by Don Mann
“Sung, is there light at the end of the tunnel?” he asked out loud.
“I no understand,” she whispered back.
“Will I ever see my family again? Will I be able to face them when I do?”
He felt lost in a gray, formless muddle with nothing to hold on to. Death waited and watched. In many ways it seemed preferable to the dying ghostlike creatures that stumbled through the shadows of his consciousness at night.
“Mr. Dawkin…You family need you.”
This woman he knew almost nothing about had become his only real human contact. His nurse and angel of sorts. She sang him songs and told him stories, and massaged his legs, back, and shoulders to try to get him to relax.
In the far, far distance, over continents and oceans and beyond the moral quagmire he currently faced, waited his wife and daughter. He had no way of reaching them, or explaining why it might be better if he never came home.
His North Korean captors had cut him off completely from the outside world. No Internet, no phones, no newspapers, magazines, books, gossip. Nothing. Only Sung and the VCR, the TV monitor and a box of porno videos sitting in the corner.
She knelt beside him on the bed kneading his neck and shoulders, and singing what sounded like a lullaby. Her voice reminded him of a bird climbing and swooping through the branches of trees.
“What’s the song about?” he asked when she finished.
“It’s about a mother who goes to the shore to look for food for her baby and has to leave the baby alone in the house.”
“The melody reminds me of something…”
“She need the food for her baby. She has to have faith her baby will be safe. And her baby has to trust that the mother will be back. The same as us, Mr. Dawkin. We have our work.”
He noted that she had included herself.
“Sung, is that why you’re doing this, so you can return to your family?”
“This is my duty,” she answered sadly. “I return to family if Supreme Leader give permission.”
He had never really considered her situation. As sweet and attentive as she was, and as much as her words touched him, he wasn’t sure he could trust her.
“We need faith, Mr. Dawkin,” she said.
“In what?”
She didn’t answer. Did she secretly believe in God? Or did she believe the bullshit about the benevolence of the Supreme Leader?
He decided not to ask. In the darkness he heard her stand and the rustle of fabric. Then she pulled the blanket aside and slipped onto the bed beside him.
He felt her cool skin against his and her ribs against his chest. She held on to him and whispered, “Close you eyes and sleep, Mr. Dawkin. Tomorrow maybe bring you something good.”
“Freedom, I hope.”
“Sleep, Mr. Dawkin. Tomorrow maybe you have better news.”
Crocker passed through the lobby of CIA headquarters, stopped at the Memorial Wall, and looked at the 111 stars carved into the white Alabama marble, placed there in honor of CIA employees who had died in the line of duty. He knew that one of the stars was there to commemorate Mike Spann, who he had known when Mike was a young marine and he was a young navy recruit stationed in Okinawa. Mike had died tragically, killed by rioting Taliban and al-Qaeda prisoners at the Qala-i-Jangi fortress in Afghanistan in November 2001. Stars also paid tribute to Glen Doherty and Tyrone Woods, who had died in Benghazi, and Elizabeth Hanson, Darren Labonte, and Jennifer Matthews, who had been killed during a suicide bombing in Camp Chapman in Afghanistan.
Crocker had worked with all of them at one point, and now said a silent prayer and moved on. There would be more stars on the wall as the war on terror spread from Afghanistan and Iraq to Syria, Kurdistan, Libya, Somalia, Nigeria, and Yemen. And that didn’t include state-supported terrorists and insurgents from countries like Russia, Iran, and North Korea.
Upstairs a security agent scanned his badge and ID, then led him into a conference room. Twenty or so people sat two deep around a long oval table. He looked for Jeri’s face. Instead, he saw Jim Anders waving from the end of the table and pointing to a free chair beside him.
He didn’t recognize the other attendees. They seemed to be government analysts and operations officers from various branches, ranging in ages from late twenties to midsixties, and all wearing suits.
