pleasure.”
The jeep jerked into motion before Ferguson was completely out. He had to do a little twist to regain his balance. When he did, he looked up and saw that Li was holding a pistol on him.
“Problem?” said Ferguson.
“There is no place for mongrels or thieves in Korea, Mr. Manski.” An SUV drove up. Li nodded toward the truck as it stopped behind him. “You will get in.”
“I don’t think so.”
“For myself, I don’t care; killing you here would be very easy. But Mr. Park fears that our hosts would not like to offend your government and desire a little time to contemplate the arrangements. So I advise you to get in, before I decide that their feelings are not worthy of consideration.”
ACT IV
Are you human, or a ghost?
—from “The Seventh Princess,”
traditional Korean song for the dead
1
NEAR THE DEMILITARIZED ZONE, KOREA
Corporal Wanju stared at the figure, disbelieving as it seemed to rise directly from the ground. He was manning a guard post about seventy yards south of the Demilitarized Zone separating the two Koreas.
How had he appeared there? A tunnel?
The man ran toward the roll of barbed wire to the corporal’s left.
“An enemy!” hissed the private who shared the corporal’s observation post. “Corporal, look.”
Corporal Wanju had served in the army for more than three years, and had been stationed at this post for more than five months. He had seen North Korean soldiers before, but always at a distance, through binoculars.
What was the man doing? Attacking? He didn’t seem to have a rifle.
Spies attempted to infiltrate South Korea all the time, but never here. Besides, it was the middle of the day; only a fool would attempt to sneak across the border when he could be so easily seen.
“Corporal, we must shoot him! He is attacking!”
“Wait,” said Corporal Wanju.
As he did, one of the machine gunners at the observation post fifty yards to the west began firing.
The figure seemed to pause in midstride, turning slightly as if to begin a dance.
And then his head exploded as if it were a blood-filled gourd.
Corporal Wanju turned aside and threw up.
2
OUTSIDE CHUNGSAN, NORTH KOREA
Sitting alone in the back of the SUV, Ferguson watched the countryside pass by. He determined that they were going northwest, but since he had only a general idea of North Korean geography, he had no idea where he was being taken.
There were two men in the truck with him, both in the front seat. While it was tempting to throttle one of the men and try and take his weapon, Ferguson realized that would be foolish; there was another vehicle behind him, and even if he managed to overcome the driver and his companion he’d almost certainly be outgunned.
The fact that he hadn’t been bound or blindfolded seemed significant. The North Koreans were dressed in plain work clothes, not military fatigues. They might be with the internal security force, but if that were the case, why hadn’t the pug-faced interpreter Chonjin come with them? He didn’t even seem to know what was going on.
Possibly this was simply Park’s way of testing him, though Ferguson couldn’t quite see the logic of that.
Had Park or Li realized he’d seen them meeting with the North Korean general?
Maybe, but if so it would have been much easier to dispose of him in the way Li hinted they could.
For the moment, he decided, he’d stay in character, angling to be released to the Russian embassy. That might involve other problems, but he’d worry about them when the time came. His cover was solid; he knew from experience it would check out, even in Moscow.
The SUV pulled down a dirt road lined with spools of barbed wire. It bumped through some ruts, then pulled up in front of a gate. The driver rolled down his window, and a man in uniform approached. After a few words, the guard looked into the back, glared at Ferguson, then waved them through.
The SUV drove past a pair of antiaircraft guns at least twice as old as the soldiers standing in front of the sandbags nearby. The truck rounded a curve, passed a small wooden building, and then stopped in the middle of a large parade ground in front of a large, dilapidated stone building.
The door opened, and a soldier ordered Ferguson out. As he stepped out, the man pulled him by the shirt and pushed him forward.
said Ferguson. “Stop it!”
The man continued to prod him toward the entrance. Ferguson dug in his heels and put out his hands, shrugging the man off. Then he began walking on his own power.
“Inside,” said his escort roughly in Korean. “Go.”
Ferguson entered a small room dominated by a fat coal stove. Red embers glowed behind its cast-iron gate.
A short, balding man in an officer’s uniform asked him his name in Korean.
