by Mike Brogan
“A dead man walking,” Shaw said, “if I catch the bastard!”
SEVENTY NINE
Madison, Agent Shaw, Pete, and Agent Hayden moved to the FBI’s high-tech audio-visual center.
She was overwhelmed by the sophisticated array of supercomputers and monitors all focused on the numerous air, land, and rail transportation departure locations in southeastern Michigan. She had no idea there were so many possible escape routes.
Kurt Krugere had vanished. No sightings. No phone calls, no credit card use, no Internet activity. No reports of the man anywhere.
They’d been screening departing passengers for hours and Madison felt the FBI’s growing sense of frustration and panic.
The monster behind the surge deaths and injuries had escaped. Without a trace.
She and the others continued searching the big-screen monitors for Krugere among the crowds walking through Detroit Metro Airport.
“So many travelers!” she said. “How many passengers go through Detroit Metro each day?”
“About one hundred thousand,” Shaw said.
Madison’s hope sank.
She looked over at the other FBI teams viewing passengers leaving Flint Bishop International Airport, and nearby Windsor Canada’s International Airport where Canadian police had arrested Nester Van Horn, now deceased.
Other FBI and Detroit police teams watched vehicles driving through the Detroit-Canada Tunnel under the Detroit River, and the Ambassador Bridge from Detroit to Windsor, Canada.”
“Would he use The Ambassador Bridge?” she asked.
“Sure. He could hide in one of the trucks.”
“How many trucks drive over the bridge daily?”
“Ten thousand!”
“What?” Madison couldn’t believe the number.
“The Ambassador Bridge is the busiest international border crossing in North America.”
She knew that sixty miles north, Homeland Security Teams checked thousands more vehicles crossing the Blue Water Bridge from Port Huron to Sarnia, Canada every day.
Another team even checked people trying to use the old railroad tunnel under the St. Clair River to Canada.
FBI teams also watched Greyhound bus terminals and train stations.
And Detroit Police boats, Michigan Police boats, and Canadian Police boats patrolled the Detroit River and the St. Clair River.
So many ways to escape the country . . .
The full court press was on. But no trace of Krugere so far.
TSA, FBI, Homeland, and the police focused on Krugere lookalikes. If a man resembled Krugere, they ran his face through facial recognition software, comparing his face to photos of Krugere from VIP auto industry events and his military service.
But Madison feared Krugere might be wearing a facial disguise.
Or driving to another airport in Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, or beyond.
“Check out this guy!” Agent Hayden said, pointing at the screen. “Right height, size and age. Baseball cap covers hair. Mustache might be fake.”
Shaw looked at the screen. “And he’s nervous. Run his face.”
Their FBI tech guy uploaded the guy’s face into the facial recognition software in the FBI’s facility in Quantico, Virginia.
Madison didn’t think the man was Krugere, whom she’d met at the Detroit Auto Show Charity Event a couple of years ago. Krugere seemed taller and heavier than this man.
Two minutes later, Hayden said, “Quantico says he’s only a forty-seven percent match. Eyes are too far apart. Ears too small. No match.”
“Check that guy in the blue suit,” Hayden said, pointing.
Everyone looked.
Madison thought this man’s height, weight and shape seemed identical to Krugere’s. And his face was similar to Krugere’s except for the beard and tinted glasses. A disguise? He carried an expensive briefcase and a Wall Street Journal.
Madison said, “That guy walks like Kruger. I remember from the auto show.”
“Walks how?” Shaw asked.
“Like a duck. His feet point at ten and two o’clock.”
Suddenly the man rushed forward and kissed and embraced an elderly man and woman. The happy threesome turned and strolled toward the airport exit.
“His parents maybe?” Madison asked.
“Krugere’s parents are dead,” Hayden said. “No living relatives we could find.”
“Check the priest,” Shaw said, pointing to an elderly priest being pushed in a wheelchair.
“Upper body looks right. Can’t tell his height,” Hayden said.
Pete said, “Krugere had long black hair. This priest has shorter gray hair.”
