Fallout

The pickle to which Richards was referring was Fisher himself. Lambert had already pitched Third Echelon’s plan directly to the president, who had approved it and ordered the CIA to act in a support role.

Accomplished as he was at covert operations, Fisher’s expertise was of a more military nature, and despite his recent graduation from CROSSCUT, his bona fides as a field intelligence operative were nonexistent. For Fisher’s part, his head was already in North Korea. A covert operation was a covert operation; the nuts and bolts of how Third Echelon and the CIA’s DO did their jobs might be different, but the mind-set was the same: Get in, do the job, and get out, leaving as few footprints as possible.

“Sam, you’ll be completely on your own.”

Fisher nodded. “I know.”

“You get caught there, you’re done. You’ll either end up with a bullet in your head or living out the rest of your life in a windowless underground cell. The North Koreans don’t do prisoner exchanges, and they don’t PNG people,” Richards said, referring to persona non grata, the official process of expelling suspected spies from First World countries. “North Korea is true Indian country. In a lot of ways they’re worse than the Soviets ever were.”

Fisher smiled at Richards; there was no warmth in it. “Gosh golly, Tom, are you trying to scare me?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Consider your job done.”

“Just want to make sure you’ve got your head right for this.”

“I do.”

“Okay.” Richards shrugged and said, “I’m going to turn you over to a familiar face. You’ve got just two days to prep; they’ll get you as ready as they can.” Richards turned to Lambert. “Irv, if you and Ms. Grimsdottir will follow me, I’ll show you what we’ve got for you.”

Thirty seconds after they filed out, a door on the opposite side of the conference room opened, and a man walked in. Fisher did in fact recognize the face: Frederick, one of the watchers who’d dogged him during his final CROSSCUT field exam.

“Hi, Sam. Heard they were tossing you to the sharks already.”

“So it seems.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do about bite-proofing you.”

* * *

And, despite the narrow time line he’d had to work with, Frederick did just that, spending eighteen hours a day taking him through his paces, from the details of his cover, to communication protocols, to what he could expect from the myriad North Korean counterintelligence agencies.

Though predictably Frederick admitted nothing, it was immediately clear to Fisher that the man had had a lot of time in Pyongyang, and as the U.S. had no official diplomatic presence there, it meant he’d survived “naked”— without cover or backup — and come home to tell about it.

On the final day, just hours before Fisher was to enter the pipeline, Frederick proclaimed him as ready as he would ever be and sealed it with a handshake. “If you remember only one thing,” Frederick said, “it’s this: Always assume. Assume you’re being watched; assume they know exactly who and what you are; assume they’re going to pluck you off the street any second.”

Fisher smiled. “Fred, if this is your version of a pep talk, it needs a little work.”

“It’s my keep-you-alive talk. I tell you to assume these things for two reasons: one, because it’ll all be true; and two, they’re going to be assuming the same thing about you: that you need to be watched; that you’re an enemy agent; that you’re probably doing something that deserves arrest.”

“And if they do?” Fisher asked.

“Arrest you?”

Fisher nodded.

“Then God help you. My advice…” Frederick paused. “If it were me going back there… I’d go to ground before I let them get their hands on me. If you know they’re coming for you, run.”

* * *

Now, sitting on the bench, watching the two SSD officers watching him, Fisher realized he agreed with Fred’s advice. However steep the odds against success, he’d go to ground the second they made a move for him.

After ten more minutes of watching the soldier-students, Fisher stood up, tossed his Styrofoam cup in a nearby trash barrel, and set off down the sidewalk. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t need to. Before he got a hundred yards, either Flim or Flam would be digging his cup out of the garbage for later examination.

* * *

Fisher’s cover was that of a photographer from the German newspaper Stern, a choice that was based partially on Fisher’s fluency in German but also because of Stern’s often anti-American slant and for decrying what it called the United States’ “Bully Administration.” Moreover, Stern had for the last few years been courting the youth of North Korea, who were starving for a connection with their European counterparts. North Korea’s leaders had decided Stern might be a safe way to satisfy that craving and perhaps make political inroads with European countries that oftentimes adopted a contrarian outlook to cultural affairs: If America thinks you’re bad, maybe you’re worth a second look to us.

And so Fisher, speaking nearly flawless German and hailing from a country that had little love for the current American administration, received only a cursory questioning upon his arrival at Pyongyang’s airport. Even so, his passport had been collected at the hotel, and he’d been assigned an SSD shadow detail. How long it would last, he didn’t know, but Frederick had felt confident the two-day rule would likely be in effect: If after two days the SSD decided you weren’t there to topple the government or foment antisocial behavior, they would scale back the surveillance — or at least the overt surveillance.

* * *

Fisher spent the rest of the morning touring the city’s landmarks: the Arch of Triumph, a grander replica of Paris’s Arc de Triomphe; Mangyongdae Hill, Kim Il-sung’s birthplace; Juche Tower; the Korean Workers’ Party Monument; and Namsan Hill, also known as the Grand People’s Study House. These would be expected stops of any tourist and certainly the kinds of photo opportunities a Stern photographer wouldn’t forgo, Frederick had told him.

By late afternoon Fisher was back at his hotel — the Yanggakdo — having an early supper. Ten minutes before Flim and Flam were to be relieved by the night shift team, Flip and Flop, Fisher had retired to the hotel’s bar overlooking the Taedong to enjoy a cup of coffee, as he had each night since arriving.

Right on time, at six o’clock, Flim and Flam, who were seated inside near a window, stood up and disappeared. Fisher watched and waited. Five minutes passed, then ten, then fifteen. Usually by now either Flip or Flop would have made an appearance, either walking to the railing and watching the river for a few minutes or actually taking a table and enjoying a meal while Fisher finished his coffee.

After thirty minutes, Fisher realized no one was coming. He called for the waitress, signed his tab, then went through the lobby and out onto the sidewalk, where he turned left and started walking. He strolled along the shop fronts for the next hour, stopping occasionally to price gifts, ducking into and out of doorways, hailing taxis, then riding only a block before getting out. Satisfied that Frederick’s prediction about the two-day rule had been accurate and that he was no longer under close surveillance, he walked back to the hotel and took the elevator to his room.

Inside, he picked up the phone and asked for an outside line. The number he dialed, though prefaced by Germany’s country code, 49, and Berlin’s city code, 30, in fact took him to an NSA monitoring and intercept station in Misawa, Japan.

Grimsdottir answered in German on the third ring: “Stern, how can I help you?”

“Extension forty-two nineteen,” Fisher replied in German.

“Wait, please.” Ten seconds later, Lambert, who’d undergone his own crash course in German, picked up the line. “Kaufmann! How is Pyongyang?”

“Fine. The weather is what you’d expect,” Fisher replied. “Did some tourist sites today; tomorrow I hope to get some street interviews.”

“Outstanding! Keep us posted.”