The Korean Gambit

by Charles DeMaris

  Where it went wrong, he wasn’t sure, but the bomb never went off and all responsible parties had disappeared overnight. Nina and Leonid, as well as the Muslims who were to carry out the attack all vanished from the face of the earth. The nature of the attack was public knowledge, since hundreds had seen the mushroom cloud over the Atlantic Ocean, miles away from the intended target. No one knew precisely who thwarted the attack and the American media spent days praising a hero they couldn’t name.

  Yuriy was sure it wasn’t anyone in the CIA or the FBI, which left a private organization, but who? There was a group out there operating outside of the US government and they had resources, but he had no names, except one. Prescott had a daughter, and intelligence had shown that she was in Virginia visiting her parents at the time of the attack. Prescott and his wife were both killed, but there was no trace of their daughter, not until she had surfaced in Paris a few days ago, and the killers were found dead in the house. He didn’t know if she was involved in this group, but it seemed likely. Her father had no doubt given her whatever he knew before he died and she had gotten out of the house before the killers got there, or maybe she had been the one to take them out. He thought that was unlikely, but there didn’t seem to be any more likely candidates.

  He was convinced that she knew something, and he was determined to find out what she knew or take her out. Either was okay, but taking her alive would be preferable. If she was part of this group, she could give him enough information to take them down, but if taking her alive proved too difficult, his men were authorized to kill her.

  A knock on the door.

  “Come in, Boris.”

  “Sir, you wanted to be notified when we had news from Paris.”

  “Yes, most certainly. Sit down and tell me what you know.”

  “I have Grigory on the phone. The girl is in her hotel room and he and Vladimir have both exits covered. He awaits your instruction.”

  “Take her out of the city, find out what she knows, and make sure nobody finds the body.”

  “And if they can’t take her alive?”

  “Make sure nobody finds the body. I’m going to retire. Wake me with news of their success.”

  Rachel was still deciding whether or not to contact Jean when her phone buzzed. It was an email from Ahmed that nothing had come back on the photos, but he was still searching. Another hour went by and the only sounds she heard were of other guests coming and going. Were they going to come after her or not? She figured they would, but maybe they would wait until later when the guests had settled down and they could get to her without attracting attention. If she were in their shoes, she would be watching the exits until then. She really wanted to know if that’s what they were doing, but she couldn’t risk going down there herself. She wished now she had thought to drop a hidden camera by the front door. She had some of them in her purse, small WiFi cameras that she could monitor with her cell phone.

  What would Dad do in this situation? Well, Dad would have made use of one of those cameras. They didn’t do her any good sitting in her purse. Spilled milk. She needed to do something, but what? What if they didn’t come for her. She was ready for that, but she wasn’t ready to stay up all night waiting for them.

  A knock at the door.

  Did she hear that right? Surely, they wouldn’t be daft enough to knock on the door.

  There it was again. A soft knock. It couldn’t be them. She was about to look out the peephole when she remembered something she saw in a movie, a person being shot through the peephole. Did that sort of thing really happen?

  “Who is it?” she said, standing off to the side of the door.

  “A friend,” a soft voice said in a heavy French accent, “The Professor wants his wing suit back.”

  “You must be Jean,” she said as she opened the door to a small wiry man with a wisp of snow-white hair.

  “And you must be Rachel. Listen, we don’t have much time. Are your things packed?”

  “Yes, everything is right here.”

  “Good, there is a luggage cart in the corridor. Get your things loaded and get to the elevator.”

  “There are men following me…”

  “Yes, Russians by the look of them, one at the front and one at the back. The fellow at the back door is…unresponsive…and the other has gone to check on him. We need to hurry.”

  “We’re just going to run?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can’t try to take one of them alive?”

  “It’s not as easy as you think. Just go.”

  Grigory Mikhailov put the radio back in his pocket and cursed in Russian. Vladimir wasn’t answering. When he got to the back door of the hotel, the pool of blood under Vladimir’s slumped body told him why. He was taken by surprise, only one neat hole in the middle of his forehead and no sign of a struggle. The girl couldn’t have done this. She hadn’t left her room, unless she caught Vladimir by surprise at the back door. Grigory wasted no time lamenting his partner, but ran up the stairs two at a time until he got to the third floor where Rachel’s room was. He entered the corridor and saw the girl and an elderly man enter the elevator, but the door was shut before he was halfway there.

  “Straight out the front door. My car is right outside,” Jean said.

  “You didn’t bother to park it?”

  “No need. We need to get moving before the other one gets back.”

  They were nearly to the door when Grigory exited the stairwell and entered the lobby. He saw Rachel and Jean about to leave the hotel and knew he couldn’t let them escape. He leveled his pistol and squeezed off three rounds. Two thudded into the luggage rack and the third hit Jean in the back of the leg, eliciting a yelp of pain.

