Fires of War by Jim DeFelice, Larry Bond

truck model was the most popular in Korea.
     
    “Ford?” guessed Ferguson.
     
    “Hyundai,” said Corrigan. “This isn’t that. You know what number two is?”
     
    “Daewoo.”
     
    “Exactly. This isn’t one of those either. It’s pretty rare, Namhan Hoesa Teureoka, South Korean National Truck Company.”
     
    “Very creative. Who owns the truck?”
     
    “I don’t know. They were only made for about two years. This was about a decade back. See, there was this rich guy named Park tried to set up a company to compete with the Japanese and—”
     
    “Whose truck is it, Jack?”
     
    “I told you, Ferg. I don’t know.”
     
    “Have you ran the registrations?”
     
    “I can’t just call up the division of motor vehicles.”
     
    “Why the hell not?”
     
    “For one thing, they’d get suspicious. Slott says we’re not supposed to do anything that will tip anyone off, especially the government.”
     
    “Lie to the Koreans. Tell them it’s a drug thing. Just get me a list.”
     
    Ferguson snapped off the phone.
     
    “Problem?” asked Guns.
     
    “Corrigan still thinks he’s in the army.”
     
    Guns laughed.
     
    They passed a Hyundai sedan whose side had been caved in from an accident.
     
    “Hey, back up,” Ferg told Guns.
     
    “What?”
     
    “I want to grab a picture of that banged-up car. Turn around.”
     
    Guns checked his mirror, then jammed the brakes and made a U-turn.
     
    “What are we doing now?” he asked after Ferguson came back with two digital photos of the car.
     
    “Looking for a police station. We just had an accident.”
     
    ~ * ~
     
    F
    erguson reasoned that he was more likely to find a sympathetic policeman in a small town, and so he and Guns got off Route 19, wandering around the local roads. They finally found a likely looking place just outside of Baekbong, where buildings with curved-tile roofs clustered behind a row of two-story stores on the narrow main drag. After brushing up on his Korean with the help of his handheld translator and a phrase book, Ferguson left Guns up the block and went inside.
     
    “I want to report an accident,” he said in Korean, addressing the squat woman behind the desk at the police station. “ Sagoga nasseoyo.”
     
    “Dachin saram isseoyo?” said the woman.
     
    It took Ferguson a second to untangle the phrase, even though he was prepared for it.
     
    “No, no one’s hurt,” he told her in English, “but my car was damaged.”
     
    “Da-majj-ed
     
    Ferguson pulled out the camera with the picture of the damaged car. “It was a little road near Songnisan National Park, about a mile from the highway.”
     
    By now three other officers had appeared. One spoke excellent English and began acting as translator.
     
    “I need to fill out this insurance paper,” Ferguson told him, waving a form from the rental agency. “I need to find the truck.”
     
    “What was the registration?”
     
    “I’m not sure, but I know the kind of truck: Namhan Hoesa Teureoka.”
     
    “Namhan Hoesa?”
     
    “Maybe I’m not saying it right. The words mean ‘South Korean National Truck Company.’”
     
    The officer gave him a strange look, wondering how he would know what the words meant if he could not pronounce them properly
     
    “I have never heard of the truck,” said the policeman. “Are you sure it was not a Hyundai?”
     
    “No, I’m positive. That’s why I figured you could help me track it down. Probably it would have damage on it. Couldn’t we search on the computer?” Ferguson stepped around the desk, pointing to the workstation. “For trucks? It’s an odd model—”
     
    Going behind the desk meant passing over the invisible line separating police from civilians and was a major faux pas. The Koreans reacted quickly and fervently, shouting at Ferguson that he must get behind the desk. Ferguson raised his hands and backed away, trying to cajole them into giving him the information, but it didn’t work,