Hunt the Dragon (11 page)

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.

“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.”

A
lmost 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 gurgled 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.

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.”