  Rachel pivoted around and dropped to one knee, drawing her pistol in the same motion and looking for the source of the shot. She spotted Grigory across the lobby and fired two rounds, hitting him with one in the leg. He dropped to the ground and then tried to get back up to a knee to get off another shot, but that was all the time Rachel needed to get Jean and her luggage out the door. She took the keys from Jean’s pocket and threw her luggage into the trunk, put Jean in the back seat, and got behind the wheel.

  She pulled away from the hotel and took a couple turns, satisfied that the Russian wasn’t following them, and then pulled over. She got into the back seat and checked Jean’s wound. The bullet had entered his thigh and there was no exit wound, but it didn’t appear to have hit any arteries. He was still bleeding profusely and that had to be dealt with quickly. She couldn’t see anything in the car she could use, so she removed her T shirt and tied it around the wound.

  “Keep some pressure on that if you can. Where’s the closest hospital?”

  “No hospitals…don’t know how many…to my house.”

  “Okay, hang in there.”

  She pulled the paper out of her pocket and checked the address, entering it into the GPS and heading that way, checking periodically for any signs of pursuit.

  3

  Grigory limped out of the lobby and out the back door of the hotel, leaving a trail of blood as he went. He hadn’t expected the girl to be armed, or to have help. The old man was probably the one who killed Vladimir. He was clearly a formidable enemy to have gotten the drop on Vlad and taken him by surprise. There was a safe house a few miles away and he needed to get there to get medical attention and contact Yuriy. Getting there would be problematic though, since the pain in his leg made it nearly impossible to walk. He made it a couple blocks and flagged down a cab, getting in the back seat and giving the driver the address.

  Thirty minutes later, Boris ended the call and walked toward Kazakov’s bedroom. He knocked and Yuriy’s voice came from the other side of the door.

  “Have you heard from Grigory?”

  “I have. I’m afraid you’re not going to like the news. Grigory is at the safe house having a bullet removed from his leg. The girl was armed and she had help. She killed Vladimir and wounded Grigory and es
caped with an old man.”

  “That is most unpleasant news. Two men out of commission. That only confirms my suspicions. This girl is more of a threat than I originally thought. Call Anatoly and give him everything we have on her. He is to have whatever he needs. I want that girl here in a week. Preferably alive. I would like to have a talk with her…and perhaps more than a talk.”

  Rachel pulled the car into the garage and opened the back door to help Jean out. He had lost a lot of blood and was too weak to stand. Rachel knocked on the door and was greeted by a petite elderly woman who still possessed a hint of her youthful beauty.

  “You must be Rachel,” Marie said, “Is Jean coming in?”

  “I might need your help with that,” Rachel said, “He’s hurt.”

  Marie came to the car with Rachel and the two of them managed to get Jean into the house and stretched out on the bed. Marie removed her husband’s pants, took one look at the wound, and left the room, returning a few minutes later with bandages, disinfectant, and a long thin pair of forceps.

  Rachel stayed out of the way as Marie went to work, and by the quiet efficiency with which she removed the bullet and dressed the wound, Rachel surmised that this was not the first time. It was so matter of fact, that her husband should come home wounded and she should patch him up.

  “I take it you’ve done that before,” Rachel asked when Marie was finished and Jean was sleeping peacefully.

  “More times than I can recall. It comes with the territory.”

  “Will he be okay?”

  “He will be fine, but he won’t be going out like that again for a while.”

  “I’m glad it wasn’t worse. I owe him.”

  “He’s still feverish, but the sleep will do him good. We’ll check on him in an hour. You will join me in the kitchen for a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, I would be glad to.”

  A few moments later, Marie placed a cup of tea in front of Rachel and sat down across from her at the table.

  “I must thank you for getting Jean here as quickly as you did, and for binding his wound.”

  “You’re welcome. He was a big help back there. I just did what I could.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  Rachel recounted everything from when she first saw the two men following her to when they left the hotel.

  “Do you have any idea who the men were and why they were after you?”

  “I have no idea. They looked Russian, but I don't know who they were or who sent them.”

  “Avi told us a few things about you. Your parents were killed in your home while you were there, right?”

  “Yes…we took care of the people who ordered it.”

  “Yes, but how about the person they reported to? Avi mentioned another man, maybe in Russia, the man who handled the people you took care of.”

  “Yes…how much do you know?”

  “Avi told us quite a lot. We go way back. He’s visited us a few times here. Jean and I provide a unique service that people like Avi are often in need of.”

  “So, you know about where I work?”

  “Not everything…but enough.”

  “Ahmed found evidence of a guy named Yuriy, but that’s all he found. No last name, no location, no other information. He seemed to be the one who planted the moles in the U.S. back in the 80s. You think he ordered the hit on my parents?”

  “All this speculation isn’t my area of expertise, but that is a possibility you must consider. If he knows about you, he knows you weren’t killed. You’re a loose end, a threat.”

  “What kind of a threat can I be? I don’t even know who he is or where to find him.”

