The Golden Catch

by Roger Weston

  Nearly exhausted to the point of collapse, he breathed in raucous gasps. His whole upper-chest cavity burned and ached. Sweat was freezing, sending chills deeply through him. Now even Chull-su would fall victim to the forbidding elements. Barely ambulatory, he was hobbling back into the second meadow, near the biggest herd of horses he’d seen yet, when he saw what appeared to be a bunker built into the lava. Relief swept over him.

  Taking the long way around, he came up alongside the bunker so he couldn’t be seen. He moved the selector switch on his AK to automatic. He heard voices inside the bunker. Female voices.

  Perfect. Chull-su snaked up by the door latch, hesitated, jerked the door open. A woman stood just inside. Chull-su sprang up behind her and got his arm around her neck as she turned. She tried to scream but was instantly gagging. He put the AK to her head, yelled at the woman and the boy by the fire: “Move and I’ll kill her.”

  The woman by the fire screamed. The boy jumped back and fell down.

  Chull-su threw Abby to the ground and moved for the pistol on a ledge. He recovered it and shoved the pistol into the waist of his pants. He saw the AK laying on the white duffel bag.

  “Get to the fire,” he said.

  Abby and the boy did as they were told.

  Chull-su looked the place over. “More guns. Where are they?”

  “Over there,” Abby said, pointing at the AK-47. “That’s the only one.”

  Chull-su glared at her. “Don’t lie to me. That would be a mistake.” As he waited for Abby to change her story, an itch spread inside his chest and throat. “You thought you could hide from me in your little hole.” Chull-su coughed. “Water. Get me water now.”

  Abby got up and started for the door, picking up a water container from the floor.

  Chull-su grabbed her by the arm and squeezed hard. “If you don’t come back, your friends will die for it, and then I’ll find you.”

  She nodded and went out. Chull-su coughed several times. He saw a cup by the golden-haired woman. “What’s that?”

  Ingrid looked at the cup, then at Chull-su. “Tea.”

  “Give it to me.”

  She brought the cup to him, and he tasted it. The tea was cold, but he didn’t care. He gulped the cool liquid and tossed the mug aside. “Good,” he said. “You do what I tell you and we’ll get along.”

  Chull-su coughed as he took off his pack and laid it on the ground. The boy was watching, so Chull-su grinned at him. The boy turned away. Chull-su stripped off his gloves and looked at his bony fingers. They were almost yellow. He rubbed his moist hands together. He moved to the fire and held his hands over the flames to warm them. “Why isn’t she back yet?”

  “It takes a while,” Ingrid said.

  “How long?”

  “She’ll be back soon.”

  Chull-su opened the bunker door, and the meadow was spread out before him. He hated this place and wanted to get back to the city.

  He sat back down and leaned against the wall with his AK pointed at the boy. His eye lids were heavy. He was feeling good because when Mok Don learned that the mission was a success, he would richly reward Chull-su.

  When Abby returned, Chull-su said, “Next time hurry up. I’m hungry, get me food.”

  Chull-su took the jug and drank the ice-cold water. He drank slowly but kept drinking. When the jug was half empty, he put it down. He watched Abby, who was rummaging through a storage tin.

  “Faster,” Chull-su said.

  Abby stirred soup. She brought him a bowl.

  With a gun in his lap, Chull-su ate quickly. As he spooned the food down his throat, he felt his strength returning. A warm meal was just what he needed. He finished his bowl and then a second, never taking his eyes off his prisoners. After his last spoonful, he threw the bowl on the ground. He grabbed his AK and got up onto his feet.

  He pulled out his bottle and tipped it . . . empty. He threw it on ground, withdrew a new bottle from his pack and unscrewed the lid. He washed down a packet of pills.

  He glanced at the boy, whose scared eyes were following him. Chull-su stared at him for a while, knowing the boy would be dead shortly. Chull-su heard a dog bark in the distance. He pointed his gun at Luke’s head.

  “Leave him alone,” Ingrid said.

  Chull-su walked to Ingrid and kicked her onto her back. “Shut up.”

  The boy moved quickly and a rock slammed into Chull-su’s face. Pain shot through his right eye. He stumbled backwards, but kept hold of his gun and pointed it at the boy.

