by Roger Weston
Hyun glanced at the laptop. “Right now, he’s driving through It’aewon.”
“Is he stopping?”
“Doesn’t look like it.” Hyun pulled his pistol out from his jacket and began polishing the weapon with a cloth.
“Just watch the computer. We don’t want to make a mistake.”
Hyun polished for several minutes before putting the gun away. Then he looked over at Chull-su and said, “What’s wrong with you now? You look like you’re gonna die.”
Chull-su stopped the car and put his free hand to his stomach. “The pain will pass, always does. Just hits me in waves.” He cursed and shook his head. He reached down and turned up the heat, eased his foot off the brakes.
“Mok Don praised your devotion to duty,” Hyun said. “A high honor. I don’t know how you keep going though.”
“Obedience,” Chull-su said. A ringing started in his head. His vision went white. Some seconds later, color returned. He didn’t even know what his sickness was because he’d seen so many doctors and gotten so many different diagnoses. As long as he could serve the group, he didn’t care anymore.
The group itself was made up of salary men divided into sub-groups. A good salary man imitated figureheads. Independent thinking was not wise, not tolerated, not desirable. All eyes looked up. Anyone with a higher position in the chaebol was an authority figure. Leaders were another breed. Mok Don was the supreme authority.
A salary man was at the beck and call of his leaders. It was an honor to work for a man of Mok Don’s stature, an honor to work for a proud and successful chaebol like DowKai.
Each of the businesses making up DowKai was run independently by group leaders like himself. Group leaders were set for life. All he had to do was conform and adhere: Subservience to the boss, allegiance, blood loyalty, relationships dictating respect and authority throughout the organization, unquestioned obedience, a lifetime commitment.
The DowKai philosophy gave Chull-su internal peace, unity; it removed thought and decision from action. As long as he worked within the philosophy, Mok Don would be pleased. Chull-su slowed the car as they approached another traffic light.
Hyun scowled at the computer. “He’s heading toward Chung-gu now.”
“He’s working for an American. The man has no loyalty.”
“I’ve lost his signal. I think he’s in the Namsan tunnel.”
Chull-su reached down and fished around the ash tray for a butt. He lit up and took a deep draw. He rolled down the window and exhaled, flicked the butt onto the street. He coughed several times and said, “Americans are soft. The one Mok Don taped is a fisherman.”
Hyun stared at his computer. “He’s finished.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The light on Mok Don’s phone blinked. Rapidly he picked up the receiver.
“Mr. Don,” his secretary said, “I have the President on the line. I’ll connect you now.”
Mok Don had long courted the favor of Korean presidents with his invisible contributions. After that, winning contracts was just a matter of listening to their threats and agreeing on a sum large enough to satisfy them. Chaebol leaders and presidents had long been partners in national economic development. Efficiency being the desired end, all moral aspects were irrelevant. You either played along or you were devoured by the bigger dragon.
The presidents always received Mok Don’s customary contributions, but never from a source traceable back to Mok Don. As long as they knew Mok Don paid up, they were happy. When they handed Mok Don large market shares and lucrative government contracts, the gifts couldn’t be traced to donations.
Unlike the previous succession of corrupt strongman presidents, President Paek Yoon-Ki won his office in fair elections. A representative from the military never came to DowKai for the customary visit. Mok Don knew President Paek from long acquaintance and detested him. The man was a new kind of president over whom Mok Don exercised no influence. A hero of the Korean War and well known for his fearless exploits, the old man was the toughest leader to ever occupy the Blue House. He was elected on a platform of reform. Unfortunately, despicably, he made good on his promises. The populace was like a hungry monster, and President Paek constantly fed it with indicted human sacrifices. A slice of the aristocracy was hauled off in chains.
President Paek was like an epidemic plague infecting the rabble. Publicly, the man was also one of the most eccentric president in Korean history. He was famous for actually having worked alongside the gardeners at the Blue House. This was disgraceful. There were photographs of him in the newspapers digging and raking around the grounds. The people loved him for his humility. They saw him as noble, but understanding of their struggles.
The man was an actor as far as Mok Don was concerned. The President understood public relations and was playing upon the sentiments of the masses who wanted fair distribution of wealth. The ignorant masses followed along like mules behind a hay wagon.
There was a pause and the connection was made.
“Mok Don,” the President said, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you. It helps me to keep my finger on the pulse of the economy.”
“Then perhaps you’ll call off your police force and prosecutors. I’m growing weary of their harassment. They’ve been a nuisance for too long trying to uncover evidence of corruption. The economy suffers when I’m distracted from my work. When the economy suffers, so does your popularity.”
“I didn’t know they were still bothering you. I’ll look into it. However, if they have good cause, there’s nothing I can do.”
Mok Don stabbed his desk with his pencil eraser. “It’s harassment, they have nothing--” He cut himself short, vacillating. “Sometimes the innocent must be inconvenienced to bring low the guilty. Prior to this call, I held another press conference to voice my support of your war against corruption. Of course, I expect nothing in return, no favors. I’m just a humble citizen exercising my initiative.”
