“Jesus, Ferguson.”
“No, it’s just me, Corrigan. Jesus is holding off until the Second Coming.”
“Ferg, where are you?”
Ferguson’s laugh turned into a cough. “North Korea. Where the hell do you think?”
“Ferg—”
“Puzzle it out, Corrigan. Check the line. The sat phone. I’m at Cache Point Zed.”
Each satellite radio phone included in the cache gear was hard-wired to a specific frequency; these phones also included GPS gear that showed their location at The Cube.
“That’s not what I meant,” said Corrigan. “I meant are you OK?”
“I’m better than OK,” said Ferguson, eying the small tool kit to see what he could use for a lock pick. “But I need a ride.”
“Oh, jeez.”
“Not the response I want to hear, Corrigan. You’re supposed to tell me the bus will be here in a half hour.”
“I have to get a hold of Slott.”
“Well, let’s move.”
“Hang tight, Ferg. We’re with you.”
Yeah, right beside me, thought Ferguson.
He put the radio down and took the smallest screwdriver from the pack, but the blade and shaft were too large to fit in the lock. A small metal clip held two of the MRE packages together. He bent it straight, then broke it in two. But the wire was a little too rounded and not quite springy enough, or maybe he was just so tired that he couldn’t get it to work.
The lock itself was extremely simple, little more than a kid’s toy, which added to Ferguson’s frustration. After trying to work the clip in for a half hour, he gave up and tried something new: chiseling the metal off with the help of a rock and the large screwdriver in the kit.
He’d just broken the link on his left hand when the phone buzzed, indicating an incoming transmission.
“Ferg?”
“Hey, Evil Stepmother. How are ya?”
“Corrigan arranged a conference call. I’m on with Mr. Slott and Parnelles.”
“Guys.”
“You sound terrible,” said Slott.
“Good to talk to you, too, Dan.”
“We’re going to get you out of there, Ferg,” said Slott. “We will.”
“Yeah, Great place to visit but . . . shit.”
Ferguson stopped midsentence. He could hear the sound of a truck, several trucks, coming toward him. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Ferg—”
“I’m OK.”
He snapped the phone off and ran toward a clump of bushes to his right, stumbling over the rocks before reaching the thick cover. The first truck that passed was a military transport, similar to an American deuce-and-a-half. A stream of similar vehicles, some open in the back, some with canvas tops, followed. All were jammed with troops. Ferguson counted thirty-six.
He waited a few minutes after the trucks had passed, then called back.
“Robert, are you OK?” asked Parnelles.
“Yeah, General, I’m fine. Cold, though. And hoarse.” He grabbed the broken chain in his hand and threaded his arms into the jacket, zipping it tight.
“Ferg, North Korea is going crazy,” said Slott. “They’re mobilizing. It looks like a coup, or maybe even an attack on the South.”
“I just counted thirty-six trucks heading south. Troop trucks. Mostly full,” said Ferguson. “So what would you figure that: thirty-six times twenty, thirty? About a thousand guys?”
“The point is,” said Slott, “we want to know if you can wait until tonight for a pickup.”
“Actually, Robert, waiting is imperative,” said Parnelles.
“Sure,” said Ferguson. “Not a problem. I’ll work on my tan in the meantime. Maybe go a few rounds of golf later.”
“We have a team off the coast, but it will take a while for them to get into position. The North Korean navy is on patrol all up and down the coastline, and army units are moving up to the border and down to the capital,” said Slott. “Waiting for nightfall will be much safer.”
Ferguson hunched over the packs and the bicycles. There was a pair of simple pants and a long shirt. Once he got the other chain off, he could pull them over the pajamas.
He wasn’t going to fool anyone into thinking he was local, but the pants had to be warmer than the prison clothes.
“Ferg,” said Corrine, “are you really OK?”
“Hell, yeah. All right, here’s what I got.” He told them that Park had probably had him arrested because it looked like he knew something was up.
“Why didn’t he just kill you?” Slott asked.
“Because I’m a nice guy, Dan. He thought I was Russian. They couldn’t decide whether I was working for the Kremlin or the mafyia. The North Koreans didn’t want to piss off one of their major creditors, so they put me on ice.”
Ferguson took a breath. He could feel the mucus in his chest, as if he had bronchitis.
He might actually have bronchitis, now that he thought about it.
“Park met with a Korean general named Namgung. There’s something up between them. Something big enough that Namgung had me taken out of jail because they thought the Russians would be pissed off at him, not Park.”
“General Namgung?” said Slott, pronouncing the name differently. “The head of People’s Army Corp I?”
“Is that around the capital?”
“Yes. It includes Air Force Command One and some security forces as well as a dozen divisions.”
“That’s my man.”
“That’s interesting,” said Slott. “Because our people in Seoul think Namgung’s trying to stop the attack on the South. He may be involved in the coup.”
“Our people in Seoul don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground,” said Ferguson.
“That’s your opinion, Ferg,” said Slott.
“Based on experience.”
“This isn’t the time to discuss this,” said Parnelles. “Robert, how long can you hold out?”
“Forever,” said Ferguson.
“Check in every half hour,” said Slott.
“Try every three,” said Ferguson. He wanted to save the battery, just in case.
Just in case?
Just in case, because there was no way to trust these guys. No way. No, no, no way.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Ferg?” said Corrine.
“Hell, no. I’m lying through my teeth,” said Ferguson cheerfully, before pressing the End Transmission button.