  “You’ll die for that. Outside. I don’t want this bunker messed up.” Chull-su walked over and kicked the boy in the face. The boy hit the ground, and Chull-su kicked him again and again.

  Ingrid screamed. “Stop it. Stop.”

  “Leave him alone,” Abby shouted.

  Now Chull-su turned on the women. “You want some too?” He feinted an attack on them, drawing back his rifle to strike. When they shrank back in fear, he laughed at them.

  The boy was wheezing and gasping for air. Chull-su attacked him again with a barrage of kicks, which the boy broke by curling up tighter. Blood dripped from the boy’s nose and at the corner of his mouth. Chull-su heard something outside the bunker. He left the boy alone while he went over to the viewing slash and looked out. Nothing there. He spotted a black lava rock in the snow that had fallen from the lava wall over the bunker. He turned on the boy, who was sitting up now.

  Ingrid was checking the boy over, trying to make him feel better with her attention. Chull-su advanced on her and slapped her.

  “Get away from him. Let him suffer alone, like a man. He’s gonna die alone.”

  “You’re psychotic,” Abby yelled at him.

  Chull-su leered at her. “And I thought we were getting along so nicely. I thought we could get through this next storm the easy way.

  The boy looked up with tears in his eyes.

  “Get up,” Chull-su said. “We’re going outside.”

  The boy got up and walked outside.

  “No,” Ingrid screamed. “Leave him alone.” She started after the boy, but Chull-su shoved her to the ground and kicked her head. The woman broke out in tears.

  “Stay there,” Chull-su commanded. Carrying his AK, he went after the boy. One step out the door, he stopped and carefully scanned the meadow. He approached the boy. It was cold outside and he wanted to get this over with quickly.

  “Boy, I’ll give you a chance to live. Run. If you can get away, you can go free.”

  Chull-su pointed the AK skyward. Squeezed the trigger. Thunderclap invaded the meadow as gunfire erupted. Spooked horses rose, panicked, and fled for open country. The earth rumbled under hundreds of pounding hooves and flying snow. The boy shrank back. Chull-su smiled at him. Chull-su would give him six or seven steps, then hew him down.

  “Go,” Chull-su shouted. “Run.”

  The boy started running. Chull-su grinned and pointed his weapon.

  ***

  From five feet above the bunker, Frank Murdoch stood on a volcanic ledge. He dove from the ledge, flew with his limbs outstretched, and came down hard on Chull-su’s shoulders. Chull-su buckled, all of Frank’s weight behind the impact. Chull-su’s body broke Frank’s fall, and Frank rolled away on impact.

  ***

  Against all pain, Chull-su got up and faced the wounded American. He shot a flat-palm at Frank with a yell. Frank grabbed his extended arm by the wrist--and with crushing force from the outside--he flat handed the back of Chull-su’s elbow joint. The elbow snapped in the socket--bursting out of joint. Bones crunched. Tendons and cartilage ripped. Chull-su’s left arm was dangling in the wrong direction in the socket.

  He screamed in agony.

  He fell to the ground, twisting in pain and shock. But he strained to ignore the pain. He sat up first, then got up onto his feet. Frank once again leaned on his crutches, obviously in pain, too. Chull-su looked at his gun, which was in the snow between them. His firing arm was still good. Chull-su moved f
or the weapon. He leaned over, got the fingers of his right hand around it--

  A crutch slammed into his chin. His head snapped back and he heard something crack. And when he opened his eyes he could barely move. The snow had numbed his face. Cold wind blew over him, making him shake.

  Murdoch was still standing there, except now he was holding Chull-su’s AK-47. Chull-su suddenly remembered the pistol. Frank was turned away, looking toward the distant horses.

  Chull-su made his move. He rose up onto his knees. With his right hand, he went for the pistol tucked in the waist of his pants.

