by Larry Bond
25 August 2015, 9:00 a.m. local time
Near Chaeryong, North Korea
It didn’t look like a gas station, but the farmer they bribed with the last of Cho’s yuan notes insisted that if anyone had gasoline, it would be the restaurant north of the Baesok train station. He’d been quite precise, and even given Cho a map and a note.
“For that much money, he should have filled the tanks with his blood,” Cho grumbled as they approached the location.
“I think you did well to get any information at all,” Kary remarked, “much less a place where we can get fuel for three trucks.” She sounded optimistic. Cho reserved judgment, watching the fuel gauge. They’d had to siphon fuel from the other two trucks to keep the flatbed going, and if they couldn’t find fuel somewhere, they’d all be walking.
Traffic was light, and three trucks in company should have attracted more attention, but there were few people about, and the military units they’d passed on the road had ignored them, headed either north or south at speed. The country looked empty. They were still about a hundred kilometers from the southern border by road. The advancing South Korean army was closer, maybe half that distance. Kary wondered how many people had left their homes to go south or just avoid the fighting.
They’d been stopped twice at checkpoints, but Mayor Song’s paperwork and a story about orders to take an American woman south had been enough to get them through, along with a few bills as bribes. North Korea might be in upheaval, but people always needed money.
Kary, comparing the farmer’s map with the landscape, announced, “Here.” They turned off a two-lane macadam road onto gravel. The restaurant, if that’s what it was, sat alone a hundred meters off the main road, surrounded by cultivated fields. Most held ripening crops, although more than a few were fallow. It was a low, one-story building, but large enough, with thankfully plenty of space for the three trucks to park.
It also seemed to be abandoned. There were no other vehicles nearby, nobody outside or visible through the windows, and no smoke coming from the kitchen’s chimney in the back. Painted a faded yellow, the sign in Hangul under the obligatory photo of the Supreme Leader simply read “Good Food.”
Picking up a small medical bag, Kary said, “I’ll check on my patients while you see if anyone’s home.”
Cho put a hand on her arm and asked, “Why don’t you come with me? That farmer kept glancing at you while he dickered with me. A beautiful, exotic American woman might help with the negotiations.”
Kary nodded, but was a little flustered. She hadn’t paid any attention to her appearance in a long time. And Cho was smiling as he said it. Was he joking? What if he wasn’t?
As the two got out of the truck, others hopped out from the other two cabs and the back. Moon Su-bin and her cousin Ja Joon-ho were in the second truck, and Kary told them to keep everyone close while they looked for gas.
A thick man in his mid-forties stepped out of the front door and looked over the group. “We’re closed,” he said harshly.
Cho nodded his understanding, but approached and offered him a paper. “I have a note from Do Han-il.”
The man pursed his lips, and took the note Cho offered. He asked, “Is he getting any business at that run-down appliance shop?”
Did he glance in Kary’s direction? He has to be curious about who I am, she thought.
“He was a farmer when I talked to him,” Cho answered.
“All right.” The proprietor seemed satisfied. “I might have enough for all three trucks, but it will cost you.”
“I have the money.”
“Let’s see it.”
Cho showed him the corner of a single American twenty-dollar bill. “Let’s see the gasoline,” he responded.
The man stepped back inside, and came out with a twenty-liter plastic jerry can. “One bill, one can.”
“We need six cans. Two bills.”
“Five is all I have. Four bills.” He definitely looked in her direction. Kary wasn’t thrilled at being a negotiating tool, but it was for a good cause. And she was glad Cho was handling the negotiations. She’d learned how to dicker well enough, but lacked a lifetime of experience.
“We’ll take them all. Two bills.”
The gasoline dealer remarked, “Why do I get the idea you only have two bills?”
“Forty US dollars is going to be worth a lot, unless you’ve got South Korean won,” Cho countered. “Yuan notes will be worthless after the South Korean army gets here.” He pointed south. “They’ll be coming up that road tomorrow or the next day.”
The man shrugged. “Then why not just wait?”
“We’ve got injured and sick people,” Cho explained. “We can’t wait.”
“And the Southern army is really coming?”
Cho took out his satphone and called up pictures and maps that showed the progress of the ROK forces.
“All right, I’m convinced. Four cans for your two bills, and that’s my final offer.”
They were on their way twenty minutes later. Grateful for the gasoline, nobody had asked about food. As Cho started their truck, Kary leaned over and tapped the gas gauge, hoping it was stuck. It was up from near empty, but read just a little over half full. “It should be enough,” she said hopefully.
“It has to be,” Cho answered, “since I’m now out of both Chinese and American currency.”
“I’ll repay you,” Kary assured him.
He waved it off. “Don’t be silly. It was the Russians’ money, anyway.” After a short pause, Cho asked, “Have you given any more thought to calling your father?”
Kary shrugged, hoping Cho would let the question pass, but he pressed his point. “You said he was a very powerful man in the American government.”
“Yes,” she answered simply, but did not elaborate. She knew where the national security advisor fit into the US government, but she’d remained willfully ignorant of his exact duties. After a pause, she added, “He’s retired now, anyway. He’s head of a foundation somewhere.”
