by Roger Weston
They talked about Abby’s living on and off in Korea, her childhood, and how she had moved around a lot as a kid because her father had been in the military.
“My mother survived breast cancer and I can’t take her for granted. When I’m not on a dig or a climb, I come here to visit her.”
“Did you say climb?”
Abby explained that she was also involved with a group that organized mountain climbing expeditions to raise money for breast cancer research. They talked about her climbing for a while and how Abby was nearly killed herself on one of the climbs.
“You’re a risk taker, aren’t you, Abby?”
“As my grandmother always said, here today, gone tomorrow.”
Abby told Frank about her adventures as an archaeologist. “Archaeology is often uneventful,” she said. “I spend a lot of time between digs applying for grants and corresponding with some of my peers. I have contacts at several universities. I occasionally write articles for archaeological magazines.”
“How about the digs? Are they dangerous?”
“Traveling in the Middle East is sort of a thrill. The digs themselves are . . . well, sometimes the greatest danger you face is the bugs. I never go anywhere without my insect repellent.”
“Where will you go next?”
She thought for a moment. “I’ll probably stay around here. This area is hard to beat if you’re an archaeologist with an interest in the Three Kingdoms. Unless . . . a better opportunity came up.”
As the evening progressed, the business men finished and left. Time was slipping away. It seemed they’d hardly arrived, and yet they were the last ones in the restaurant.
Afterwards, Frank was getting in Abby’s car when he noticed a car parked a block away with two men inside. As they drove away, he watched, but the car didn’t follow. He stared at the side mirror for a while. Then he said, “I’d love to go see some ruins tonight. Know of any good trails for a midnight hike?”
She turned the steering wheel and grinned at him. “Sounds like fun. I’ve got my work clothes in the trunk.”
Later, Frank followed her on the moonlit mountain trails of Kyongju. Even under the trees, the moonlight filtered down, and often they crossed clearings where the vegetation was sparse. The hills were littered with shrines, rock carvings, statues, and other relics.
After a couple of hours, they took a rest near the ruins of a pagoda. They sat down on a couple of stone blocks. “Thanks for bringing me up here,” Frank said. “This is one of the most memorable hikes I’ve ever been on.”
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say that. How long are you staying?”
“Unfortunately, only a day or two.”
“Then you’ll have to change your plans. Kyongju is the best place in the world to learn about Korean relics.”
“I wish I could stay.”
“I do to. There’s so much to see. You haven’t even begun to see it all. Koreans call Kyongju ‘the museum without walls.’ I love Kyongju. Get lost anywhere in these mountains and you’ll find one archeological gem after another.”
Frank tried to smile, but looked away. He wished he could stay longer. He wished his life was simpler, but even these surroundings emphasized the urgency of his situation. He came here under the cover of a tourist, but he couldn’t forget his real purpose. It was the Kiska treasure that he had to deal with.
He looked over at Abby and found her eyes beautiful in the moonlight. He smiled.
***
Abby slowed the car as they approached the hotel. It was three a.m.
Frank reached for Abby’s hand. “Why don’t you come by my hotel at ten for breakfast.”
“I’d love to.”
He watched her drive away. Then he saw a glimpse of the car he saw at the restaurant.
Following her—
And then they were gone. Out of sight.
Frank got his duffle bag and turned in his keys. He jumped in the first cab in front of the hotel. “Take me to the bus station,” he said.
When they arrived, he told the cabby to wait for him. He put his bag in a locker and returned to the car. As the cabby pulled onto the road, Frank told him the name of Abby’s neighborhood. A few blocks later, the man’s cell phone rang. He grunted a few times and hung up. A few blocks later, he made a turn that seemed to take them the wrong way out of town. Frank protested, but the man pointed at a map and spoke in Korean with conviction.
“Who called you?” Frank said.
The cabby shook the map and said something incomprehensible.
“Stop the car,” Frank said, pointing at the side of the road. “Now.”
