by Oliver North
Jake shook his head. “A touching display of altruism.”
“So can you do it on Wednesday?”
“I don’t see why not. You got all the info I need in the envelope, right? Her name, address, a picture, vehicles, employment?”
“Yeah, it’s all in there.”
“You said she’s Korean?” asked Jake.
“No, I said Asian. You said Korean,” shot Reid. “Why did you say Korean?”
Jake knew he’d slipped up the instant he said it. Undercover agents are killed for the little mistakes, not the big ones. Focus.
“So what is she?” he quickly countered.
“She’s Korean.”
“Then what’s the problem? Tommy’s Korean and Tommy referred me. Maybe they all look alike to you but I happen to know there’s a difference.”
Reid stumbled on Jake’s swift response. “There . . . there isn’t a problem. I just never said Korean.”
“North or South?” fired Jake.
“How should I know North or South?”
“She’s your pregnant girlfriend. I’d think you would have asked at some point while you were bedding her.”
“She was a good time and now she’s expendable. She could have gone away quietly but she wanted to flex her scrawny little muscles and make demands.”
Jake dodged a bullet as Reid pulled out his Cartier cigarette case and removed a cigarette. He tapped it on the holder and placed it in his mouth. Still wanting to maintain his power position, Jake flicked the cigarette from the attorney’s mouth. “Don’t you read the warning label? Those things will kill you.”
The cigarette fell to the ocean as Reid nervously slipped the case back into his jacket.
“How’d you meet her?” asked Jake.
“I do some work with her father.”
“Legal?”
“You mean am I his attorney or is the work I do legal?”
Jake turned up the intensity. “I just want to know what I’m getting into. Is this Kim Jong Un’s half sister? Will I have to be looking over my shoulder the rest of my life for some fresh-off-the-boat, North Korean commie assassin?”
“Not if you are as good as you say. Look, her father is connected. Is that what you’re asking?”
“Connected to what?”
“Just connected, that’s all. He’s a criminal and has his stubby little yellow fingers into a lot. He’s a facilitator. If you need something, he can facilitate.”
“Does he have a crew?”
There was a slight anger in Reid’s response. He wanted the job done and to get on with his life. He wasn’t expecting the third degree from some knuckle-dragger hit man in cowboy boots. “Yeah, he’s got guys who do what needs to be done. This is not some cakewalk. You’ll have to earn your fifty thousand.”
“I suspected I would.”
“That’s why I want this done professionally. If she were working out of some Oriental massage parlor I’ve got rappers who would trade services with me.”
Jake nodded. “I’m gonna do it right. I need to be safe and you need to be satisfied.”
“That’s why I wanted the best. I think you have all you need in the envelope. You’ll have no problem finding her. Her father launders money through some off-the-Strip casinos in Vegas. She’ll be there on Wednesday doing a run. Maybe you can make it look like a robbery or carjacking. I made the reservations for her at the Bellagio.”
“She’s going out in style.”
“Just make sure she goes out.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Following morning prayers Mohammed and Kareem retreated across the street to the near-empty diner, where the cell leader quietly held court at a table in the back. Mohammed sipped his tea as his student sat listening.
Kareem was grateful anyone at the mosque was willing to share a moment. The fellowship he once found in prison turned to awkward stares or to being completely ignored by those with whom he now worshipped. The new follower of the Prophet had heard enough platitudes about the five pillars of Islam. He’d been drawn to the movement by exhortations from a prison-visiting imam to wage violent jihad against the enemies of Islam. For Kareem, the United States of America was such an enemy. He also believed the heretics, apostates, and infidels populating the country deserved to be punished—and he was an implement of retribution for their wrongdoing.
The ex-con’s favorite verses from the Koran included the commands “When you meet the unbelievers in the battlefield, strike off their heads and, when you have laid them low, bind your captives firmly,” and “Prophet, make war on the unbelievers and the hypocrites and deal rigorously with them. Hell shall be their home; an evil fate.” He recited them often, a gangster theology that resonated with the life he knew on the street before his conversion—and his new purpose in life as “an instrument of Allah’s wrath.”