“As you please,” the President said. “Other chaebol leaders have exercised less discretion than you.” There was a pause. “Or so it would appear. Anyway, as things stand, you’ve become a symbol of hope to our people with your moralistic press conferences.”
“Don’t forget, President Paek: The people need a morale booster. They need a reminder that there’s one man who still plays by the rules and succeeds.”
“I won’t pretend I agree with that assessment, but justice has run its course.”
“That’s exactly right,” Mok Don said, slapping his pencil down on the desk. “Justice is the word. By the way, this new ministry you’ve established governing marine affairs and fisheries is a great improvement. Upgrading the maritime police organization to a national agency will go a long way toward fighting piracy and smuggling in the West Sea. And I commend you for your fight against corruption at the highest levels.”
There was a long silence . . .
“Before I hang up, Mr. President, there is something I must ask you about.”
The President cleared his throat. “Fine, but I have just a minute. I have a press conference of my own to attend and time is running out.”
“I was told that you know of a man named John Blake.”
The pause was a long one. When the president spoke, his voice was hard. “What’s this about?”
“An American politician told me you knew Blake. I suspect you wouldn’t want to be linked to this character. From what I’ve heard, he’s notorious. And your reputation is milky white. I assure you this call has nothing to do with your connection to this man. As far as I’m concerned there isn’t one.”
“There isn’t,” the president said. “Certainly, I know who Blake is. But why would that interest you?”
“I think he may be planning a trip to Korea. I’ve been informed that some of my foreign competitors want me dead and have hired him for the job.”
The President hissed. “Then I’ll send you flowers ahead of time.”
Mok Don spent a long moment co
nsidering the President’s reaction. “You sound amused.”
“If Blake is after you, I wouldn’t close your eyes for long. I heard he was expensive, but then you didn’t have to worry about him botching the operation, causing embarrassment and political backsliding. He was dependable and deniable.”
Mok Don picked up his pencil and tapped the desk. The satisfaction in the President’s voice was starting to irritate him.
“The Israelis hired him to make key hits against Turkish terrorists,” the President went on; “the Spanish hired him to stop gunrunners ferrying weapons to the Basques, ETA; the English used him to intercept IRA gunrunners; he executed several Chinese crime bosses and heroin traffickers in Hong Kong.”
“He has a lot of blood on his hands.”
“More than you know.”
Mok Don pulled his tie loose and shifted in his chair. “Who does he work for?”
“He was a mercenary, a master assassin. Legend has it, he began with the CIA, but branched out and worked for numerous potentates and heads of state. World leaders brought him in when they needed a deniable operator. He was so efficient in North Korea that years later another administration hired him to train our elite special forces. Finally, they sent him north again. He killed nine men based on false intelligence. When he found out that his terrorist targets were actually members of the Christian underground who had intercepted an illegal weapons shipment from the South, he tracked down his employers and took out five men including a South Korean general. But every man has his limitations . . . I’m afraid, you need not fear. Blake is dead. He was killed while attempting to leave the country.”
“Are you sure about that?” Mok Don asked.
“No body was ever recovered, but his boat was bombed while making its escape. So perhaps you don’t have to worry about being killed, Mok Don. But just in case the report of Blake’s death was mere propaganda, you might want to appoint a successor.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After spending the morning at the inn with Abby, giving her explicit instructions on what to buy and where to meet him later, Frank went to work altering his appearance. He cut off the tip of a pacifier then cut the bulb in half. With his small finger, he inserted the pacifier into his nostril, which distorted the shape of his nose. Then he applied reddish-brown make-up over his face, hands, and neck. Next he got out black hair, fringe beard and mustache. Patiently, he parted his own dark hair and applied black dye with a sponge. Lastly he put in brown-tinted contact lenses. His identity disguised, he dressed in dark gray pants, sweater, overcoat, and black beret cap. He wore special shoes with a false heel that gave him a peculiar limp.
Only thing he couldn’t disguise was his stony expression. He placed his make-up back into his pack and zipped up the pocket. Walking out of the bathroom, he put his pack down. He sat on the edge of the bed for a minute and rested his forehead in his hands, eyes shut. Then he got up.
He arrived at the National Museum before lunch. The wind blew steadily beneath a gray sky, and it was cold enough to make him regret having left his scarf in Alaska.
The museum was in the former Japanese capital located behind the old city gate. Intended as an insult against the Korean people, the building was purposely constructed in front of Kyongbok Palace: it blocked the majestic views of the palace with its gracefully arched and tiered structures. The building was formal and topped with an imposing dome. Built by the Japanese in 1926, they had attempted to imitate 19th century neo-classical style.
Frank knew more about Seoul now and its turbulent history, and he looked at the city gate and its traditional tile roof with interest as he scooted through the cold air and purchased a ticket to the museum.
Inside, the museum was magnificent, both palatial and stately. He spent an hour roaming around on five different levels packed with Korean artifacts. The Kiska treasures belonged in this collection; they were part of the same heritage, originated with the same dynasties.