“Shillye hamnida,” the cabby said, acting confused.
“Pull over!”
The cabby understood and did as he was told. The headlights of another car were now illuminating the side of his face.
As Frank looked back, the cabby jumped out of the car. Frank threw his car door open. He swung his legs out of the cab and his thighs flexed as he tackled the fleeing driver. The man’s hand opened up and the keys slid on the pavement. Frank looked up, and the bright lights of the approaching vehicle momentarily blinded him. Light glinted off the keys. Frank sprung up and grabbed them. As the driver yelled and pointed, Frank kicked him in the groin. The man groaned in agony and curled on the ground. Frank heard the report of a gunshot from the approaching car.
He jumped in the driver’s seat of the cab and started the engine on the first try. He stood on the gas pedal. The tires spun up a rooster tail of gravel at the crawling cabby and then tore away tread with a screech as they caught pavement. The transmission screamed in protest to the workload as the cab roared down the dark road.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As the cab sped away from the scene, Frank watched the rear-view mirror and saw the cabby get up on his knees. The approaching car veered off the road at high speed. The tail end slid sideways in the gravel. The cabby disappeared under the side of the car by the rear wheel.
Frank cursed. He pushed harder on the accelerator.
In the rear-view mirror he saw the car swerve back on the road and follow him.
He pushed the car harder. The speedometer exceeded a hundred. He didn’t know where he was going except that he was heading away from town.
He was overtaking another car in front of him, but he couldn’t pass because several cars were coming the other direction. The car behind him closed to within a hundred yards. After the oncoming cars passed, Frank swung the cab into the other lane and hit the gas again as he passed the slow-moving vehicle, almost forcing an oncoming car off the road. He gunned it and the cab leapt into a sprint, the speedometer climbing rapidly.
In the rear-view mirror, he saw the pursuing car pass a slow-moving vehicle.
Frank turned his eyes back to the road, which curved just slightly. He let off the gas a bit to let the transmission upshift. Then he poured on the power again.
The following car closed to within fifty yards.
The cab wouldn’t go any faster. Frank heard a shot. The door of the trunk popped up, blocking his view. His reflexes caused him to swerve just slightly as his hands jerked at the steering wheel. The wheels chirped beneath him, and he felt a rush of fear in his stomach.
He looked at the side mirror. The headlights were within twenty yards. A burst of automatic gunfire slammed into the open trunk door, penetrating the metal and shattering the back window. Cold air blew in and chilled his face.
At the last possible moment, he swung the cab into the oncoming lane toward a multi-tiered pagoda off to the left. He turned the wheel harder. The wheels screeched. The back slid, but he turned into the slide and the rear wheels caught. The cab shot down another road that took a Y away from the main road. The following car didn’t make the turn, but after Frank passed the pagoda, which was now off to the right, he passed another cut-off that connected with the main road. Two headlights announced trouble, and the following vehicle got sideways as it took the corner.
Fran
k hit the gas. Within moments the headlights were behind him again. Because of the wind, the open trunk thumped on its hinges, and Frank saw spears of light stabbing through the bullet holes in the trunk lid.
Trees flew past on both sides like pillars in a tunnel. The road split into three directions, and Frank held to the far left, pumping the breaks as he took the bend. The road curved to the right again, and Frank didn’t see any lights behind him. The cab sped past a hotel, and as Frank went into the next curve, the lights reappeared in his mirror.
The next bend in the road came hard, and Frank slowed the cab. As he came out of the bend, his headlights flooded a large abandoned parking area. He turned the wheel and hit the breaks, causing the cab to slide sideways to a stop. He jumped out and ran up a mountain trail, hearing behind him the sound of a revving car engine and gravel crunching under tires. Light filtered through the trees until the driver turned them off. Frank was temporarily blinded by the sudden darkness, so he slowed to a jog.