  Frank turned and fired. A slug ripped through Chull-su’s chest. Some connection sparked in his brain and he lifted the pistol. A burst erupted from Frank’s gun. Lead tore through Chull-su’s chest. His head snapped back. He hit the ground. Cold darkness.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  March 9th, 1996

  Mok Don crutched across his office and stared out the window at the haze and cityscape of Seoul. There were dark pouches under his black eyes. New wrinkles reached across his forehead and a patch of gray hair fell over his forehead. Like always, people told him he looked well, but lately it was hollow flattery from the lips of grovelers who were quietly revolted by his handicap. Mok Don knew his appearance reflected his severe depression over losing his leg and the treasure. His daily existence was now bitter disgrace: Crutching into the building, taking the elevator, passing people, his secretary . . . pure humiliation. Losing the treasure he could recover from, but losing a leg . . .

  Mok Don’s head hung forward, and the creases in his forehead deepened.

  Today Mok Don would steer the ill-fated course of events in a new direction. He felt fresh hate approaching the hour of expression and vindication. Mok Don breathed deep, ominous breaths, eyes closed. Slowly he moved his head from left to right with his hands on his stressed temples. He would not suffer alone. He would take his revenge on Frank Murdoch. And the revenge would be as sweet and cruel as he could fathom.

  Mok Don crutched over to his desk and looked at the solid gold burial urn resting on the edge. He brought this priceless treasure from his collection at home as a symbol of the occasion. It was magnificent. A totally rare artifact. Since he first unearthed this wonder decades ago, he shared it with no one. Only he and the long-dead monarchs of the Three Kingdoms Era had ever laid eyes upon it.

  Water-drop, flower, and spangle designs covered the urn in intricate detail. Four animal-head eyelets protruded from the pot’s shoulder. Holes drilled through the heads allowed threading and hanging of the urn. Burial urns such as this came into usage during the Three Kingdoms Period. As Buddhism became the state religion of the Shilla Dynasty between the 7th and 10th centuries, cremation was widely practiced. It was the only ancient, pure-gold burial urn on earth with this exact design.

  As Mok Don admired the priceless relic, he thought of the ocean: the biggest burial urn on earth. He thought of Frank Murdoch . . . It was time to commit Murdoch to the immense abysmal deep-blue soul. It was time to commit him to the deep. Mok Don would throw Frank Murdoch to the sharks and beasts of the ocean, just as Murdoch did to Mok Don. Only for Murdoch it would be final—his miserable live burial at sea. Then he would know the suffering of Mok Don.

  Mok Don crutched around his desk and sat down. He picked up the phone receiver and dialed a number. He got an answer. He said, “What are you doing? . . . Uh-huh . . . Everything is set to go? . . . Get that plane ready by tomorrow . . . I don’t care if you have to go to the airport personally and motivate those loafers. Make it ready. Get the men outfitted, they drop everything, get their passports ready, double check every detail. The time has come: We’re returning to the Aleutians . . . What? . . . We need to arm twenty-five men with AK-47 rifles and night vision equipment . . . I changed my mind. I want fifty. Get on it--”

  The secretary broke in on the intercom. “Mr. Don—”

  “I told you I’m busy. Don’t bother me.” Mok Don hissed. “Get that plane ready,” he ordered, returning to his phone conversation. “I won’t tolerate any delays. I’ll hold you personally responsible.”

  Mok Don hung up and pushed his chair back. He struggled to push himself into a standing position. He looked down at the temporary wooden leg and stared at it. It was all like a horrible nightmare. He wasn’t even a man. He was a freak with a wooden leg. Even poor people would think themselves superior to him now. Write him off as a cripple. Perhaps doing business with him would even become taboo.

  This wasn’t America, after all. In America there was no shame in having a handicap. Americans often looked at successful cripples as inspirational. Koreans, on the other hand, were shocked by handicaps. In P’yongyang, North Korea, people with handicaps weren’t even allowed on the streets. In South Korea, they drew stares. Nobody would take him seriously in the business world now, he would have to command respect with fear.

  Again the secretary came over the intercom. “Mok Don.”

  Now Mok Don was being humiliated by a—woman. She hadn’t even called him Mr. Don. Even his own secretary was talking down to him. Lines tightened on his face. It was time to start making some examples. He stretched his hands and clenched his fists. He picked up his cane and contemplated the pain he could inflict with it.

  “Mok Don.” Again the secretary on the intercom.