Mohammed rewarded Kareem’s successful assassination of Cho Hee Sun with more insights into his personal experience as a faithful warrior in Allah’s army. “I was fifteen when the Jews invaded Southern Lebanon, occupying our nation, attacking those brothers we invited to live within our borders.”
“You mean the PLO?”
“Yes,” said Mohammed, nodding, putting down his cup of tea. “The Little Satan’s Army crossed into our land, violating our sovereignty and assaulting our guests. An attack on our brothers was an attack on us. We had a duty to drive out the Zionists.”
Mohammed grabbed a Koran, raised his arm as if brandishing a weapon, and smiled. “This later gave birth to the Hizb Allah-al-Thawra al-Islamiya fi Lubnan, or Hezbollah, the Party of God. My brothers were trained by the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and were inspired by the Ayatollah Khomeini, who encouraged us to attack the apostates, knowing Allah would protect us. The Supreme Leader understood whoever wielded the sword would conquer the earth.”
“Were you part of the fighting?”
Mohammed nodded. “I fought alongside my brothers and later received the same training. It was much more than the hand-to-hand combat techniques we have seen in the al-Qaeda videos they give to Al Jazeera and CNN. We were a tightly disciplined group and superbly trained with advanced skills to defeat any army. We learned how to use bombings and assassinations effectively.
“Until they built their wall, the Zionist occupiers were unable to cope with our tactics and as the war progressed our small numbers grew, encouraged by our friends in Iran. From our ranks arose great leaders.”
Mohammed paused as if gathering his thoughts. “Imad Mugniyeh was such a leader, a pillar in our organization. He led the destruction of American and Jewish interests for three decades. In 1979, when the Ayatollah came to power in Iran, those who hated the Shah for turning his back on Allah seized the American Embassy in Tehran. They held fifty-two hostages for more than a year as an impotent United States looked on. It cost their President Carter his job and proved our advance can never be stopped when Allah wills. Imad was inspired and trained by those same valiant warriors and set up his organization in Lebanon. He was responsible for the bombing in 1983 of the American Embassy in Beirut, and then a few months later he destroyed the crusaders’ Marine barracks. Once again we proved the weakness of the Great Satan, who ran when confronted by power. Even their new president withdrew his troops rather than face the wrath of Allah’s soldiers.”
“You mean Reagan?”
Mohammed flicked his wrist as if backhanding a pesky insect. “The name does not matter. America cannot stop what Allah has ordained. Imad was responsible for the killing of the American CIA station chief in Beirut and the hijacking of their TWA Flight 847. The Americans knew they could not stop him. They even put out a reward of five million dollars, hoping to coax a traitor within our midst. They had no way of finding him though he operated under their noses. He was called Abu Dokhan, ‘the father of smoke,’ because of his ability to evaporate in thin air when pursued. They suspected him of masterminding the bombing of the Jews’ embassy in Argentina, a Zionist community center in
Buenos Aires, and the Khobar Towers in Riyadh. He was a great warrior in the cause of Allah. It took the enemies of Islam until 2008 to find him. Then he was martyred in Damascus by a Zionist car bomb.”
Kareem said nothing as he sipped his tea but the eyes spoke volumes, his zeal evident.
Mohammed continued, looking beyond Kareem, as if prophesying the future. “As the Americans like to say, he put us on the map. Now merely the name Hezbollah strikes fear in weak infidel nations. We have more than twenty thousand warriors. They are on every continent, with more missiles than most governments. Even leaders of the United States call us the ‘A Team’ and refer to al-Qaeda as the ‘B Team.’