His eyes adjusted to the night, and the trail soon opened up to what appeared to be a magnificent palace or ancient Buddhist temple built on a series of stone terraces in the treed foothills.
Frank was momentarily awe-struck by contrast between the peacefulness and quiescence of this place and the adrenaline jumping through him as he ran along the stone wall for a bridge stairway that led up into the old temple. They were coming for him, and he doubted that it was for fellowship.
The stairs led up to a door in a stone wall beneath traditional Korean structures of arched and curved tile roofs. The gate wasn’t locked. He entered a courtyard. As he turned around to close the gate, he scanned the darkness, careful not to focus on anything but to rely on his peripheral vision. He saw two figures running up the trail. One of the men was large and muscular.
Frank turned and jogged through a court yard with two large, multi-tiered pagodas. He stopped by a thirty-foot pagoda and quickly glanced around. The courtyard was surrounded by stone walls, traditional structures, and covered walkways. He heard nothing, but he thought he smelled incense. He crouched down behind the pagoda and waited . . .
The faint sounds of feet climbing stairs gave way to silence. Frank’s eyes were well adjusted to the darkness now, and peeking around the base of the pagoda, he saw a bald man slip through the main gate. The man stepped in the courtyard and stood with his back to the wall, scanning for movement.
The bald man began slowly walking through the courtyard. He crouched down low and his head shifted back and forth as he worked his way through the shadows. He clasped his hands out in front of him, and the outline of a pistol told Frank the thug had no intentions of worship.
As the man carefully approached the pagoda, Frank ducked around the backside and hid in the shadow behind the pagoda stairs. As the man came around the corner, Frank sprang out of the shadows and delivered a vicious blow to the mound of the radial nerve in the top of the man’s forearm, causing him to drop his gun and yell in surprise.
Frank followed the initial attack by hammering his palm into the man’s orbital bones. These bones communicated the force directly to the frontal lobes of the brain and the man buckled, unconscious.
Frank scanned for the man’s pistol, but heard the fast shuffle of sprinting feet. He spun around as the hulkish man tackled him. The hit came hard and the brick floor even harder. Frank maneuvered just enough so that he didn’t take the full brunt of the man’s weight. As he scrambled up, he noticed some movement with his peripheral vision.
The big man gained his feet and slugged Frank in the chest. He stumbled backwards into the rock pagoda.
The killer grabbed Frank, throwing him down on the ground. As Frank got up, the big man drop-kicked him in the chest. Frank rolled on the ground. Before he could gain his feet, incredibly powerful arms grabbed him from behind, pinning his own arms and squeezing him relentlessly.
“Life is suffering,” the man said in a raspy low voice.
Some alarm deep inside Frank told him that his ribs were not meant to take this kind of pressure. He couldn’t breath. He suddenly noticed what the movement was that he had seen. Dozens of monks with shaved heads were now standing underneath the eves of the surrounding buildings, watching the action.
“Then start living,” Frank said.
Using the back of his head, he delivered a solid blow into the killer’s nose. The man’s iron grip tightened. Springing his neck muscles, Frank delivered a second blow. This time the killer’s arms lost their hold.
Frank whirled around hammered him under the chin with the palm of his hand. Some of the monks grunted in shock.
The big man wailed in pain. Frank delivered the next blow into his solar plexus. Then he dropped to the ground and whirled, kicking the killer’s feet out from under him.
The big man hit the ground hard.
Frank spotted the gun, but was too late. The bald man got there first, scooping it off the ground. Frank ran around the pagoda as several shots ricocheted off the towering stone structure. The monks scattered for cover, and Frank sprinted down an alley between two buildings before leaving the monastery by a side entrance. He ran down the trail to the cab.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
November 28th
Abby woke just before 5:00 a.m. She tossed and turned in bed and looked at her clock every twenty minutes. She kept rolling over as she anticipated her plans to have breakfast with Frank. Now she was checking her clock at ten minutes intervals. She wondered what the day would bring. And every five minutes she verified that it was still too early to get up. Her alarm sounded at 7:30 a.m.