“Ivan Manski,” Ferguson said. “Hanggungungmai mot hamnida. I don’t speak Korean.”
“That is of no concern to me,” said the man.
“I want to speak to the Russian embassy,” said Ferguson, first in Korean, and then in Russian.
“You will speak when spoken to,” said the man. He told the man who had pushed Ferguson inside to take him to a cell.
“I want to speak to the Russian ambassador,” said Ferguson. He reached for his passport, but before he could he was grabbed from behind and thrown against the wall. Two men held him there while he was searched; they found the passport and the business cards, along with the commercial sat phone Ferguson had purchased in Daejeon, his wallet, and thyroid pills. Ferguson was then pushed into another room and ordered to strip.
He began to undress slowly. This annoyed the man behind him, who pulled down the back of his shirt.
No self-respecting Russian, let alone an arms dealer with a background as unsavory as Ferguson’s, would stand for that. Ferguson spun and planted a fist in the man’s jaw so hard that the North Korean flew back against the wall, stunned. Instantly, the others were on top of him, pounding him with their fists. Ferguson fought back hard, drawing blood and breaking at least one nose, before finally the officer from the other room arrived, yelling that they were fools and to let the Russian pig alone.
Lying on the ground, Ferguson worked his tongue around his mouth, making sure he hadn’t lost a tooth. He rolled onto his knees and felt his face. His nose was bleeding, and he could feel the welts starting to swell around his eyes. His kidneys were sore.
“Much worse will happen if you do not cooperate,” said the man, standing over Ferguson. He pointed to a pair of blue prison pajamas. “Get up and get dressed in those clothes.”
Ferguson didn’t understand all the words, but the meaning was clear enough.
“I need my medicine,” he said in Russian, standing.
The officer didn’t understand.
“Pills.” Ferguson had learned the phrase in Korean but couldn’t get it out. “Figeum yageul meok,” he stuttered finally. “I need my medicine.”
The officer waved at him to go and take off the rest of his clothes.
“Meokgo isseoyo. Figeum yageul meokgo isseoyo,” repeated Ferguson.
They were the right words, though his pronunciation was halting. His head was still scrambled from the pounding he’d taken.
The officer said something to one of the men, who disappeared into the other room. Then he told Ferguson to get changed.
>
Not seeing another option, he did so.
3
P’YŎNGYANG AIRPORT, NORTH KOREA
Park Jin Tae stepped from the sedan and walked briskly to the ladder in front of his plane. His visit had been an enormous success, but he had much to do at home. He’d waited until evening to leave only because the vice chairman of the Communist Party had invited him to lunch, and it would not have been politick to refuse, much as he hated the ignorant water buffalo.
His assistant, Mr. Li, met him at the top of the steps, just inside the aircraft. He bowed in respect, then told Park that the defector had been shot at the crossing.
“Dead?” said Park.
“Very. There have been no news reports yet, however.”
Park slipped into the leather seat at the center of the cabin. A steward stood near the polished mahogany bar, waiting for him to nod; when Park did so, the man brought him a shallow cup and a bottle of makgeolli, a humble milky white liquor that never failed to ease his cares.
Li, as was his custom, declined the invitation to share the drink.
“Did they find the papers?” asked Park as the steward retreated.
“I have not heard. Should I inquire?”
“Not yet. Wait and see what develops in the morning, and what we learn from our usual sources. This must unfold without our hand being seen.”
4
OUTSIDE CHUNGSAN, NORTH KOREA
Without his thyroid pills, most of Ferguson’s vital organs would start to slow down. His body would have trouble maintaining its proper temperature; he’d feel cold even in a room of seventy degrees. His muscles would ache, a by-product of their difficulty removing built-up waste material. His energy would ebb, a pale of lethargy descending over him. Within two or three days he would begin to slide toward clinical depression and acute anxiety, his brain having trouble keeping its serotonin levels stable.
At some point Ferguson’s tissues would begin to swell, and he would develop fluid around his heart and lungs. Along the way his brain would turn to mush, and he’d become psychotic, assuming he was still alive.
