It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for Ferguson to hit the ground.
When he finally did, time seemed to make up for the deficit. He flew backward so quickly he knocked his head with a fierce, welt-raising rap.
Ferguson lay on his back a moment, collecting his wits. Surprisingly, the gutter was still in one piece and attached to the building.
No way it would hold him on the way back. But that was a problem for later.
Scrambling to his feet, Ferguson trotted toward the nearby barn. A group of bored soldiers stood talking in the front, near where the buses had been parked. Ferguson circled around and found a window at the back. All he could see inside were a few Jeeplike trucks, parked up toward the doors; about three-fourths of the large interior looked empty.
A road ran on the other side of the barn. Curious, Ferguson paralleled it for about fifty yards downhill and then around a curve. Another pair of bored soldiers stood in the middle of the path at the end of the bend.
Ferguson doglegged past them, picking up the road as it made another S down the hill. A squat building sat at the edge of a clearing, overlooking a rushing stream and a waterfall so loud Ferguson could hear it over his breathing. Two large sedans were parked in front of the building. A pair of men in large greatcoats stood near the cars. Ferguson couldn’t tell in the dim light if they were soldiers—they didn’t have rifles—but they stood as still as statues near the second car, as if they expected someone to arrive and inspect them at any moment.
He slipped farther into the woods, approaching the back of the building by walking along the creek. A large terrace opened out from a pair of glass doors; he could see a fire in a massive fireplace at one side of the room.
Ferguson crawled up along the side of the terrace, hugging the wall.
There was no cover, but the only light came from inside and most of the patio was in shadow. The inside light and glass would make it difficult to see outside.
Two men in uniform were sitting in chairs facing roughly in his direction. One, he thought, was General Namgung, though he couldn’t get a good enough glimpse to be sure.
Ferguson saw the silver back of a head in the chair closest to the doors; he guessed this was Park. Between the glass and the nearby waterfall, he couldn’t hear a word.
Li appeared behind the men in uniform, looking straight at him. Ferguson stepped back and flattened himself against the wall.
A moment later, the door opened.
Li stepped out, less than eight feet away.
Ferguson froze, trying to think of an excuse to be here that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.
Someone else came from the house. Ferguson saw his back as the two walked away.
“A good night for a walk, Captain Ganji,” said Li in Korean.
“It’s gotten warmer.”
Ganji handed two large envelopes to Li as they walked in the opposite direction. Ferguson eased toward the corner of the terrace, hoping to get down and hide before they turned around. He was about a yard from it when he saw them shake hands and start back in his direction.
He pushed back against the side of the building, hidden by a shadow if anything at all. His mind blanked. He had no excuse, nothing.
He waited to be discovered, holding his breath. But the shadow was darker than he thought, and the two men were so intent on getting out of the cold that they didn’t even glance in his direction.
Escaping such a close call gave Ferguson an adrenaline rush, but he couldn’t put the energy to much use; the general and his aide left within a few minutes. Park and Li left the room as well but stayed upstairs in the cottage, their presence announced by a series of lights on the second floor. A pair of younger men, guards, came down into the room near the terrace and warmed their hands by the fire.
Deciding he’d seen all he was going to see, Ferguson made his way back to the guest house. Along the way he stopped at the barn. Sneaking in through the window, he scouted the large room but found nothing more interesting than a stash of heavyweight gear oil in the corner and a burned-out clutch plate that looked to date from the 1950s.
Climbing the gutter back to his room seemed dubious, so Ferguson slipped around to the front. The guards had disappeared, and the open door beckoned. He went up the steps and walked in, but before he could go up the stairs Ha spotted him and called out his name. He was standing near the great room, talking with a friend.
Ferguson went over, mentioning how warm the night was.
“Warm for now, yes,” said Ha, several notches beyond ripped.
“Drink?” asked his friend, who wasn’t far behind.
“Sure,” said Ferguson, thinking he might ask a few questions about Namgung.
They walked inside, Ferguson helping steady Ha as he made for the bar.
“Mr. Manski. Having a good time?”
“Mr. Li,” said Ferguson in English. He swept around, pretending to be drunk. “Drink?”
“No, thank you,” said Li. “We must rest now for the morning. The hunting starts at eight.”
“Eight.”
“Where is your escort?”
“Escort. Don’t know,” said Ferguson. “A short drink.”
“No, thank you,” said Li firmly, taking hold of the bottle. The other men had already retreated.
“I will have a chance to talk to Mr. Park soon?” said Ferguson.
“Very soon,” agreed Li.
“He’s an important man.”
“Yes.”
“Does he know many army officers in the People’s Democratic Republic?”
Li stiffened. “He knows many people.”
“General Namgung was very impressive. Important.”
“Namgung,” said Li, correcting his pronunciation. “Mr. Park does not know him well.”
“Yes,” said Ferguson. He told Li in Russian that it was important to know many military people, because their discipline rubbed off on you, and they were very good drinkers.
Li accompanied him to the stairs. As they started up, Ferguson remembered he had left the door to his room locked.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be a problem—a quick twist with his pick and tension spring, and he could easily get in. But he didn’t have his tools with him.
Improvise.
“Maybe another drink,” he said to Li.
“No, no. Come now, Mr. Manski. To bed.”
One of the young women who’d been serving the guests was coming down the steps. Ferguson saw that her hair was pinned at the back, clipped by a pair of simple bobby pins. He lurched toward her, knocking her down. As she shrieked, he grabbed one of the pins from her hair.
“Sagwa deuryeoyo,” he said drunkenly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Li shook his head but smiled, then wagged his finger as the girl escaped. “Naughty, naughty,” he told Ferguson.
“To bed,” said Ferguson, hoping Li would leave him. He didn’t, though, following Ferguson as he walked up the steps.
Ferguson worked the bobby pin between his fingers as he walked down the hall. As good as he was with locks, it was tough to cover a pick. Under the best circumstances it took a few seconds to get the tools oriented properly. A simple lock could be fairly resistant to an improvised tool. Even Ferguson, who’d used bobby pins as a kid to raid the liquor cabinet, couldn’t guarantee results.
Li stayed right behind him the whole way to his room. Ferguson stopped, put his hand out on the door, then turned and stuck his face in his companion’s.
“I thank you for this great opportunity,” he told Li. “Thank you very much. Thank you.”
“Yes,” said Li, backing away from Ferguson’s spit.
As he got out his handkerchief, Ferguson ducked down to the lock, working the pin into it. He grabbed at the handle as if drunk, then managed to get the tumbler to turn just enough to force the door.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Li had already disappeared down the hall.
Pushed it a little too far tonight, Ferguson thought to himself after he relocked the door and tiptoed to bed. But better that than not far enough.