She finally got up and attempted a letter to a friend in London, but was too preoccupied. She thought about Frank Murdoch and all the possibilities he was bringing into her life. She wanted to go with him back to Kiska Island to research her thesis. Maybe he would offer her the chance today.
Abby crossed her legs and leaned back in her desk chair. As usual she was ready to go anywhere anytime. A suitcase with its top flipped back sat by the wallboard in her bedroom. A backpack rested against the wall. The suitcase was half-full with neatly-folded clothes. Loosely-spaced clothes hung on hangars in the closet.
She thought about Frank. He was an attractive man with a rugged quality. She enjoyed his company from the start. And it didn’t hurt that he was a friend of Mr. Lee’s, a good judge of character.
When it was time to get ready, she got in the shower and let the warm streams of hot water massage her body. Minutes later she was still soaking when she thought she heard something. She turned off the water and put a towel around her. She opened the bathroom door and stood there. Water ran down her legs. Her heart rushed.
“Hello?” she said loudly.
There was no sound, no answer. Of course there wasn’t. She walked through the bedroom and opened the door to the living area. She stood there and looked around.
“Hello?”
Silence . . .
Abby checked the other bedroom. Nothing.
She looked out the peep hole in the front door. Nobody there. The door was locked. She must have imagined hearing the noise. Back in the bedroom she dried off and decided on what to wear. After turning off all the lights, she stepped outside and locked the door. She checked her mail box and was surprised to find a letter addressed to Frank from Mr. Lee, which she pushed into her pocket. She was crossing the parking lot when she heard someone. She started to turn around but--
Someone grabbed her from behind. She started to scream but a hand came over her mouth. The grip was hard and it hurt her neck. The hand yanked her backward. Hurting her! A car engine started and tires screeched. A car door opened.
“Get in.”
He was roughly pushing her in. She turned her head enough to see a Korean man. Again she tried to scream, but he only hurt her neck more.
“If you tell me where the treasure is right now, I’ll let you go. Otherwise, this will be the last car ride you ever take.” He loosened his hand on her mouth.
“What are you talking about?” she said.
The man shook his head. “Wrong answer. You tell me right now or you’ll never be seen again.”
Abby gasped. “I don’t—”
The grip tightened viciously. The man violently forced her further into the car, punching her several times. Knocked flat onto the seat, Abby turned over onto her back. She kicked with two feet. Several kicks missed before she drove a kick squarely into his gut, making him gasp for air. The driver, leaning into the back seat, grabbed her around the throat and started choking her. Scratching his arms, Abby saw Frank come up behind the other one.
***
Frank slammed the car door on the kidnapper’s legs. He heard a snapping sound. The Korean screamed in agony and sagged to his stomach on the car seat. Frank jerked the door open, grabbed the man, and drove an elbow into his jaw.
He was pulling Abby out of the car when the driver jumped out of the car and reached for the gun in his shoulder holster.
At the same moment, Frank leapt onto the trunk of the car, dove across the roof, and snapped off the car antenna. As the driver drew his gun, Frank skewered him through his cheeks with the antenna. The Korean screamed, dropping his pistol. Despite his shock, the man jerked the antenna out of his cheeks. Using the narrow rod like an ice-pick, he lunged at Frank, wailing from the depths of his gut. Using the V of his palm and thumb, Frank ensnared the man’s stabbing arm in mid-strike. He rammed the fore-knuckles of his clenched fist into the man’s throat.
The Korean stumbled backwards, collapsed to the ground, his arms covering his face and neck.
Frank saw Abby running down the street. He jumped in the car and sped after her, slowing as he drove alongside.
“Get in,” he said. But she ran faster.
“Abby, get in the car. There may be more of them.”
“Who are they?”
“Get in. I’ll tell you.”
The wheels screeched as they sped away from the scene in the kidnapper’s car.
