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.
Davis zipped up his thin nylon jacket and shivered.
“You okay?” Crocker asked, the chicken with spicy garlic, green chili, and ginger sauce turning in his stomach.
“That deep-fried carp didn’t agree with me.”
“You probably didn’t like the fact that its mouth and gills were still moving.”
“Not really. No. The waiter recommended it.”
“Could be he’s working for the MSS.”
Neither stars nor moon were visible through the low clouds. The temperature hovered in the middle fifties. No wind. Only the deep gurgle of the river.
“How many guys we expecting?” Davis asked, pulling the collar of his jacket up around his neck.
“One, I believe.”
Two hundred feet away, on the opposite side of the river, Crocker watched as someone drew a large O in the air with a red laser marker.
He drew one too, about shoulder width.
“You playing tic-tac-toe?” Davis asked.
“No, dude. That’s the signal. Here he comes.”
“Where?”
Crocker peered through the compact night binoculars he carried and made out two individuals dressed in hoodies and shorts. They entered the water, stopped to look behind, and started to cross.
Crocker pointed. “There, and I stand corrected. It’s two pax, not one.”
“Whatever.”
They watched them pick their way through the river that at the deepest part came up to their waists.
“Fucking cold, I bet.”
“One of them is named Choi. He’s our man,” Crocker reminded him.
The two men, both about five foot five, emerged from the river, shook the water off their legs, then stopped in front of them and bowed. Crocker bowed back and said, “An-nyung-ha-se-yo.”
“An-nyung-ha-se-yo,” the young men responded. They seemed delighted and surprised to be seeing two large Western men. The stouter of the two said something in Korean that Crocker didn’t understand.
He grinned and shook his head. “I don’t speak Korean.”
The same man reached into the backpack he carried over his shoulder and handed Crocker a large envelope wrapped in plastic.
Davis offered them the two large bundles of thumb drives. They slipped them in their backpacks and bowed again.
“Choi?” Crocker asked.
The slightly stouter of the two nodded.
“Here.” Crocker reached into his pocket and handed him 6,000 Chinese yuan, which came to about $1,000 U.S.
Choi stuffed the money into the backpack and without saying another word turned and waded back into the river with his partner. Soon they became dark shadows.
“That was easy,” Davis said.
“Sure was.”
Seconds after Crocker took a step back toward the car, he heard something above the rush of the river that sounded like a helicopter. He stopped and listened.
“You hear that?”
“Yeah, boss,” Davis answered. “We’d better split.”
Then he caught it out of the corner of his left eye, coming in fast and low over the river. It was small and snub-nosed, with twin turbine engines mounted overhead.
“Looks like a Polish-made Mi-2,” Davis said.
Crocker was hoping it was only an observation craft when he heard the 23mm rip through the air.
“Stand back!”
Through the night-vision binos Crocker made out one of the dark figures veering right and scrambling to shore, while the other seemed to turn back as the helo passed. He ran about fifty feet until he was near the middle of the river, then stumbled and fell.
“Fuck.”
“What?” Davis asked.
“I think one of them got hit.”
The young man was up again and struggling forward. When he stopped and went down again, Crocker handed the binos to Davis.
“Hold these.”
“Boss…What are you doing?”
He was already running into the river, trying to keep his balance on slippery rocks and locate the downed kid in the water. He thought he saw him ahead when he neared the center, but it turned out to be a pile of rocks. Then, thirty degrees to his left, he saw a splash and an arm sticking up, fingers spread. Crocker pushed toward it, found the kid, and pulled him up like rag doll. Saw a large splotch of blood starting on his chest, about four inches from his armpit. Quickly checked his pulse-he was alive.
Tucking him under his arm, he turned and pushed through the water, barely aware of the roar of the helo returning for another pass. It was coming in even lower this time. He felt the downdraft from the rotors slapping the top of his head and went under with the kid. Counted to sixty and came up.
The kid was coughing up water. The red light on the helo tail blinked and disappeared around a bend. He hurried forward to the Chinese side, where Davis had waded out to help.
“Where’s he hit?”
“Left shoulder and chest. Passed right through. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”
When they reached the shore and carried him up, Crocker saw two men in black watching from under a celtis tree, probably MSS officials. They didn’t move or lend a hand. In their heads, Crocker imagined, they were already writing their report.
Sara looked alarmed when she saw the young man and the blood. “What’s he doing here? What happened?”
“The kid got shot.”
“Choi?”
“No, I think it’s the other one.”
“Holy fuck!”
She turned and gunned the BYD down the road while Crocker checked the kid’s vitals on the backseat and held his balled-up shirt over the wound. It appeared that the two bullets that entered his back had missed the arteries around the heart. “Lucky guy.”
He wrapped his belt under the kid’s arm and over the T-shirt and tightened it.
“Where’s the closest hospital? He’s lost a lot of blood.”
When they reached the outskirts of Dandong, Sara stopped in front of the first taxi stand she could find. “Have the driver take you straight to the airport. I’ll take care of him.”
“You better move fast!”
“Okay. Call me from Beijing, Shanghai, or wherever you land!”
Chapter Thirteen
Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple.