Chosen Path: An International Thriller
Page 10
I closed my eyes as I drew in a deep breath. “I know what I saw. I am willing to stake my life and my family’s honor on it.”
Shaking his head, Robinson’s countenance conveyed conflict. I could almost see the gears of his mind working away at this problem. It was an unprecedented conundrum, probably one that he had never dreamed he would encounter. There was no protocol, no playbook. There were also no other viable options. Finally, he said, “Wait here a moment.”
Twenty minutes later, Robinson returned with a thin file in one hand. His mouth was tight across his face. His eyebrows were pulled down low, and the creases on his forehead were deep. He opened my file, let out a puff of air, then closed it again. “I don’t know what’s going on here, Mr. Noh. Nothing adds up. Nothing makes any sense to me.”
I looked at him passively, waiting for him to add some context.
“You were court marshalled, dishonorably discharged, and shunned by your government, despite who your father is. They, he, whoever it was, left you out in the cold, sent you packing, disowned you. Whatever you want to call it. For six years you’ve …” He rubbed a hand across his mouth, then moved it to his forehead, where it stayed while he continued to think out loud. “Now I get a call from the Secretary of Homeland Security, a member of the cabinet of the President of the United States—do you understand how big that is? How high up this thing has gone? He orders me to not only to let you help, but to fully cooperate with you, and—get this—to follow your lead. He says the President of your country, that’s right the President of the Republic of Korea, called our President, referred to you by name, and asked not only that you be released, but that you be empowered to lead the investigation into the unfolding threat.”
My eyebrows shot up. Robinson noticed.
“That’s right,” he continued. “Your president and my president having a little chat about you. YOU. Now you’re supposed to lead this investigation?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said humbly. He looked at me quizzically, like he thought I might announce my real identity as some sort of superhero. “Did you say, ‘unfolding threat?’”
“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head and blinking his eyes.
“What does that mean? ‘Unfolding?’”
“I didn’t ask for specifics. Why?”
“Don’t you think that’s a significant word?”
“I guess the significance of a word or two was lost on me the moment I was told that my suspected felon is to lead the investigation.”
“Former suspect, sir. You said it yourself.”
He shot me a sideways glance. “Yeah. Former.” He stopped talking, but his jaw muscles continued to pulse. When he spoke again it was slow and deliberate, like it was causing him pain to say the words. “OK. Let me be honest. Your president told our president and our president confirmed with our intelligence people … Your guys have picked up on some chatter.”
He looked at me and I raised an eyebrow. Then he continued.
“The chatter is about something big going down. Something that would prove the North Koreans were capable. Something that would cause carnage and be ‘awe-inspiring’ and ‘overwhelming’ to the citizens of Seoul. That’s what they told me. Just now. So, like it or not, I have to admit that your far-fetched story might have something to it.”
I didn’t say anything. I just looked down, closing my eyes as I tried to imagine what he was thinking. I couldn’t get there. All I could think about was that group of innocent students on that plane. “Can I see those pictures? Of the baggage handlers?” I asked as politely as I could, despite the growing urgency of the situation. I knew he needed his ego soothed, but that would have to happen later. For now, we had to get moving before we lost the trail completely. Time was working against us. “By the way, I’m not interested in taking your job or giving you orders.”
He shot me a look.
“And I’ll work for free,” I added with a shrug and a smile.
Robinson’s face twisted and he scrunched up his mouth as he shook his head. He closed his eyes and breathed in. “Right. First you need to sign this.” He opened the thin folder in his hand and laid it on the table in front of me. It had the seal of the Transportation Safety Administration emblazoned at the top of the page. Everything about it looked official.
“It’s a contract for your services,” he said.
My brow furrowed as I took a harder look at the paper. Something stood out to me, but I didn’t say anything.
“Please sign it so I can release a statement to the press informing them that the man we arrested this morning is, in fact, a contractor working undercover for this department who was hired to find any security weak points for us and help us close those gaps. We will have to admit that you were much more successful, much quicker than we had anticipated.”
I took the pen in one hand and pointed at the discrepancy with the index finger of the other.
Robinson peered at the line above my finger. “Yeah, your employment started yesterday.”
I nodded and thought how interesting it is to watch government officials at work protecting both themselves and the people they serve. I signed on the line and dropped the pen.
“Very well. Follow me. Let’s go look at some pictures.” He punched the screen on his phone and said, “OK. He’s on board. Release the statement.”
Seven minutes later, after we had speed-marched through hallways, across the parking lot, up some stairs, across a walking bridge over the double-decker road that looped in front of the airport terminals, and up another escalator and down another hallway, we arrived at Robinson’s office. Two minutes after that, he had cleared all the security measures on his computer as he hunched over his desk and successfully logged into the TSA employment file system. I quickly realized it was a searchable database, so I asked him to select for “baggage handler” and “Asian” from drop down menus. The results indicated twenty-nine matches. I went back to the search criteria and added “male” from a third drop down and narrowed it to twenty-three.