Cho sighed, and she could hear his frustration. They’d driven through the night, talking to keep each other awake. Cho had kept his promise. She’d asked her questions about who Cho Ho-jin really was, and after getting over her surprise, learned about his youth and the reasons for spying for the Russians.
That had led to stories about her growing up with a famous father, who’d been gone too much and whose business seemed to be imposing American power on the rest of the world.
Her generation had grown up with armed conflicts on the television news every night, and she hated the images of shattered families and wounded innocents. Unlike many around her, the people suffering on the screen were never foreign or strange to her. They needed her help, and at the earliest possible age, she’d joined Christian Friends, already experienced from work she’d done with refugees during summer breaks from college.
Driving at night, with no light but the dashboard and headlights in front of them, it had been easy to talk, to tell Cho about things she hadn’t spoken of in years, and later of things she barely admitted to herself. Cho had also been open with her, glad to have someone to trust after many years of being more than just alone.
“When was the last time you spoke with your father?” Cho asked in a noncommittal tone.
“A few months ago. Early June, on his birthday.”
“I wish I could do that. I don’t have many memories of my father. Like yours, his duties kept him away from us, but I remember my mother being very happy when he was home, and his plans for me. He never returned from the war. Once it was clear the North had lost, he was simply arrested and shot as a traitor. There’s no grave that we know of. He’s lost to us forever.”
Kary could feel the weight of his arguments, but procrastinated. “He’s been out of the government for twenty years. And I’ve always been the one pushing him away. I’d thought about reconciling with him when I went home for my next visit, but I can’t just phone him up and say, ‘Hi
, I need your help.’”
Cho shrugged. “Maybe it’s different in America, but in Korea, you go to family first. Families fight with each other, and do foolish things, but they are still family. And the help isn’t for you personally.”
His final point made her reluctance look selfish. Swallow your pride, girl.
By now she had learned how to operate Cho’s phone properly, and she dialed her dad’s number in Indiana. It was late there, but her father often stayed up into the small hours.
It only rang twice. He was awake. “Blake Fowler here.” His tone was cautious. She didn’t know what his caller ID said, but it would not be a familiar number.
“Dad? It’s Kary.”
“Kary? Thank God. Where are you? Are you safe?”
“I’m still in North Korea, but we’ve left the mission and we’re heading south. I’ve got some injured people with me and we hope to reach the South Korean army later today.”
“But you’re not hurt?” he said hopefully.
“No, Dad, I’m fine, but we have patients with us who were gassed. A friend thinks it was something called ‘sarin.’” She looked over to Cho, who did not speak English, but confirmed her pronunciation. “Somebody used a lot of it in the fighting in Pyongyang. There are so many dead, Dad.”
“I’d heard that, but we still don’t have a clear picture of what went on in the capital. Would you be willing to describe what you saw to someone I know?”
Irritation flared inside her. All he could see was the big picture. “Dad, I’ve got three trucks full of injured and wounded, who haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning . . .” She felt a hand on her shoulder, and Cho’s gentle pressure calmed her, reminding her of why she was calling. He didn’t pat it or try to soothe her. She might have lashed out at him if he’d done anything like that.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m tired and scared, and some of my patients might not last the day.” She paused, and then added, “And yes, I’ll talk to anyone you want. The world should know what’s happening there.”
“And I’ll talk to some friends I have in Korea. Where are you, exactly?”
She told him, using the phone’s map, where she and their ragged convoy were and their planned route. “The South Korean army is somewhere ahead of us. We don’t know about any Northern soldiers.”
“I’ll tell the ROK government where you are and that you need urgent medical assistance. At a minimum, I can make sure they know you’re not an enemy unit. With a little luck, you will be met. And Kary, anything you can tell us about what happened in Pyongyang will be a huge help to everyone, not just in the US, but in Korea as well. There haven’t been a lot of eyewitnesses.” He sounded very grateful that she was one of them.
“Just tell anyone you can to send everything they can.”
“All right, Kary, let me hang up and start making some phone calls. Stay safe, and can you please call me later today, to let me know how you are?”
“I promise, Dad, I’ll call later today.” Suddenly, she was reluctant to end the call. “Dad, I’m so sorry I haven’t called before. If you’re mad at me, I’ll understand.”
“I won’t deny I’ve been worried, but all I am right now is very, very happy. Let me make these phone calls and get things moving. I love you, Kary.”
“I love you too, Dad. I’ll call you soon.”
She sat quietly, crying again, and patted Cho’s arm in thanks.
Chapter 11 - Exodus
26 August 2015, 1300 local time
Operation Backstop Headquarters, Munsan Refugee Camp
Outside Dongducheon, South Korea
They talked while they ate, her first decent meal in a day and a half, according to what he’d been told. Wearing a plain blouse and skirt, with her hair tied back, she looked tired, but spoke forcefully. “Cho Ho-jin should be released immediately. He has been detained without charges.” If she was enjoying the food, she didn’t say so.
