Fires of War

by Larry Bond

  “The last thing I need right now is an audience,” said Thera. She stuck her head in the shower, then wrapped her hair in a towel. “I’ll call back.”

  Mr. Li spotted Thera as soon as the elevator doors opened. He rose from the sofa where he had been waiting patiently and walked toward her, admiring her swift stride as much as the trim body that produced it.

  “You are Miss Deidre?” he said.

  “Just Deidre,” Thera said, holding out her hand.

  Li didn’t know whether to shake it or kiss it. Instead, he bowed.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Mr. Li. Very nice to meet you.”

  “And I you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You were making inquiries about Mr. Park?”

  “He and I have a friend in common.” Thera noticed that Li was uneasy about standing in front of the elevators and talking; she decided to keep him there as long as possible.

  “Mr. Park has many friends and acquaintances.”

  “This one owes me a great deal of cash.” Too harsh, Thera realized; she tried to backtrack. “On the other hand, Mr. Manski has many positive traits.”

  “Mr. Manski. Ah, yes, he accompanied us to North Korea.”

  “I see. Why, exactly?”

  The question took Li by surprise. “The other half of our country is an interesting place. There is a great deal of history. In the future—not very long from now, I hope—we will be reunited.”

  “Mr. Manski has very little use for history.”

  “Perhaps it was for the hunting, then.”

  “What was he shooting? People?”

  “Birds,” answered Li, stone-faced.

  “I guess. But he didn’t return with you?”

  “He told us he was making other arrangements. He said he had business with some northerners.”

  “That’s unusual. Mr. Manski doesn’t ordinarily work in the People’s Republic.”

  Li shrugged.

  “Perhaps Mr. Park can tell me more,” she told him. “When can I meet him?”

  “I don’t know that Mr. Park will be available.”

  Thera reached up behind her head to the towel, unwrapping it and drying her hair. The gesture was not overtly sexual, and yet Li stood transfixed, watching as if she were unwrapping a great jewel.

  “I don’t know what I should do,” Thera said as her hair fell loose. “Would you advise contacting the police? Mr. Manski does owe me a spot of money. A rather large spot.”

  “How much?” said Li.

  “Oh, dollars and cents aren’t the issue,” said Thera, realizing that Li thought she was shaking him down. “I just want to find him. I hope Mr. Park can help.”

  “Mr. Park is a very busy man.”

  Thera smiled. “Give him my regards, please.” She turned and walked back to the elevator.

  Li hesitated, then followed. “What exactly are you going to do?” he asked as she waited for the elevator.

  “Find Mr. Manski and settle up.”

  The elevator doors opened. For a flicker of a second, Thera thought that Li would take out a gun and try to force her to come with him. But he remained motionless, watching as she got into the elevator and pushed the button to go upstairs.

  “Thank you,” she told him as the doors closed.

  He frowned, then curtly lowered his head.

  16

  ABOARD THE USS PELELIU, IN THE YELLOW SEA

  Rankin folded his arms as the ship’s executive officer explained to Colonel Van Buren the difficulties involved in sailing closer to North Korean territory. First of all, they had orders to maintain their position two hundred miles off the coast of South Korea. And second of all, anything they did would attract the attention of the North Korean Navy—not only against their orders, but a detriment to any mission Van Buren hoped to launch.

  “Maybe you oughta let the colonel worry about that,” said Rankin, unable to stand the BS any longer. “He’s done this before, you know?”

  The ship’s exec and intelligence officer looked at him like he was a cockroach that had just run across the galley deck.

  “We need to be within a hundred miles of the target area,” said Van Buren, his voice smooth but firm. “So we need to be further north.”

  “You know, Colonel, it would be helpful if you could tell us precisely where the target area is,” said the ship’s captain, who had said nothing until now. “It’s difficult to plan for something when we don’t know where it’s going to take place.”

  “I don’t know myself,” said Van Buren. “We’re working on it.”

  “Generally, we like to know where the hell we’re going before we get there,” said the exec sarcastically.

  “By then it’ll be too damn late,” said Rankin.

  “We have only the most general idea,” said Van Buren smoothly. “We’re positioning for a rescue mission. If we knew where we had to go, I assure you we’d be underway already.”

  “You don’t even know if there’s going to be a mission,” said the intelligence officer.

  He sounded like he was making an accusation rather than stating a fact.

  “That’s right,” said Van Buren calmly. “Exactly.”

  “Colonel, even if I wanted to accommodate you,” said the captain, “my orders are pretty specific.”

  “I’ll take care of your orders. Let’s have another look at that map.”

  “You’ll take care of our orders?” snapped the exec.

  Rankin had listened to all he could stand and walked out of the meeting. No one tried to stop him, not even Van Buren.

  When they found out that Ferguson was missing, Rankin had suggested they launch a search-and-rescue mission immediately. There were two problems with that: First of all, they weren’t exactly sure where Ferguson had gone after landing at the capital, and, second, Slott said there was too much else going on in Korea to risk an incursion, certainly not without hard evidence of where Ferguson might be.

