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'Scover 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, Sternhad 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 Sternmight 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.

FISHERspent 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 Sternphotographer 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."

Fisher hung up.

The conversation was scripted, and it told Lambert three things: one, Fisher had encountered no complications; two, the SSD was behaving as expected and surveillance had been scaled back; and three, tomorrow he was going after the RDEI agent, Chin-Hwa Pak.

37

FISHERstepped backward into the alley, ducked behind a garbage can, and watched, breath held, as the jeep rolled past him at a walking pace. Sitting in the back of the open vehicle were three soldiers, one on either side shining flashlights along the sidewalks and a third standing behind a mounted .50-caliber machine gun. They passed Fisher's alley, then rolled to a stop at the next intersection, brakes squealing softly in the darkness. In the distance, toward Kyonghung Street, he could hear disco music.

After a few seconds the jeep rolled forward and turned left out of sight. Fisher let out his breath. He ran both hands through his sweat-dampened hair, then checked his watch: two a.m. He'd been moving for two hours. He was within a quarter mile of his destination.

He'd left his room just before midnight and taken the elevator to the parking garage, where'd he'd tucked himself in the shadows behind a concrete pillar and waited for the garage attendant shift change. When the replacement showed up, both men stepped into the adjoining security room, leaving the barrier arm unguarded. He'd watched this changeover process six times since he'd arrived at the hotel and never more than thirty seconds passed before the two attendants emerged from the security room.

When he'd heard the door click shut, he stepped out from behind the pillar and walked, shoeless, up the ramp, then ducked down and crab-walked below the security room's single window, then around the barrier's post. He stood up, glanced left then right and, seeing nothing, walked straight across the street and around the corner.