I scrolled through the pictures but was more focused on the last names as I looked for those I knew to be Korean. The fifth Korean name I came across was Lee Baek Young. The picture matched the guy I had seen in the cargo bay of the plane.
“That’s our guy,” I said. “If I were him, I would be trying to get away.”
“Not necessarily. Plenty of places he could hide,” Robinson said. “There are many population centers full of Asians around here. He could just blend in.”
I nodded, considering his words. “Yeah, that’s very true. But chances are he’s paranoid. He won’t want to stick around here. He’ll want to get out.”
“Why would he run, though?”
“Look, these guys are North Koreans. I’m positive of that. Knowing what I know about North Korea and their leadership, there’s no way this guy can return home.”
“Why not?”
“Their plan failed. Failure is not an option within the North Korean military. The Supreme Leader does not tolerate weakness, so unless this guy has a death wish, he’ll be on the run. If I’m right, he’ll figure that his government has taken measures to insure none of their operators defect. These government agents will have made their presence and their intentions known to keep him and his colleagues afraid to look sideways. Fear and intimidation—that’s how they operate. He most likely believes they will know where to search for him, no matter where he tries to hide. And he might be right.”
“You think the North Koreans have infiltrated our country that extensively without our knowing it?”
“Yes, I do. I think whatever happened this morning has been in the works for years.”
Robinson shook his head. “That’s just great.”
Before he could go on, I continued my thought. We didn’t have time to get off track. “I also think this guy’s been told the US has tight security, cameras everywhere, the whole thing. He’s probably more nervous about that stuff than he needs to be, but th
at should play into our hands.”
Robinson cocked his head as if the thought had literally struck him. “Why’s that? If he’s paranoid, as you suggest, wouldn’t he figure out a way to stay away from the cameras if he’s convinced we can track him?”
“At this point, he’s probably running scared. He knows he’s got a head start. He just doesn’t know how far ahead of us he is, so he’ll be eager to get out of the urban areas and onto the back roads. My guess is that he’ll head south. Try to cross the border ASAP.” The motors in my mind were now in hyperdrive. “If we enter this picture in your computers, you can use facial recognition to track him, can’t you?”
Robinson’s mouth turned up. “Yeah, I suppose we can. We just need to get the right resources to help out.”
“Well,” I said. “Didn’t you just say that the presidents of our two countries have agreed to make sure we remove any potential threat?”
“I’m on it,” he said as he picked up his phone and began making requests for technical assistance and camera feeds and access to the national facial recognition software registry.
“If you’re right, the North Koreans will find him before we do,” Robinson said. “What happens then?”
“I think you can figure that one out. Any hope we have of getting the information we need to neutralize a potential threat dies with him.”
I waited for Robinson to come around.
His brow furrowed and deep lines reappeared on his forehead. “You say you were trained to think like your enemy? You think you can predict what they will do?”
I nodded, holding his gaze. “Not one-hundred percent, but I think I know how they operate.”
“Then I guess I have nothing to lose.” Robinson pulled his chair out from the desk and sat down, ready to work. “What are you thinking?”
I suppressed a smile. He had a lot to lose, but he just improved his odds of success by changing his attitude about me.
Chapter 16
Garden Grove, California
June 5, 2:28 p.m.
The price was right, so he counted out the cash and gave it to the kid, who seemed more than happy. A quick and easy deal consummated in front of the grocery store where Yong Byun had spotted the car with the for-sale sign. A phone call and a ten-minute wait is all it took. $3000 for a ten-year-old Ford Focus was not a bad deal. As long as it would run for a few hundred kilometers, he didn’t care about the mileage, the paint job, or the interior. Just get him out of here now and carry him to Mexico. That’s all he needed.
After the purchase, Yong Byun was left with about $85,000 cash with which to start his new life. Careful planning and judicious spending would give him, perhaps, four or five years of living on the lam. No luxuries. That was a given, but not that much different than the way he’d grown up. Spartan lifestyles by the people of North Korea allowed the country to remain secure and continue its progress toward creating a better state for all. A strong military was paramount, they were told. Farming and industry were all about supporting the troops who protected the nation from invasion. Keeping the citizens safe was top priority. Those were goals set forth by the Supreme Leader and his divinely appointed council that loyal and faithful North Koreans knew to be worth striving for, worth sacrificing for.
That’s what Kim Yong Byun had been told all his life. Sacrifice would make the country stronger. Yet, as he grew older, he noticed that the people around him were not growing stronger. They were growing thinner and weaker and more hopeless.
He was taught that all Americans and their allies were greedy, soulless monsters who carried the need for all the trivial things money could buy like a deep-seeded infection that they breathed on each other. The avaricious crawled to the United States like maggots to rotting food. This place was supposed to be full of them, but Yong Byun had lived among them for four years and had come to know that many were quite decent people. Most of the ones he had worked with were not so unlike his country people, though much better-fed and stronger and free from the worries that one false move could change one’s life for the worse or end it altogether.