  Even if they had evidence, though, at the moment they were too far away to get him. The Little Birds’ range was at best three hundred miles on a combat mission. If word came right now that Ferguson was standing on the double-loop roller coaster at Mangyongdea Fun Fair near the North Korean capital, it would take the Peleliu several hours to get into position to pick him up.

  Van Buren at least understood the problem, and had come to the ship personally to get the idiot commanders here to cooperate. Van was an exception to the rule that officers were jerks—the exception that proved the rule. The colonel thought and acted like a noncom, but had the eagle on his collar to back up what he said.

  “Giving up making nice to the navy?” said Jiménez when Rankin walked into the officer’s wardroom to see if he could get some coffee. Jimenez was sitting with the translator at a table, going over their strategy for the next interview session.

  “The navy’s fine. It’s officers I can’t stand,” Rankin told him. “Where’s Ch’o?”

  “Taking a nap.”

  “Tell you anything important?”

  “Mostly he wants to know where Thera is and whether she’s really OK.” Jiménez smiled. “He has good taste in women.”

  “I guess.”

  “You don’t think she’s cute?”

  “She’d bust you in the mouth again for saying that.”

  Jiménez flushed.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,” said Rankin. “Besides, she’s beaten the crap out of a lot tougher guys than you.”

  17

  DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

  Thera had only just returned to her room from the elevator when the room phone rang. It was Mr. Li, calling on his cell phone.

  “Mr. Park would like to invite you to dinner,” he told her. “This evening. A car will pick you up at eight p.m.”

  “That would be very convenient,” she said.

  Thera glanced at the clock. It was nearly five; she had less then three hours to find a dress suitable for an arms deal
er’s first date with a billionaire.

  18

  OUTSIDE CHUNGSAN, NORTH KOREA

  Hugh Conners picked up the pint of Guinness Stout and held it in front of Ferguson.

  “Look at it, Ferg. Aye that’s a beer,” said Conners, his Irish accent far thicker in death and dream than it had been in real life. “You’ll be wantin’ to drink up now, lad, if you know what’s good for ya.”

  “Hey, Dad,” said Ferguson, using the dead sergeant’s nickname. “How’s heaven?”

  “Ah, it’s a grand place, Fergie, simply grand. A parade every afternoon, and the taps never run dry. Drink up now.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Ah, you have to. We have a place saved for you. We’ve been waitin’ a whole long time fer ya, a whole long time.”

  “Gotta go.”

  “Stay awhile and have a song.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” said Ferguson.

  Suddenly overcome with grief, he began to cry.

  “Ah, now, there’s a good lad. No savin’ to be done,” said Conners gently. “Yeh did yer best.”

  “You shouldn’t have died. It should’ve been me.”

  “A song to brighten your mood.” The sergeant, killed during a First Team mission a year before, began singing “Finnegan’s Wake.”

  “Gotta go,” said Ferguson, and the next moment he was awake, back in North Korea, heart pounding and head spinning.

  He hadn’t had his drugs now in what?

  Twenty-four hours?

  Forty-eight?

  Longer. And he hadn’t eaten and was run down to start with.

  If his hands were this cold, it had to be three days at least, and it felt like twice that, maybe because he hadn’t eaten and had had almost nothing to drink.

  Plus, it was cold, cold and damp. So maybe it wasn’t the lack of drugs but just something stupid like lack of sleep and isolation.

  Stupid things he could beat. Those things he could beat. He couldn’t get by the lack of the hormones, but thirst and fatigue he could beat. He’d been cold before and hungry plenty of times.

  So, really, Ferguson told himself, things weren’t that bad. Because he’d only been off the drugs two or three days, maybe just one now that he really thought about it, now that he decided it was one day, twenty-four hours, and probably, certainly, not even that.

  What was that? Nothing. Nothing at all.

  He could last for a long time. He’d gone two weeks without them during the worst of the treatments . . . two whole weeks.

  A hell of a two weeks. But he’d made it.

  So this was nothing. He could do this on his head. He could last months if necessary.

  And when the time came, when he couldn’t do it, he’d make the bastards shoot him.

  “Ivan, are you ready for your medicine?”

  Ferguson looked up from his cot.

  “I don’t need it,” he told Owl Eyes.

  “You look tired.”

  “I’ve been sleeping like a baby.”

  The North Korean took the bottle from his pocket and popped off the cap with his thumb. The white disk rolled across the floor.

  The two men locked glares. Owl Eyes raised his hand, then slowly upended the bottle. The pills, large T3s, small T4s, tumbled out to the ground.

  The North Korean put the toe of his right foot over the ones closest to Ferguson’s cell. Well in reach if he dove for them, Ferguson thought.

  He wasn’t going to; that was what Owl Eyes wanted.

  Diving was the same as giving in. Diving was surrender. And he would never ever fucking surrender.

  Slowly, the North Korean put his foot down and crushed the pills as if he were putting out a cigarette. He dragged his foot back across the floor, pulling the powder back out of reach.

  Owl Eyes systematically crushed the remainder, one by one. When he was done, he motioned to someone down the hall, and had him bring a mop and bucket.