  “Does he know that? For all he knows, your father shared information with you before he was killed, and there’s no knowing how far that goes. You’re a loose end. He’s going to want to find out what you know, or get rid of you.”

  “Great, so some shady Russian guy wants me dead and I don’t even know who he is, but he knows me. What do I do about that?”

  “That is something my husband and I can help you with. For now, let’s relax and enjoy our tea. We can discuss things more in the morning when Jean is awake.”

  Sleep was deep and restorative for Rachel and even on awakening it took her some time to clear the fog from her head and piece together where she was and how she got there. Something else pierced her senses and brought her more fully awake, the smell of breakfast. She detected bacon, eggs, and coffee. Swinging her legs to the floor, she looked at the foot of the bed to see clothes and a towel laid out for her. Fifteen minutes later she came from the shower, got dressed, and followed her nose to the kitchen.

  Jean and Marie were sitting at the table eating brioche and sipping coffee, but a closer examination of the table told her that her sense of smell had not betrayed her and there was indeed a pile of bacon and a generous portion of scrambled eggs.

  “Are you going to stand there gawking or are you going to eat?” asked Marie.

  “Just not what I was expecting.”

  “We thought you would like a more American breakfast. This is what you eat in America?”

  “Not every day, but yes…we are fond of our bacon,” and to Jean, “How is your leg faring?”

  “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt, but I’ll mend, thanks to you.”

  “Your wife had more to do with your healing than I did.”

  “Yes, she is quite the nurse. I don’t know where I would be without her.”

  Rachel didn’t realize how hungry she was until two eggs, six pieces of bacon, two brioche, a cup of coffee, and two glasses of juice later she felt a pang of guilt for her shameless display of gluttony.

  “I must look like a pig, excuse me.”

  “Not at all dear. You’ve been through a lot,” Jean replied, “and from what I hear from Avi it appears you might be in need of our services. When you’ve finished your juice, we shall go downstairs.”

  “Do you think you can manage the stairs?” Marie asked.

  “I don’t see where I have much choice. The young lady is in need. Let her finish up here and we’ll get to work within the hour.”

  Jean and Marie went to the next room and Rachel poured herself another glass of juice and contemplated another brioche. She had grown fond of buttered brioche during her brief stay in France. She’d better grow less fond of them if she wanted to keep her figure, she thought to herself. Jean and Marie were in the next room deep in conversation, but Rachel’s grasp of French was minimal at best and she had no idea what they were saying, except that she heard her name a couple times.

  The conversation stopped and she heard Jean stumping across the room with a cane. She downed the rest of her juice and went to the other room. Jean was making his way across the room with a cane in one hand and his wife supporting his other arm, and the going was slow. Rachel went to help, but Marie replied, “No need, love, I’ve got this.”

  With his wife’s assistance, Jean eventually made it to the basement, which was unlike anything Rachel had seen, except maybe at the office in Ohio. On one side of the room was a fully equipped photo studio with backdrops, lights, and cameras to rival any professional studio. On the other wall were two desks with two 27” monitors on each, and sitting next to the desks were two tables containing six high tech looking printers of a type Rachel had never seen before. There were several boxes under the tables containing blank passports from several countries.

  “Are these machines what I think they are?” she asked Jean when he got down the stairs.

  “Yes, they are, the latest and best money can buy.”

  “And the blanks in the boxes? How much did those cost?”

  “For those, it’s not always how much you pay but who you pay.”

  “So, this is what you do?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Some things are best left unsaid.”

  “So, what are we doing down here?” />
  “Helping you stay alive.”

  “How will you do that?”

  Marie lead Rachel over to the other side of the room where she had a small salon set up.

  “Have a seat. When was the last time you had a makeover?”

  “Oh, a couple years probably. What does that have to do with helping me stay alive?”

  “You had two men following you all over Paris. You’re a beautiful girl…enough blushing now…you know you turn heads. I can’t make you any less beautiful, but we can change your appearance a little, enough to throw your followers off your trail. When I’m done, Jean will take some photos and set you up with new documents. That should allow you to shake your pursuers and slip back home.”

  “I’m not sure I’m going home.”

  “Avi said you might say that.”

  “He’s right. I think the people after me were sent by the same person who had my parents killed. I have a feeling he won’t rest until he’s dealt with me, so I won’t rest until I’ve dealt with him.”

  “Well, if that’s what you have your mind set on, we’ll help you as much as we can. Follow me.”

  Marie took Rachel to a small room where she had a large selection of wigs and glasses and had her try on several wigs.

  “These are incredible. They look so natural,” Rachel said.

  “I worked in the theater when I was younger.”

  “So, you just made wigs?”

  “Among other things. That's how I met Jean. He was an aspiring actor before he changed careers.”

  “Was he a good actor?”

  “Why do you think he changed careers?”

  Rachel picked out a wig and adjusted it in front of a mirror and Marie gave her a pair of glasses. The effect was striking. She could still recognize herself in the mirror, but her appearance was different enough that people wouldn't recognize her at first glance.