Just like in his home country, the people around him worked hard for what they got while the men in the suits seemed to have all the luxuries and all the power. It felt to Yong Byun like it was the leaders who were being protected, not the common hard-working citizens.
Yong Byun felt he could stay in America among them, if circumstances would allow. They weren’t that bad. But that option was off the table. Fleeing south and getting lost in Mexico was his only viable option.
His route to the United States had come through Mexico. He liked the place and the people during his short tour through the country. Living among the people there would require some adjustments, but he was hopeful about the prospects—more so than any place else he knew of. He would allow things to settle down, do some more research, then figure out the best long-range game plan.
Knowing there were many Korean-owned factories just south of the border, Yong Byun decided he would seek shelter and employment in one of the inland border towns. Tecate seemed more remote and out of the way. The lax requirements in Mexico would work to his favor, as would his willingness to work for dirt cheap when the time came. Maybe a year from now, maybe longer. He’d lay low for a while before even contemplating work. The biggest problem with his plan was that he would most likely have to work for a South Korean, the enemy. Though the thought was distasteful, he would do what he had to do to survive. But even they were not as bad as his leaders purported them to be.
He shook his head to bring his focus back to the present. First order of business had to be ensuring he wasn’t being followed. Doubling back every few miles as he left town let him know there was no one following him. Having left all of his devices in the rented warehouse near LAX, he knew there was nothing they could use to track him, unless . . .
Yong Byun pulled into a gas station. While the pump did its work, he asked the cashier about a restroom. He was directed to go outside and around the corner and was given a flyswatter with a key cleverly attached to it. Inside the bathroom, Yong Byun stripped everything off. Starting with his shoulders, he used the dim lighting and the scratched-up mirror to inspect every inch of his skin for the tell-tale scar of an incision. Several of his Comrades had had devices implanted. They were mostly the underlings, not mid-level lieutenants like himself.
Finding nothing, he put his clothes back on and was about to head out. The reflection of his hair as he took a last glance in the mirror triggered a thought, so he stopped and leaned in. Methodically massaging his entire scalp from front to back and side to side, he determined that no electronic trackers had been implanted. The only remaining possibility was that he had ingested something. But he couldn’t think of anything he had eaten that could have had a tracker in it. He had purchased all his groceries at the same store since he arrived. There was no way the nice lady there could have given him an ingestible tracker, was there?
Assured that he was safe, Yong Byun returned the flyswatter and gathered the change from his gasoline purchase. With a slight bow, he thanked the cashier and headed back to the car. Some habits, he realized, died hard. Bowing wasn’t a bad thing. It may not even be that far out of the norm in areas with high concentrations of Asians, like Garden Grove.
He had enough gas now to make it to the border. The sooner he could do so, the better. Certainly, those in charge of Chammae Boksu would be expecting him to check in by now. Most likely, they had already started the hunt—or would soon. Undoubtedly, the observation team had noted how all of his devices were in the same location and stopped working at the same time the fire started. That wouldn’t immediately be viewed as suspicious since the mission had been compromised. But after enough time lapsed, he knew they would start searching.
The getaway car would surely be tracked. Since he had driven it to Garden Grove, no one would be worried about him going off track just yet. He’d left it in the same parking lot where he’d bought the Ford.
That way, the bosses would surmise that Yong Byun was merely stocking up on supplies. That would buy him an hour, perhaps a little more.
His head start was marginal. Un-Chul’s determination to complete the mission might draw attention away from Yong Byun if he were to keep in touch with the other team members who would, in turn, keep in touch with the observers. In a way, Yong Byun wished he still had his comm unit so he would know these things. He had to trust that Un-Chul would be true to his word, however he managed to do it.
As he turned over the engine of his newly acquired Ford, Yong Byun pondered his future and that of the family he left behind. His parents were old and tired. Not much life left in them. It might be blessing if the Supreme Council decided to terminate them because of Yong Byun’s failure. His sister was in a good situation, one that might save her. The fact that her husband was a respected Colonel in the Army may help her avoid a similar outcome.
His wife was a different story. Part of the reason he signed up for this mission was to get away from her and her complete lack of desire for a better life. She deserved whatever fate had in store for her. She had never and would never support his ambitions.
Despite the outcome of Un-Chul’s heroics, Yong Byun knew he had no safe place to go and no one to help him.
Chapter 17
Ministry of National Defense, Yongsan-gu, Seoul, South Korea
June 6, 6:33 a.m.; June 5, 2:33 p.m. California time
“It could be worse,” muttered Park Moon He, General Noh’s recently hired campaign manager. The presidential election was a year away, and preparations had begun. Hiring Park was seen by many an insider as a good first step. It meant Noh was serious. Park had an excellent track record running campaigns for elected officials, including two of the last three presidents. As he considered his next words, he ran a hand over his face to conceal a yawn. “He was not charged with any crimes. I’m told he has been released from custody and sent the embassy representatives back, stating that the TSA Director needed him ‘for an indeterminable amount of time.’” He used the English words as they had been conveyed to him, knowing that the General spoke excellent English as well.