“And he’s wearing a beret.”
Hayden nodded. “His facial profile and head-on shot seem close to Krugere.”
“I agree!” Madison said, getting excited.
“But his tinted sunglasses screw up eye measurements,” Hayden said.
“Ask Quantico for his face comparison even with glasses on,” Shaw said.
“How can they?” Madison asked.
“New process,” Shaw said. “They digitize the glasses, delete them, measure the most probable eye size and distance between them.”
Hayden captured some photos of the priest’s face and profile and uploaded them to the Quantico Face-Rec team.
As the priest adjusted his beret Madison saw something.
“Wait! Freeze the priest!” Madison said. “Focus on his right hand! The one touching his beret!”
“Why?” Shaw asked.
“I’m not quite sure. I thought I saw something. Can you zoom in more?”
Agent Hayden zoomed in on the priest’s right hand.
Madison grew more excited. “Can you enlarge his ring finger?”
The camera zoomed in on the thick gold ring with a large ruby inset.
She saw it!
“That’s Krugere!” she said, standing up.
“How do - ?”
“- the ring! Look at the center of that big ruby. The gold letters?
“KK!”
“As in Kurt Krugere! I remember that big KK ring from the auto shows,” Madison said.
“Quick!” Shaw said, “Verify it with our auto show pictures of Krugere!”
The screens began flashing through hundreds of auto show VIP photos showing Kurt Krugere.
“There!” Madison said, pointing to Krugere shaking hands with former governor, Rick Snyder!” Krugere’s ring was visible.
“Enlarge the ring!” she said.
They zoomed in.
She saw the exact same gold KK gleam in the huge red ruby. Identical typeface. Identical ring.
Madison’s hope soared.
“Bingo!” said Agent Hayden, holding his phone. “Facial Recognition results are in! With the glasses digitally deleted, they got a ninety-one percent on the frontal facial profile. That’s a damn strong number.”
“And I got one hundred percent on his ring!” Madison said.
“It’s Krugere!” Agent Shaw said.
“Which gate did he go to?” Madison asked.
Hayden nodded and punched in the time coordinator on the video. The picture switched to passengers coming through Security, then walking down the long corridors to the gates. Two minutes later, they saw a young man roll the priest into view, heading toward gates 48-76. Hayden fast-forwarded to another camera and watched him rolled past Gate 57. They finally stopped at Gate 72.
Slowly, Krugere stood from the wheelchair, faking difficulty.
“Look at his height!” Hayden said.
“He matches Krugere’s height, weight and body build!” Madison said.
“I agree,” Pete said.
“Gate 72,” Hayden said. “I’m calling the airline for the passenger manifest.”
“When did the flight depart?” Shaw asked.
Hayden checked the time of the flight number and gate, then slumped into his chair. “Damn!”
“What?” Shaw asked.
“It left five hours
and fifty-two minutes ago.”
He could be anywhere, Madison realized.
“Where did he fly?”
“Mexico City.”
“Contact the Mexican authorities.”
“Too late.”
“Why?”
“Krugere connected to another flight there.”
“To . . . ?”
“Phenom Penh, Cambodia. He’s en route there now.”
“Quick - let’s contact the authorities!” Pete said.
“Won’t do any good,” Shaw said.
“Why not?” Madison said.
“They don’t extradite people back to the States!”
EIGHTY
At eighty-two-year old Jun Li Chang sat in his old office chair at Chang AsiaCar headquarters in San Francisco’s Financial District, the same fifteen-story building where fifty years ago his parents opened Chang’s Vegetables Shoppe in the basement corner.
Chang swallowed two more Maalox. His stomach was lousy because his car sales were lousy! And the cause for both was Kurt Krugere.
Chang looked at his wall chart showing the locations of his AsiaCar dealerships. He’d grown from one tiny dealership to a network of twenty-three dealerships nationwide. He cared deeply about his employees and paid them well above the norm. He shared annual profits with them and donated to their local charities and Special Olympics teams. He considered them family.