While browsing, he studied the layout of the museum, the positions and moods of the security guards, and the exits. He scanned the museum employees and the patrons alike, looking for any unusual behavior. He decided to stick with the original plan. If anything went wrong, he had three back-up plans.
***
When Colonel Kim parked his car, Chull-su let Hyun off to follow on foot. Wearing his ever present surgical mask, Hyun walked five blocks and watched the colonel enter the old city gate and purchase a ticket to the National Museum. Hyun stopped at the old gate and waited. Hot breath under his surgical mask warmed his cheeks. The mask not only kept him warm, but also did a good job of hiding his facial features.
He reached under his silk jacket, tapped his pistol and unsnapped the thong. Entering the museum, he didn’t see the colonel. He casually strolled through the first floor. No colonel. Hyun made his way back to the center of the museum. Climbing the stairs to the second floor he began his sweep.
***
At eleven-thirty, Frank began watching the front of the museum for any sign of surveillance. Nothing disturbed him. When the colonel arrived, he came alone and acted natural, although he appeared to be under stress. Seeing the colonel’s lean face and thin eyebrows, Frank worked hard to relax. The colonel walked past him without acknowledgment or recognition and proceeded up to the cafeteria where they were supposed to meet.
Frank forced himself to watch the front of the museum for several minutes. Then he went up the stairs to the cafeteria on the second floor. The room was impressive with its hundred-foot ceilings and intricate neoclassical detail. Besides the colonel, there were only a few other patrons. He ordered a cup of coffee and a pastry. Then he approached the table of a surprised Colonel Kim.
Looking sharp in his uniform, Colonel Kim appeared to have aged since Frank last saw him. The lines on his face were deeper than Frank remembered. The thin eyebrows were almost gray now.
It’s been a long time, Colonel.” Frank set his coffee and pastry on the table.
Realizing that John Blake was the man standing in front of him, the colonel stood and bowed deeply.
Frank ignored the gesture and settled into a chair.
Colonel Kim suddenly looked back at the entrance, then around the cafeteria. Tension clung to his aspect. “You startled me,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Frank took a long breath and his throat was tight. “I have one minute. What did you find out?”
“I brought you the documents we discussed on the phone.” The colonel put his chin down to his chest. He reached into his overcoat and brought out a stack of folded papers which he shoved at Frank. “Very difficult to find. Took persistence and luck, and a lot of money, more than I expected.”
Frank leafed through them casually. They were all written in Japanese characters. “Sum this up for me.”
The colonel nodded quickly. He looked directly at Frank, an intensity in his stare. “According to the letter, Japan’s governor-general obtained information on royal tombs. The information was given by an anonymous Korean, a former government official. The letter was a confirmation of another letter sent to Tokyo. According to the export papers, whatever they found in those tombs must have been a small fraction of the total shipment. The contents were shipped to Tokyo.”
Frank again started leafing through the papers. Then he stopped and slowly folded them. He casually slipped the papers into his inside coat pocket. He withdrew an envelope and slid it across the table to the colonel, who surveyed the room again before picking it up. Two other patrons were leaving, a man and a woman. The colonel impulsively shoved the envelope into his lap where Frank couldn’t see it under the table and started counting the hundred dollar bills.
“Do they give a location?”
“No.”
“Who did you tell about this?”
The colonel’s head twitched unnaturally. “I told no one. What is between us stays between us—forever. Now, I must get back. We’re on special alert this winter due to infiltrators and
provocative troop movements in the North. I leave now as your friend and confidant.”
“In my business, I can’t afford to let someone betray me and get away with it. You tell me who.”
The colonel continued staring at Frank--glowering. “You should not have come back here.”
“I don’t plan to return unless I have to visit you personally. I asked you a question.”
“Don’t ever contact me again.” The colonel slipped the envelope into his inside coat pocket. He rose and left the cafeteria.
Frank let him go. He sipped his coffee and thought about which exit to take. He looked around. A woman with two kids got up, and they all walked out. Frank was the only person left in the cafeteria other than the attendant. The silence eased his stress some. He reminded himself that his trip was nearly finished.
He stood to leave and lifted his coffee cup for a last sip. As the rim came to his lips—came the roar of a gunshot, and Frank’s body jerked in reaction. The sound bounced around the museum like a ping-pong ball. Frank felt searing pain. Boiling coffee scalded his chest before the echo of the shot passed. He gasped as he threw his cup down and jumped up, glancing around the room. Nobody there, nobody at the entrance, the shot was in another room. On his way out of the cafeteria, he grabbed a fistful of napkins, and still gritting his teeth from the burn, carelessly wiped the coffee off his jacket and shirt. His ears were ringing.
He moved cautiously, yet quickly down the hall. A woman screamed. At the stairs he found Colonel Kim’s body in an expanding pool of blood—surrounded by a snowfall of hundred dollar bills. Shot in the back, the bullet had exploded outward through his heart, ripping through the breast pocket where Kim had put the envelope of cash. Many of the bills were blood-stained. A man and a woman stared horror-stricken at the dead soldier. The woman was crying in a fit of frantic hysteria, clutching the man. It was the same man and woman who left the cafeteria minutes earlier.
