Mark Greaney: Full Force and Effect

“What is that?”

“That’s a bicycle rack outside an apartment building. This is on the outskirts of Sonchon, not far from where Avalanche disappeared. I think someone stole a bike. Theft in North Korea like that is highly rare, because stealing a bike over there will get you executed. My assumption is Avalanche took it as a means of transportation. And from here he went north.”

“How do you know that?”

“West is the ocean. East is the entire nation of North Korea. South is the majority of the military in pursuit of him. North is the Yalu River, but on the other side of that is China. He has bad options in each direction, but nothing will look more promising than north.”

Mary Pat said, “Okay. Go on.”

“We estimate his rate on a bicycle on the back roads to be seven miles an hour. I base this on the movements of other men around his age and their progress when moving north. Actually, the average is closer to ten, depending on the bicycle, but we know Avalanche would be avoiding checkpoints and population centers, so we shave off thirty percent.”

Annette Brawley moved the image far to the north, then enhanced the image even more. It was some sort of an open field, a dirt road running to the south of it, that much was plain.

Foley saw nothing in the field. “What am I looking at?”

“The fact that this is empty. This is at seven a.m. Well after the time we would expect him to arrive if he was coming here.”

“Why do you think he would be coming here, specifically?”

Brawley switched the image. “Because of this.” It was the same location as the last image, with one exception.

Foley looked at the picture. “Is that a bicycle? Lying in the field?”

“It’s a bicycle in a rice paddy, on its side. And it’s not just any bicycle. This is a Kalmaegi—they are made at Life Detention Settlement Number 25, up in North Hamgyong Province. It’s the highest-quality local brand used in North Korea. There is a waiting list for these bikes, three or four years, and that’s if you are lucky and you have the money. I can’t say no one in North Korea would ever leave a Kalmaegi lying around like this, but I will say no one in this poor mountainous area would.

“And there’s more. This showed up between eight and nine a.m. Much later than we thought he would arrive, even considering his environment.”

“What does that mean to you?”

“Significant injury,” Brawley said gravely.

“So . . . where is he now?”

“If he had been captured we would expect to see vehicle tracks leading into this rice paddy. I checked, the paddies aren’t flooded, but the ground is very wet from the spring rains. Truck tires would remain for weeks this time of the year. Even if he was picked up by a group of men on foot, we would see some disturbance. But there’s nothing.”

“If he walked off, would we see that?”

“No. The resolution won’t pick up a single set of footprints.” Brawley smiled. “I wish. No, it won’t even pick up the disturbance of one body going through waist-high foliage or crops. Even if it was hundreds of yards of trail, it’s just too narrow and subtle to show up.”

“So, I’ll ask again. Where is he?”

Brawley used the laser pointer to touch a crescent-shaped grove of trees at the edge of the Yalu River. The roof of a tiny fishing shack was apparent at one side, but there was no sign of life anywhere else in the area.

“I think he is in these trees. I’ve checked the Chinese side of the river and it is crawling with border guards. I don’t see indication that anything exciting is happening as far as they are concerned, so he hasn’t crossed.

“That leaves these trees. If he is healthy enough to try it, he might be waiting for nightfall to cross. But there are whirlpools and relatively strong currents this time of year.”

“How do we know that?”

“There are links on Map of the World. Americans have traveled the Yalu and then reported it. Just adventure travelers in rafts and kayaks, not spooks. Crazy if you think about it, but there are some crazy folks out there, and we benefit from them. If he does try to swim or float across . . .” Brawley hesitated. “If he tries, I don’t think Avalanche will make it.”

Mary Pat Foley said, “This is really incredible work, Ms. Brawley.”

“Thank you,” Annette replied. “I just wish I could do more for Avalanche.”

“Someone else needs to do something for Avalanche now. If we get him out, it will be because of you.”

—

One hour later Annette Brawley was shutting down her computer for the night. She wanted to get home to make dinner for Stephanie. Her daughter would complain about it, but Annette knew the best thing she could do to help Stephanie through her tumultuous teenage years—years made more tumultuous by the death of her father—was to be there for her, even if she didn’t appreciate the effort.

Just as she stood and reached for her purse, the phone on her desk rang; maybe this would be Stephanie, letting her know she wouldn’t be home for dinner. She liked to wait until right before her mom left work to tell her.

Annette answered her phone. “Brawley.”

“Please hold for the President of the United States.”

“Excuse me?” There was no response. Her heart skipped a beat, but quickly she came to her senses. “Colonel Peters, that’s not funny. I’ve got work to do.”

Just then the unmistakable voice of President Jack Ryan came over her line. She looked around the room, motioning frantically to two coworkers still in the office, but neither noticed her.

“Ms. Brawley. Jack Ryan here.”

She cleared her throat. “Mr. President.”

“Quick question. In about ten minutes I’m going to be sitting with the president of the People’s Republic of China. It is crucial that I give him good information regarding the CIA asset on the ground in the DPRK. Director Foley told me your conclusions, and they sound solid to me, but I’m going to put you on the spot here. How certain are you that he’s right where you say he is?”

Annette realized her hand was shaking the telephone receiver. She pushed it tighter against her ear. She looked at the picture of Ryan she kept on her desk. “Mr. President, I believe he went into those woods. One hundred percent. And I don’t believe anyone has gone in to get him. Again, I’m one hundred percent confident in that. The only unknown is whether or not he is in the Yalu River. I truly hope he is still in those trees, but the only way to know for sure is to go in there and look for him.”

The President’s reply came quickly, like he was rushed. “You’ve done some good work. I wish I had had some of the technology you possess back in my analyst days, but I know enough to know more noise doesn’t necessarily mean more music. You’ve got a ton of things you have to work through, and I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, sir. It is wonderful to be appreciated.”

“I know what you mean. Thankless work most of the time.” He paused. “So . . . thanks.”

“I’m sorry about Mexico. Are you feeling better?”

“Every day. Gotta run. Good-bye.”

The line went dead in Annette Brawley’s hand, and within seconds she began questioning whether or not the conversation had even taken place.

75

President Ryan had spent less than ninety minutes in direct talks with Chinese president Ling, but already he felt he had accomplished more substantive work than he had in his past two years of bilateral dealings with the often obstinate and sometimes belligerent superpower.

He had not met the new president face-to-face until now, and he wanted to ascribe much of the progress of the past hour and a half to his good working relationship with the man, but he suspected Ling wasn’t terribly different from most of the other high Chinese Communist Party officials that the party extrudes into leadership positions. No, the success of this meeting had much do to with the fact Ryan came bearing both threats and gifts.