But now he was very worried about them and the dealerships.
Krugere had damaged them.
Chang had realized years ago that Krugere was a liar, denier, and conniver. He made reckless business decisions. Like investing too much money in the muscle cars he wanted instead of the practical, cost-efficient vehicles most people wanted, like crossovers, SUVs, trucks, and electric cars.
And recently, Krugere made an immoral decision.
He directed a program to surge GV’s XCars while people drove them. Result? Injuries and deaths. And people now blame Kurt Krugere, an EVP of AsiaCars!
The cars we sell, Jun Li Chang thought.
Many people said they would not buy an AsiaCar vehicle because of what Krugere did to the XCar drivers. And they meant it. Jun Li Chang’s car sales had fallen fifty-seven percent compared to the same-time sales last year. The reason? Consumer backlash - punishment against Krugere and AsiaCars.
Unless sales grew soon, Chang knew he’d have to close some of his marginal dealerships and lay off decent hard working employees he’d known for years. He’d also have to greatly curtail his charitable contributions to avoid more layoffs.
Krugere had foolishly thought that the surging GV XCars would force people to buy many more gas-powered AsiaCars, and that those big sales would catapult him into the Chairmanship of AsiaCars.
Chang never trusted Krugere. The guy was a browbeating salesman, a bully . . . and obviously a cold-blooded psychopath - willing to surge innocent GV families, men, women and children to their deaths.
Deaths . . . Krugere should pay for.
But Kurt Krugere had disappeared weeks ago and couldn’t be found.
EIGHTY ONE
Two days ago, Jun Li Chang called a friend, Mr. Moto.
Mr. Moto found people.
People who didn’t want to be found. Or pay for their crimes.
This morning, Mr. Moto phoned Chang back and revealed that he’d located Kurt Krugere in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, hiding under the alias, William Smith, in a small, medium-priced hotel, the Lotus Flower.
Chang took out his untraceable burner phone and dialed the only number it ever called.
“Hello . . .” Mr. Moto said.
“Hello,” Chang said. “Is our friend still in Phnom Penh?”
“He is.”
“So when can you get there?” Chang asked.
“I’m still in Ho Chi Minh City now, but I can be there this evening.”
“Good.”
“How can I be of further service to you there?”
Chang sipped his tea. “As I told you Krugere caused deaths and injuries to many people. He also caused millions in damage to companies and property.”
“Most despicable,” Mr. Moto said. “I imagine your problem is that Cambodia won’t extradite him back to the US to stand trial?”
“That’s the problem. And Krugere has vast financial resources overseas. Enough to hide in luxury for decades. He does not deserve that luxury. He deserves to pay for these deaths and injuries. And his victims deserve justice!”
“I quite agree.”
“We also discovered that he embezzled millions of dollars from AsiaCars over the years.”
“Do you know where his money is located?”
“Yes. Our accountants and IT specialists finally located his seven numbered accounts in offshore banks in Grand Cayman, Hong Kong, Belize and Singapore.”
“I assume only he has access to that money?”
“That is correct, Mr. Moto.”
“How can I help you with this?”
“We’d like you to persuade him to do the honorable thing.”
“And what is that?”
“Transfer those funds to two new charities.”
“That seems most appropriate. How much money does he have in these offshore banks?”
“We estimate nearly eighty-four million dollars, give or take a million.”
“How would you like him to split the money between the two charities?”
“Fifty-fifty. Fifty percent would go to the XCar Victims Fund in Detroit. That fund will distribute the money to those families who lost loved ones or were physically injured in XCar surges. The second fifty percent would go to the AsiaCars Ex-Employees Charity Fund group in San Francisco. This fund will distribute the money to those employees laid off or terminated due to lost AsiaCar sales caused by Krugere.”
“Both groups seem most deserving.”
“They are. My lawyers have prepared the necessary documents that authorize his transfer of the funds. We hope you can persuade him to sign the transfer documents.”
“I can be rather persuasive.”