  “Get in here,” he demanded, tightening the grip on his cane till he felt pain in the joints of his fingers. “We’re gonna have a little training session.”

  “Mok Don! The President is on the telephone. He says he must speak to you immediately. It’s an emergency. He must speak with you.”

  Mok Don’s gaze froze on his desktop during a void of silence. He didn’t move until he said, “After this telephone call, you come in here so we can redefine your job description.” Mok Don pushed the button to the speaker phone. “President Paek, my dear friend. How are you?”

  “No dear friend of yours could be in good standing, Mok Don, and I’m certainly not one of them.”

  Shock and dread hit Mok Don. He found himself unable to speak.

  “In fact,” the President said, “you’re a disgrace to this country. Our relationship has been one of sufferance for a very long time. Reckoning always comes, nobody escapes it. Not even the great Mok Don. Your day of reckoning has finally come.”

  “President Paek,” Mok Don said coolly, “you are a stinking politician on a temporary pass. I was here long before you, and I’ll continue long after you’re removed from the Blue House.”

  “I don’t think so, Mok Don. As we speak, the police are in the lobby of your building. They are waiting for my go-ahead to take you into custody. You see, we got a tip recently, a dying confession made by your late security director. Apparently he was a disgruntled employee. His last words gave the location of a special warehouse in Seoul. My police raided the warehouse this morning and found highly incriminating records about your business operations. We also found an enormous amount of hidden cash that we haven’t even been able to count. The figure will be staggering. I can guarantee that you’re behind on your laundry. Oh, yes, your security director also said if you keelhaul a man, you better kill him.”

  “What? . . . You’re lying, President Paek. No such warehouse exists.”

  “It’s in It’aewon. I wanted to call you personally because I’ve awaited your downfall for years. You began your quest dealing in human misery and that is how you shall end it. You’ll deserve everything you get. I wanted to tell you personally.” The President paused. “There will be no pity for you in court. You can expect life in prison. In three minutes, my police will enter your office and take you into custody. Good-bye, Mok Don. You’re finished.” The line went dead.

  Mok Don was gulping for air. Other than his panting chest he could barely move. He stared at the door to his office with his mouth open and his fingers shaking. Suddenly, he glanced at the clock on his desk.

  Three minutes.

  Soo-man gave up the It’aewon war
ehouse, gave up . . . Mok Don was trapped. The President was prepared to bury him. If they knew about the It’aewon warehouse, the President was telling the truth: Mok Don was finished.

  And he had less than three minutes.

  Mok Don had been too great for too long. He sat on too high a throne and wielded too much power. The detestable, peasant-loving President demanded his bitter, jealous revenge. Mok Don would never allow himself to go to trial.

  Never to prison!

  His proud days of victory spanned decades. For thirty years he let nothing stand in the way of his remorseless conquest. He ran his businesses like a glorious conqueror. For thirty years he preyed on the weak and exploited the vulnerable. To survive adrift at sea, he even resorted to cannibalizing his dead salarymen after thirst and starvation licked them.

  Mok Don didn’t resort to cannibalism only to spend the rest of his life in jail.

  He was a glorious international symbol of success. He couldn’t give it up now. Mok Don couldn’t allow his glory to crumble and be remembered as a disgraced, imprisoned cripple. He would do what he did for his entire life. He would take the easy way. He would rob President Paek of the victory and satisfaction he sought by victimizing Mok Don. He would take his own life. And he would do it with the .45 caliber handgun he was given by the greatest Korean President of all.

  Mok Don spun around to the red-oak credenza. He lifted the lid to the black mother-of-pearl inlaid lacquer box. And he stared in shock . . . slowly realizing what had happened. The gun was gone. He’d taken the pistol to be cleaned after bashing Chull-ho’s squalid teeth.

  Mok Don had no means of killing himself!

  A knock shook the door.

  Mok Don froze, realizing he had only seconds till he would be humiliated and later paraded before the country in disgrace. Even the old women and street beggars would laugh at him.

  No! Mok Don would dive through the glass and fall to his death. Or was the glass too thick? If it didn’t break, and Mok Don was knocked out—he’d become the President’s greatest propaganda windfall . . . Korea’s symbol of disgrace.