Daniel Slott and his wife had slept together for more than thirty years. In all that time, Slott hadn’t lost his affection for the touch of his wife’s body at night. The weight of her leg against his reassured him somehow, even when he was dreaming.
He felt the weight as he woke, then he heard the chirp of his beeper nearby. It had been buzzing for a few seconds.
The code on it told him to call one of the overnight people at headquarters. He palmed it and got out of bed, gingerly sliding his leg out from under his wife’s. He grabbed his robe but not his slippers, gliding quietly down the steps to the first floor and then to the basement, where he had a small office.
“This is Slott,” he said, dialing into headquarters on a secure phone.
“Boss, Ken Bo has something urgent to tell you in Seoul.”
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hook me up.”
Slott sat back in the old leather chair, a relic from his wife’s brother, waiting while the deskman arranged for him to talk to Bo. The paneled wall in front of him was lined with photos of old haunts and career stops, most of them in Asia.
There was a particularly amusing picture of him bowing to the statue of the Great Leader in P’yŏngyang on an official visit. He’d taken a lot of ribbing about that when he got back to D.C. Some of his colleagues laughingly suggested he might be changing sides, and the DDO at the time claimed he wanted Slott to bow to him in the same manner.
“Dan, I’m sorry to wake you up,” said Bo when he came on the line.
“Go ahead.”
“The Republic of Korean government yesterday afternoon recovered documents from a DPRK soldier indicating that the forces are to be mobilized within the next few days. The mobilization plan is one that we identified about a year ago as Wild Cosmos, Invasion Plan Two.”
“Wild Cosmos? They’re invading?”
“They’re mobilizing. Supposedly.”
“Was this a plant by ROK ahead of the elections?” ROK was the Republic of Korea, South Korea; DPRK was the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, the North.
“We’re not sure,” said Bo. “The circumstances are a little . . . vague. It looks to us like the guy was trying to defect, and the ROK soldiers screwed up. We’re still pulling information out. They haven’t shared it with the news media, and the ambassador wasn’t told. In light of everything else,” added Bo, “I thought you’d want to know personally.”
In other words: I know you think I’m a screwup; here’s some evidence I’m not.
“All right. Stay on top of it. Obviously.”
“Will do.”
An hour later, Slott arrived at Langley and began reviewing the situation with headquarters’ Korean experts, most of whom had been sleeping barely an hour and a half before. They went over the latest satellite and electronic intelligence. There was no indication—yet, anyway—that a mobilization was imminent.
Judging from their actions, the South Korean government didn’t seem to know what to make of the documents. They’d put a unit near Seoul on alert, yet hadn’t notified any of the units guarding the DMZ. And the incident that had led to the discovery of the orders still hadn’t been reported in the media.
When it came to human intelligence north of the border, the U.S. generally relied on South Korean intelligence, which had a good though not stellar network of agents there. Slott had never trusted the South Korean intelligence agency, known as the National Security Council. During his days in Korea, he’d found his counterparts consumed by agendas that had nothing to do with the North. Even a simple assessment of the fighting strength of an army division could become a massive political football, with the data skewed ridiculously according to whatever ox was being gored.
In this crisis—or noncrisis, if that’s what it turned out to be—the Agency would have to rely primarily on information from the Koreans.
Except that he had his own officer somewhere north of the border. Ferguson’s observations might be useful, especially since he was with Park, who had access to the highest reaches of the dictatorship.
Assuming Slott could contact him. Alone in his office, he picked up his secure phone and called over to The Cube.
“Corrigan.”
“This is Slott. Is Ferg still north?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“When’s he due to check in?”
“Um, he’s not due exactly. He thought regular check-ins would be too dangerous up there. He’s not supposed to call in until he gets back and gets settled.”
“Where is he exactly?”
“I’m not positive. He’s north of the capital somewhere.”
“Track him on his sat phone.”
“No can do. He left the Agency phone in Daejeon and bought a local unit. He wanted to make sure he was clean.”
Ferguson’s precautions were entirely reasonable. That far under cover, in an extremely hostile environment, the slightest slip or unexpected coincidence meant death.
But they were certainly inconvenient, thought Slott.
“You want me to try calling his phone?” asked Corrigan. “I do have the number.”
Slott weighed the danger of an unexpected phone call against the information they might get.
If he’d done that a few days ago, before sending the Seoul people down to get Ferg, would the op still trust him?
But it wasn’t his fault the Seoul people had been so inept or that Ferguson had overreacted to the situation.
Let it go. It’s past now.
But he couldn’t let it go, not completely.
“Should I call?” repeated Corrigan.
“No,” said Slott. “When is he due back?”
“Sometime soon. The 727 that brought them is still in P’yŏngyang. It hadn’t been refueled the last time the satellite passed overhead. The billionaire’s plane came back this evening. He generally leaves the night before his guests do. But the schedule isn’t always predictable. Could be a few hours, could be a day or two.”
“Let’s get someone to wait for him at the airport. Tell him to call in as soon as he gets back. And I mean the second he gets there. Tell him to go right over to the embassy and get on the line back here.”
“Uh, boss?”
“Yeah?”
“Last time, uh, we used the Seoul office, it didn’t go too well. Ferguson—”
“Well, that’s too bad. I need to talk to him.”
“How about Thera? She’s just killing time offshore with the scientist. We could fly her in, have her wait.”
Slott thought about it. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll call her.”
“What’s going on?”
Slott explained, briefly.
“Should I tell Ms. Alston?” asked Corrigan.
Slott felt instant heartburn.
“I’ll tell her myself when she gets in. Get Thera for me.”