“I remember.” Chang recalled how quickly Mr. Moto persuaded a thief to return the money he stole from Chang’s aunt’s orphanage.
“Where are the transfer documents?”
“I Fed-Exed the documents to your Ho Chi Minh City address. They should arrive there today.”
“Your Fed Ex package arrived here ten minutes ago.”
“Excellent.”
“I’ll visit Mr. Krugere at the Lotus Flower Hotel. We’ll have a nice chat.”
“Is triple your normal fee sufficient?” Mr. Chang asked.
Mr. Moto coughed. “More than sufficient. But a fee is not necessary.”
“I insist.”
“You are most kind, sir. I’ll donate your fee to a worthy cause.”
“As you wish. I also emailed you his photo.”
“I’m looking at it now.”
“But he’s apparently good at disguises.”
“I’m good at recognizing them. I use them myself. When would you like me to chat with him?”
“The sooner the better, Mr. Moto.”
“I’ll be in Phnom Penh tonight.”
EIGHTY TWO
PHNOM PENH, CAMBODIA
Mr. Moto, né Hiroki Tanaka, liked working for Jun Li Chang because Chang only requested assignments like this one. The only kind Moto accepted. Honorable assignments. Moral and righteous assignments.
Mr. Chang offered him a two hundred thousand dollar fee. Most generous compensation. Moto would have done it for free. Thanks to a seventy million dollar inheritance from his parents, he didn’t need the money.
But starving children did. He’d donate the fee to UNICEF’s fund for children.
Moto had no problem bringing justice to Krugere, whose surges killed and injured so many innocent people. A man who would hide out in luxury, moving from one non-extradition country to another for years, avoiding justice.
Moto remembered his first assignment
from Mr. Chang. “Mr. Moto, a thief stole money from my Aunt’s Beijing orphanage. Can you help her?”
Mr. Moto got the orphanage money back and the thief, a convicted pedophile, got a watery grave in the Yongding River.
Moto walked to the bathroom. He chose his long brown wig, dark-green contact lenses, and Fu Manchu mustache. He picked up the old leather physician’s satchel he still used as an internist in Tokyo.
He checked his disguise in the mirror. It worked.
He left his rental apartment, walked along Street 360, passing the Music Arts School, and then the Embassy of Malta. Ahead, he saw one of his favorite Phnom Penh restaurants, Les Cocktails, filled as usual with trendy people consuming Cambodian delicacies surrounded by the restaurant’s famously exotic décor. He smelled their delicious fish dinners and heard their small jazz band playing Take Five, one of his favorites.
He entered the parking garage and got in his rental Lexus. He drove less than a mile to a hotel district and let GPS guide him to the Lotus Flower Hotel on Street 322. He liked how Phnom Penh’s streets were numbered. It reminded him of an assignment on Detroit’s Eight Mile Road where he’d once overdosed a drug lord for giving free crystal meth to eighth graders.
He parked three blocks away from the Lotus Flower Hotel, grabbed his MD bag and walked back toward the hotel.
He entered the Lotus Flower’s small but elegant reception. White lotus flowers filled the lobby. He loved their sweet, rich fragrance. It always calmed him.
He walked over to the reception desk and nodded at the young man on night duty. A boy really, maybe eighteen, with a white coat, dark hair, and with peach fuzz on his chin. He wore Coke-bottle-thick glasses that made his eyeballs look like they were trying to escape.
“May I help you sir?” he asked in Khmer, the Cambodian language.
“Yes. I’m Dr. Tanaka,” he answered in English. He showed his medical badge and credentials, then lifted his medical bag with T. Tanaka, MD on the side.
The receptionist nodded.
“I have a sick patient here. His name is William Smith. He’s in Room 307. He’s diabetic and sounded very groggy and confused on his phone minutes ago. I fear he could be going into a diabetic shock or worse. Could you let me in to treat him? Or could I have a key?”
The desk manager looked down at the computer guest screen and confirmed William Smith was in Room 307.