The meeting started with a detailed presentation on the counterfeit U.S. currency seized from the Cong Son Gang. According to the Secret Service’s director of investigations, the counterfeit hundreds matched the same 2HK1 profile as counterfeits that had surfaced over the past several months in places like Hawaii, Macau, and Las Vegas. The counterfeit bills were of very high quality and had passed inspection at some of the world’s high-end casinos, including the Park Hyatt in Mendoza, Argentina, the Ibiza Gran Hotel in Spain, the Marina Bay Sands in Singapore, the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo, the Ritz Carlton in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and the Casino El Jadida in Morocco.
Millions of dollars of the bogus currency had passed through the Banco Delta Asia in Macau. Treasury estimated that there was currently as much as $1.5 billion in fake 2HK1 bills now in circulation. If they continued to enter the global economy at the current rate, they would act to devalue the dollar and cause inflation to rise. The long-term effects, according to the Secret Service’s director of investigations, could be catastrophic.
She explained that the seized bills had been examined under a microscope, scrutinized in ultraviolet light, and otherwise inspected to reveal flaws, composition, and printing techniques. The paper they were printed on matched the three-quarters cotton / one-quarter linen mix used for real U.S. currency. The bills had been manufactured using an intaglio press, which was the most advanced form of currency-printing technology available and far more expensive than offset, typographic, or lithographic presses.
While counterfeits manufactured by intaglio press had been seen before, they were very rare. Only a handful of companies made intaglio presses. Not only were they extremely expensive, they were also seldom sold to any entities except governments.
“Any idea which government we’re talking about here?” Anders asked.
“I can’t answer that specifically,” the female director answered. “But we do have several clues. Because of the number of high-quality imitations that were starting to appear in worldwide circulation at the end of the past century, we did a complete redesign of our currency starting in 1996. The new designs included a security thread embedded in the paper, a watermark featuring a shadow portrait of the figure on the bill, and microprinting. All these features were put in place to frustrate potential counterfeiters. The most significant and sophisticated change was a shift to optically variable inks known as OVIs. If you hold up one of today’s twenty-dollar bills and hold it one way, it appears bronze-green. If you turn it another, it looks black. That’s because of the OVIs.”
“Why is that important?”
“Because only one Swiss company, named SICPA, manufactures the types of OVIs used in printing currency, and the U.S. purchased the exclusive rights to green-to-black OVIs in ninety-six. That same year, North Korea purchased the exclusive rights to green-to-magenta ink, which can be easily manipulated to imitate green-to-black. It doesn’t prove anything, but we think it is significant.”
The next official who spoke was the head of the CIA’s Iranian desk. He speculated that the sudden spread of 2HK1 bills was an unintended consequence of international economic sanctions against Iran. They had been imposed starting in 2006 as a result of Iran’s efforts to develop nuclear weapons and had been expanded over the years. Not only had the international sanctions acted to strangle the Iranian economy; they also had the intended effect of shutting off sources of international currency, which the Iranian government could then use to buy foreign goods and services, including parts and matériel for their nuclear weapons program.
As the CIA officer spoke, Crocker considered the Persian man they had found on the Cong Son Gang.
&n
bsp; “So the sanctions are working,” Anders remarked.
“Yes, most are still in place and have been quite effective,” said the officer from the Iranian desk. “And even if the Senate votes to roll them back in accordance with the new U.S.-Iran agreement, the fact remains that the Iranians have been cut off from the regular sources of international currency for years. Even if the sanctions were to end today, it would take the Iranians at least a year to earn enough international currency to make a difference in their economy. So they’ve resorted to illegal and extraordinary measures. Specifically, they made a devil’s bargain with the leadership of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.”
“Kim Jong-un.”
“Yes.”
“Iran needs international currency, and the North Koreans want advanced rocket technology. Following a visit by North Korean ceremonial head of state Kim Yong-nam to Tehran and a meeting with Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the two countries signed a trade agreement. The Iranians would start sending military parts and technology to North Korea, and the North Koreans would revive their production of counterfeit U.S. currency in order to supply the Iranians with much-needed dollars. Iran also dispatched a group of construction engineers to help build and expand their underground military and research facilities.”