“Our purpose is to plant the banner of jihad here in America and avenge Imad Mugniyeh’s murder.” His voice rose slightly as he clenched his fist. “We must bring this nation to its knees in submission to the one true God. I want the Zionists and Crusaders to know they can cowardly kill a man of greatness like Imad Mugniyeh with a car bomb, or Osama bin Laden with their foolhardy SEAL teams, or Anwar al-Awlaki with their drones, but it will never stop our cause. We are stronger than one man. Allah is our God. He is the Righteous God of vengeance. He will be their judge and they will learn too late they are on the wrong side of this battle.”
Kareem nodded in agreement, his eyes wide with enthusiasm.
Mohammed paused for a long moment, then, looking directly at Kareem, said, “You will be a great soldier for Allah. I want you to join me tomorrow to speak with Rostam.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
As Jake drove from the pier to the café in Brentwood, he spent a few extra minutes “dry cleaning” to lose anyone who might be tailing him. The verbal slipup with Reid heightened his “situational awareness”—and he cautiously employed all but the most drastic of the countersurveillance techniques he had learned at Quantico and since.
By the time he arrived at the café he was certain he hadn’t been followed. From the car he called Trey Bennett.
“Yeah,” said Trey, noting the caller ID.
“You got the ‘newbie’ with you?” asked Jake.
“He’s my little shadow. Where I go, he goes.”
“Well, isn’t that sweet. J. Edgar would be so proud of you,” Jake parried. Then, serious, he added, “Look, I’m already here. I don’t want to be paranoid but meet me inside. I’ll grab a booth in the back.”
“Okay.”
Jake entered through the side entrance of the café and was soon joined by Trey and Brian Carter.
The waitress approached before the agents settled and all three ordered iced tea. She left menus but Jake was anxious to get back over the hill and wanted only a drink.
“How’d it go?” asked Trey after the waitress left.
Jake handed him the memory chip from his recording device in a chain-of-custody envelope. He then pulled out the package Reid passed to him on the pier and handed it to Trey. “We’ll need to preserve all this and check it for prints. And since it’s a ‘lick-seal’ closure, you probably ought to see if it has his DNA on the seal. But meanwhile, I have to see the contents. It has all the information I need on the girl.”
“You want me to open it here?”
When Jake nodded, Trey, who was sitting next to the wall, surreptitiously pulled a pair of clear latex gloves from his tan leather attaché case.
With his hand under the table, Jake activated the spring-loaded switchblade he kept in his rear pocket, the sound drowned out by the chatter and clatter in the restaurant. “Here, you can use my letter opener,” he said, slipping the open knife across the table.
“Aren’t those illegal?” asked Brian.
“Remember, Brian, we’re here to enforce the law, not follow it,” said Jake.
Without changing expression, Trey said, “Brian, I’m your training agent. I order you not to listen to a word this man says. He has been permanently banned by OPR from advising agents on any matters pertaining to rules, regulations, or FBI protocols.”
If the letters F-B-I were uttered to instill fear in the criminal populace, O-P-R brought a similar trepidation to FBI agents. The instructors at the Academy pounded into new agents during the twenty-week program the role of the Office of Professional Responsibility. It was the Bureau’s answer to a police department’s internal affairs division, and Trey’s mentioning OPR put the probationary agent on alert. He hoped his training agent was joking but wasn’t certain.
“Did you count the money?” asked Trey, looking at a stack of hundreds wrapped by a rubber band.
“No, but it’s all there. He won’t take a chance on shorting me unless he just can’t count. He went to Harvard, so his math skills are probably above average.”
“These are all old bills,” said Trey.
“So?”
“Seems odd with the new hundreds out last year there wouldn’t be a few of them in the mix.”
“It all counts toward a conviction, so who cares,” said Jake.
“As soon as we’re done here I’ll get it processed and get you the information on the girl,” said Trey as he pulled the photo from the envelope.
“She looks young,” said Brian.
“Apparently she doesn’t look pregnant, at least not yet. Reid wants the problem disposed of before her father figures out his daughter is in the motherly way,” replied Jake.