  “When you are ready,” Owl Eyes told Ferguson as the floor was mopped, “perhaps we will be able to find replacements.”

  “Have you spoken to the embassy yet?” said Ferguson, staring at Owl Eyes.

  “I have no need to speak to your embassy.” He started to walk away.

  “Then do me a favor and call General Namgung. Tell him the Russian who was outside during his meeting at the lodge hopes to be of use.”

  Owl Eyes continued to walk down the hall.

  “If the general isn’t around, have him send Captain Ganji,” Ferguson said, his voice just under a shout. “Mention the meeting. It was at the lodge. I was there. Tell him.”

  19

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Corrine had arranged her schedule today so she could start by going to the dentist. Not among the most pleasant ways of beginning a day, though it had one benefit: She could stay in bed until seven, since her dentist’s office didn’t open until eight. So when the phone rang at six, her response was to curse and roll over in bed, trying to ignore it.

  Then she realized it was her secure satellite phone that was ringing. She grabbed for it, hoping it was The Cube telling her that Ferguson had just shown up in some bar in South Korea.

  But it wasn’t The Cube.

  “Stand by for the president,” said the operator.

  “Well, dear, I hope I did not get you out of bed too early,” said McCarthy a moment later.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. We are on our way to Green Bay this morning to see some dear friends and even more fervent enemies, so I wanted to make sure I caught you early. You have been following the information the CIA has developed out of Korea, I would imagine.”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  “Good. What do you make of that bucket of string beans?”

  “Twisted and gnarled,” she said. “As your grandmother would say.”

  “She put it that way many times,” said the president. There was a faint hint of nostalgia in his voice, as if he were picturing her in his mind. The tone always accompanied that expression, which he used at least twice a week. Corrine had never been able to determine if it was genuine or just part of his shtick. Perhaps it was both.

  “I wonder if you would mind doing me a favor today?” McCarthy added.

  “Sir?”

  “I wonder if you would sit in on a briefing that is being arranged for the Security Council this morning. I believe the time is eleven. You may have to check on that.”

  “That’s not in my job description, Mr. President.”

  “Well, now, are we going to have the job description conversation again, Miss Alston?”

  She could practically see his smile.

  “It would be unusual for me to attend,” she said.

  “Well now, tongues may wag. That is very true,” said McCarthy before turning serious. “I want you there to consider the implications of our treaty with the North. Officially.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Unofficially, of course, the information may be useful to you in your dealings with our First Team. And as always I would appreciate your perspective. Now, dear, this all may well prove to be a wild rumor,” continued the president. “The timing of it seems very suspicious to me. Consider: the North has been making conciliatory gestures over the past year. The dictator is rumored to be ill. All of this is not a context for planning an invasion. Assuming they are sane, which some might argue is a poor assumption.”

  “I’d agree with that.”

  “Well, now, of course we must take it very seriously. Very, very seriously, dear. And one of the things that taking it seriously entails . . .”

  The president paused. That was part of his shtick, to make sure the listener didn’t miss what followed.

  “. . . would be not doing anything that would entice action by the North Koreans.”

  “Understood, Mr. President. The portion of, uh, the matter in North Korea that might have caused concern has concluded. The results so far appear negative.”

  �
�Very good timing, Miss Alston. And on our other matter, regarding the Republic of Korea?”

  “We’re still working on it. Nothing new.”

  “Very well. Do your best.”

  Corrine put down the phone and got out of bed to start the coffee.

  Oh, well, she thought to herself as she headed to the kitchen, at least I don’t have to go to the dentist.

  20

  DAEJEON, SOUTH KOREA

  Thera had never been much of a clotheshorse, but even she had to admit that the clingy black and silver satin dress reflected in the elevator’s mirror looked stunning on her. She tossed her red hair back and set herself as the elevator reached the lobby, ready for dinner, and whatever else followed.

  Park’s Mercedes waited at the curb outside the hotel. Thera slid in, sinking into the leather-covered seat. A passerby gave her a jealous glance as the chauffer closed the door, no doubt believing that the Westerner was living a fairy tale.

  Which was true enough, in a way.

  Roughly forty-five minutes later, the sedan pulled through a set of gates on the side of a mountain road north of the city and drove up a long, serpentine driveway. The concrete gave way to hand-laid pavers within a few yards of the road. The car’s headlights caught elaborate castings inset among the bricks: Dragons, gods, ancient Korean warriors lay at her feet as the Mercedes drove up the hill toward the mansion.

  The house seemed like a gathering of squat, chiseled stones and clay-clad roofs, as if an old village had been compressed into a single building. The scale was deceiving; only as she reached the door did Thera realize that the single-level building was as tall as a typical three-story house.

  A butler in formal attire met her at the door. The entry alcove was slightly lower than the rest of the floor, a reminder to guests that they should leave their shoes. A pair of slippers sat on a cushion nearby.

  “Ms. Deidre, Mr. Park is waiting inside,” said the butler as Thera slipped off her shoes.

  “Thank you,” said Thera.

  “You understand, please, that it would be rude to search a guest.”

  Thera smiled. Her dress was not so slinky that it couldn’t conceal two holsters, one on each thigh.