“Those two countries have had a history of military and economic cooperation,” an official from the State Department remarked.
“It dates back to the 1980s, when the North Koreans supplied weapons to Iran during the Iran-Iraq War. They included artillery, antitank weapons, naval mines, antiaircraft machine guns, mortars, tanks, and surface-to-air missiles. As late as 2010, a Russian-built cargo jet filled with North Korean weapons bound for Tehran was seized at the Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok.”
During a break, Crocker found Anders talking to an aide in the hallway. When the aide left, Crocker asked, “What am I doing here?”
“Background,” Anders replied. “I’ll explain later. In the meantime, select a teammate to go with you and prepare to deploy to China.”
“China? We spent the last hour talking about Iran and North Korea.”
“You’re going to China. I’ll brief you as soon as this meeting is over. You’re leaving tonight.”
Chapter Twelve
Truth exists; only lies are invented.
—Georges Braque
Almost four weeks had gone by since her husband’s disappearance, and Nan Dawkins was starting to wonder if he’d ever return. What surprised her was that her daughter, who was extremely close to her father, seemed to be taking his disappearance in stride. Maybe she appeared more withdrawn than usual, but otherwise she seemed fine.
James almost never left Nan’s mind. She had pored through his personal e-mails, notes, and journals for an answer to the mystery but hadn’t discovered a single clue. She had queried colleagues at work, trainers at the local gym where he occasionally worked out, and neighbors. They all said pretty much same thing: James was a friendly, modest guy who seemed content with his life.
FBI agents had traveled to Geneva and retraced all of his movements. They had coordinated with the local Geneva police and the Swiss Federal Intelligence Service, which had done their own investigations. They had found no evidence of wrongdoing, foul play, or accidental death. James was last seen talking to people from the audience after his speech at the Swissotel Metropole. He hadn’t spoken to anyone after 7 p.m. the night of the third, or used his credit cards. No one at the hotel had seen him leave that night, nor did he return to his room.
So what had happened? The mystery deepened, and it perplexed her.
Priding herself in being a very rational, practical woman, Nan knew there had to be an answer. She tried to lose herself in work and looking after Karen.
But nothing seemed to pull her mind away from James and the mystery. At night, unable to sleep, she’d troll the Internet for possible answers. She learned that an astounding 900,000 people disappeared in the United States every year—approximately 2,300 a day. The majority of them were children and teens. Many of them surfaced later in hospitals, shelters, and morgues. Some were sold into sexual slavery. A portion were men and women running away from their families or escaping severe financial problems.
A number of them, like James, disappeared without explanation and were never found. She read stories of farmers working in fields, or housewives doing the laundry, who seemed to vanish in broad daylight and never return. People speculated that they had accidentally slipped into an alternate universe or some kind of time warp. Nan, though, highly skeptical of things like that, wanted an explanation.
A colleague at work suggested that she consult a psychic friend of hers who sometimes worked as a consultant to the DC police in helping to locate missing people. The psychic worked out of a building on Wisconsin Avenue that also housed a commercial real estate firm. Her office was furnished simply—no crystals hanging from the ceiling or strange pictures on the walls. In fact, she looked like many of the housewives Nan knew in her neighborhood—pretty, midforties, and fit, carefully dressed, with shoulder-length brown hair.
The psychic explained that five years ago she had been working as a sales director at a printing company, and was happily married with two young children, when a neighbor died and she started to sense that he was trying to communicate with her. That’s when she got in touch with and started to develop her psychic abilities. Since then, she’d been helping people contact loved ones on “the other side” and consult with spirit guides.
Nan remained skeptical. The psychic moved from behind her desk, sat across from her, and asked her to concentrate on her missing husband while she consulted people and spirits on the other side.