He then explained the details of the meeting with Reid, the rookie taking notes. Brian would prepare the FD-302 report of the meeting, minimizing the paperwork for Jake. When Jake got to the Vegas part of the story, Trey balked.
“You didn’t agree to Las Vegas, did you?”
“Sure, why not?” said Jake with a playful grin.
“Jake, come on, you know why.”
Brian put down his pen. “What’s wrong with Vegas? Sounds like it’s a necessary trip for this operation.”
They both looked at Brian and simultaneously said, “Because Los Angeles won’t get credit.”
Jake’s grin was ear to ear.
“Why did you agree to go to Las Vegas?” asked Trey, almost pleading.
“Listen to the recording. It makes sense. There is no good reason why a contract killer wouldn’t want to do this in Las Vegas. You gotta listen to the way Reid set up the hit.”
“Jake, we just got an all-agents email to restrict travel due to budget cuts.” Again Trey was pleading, because he knew he had to sell his superiors on any trip outside the Los Angeles office’s area of responsibility.
“Who’s your AUSA?” asked Jake, referring to the assistant United States attorney who would be prosecuting the case. “He can still indict it here and make the travel element just another overt act in the commission of all these crimes.”
“Adriana Corbet.”
“You’re golden. She’s the best prosecutor in the section. She’ll work with us. Heck, if we agree to take her to Vegas, she’d convince the bean counters this is a necessary element of the offense.”
Trey shut his eyes and shook his head. “I should have just closed the case.”
Jake laughed. “We may not have to go to Vegas.”
Trey looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“We’re going to have to approach the girl,” said Jake.
“Why?” asked the newly minted special agent.
Jake took another sip of his iced tea, then said, “It makes for a stronger case if we get the second payment after Reid thinks the girl is dead. Otherwise he can always say he changed his mind and was trying to locate the hit man to cancel the order.”
“And a jury will buy that?” asked Brian.
“You’d be surprised what a jury buys. Ever hear of O.J.? How about Casey Anthony? You’d be even more surprised by what a judge will buy from a Johnnie Cochran. We must have all the elements covered and we want them on tape,” said Jake.
“So what do you do?”
“We get the girl to cooperate. I have a friend who’s a Hollywood makeup artist. We squeeze a little fake blood on our victim, take pictures of
the gore, color of course, and get one of our National Academy pals in the LVPD to plant a story and the images in the Las Vegas ‘blogosphere’ so we don’t get accused of misleading the press. Then I present everything to our Perry Mason make-believe and he hands me another bag full of cash.”
“Do you think the girl will cooperate?” asked Brian.
“When we play her the tapes, she’ll be more than willing.” Jake took the last sip of his iced tea, the ice falling to his lips as he tipped the glass upward.
“What about her father?” asked Brian.
“I think we need to keep him out of the equation. He might just want to inflict a little Pyongyang justice on our distinguished member of the bar.”
Trey’s cell phone rang and when he looked at the caller ID he said, “I have to get this.” Trey excused himself and went outside to take the call.
Jake turned to Brian. “So where are you living?”
“We’re renting a place in the West San Fernando Valley just off the Ventura Freeway,” said Brian.
“Good,” said Jake. “I spend a lot of time that direction. Let’s meet later this afternoon and trade Marine Corps war stories.”
Without showing a trace of emotion Brian said, “With all due respect, sir, Trey told me not to be alone with you until I’m off probation. He said you could ruin a bright future faster than a senatorial sex scandal.”
Jake’s face dropped and there was a brief uncomfortable silence as he searched for a comeback. Then he spied the hint of a smile on the probationary agent.
“You’re pretty good. I almost bought it. You may have a future in the UC program.”
Trey returned to the table and saw the two grinning. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” said Jake. “Junior here might make a pretty good undercover agent. He’s got the gift of deceit.”
Trey shook his head. “I’m not ready to handle two practiced liars.”