“Miss Fowler, my deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Shin, says that Cho is on their intelligence watch list. Did you know he’s the son of the DPRK general who led their army in the last war? Shin’s recommendation was that Cho be turned over to their intelligence people until his status is resolved.”
“Colonel Little, I can ‘resolve his status’ right now.” She repeated the phrase as if it was as stupid as it was vague. “I know all about his father, who was shot for losing the war, by the way. Cho hated the Kim regime and worked as a spy for the Russians. Here.” She rummaged in her bag and removed an electronic device, handing it to the colonel.
Kevin, more than a little surprised, and absorbing the new information, studied what looked like a top-quality satellite smartphone.
Kary explained, “Cho gave it to me just before we arrived. He knew he would be searched if he was arrested, and the phone would have been taken from him. We used it to find out about the South Korean army’s advance, and to navigate our way here, and to call my father. According to Cho, it uses special encryption and is hard to track.”
“Why would a Russian spy help you?” Kevin asked.
“He’s not a spy anymore,” Kary asserted. “He quit after the Russians sent him on a suicide mission into Pyongyang.” The colonel did not look convinced, and she explained. “The Kim regime executed his father and seized his family’s possessions. His mother died penniless while he was still a child, and he had to live on the street until the Russians recruited him. He doesn’t love the Russians any more than the Kims, but they gave him the chance to strike back at the people who’d hurt his family. But Kim is gone now, so there’s no reason for him to continue.”
“Miss Fowler, people don’t just ‘quit’—”
“He saved a woman’s life after she was severely wounded, by bringing her to my clinic. That’s how we met. He was wounded himself.”
“That’s laudable, but the Russians —”
Adding another bargaining chip, she said, “He was the one who recognized the nerve gas attack, and told me the best way to treat the victims.”
“The South Korean security —”
“He was the one who got us out of Sinan before we were caught up in the fighting, and he was the one who convinced me to call my father. And I know my father wants me to report what I know about the gas attack. What I know, I learned from Mr. Cho. He knows much more than I do, and I doubt if he’ll want to talk while under arrest.” That was her final, and most valuable chip.
They’d eaten lunch in the colonel’s “conference room,” a tent with screened sides that provided shade and a little privacy, away from the busy headquarters tent. While staff cleared away their trays, Kevin used the time to consider her request.
Kevin had heard of Kary Fowler even before she’d arrived, from a message coming down through General Fascione’s headquarters, but originating much higher up the chain. It warned of gas victims arriving in a three-truck convoy and their desperate need for medical attention.
They’d been spotted by ROK scouts north of Kaesong and given an MP escort straight to the Munsan camp. Everyone in the convoy who required treatment was hospitalized immediately.
That’s where he had found Kary Fowler, in the hospital, a small but forceful woman in her mid-thirties, discussing her patients with the medical staff. She’d refused to speak with the colonel until she was satisfied with her patients’ care, and then had immediately turned to Kevin and demanded her companion Cho’s release.
She was an extraordinary woman. It wasn’t the largest single group of refugees that had arrived, but it was large enough, with some seriously injured, and she hadn’t lost anyone. And there were gas victims. And a spy. Or an ex-spy?
“Colonel, can you help me, or is there someone else I should be talking to? I’m grateful for lunch, but if they move Cho . . .”
Kevin realized he had been sitting silently for too long. “Miss Fowler, I’ll take your request up the chain of command, but the best I think we can do is get him transferred to our custody, here in the camp. I
s that satisfactory?”
She answered “Yes!” gratefully, almost joyously, and watched while he contacted Shin and gave the necessary orders. “I’ve already told Eighth Army intelligence about your arrival. Please make sure Mr. Cho is willing to share what he’s seen in Pyongyang. We’re interviewing anyone who’s been near the capital, but I suspect his account will be especially valuable.”
“Will they bring him here?” she asked.
“Yes. He can stay here at Munsan, but I’ll need someone to monitor him on a frequent basis. I could place him in your custody, but that could make your return to the US complicated.”
“What return? I’m not going anywhere. Those are my patients, and . . .”
“I think the doctors can properly supervise their care.”
“These people won’t trust the doctors. They won’t even understand that they’re getting proper care. They’ve never had it before.”
That got Kevin’s attention. The senior medical officer had briefed him on “cultural differences” between the staff and the refugees, and had already mentioned the same issue.
Fowler continued, “You wouldn’t believe the state of public health in the North. One of the first things I had to do was organize classes in basic health practices and nutrition. None of them have been vaccinated—”
“Miss Fowler, would you like a job?” interrupted Little.
Surprised, she remained silent for half a moment, and gave the colonel a look that said that as far as she was concerned, the jury was still out. “What kind of a job?” she asked cautiously.
“My assistant. Ombudsman for the refugees. Health educator. I’ll give you a dozen blank badges and you can make up a new title every day. I need help, Miss Fowler, if I want to do these people any good. You know what needs to be done, and you speak fluent Korean.”
“I sound like a Northerner,” she complained.
“All the better. The refugees will listen to you, and the Southerners will listen because you’re helping their new countrymen. You can start by organizing those health classes you talked about. We’ve got six camps right—”