She closed her eyes, then said out loud, “Have you seen him? Is he there?”
She seemed to be waiting for an answer, and nodded as though she was receiving information. “You’re sure of that?” she asked.
This communication with unseen people or spirits went on for about ten minutes. Then the psychic opened her eyes, looked at Nan, and smiled. “Okay,” she started. “I’m almost certain your husband’s not dead, so that’s a relief. No one on the other side has seen him.”
She said it matter-of-factly, as though she were reporting the weather.
“If he’s not dead, where is he?” Nan asked.
“I’m not sure. He feels far away. I know this sounds strange, but I get the sense that he’s in a cave.”
“A cave?”
“He doesn’t want to be there, but he’s healthy. He’s okay.”
“Do you think this cave is in Switzerland, or somewhere in Europe?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so.”
“Is there any way I can reach him?” Nan asked.
“All you can really do is send him your love and support, psychically,” the psychic instructed. “It will reach him. By the way, he’s doing the same for you.”
Surprisingly, Nan left her session with the psychic feeling relieved. Even though she wasn’t sure what had just happened, she was more convinced than ever that James was still alive.
Sara, the young brunette CIA operative at the wheel of the silver Chinese BYD F3 sedan, turned off the two-lane asphalt road and entered a small dirt parking lot adjacent to the Tumen River. Sitting next to her was Crocker’s blond teammate Davis. Crocker, in the backseat, looked through the rear window and saw the black Chery QQ minicar that had been following them stop ten feet short of the turnoff and cut its lights.
“What happens now?” Crocker asked as he checked his watch.
“We wait for Choi,” she answered. “He’ll signal from the other side of the river before he crosses to let us know all’s clear. That should happen at ten o’clock.”
It was now 1946 hours local time. They were in Liaoning province (the southernmost part of Manchuria) in northeastern China, about sixty miles east of the Chinese city of Dandong. North Korea sat on the other side of the Tumen River, which g
urgled to their right.
Crocker and Davis had traveled here under aliases as Canadian trade officials interested in the local mining industry. According to Sara, Chinese Ministry of State Security (MSS) knew the real purpose of their visit to Liaoning province. Although the Chinese officially supported the Kim regime in North Korea, they would not be unhappy to see it replaced with a less belligerent government.
“When Choi arrives, one of you will get out, go to the trunk, and hand him the bags filled with shrink-wrapped thumb drives,” Sara explained. “He’ll hand you back the information we requested.”
The thumb drives were loaded with U.S. and South Korean movies and TV shows, including 22 Jump Street, Cinderella, The Matrix, Friends, and the North Korean favorite, Desperate Housewives. They were part of a CIA program to expose North Koreans to Western culture and break through almost sixty years of draconian restrictions on any information about the world beyond its borders.
“When North Koreans watch Desperate Housewives,” Sara said, “they realize Americans aren’t all war-loving imperialists. They’re just people having affairs and enjoying their freedom. When they see that reality, they want it for themselves.”
“What about the guys in the vehicle behind us?” Crocker asked.
“They’re with MSS. They’re here to observe and file a report on what we do but won’t interfere. Their bosses and local police officials have already been paid off.”
She sounded like she knew what she was talking about. Crocker hoped so as he looked at his watch again: 1952. “We’re getting close,” he said. “Are the MSS guys gonna follow us?”
“They might.”
“What do we do if they stop us?”
“They won’t.”
“You sure of that?”
“Yep. It’s time.”
Crocker and Davis met at the trunk, where Davis removed the two bags loaded with thumb drives and Crocker grabbed a laser marker. It felt strange being in this remote area of China and operating in such an exposed manner at a time when China and the United States were accusing each other of cyberattacks. Crocker would have preferred a deeper cover and to be carrying a sidearm. The two men entered a stand of twenty-foot-high Japanese celtis trees and reached the two-hundred-foot-wide, rushing Tumen River.