Inadvertent Consequences

NSA Office, West Wing, The White House, Washington, D.C. Brent Assen sat at the small conference table looking through pages of scanned documents gleaned from NSA super-computer searches of the internet and other various data sources. Each document was a paper version of the digital detritus contrail of Adam Tangere’s life. Web searches, credit card accounts, Tweets and other social media postings, emails. Anything that linked Tangere to North Korea. Anything that informed as to who this guy was. His debts. His travels. Snippets of his politics. A liberal Democrat…figures. Assistant Director Fucher walked back to the table after taking a call and walking off a few minutes before. “That was the Watch Officer in the NTOC. Tangere waltzed right into Kumsusan Square with an escort that included Ri himself, right into a throng of tens of thousands of DPRK troops at assembly. And if that doesn’t boggle the mind, he is lead directly face-to-face with Kim Jong-Un. They speak for a moment, then Tangere collapses onto the pavement. The analysts can’t tell if he was shot, poisoned, is sick, or what the hell happened. He just dropped like a rag doll.” Assen sat back and raised his hands to the back of his head, elbows akimbo to each side. He let out a woosh of air and widened his eyes. “I can tell you everything and anything you want to know about this Tangere, but I cannot tell you why or how he got escorted by the highest leadership in the DPRK military and lead directly to Kim,” Assen said. “It makes no sense. “There is nothing in this guy’s background. Frazier was right. He’s a ghost as far as intelligence is concerned. No one knows of him. No one claims him for their own. You’d think they would if he was. This fellow has managed to get within a handshake of the leader of North Korea. That’s quite a feat. Yet no one knows who he is or how he got there.” Assen looked down at a stack of documents. Fucher could see the brochure for the golf tournament Salty Carruthers had shared in the Situation Room with President Barry. “Tangere thoroughly researched this golf tournament,” Assen continued. “He’s logged hours online apparently studying the DPRK, Residences, the government officials. He’s spent quite a lot of time studying DPRK leadership. “He shows up in Kunsusan with Ri. He knows who Ri is from the amount of time he’s logged about the guy on the internet, so that seems planned. Searches about entering North Korea. Smuggling goods. Aid workers. All over the map.” Assen grabbed the golf brochure. “Then he registers for this whacked out golf tournament,” Assen continued. “Tournament is sort of a tortured term here. These are not pros. Just a bunch of odd fellows from around the world looking to play golf in the oddest fellow of a country in the world. I can see the allure, but what that tells us about Tangere, you got me. “He gets accepted a few months later. Only a couple of Americans have ventured to play in this gig over the few years. Mostly Asians, Russians, a few Aussies, a Kiwi or two. A Mongolian! It’s a rag tag deal. An American steps out of line while there, he winds up in prison like that Bae fellow.” Fucher walked over to the map on the wall and surveyed the features that comprised the country of North Korea. Kaesong, the largest city in the south of the country, right on the border with South Korea. A lightning rod not far from the demilitarized zone where the serious shit would hit the fan one day when the two Koreas finally clashed. Pyongyang to the northwest of Kaesong, toward the west coast of the country and the Bay of Korea. China lined the border to the north from roughly Sinuiji, a city on the Sino-DPRK border, all the way northeast to the Sea of Japan, where the DPRK border ended near an apex with the Chinese border and a sliver of Russia plummeting toward the northern tip of the DPRK. The Hamgyong Mountains bifurcated the northern part of the country, the harshest and cruelest terrain for those living in the DPRK countryside. “What was the bit about the Korean War,” Fucher asked his chief of staff, his eyes searching for the Chosin Valley in north-central DPRK, his finger following the Chongjin River north from Hangnam to the Chongjin or Chosin Reservoir. Hellfire Valley. “Yes,” Assen continued, recalibrating the subject matter of his brief. “Tangere spent a lot of time…and I mean a lot of time…on the Korean Conflict, the Battle of Chosin Reservoir, Hellfire Valley. And a lot of time on the prison camps, the forced labor camps, of the DPRK. Seems like a hobby or passion of his. “We checked with the military and the VA. Don’t have any hits on a Tangere in the Korean War. Not his Dad, obviously. No grandparents. Not a single Tangere on record in that service era. History buff?” Fucher looked at his aide, and his eyes closed to a squint. “History buff? What kind of history buff takes his hobby face-to-face with Kim Jong-un, Brent?