Chosen Path: An International Thriller

by Glen Robins

  Park had been pulled away in the wee hours of the morning from the company of a young and flirty personal attendant from the karaoke bar he was known to frequent. His phone had alerted him of the breaking news involving the General’s son. He ignored the first few buzzes and chirps, keeping his eyes on the young lady’s silky movements as she danced for him. After the fifth beep, it was obvious something was happening, something that demanded his attention. He shook his head as he snatched the phone off the table. A quick scroll told him there was a problem with a Korean Airlines flight out of Los Angeles. Less than a minute later his top staffer called. “I know you saw the alerts. We need to get on this right away,” was all he said.

  Park told his nubile companion to get dressed and leave the private room. The sulking pout on her face as she gathered her things was enough to make him regret his career choices for an instant.

  Despite it being Memorial Day in Korea, a public holiday, Park had arrived at the office forty minutes later, nursing an obvious hangover and full of pent-up annoyance. His driver and right-hand man saw his behavior and went to fetch black coffee and pastries. Before calling the General or the rest of the campaign staff, Park began working the phones and the Internet to glean as much detail as he could, although details were scarce. Tasked with helping his new boss avert a political crisis before he even formally launched his campaign, Park would draw from his experience at handling crises in this, his first week of work for General Noh.

  Park had rallied for the job. Another chance to usher a president into the Blue House would solidify his already stellar reputation and increase his future fees. General Noh was the strongest of all the potential candidates in a crowded preliminary field. But he also had a few skeletons in his closet, as most politicians do. Knowing about the scandal involving his son that had derailed his first foray into politics, Park had joined the team expecting to deal with the past. Long, grueling days would be demanded of him. His skills and acumen would be needed.

  The General had a reputation for no-nonsense hard work and a disdain for those who liked to party. Park knew this ahead of time. Today, his prudish driver reminded him, he would have to suffer the consequences of his entertainment choices in the form of a raging hangover to earn his handsome salary.

  * * * *

  At the head of the impressive mahogany conference table, General Noh Tae Sung leaned backwards in his high-backed leather chair and gazed at the ceiling. “Perhaps they have come to realize that he is not only innocent but can also be a valuable asset,” he said, revealing nothing. No one but himself and President Jang needed to know about the arrangement that had been made. Jeong Tae may have uncovered something sinister. President Jang and the ruling party stood to lose a great deal of public trust if indeed there was a terrorist plot afoot. His move was as much out of desperation to save his legacy from ruin as it was a personal favor to the General, who hailed from the same party.

  The President and his security council needed facts and they needed them quickly. Jeong Tae may not have been Jang’s first choice of field operative, based on his tarnished record, but he was the best choice under the circumstances. President Jang knew Jeong Tae could only be of use to him if he were free, which is why he agreed to call in the favor with the US.

  “It sounds to me like a political nightmare.” Park was shaking his head, lines of worry etched across his forehead. “If the press finds out what has happened, everything from the past will be reexamined. You will be humiliated all over again.”

  “He is not to be blamed. None of this was his fault. Not now, not then.”

  “Maybe. But remember, fault doesn’t matter. Image matters. Story matters. It doesn’t take much imagination to come up with a really juicy story. In the end, the headlines are what the public will remember. Picture it: ‘General Noh’s son arrested on terrorism charge.’ Can you imagine what that headline alone could do to your candidacy? Your career? Your legacy?”

  The General remained quiet. He had been through something similar six years earlier. He arched his eyebrows and stared at Park, so Park continued.

  “Let’s talk about the difference between being a general and being a candidate for President of the Republic of Korea, shall we? Your job, starting right now, is to curry public favor, which, you would be wise to keep in mind, is a very fickle mistress. You lost it last time because of an issue with your son. Because of your high rank, few details were brought to light, but there were rumors and headlines and photos of him being escorted out of a military meat wagon. Even without the facts, the public assumed he was guilty of wrongdoing. You were very fortunate to retain your position.”

  Park searched the General’s face for reaction. Once again, the General maintained a passive expression, as if this was idle prattling.

  Park heaved an exasperated sigh. “The public may have forgotten about your son’s court martial but if they learn of his arrest in America … Well, that’s a nightmare scenario for us …”

  General Noh tried to remain above the fray of political machinations. With his sights set on another run for the land’s highest office, he knew he had to take Mr. Park’s comments more seriously than was his natural inclination. “When the whole story is told, the world will see that there is a logical explanation for his actions.”

  “Logic will play no part in the public’s perceptions. Only the presentation of the story. The headlines will win, so we need to make our own headlines here—and quickly, before your opponents have a chance to run with a negative one.”

  “But there is no story,” the General protested. “His name has not been released.”

  Park paused, eyeing General Noh warily. “We must be proactive and control the narrative. There are damaging things that can be said and shown. Once the Korean press identifies the man in the newsfeed video, we’re cooked.” Park winced as he said it.

  “Suppose he was working for the TSA to help them identify security lapses? That would dismiss any accusations, correct?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. The press will dig deep and find—”

  “You just said we need to be proactive and control the narrative. This is how we will accomplish that. My office has received confirmation that Jeong Tae was under contract to find and exploit security weaknesses at LAX.”

  Park was momentarily stumped. He scratched his chin, squinted his eyes, and said, “The first question I would ask if I were a reporter is: ‘Why would a Tae Kwon Do instructor from Orange County be hired to do that?’”

  “The answer is simple enough, Mr. Park. Jeong Tae has been unhappy in his current capacity. He is capable of far more than teaching Tae Kwon Do. I believe he has been looking for a better way to utilize his many skills and he found it.”

  Park frowned at this. “Sir, if I may. The press is only part of the problem. A responsible reporter may indeed dig deep enough to discover what you have just told me. But that part of the story is much less sensational, so it may or may not get the airtime. Perhaps we can still use your clout with them.” Park stood and began to pace, rubbing the back of his neck as he did.

  “Supposing we can contain the mainstream media, we must turn our focus on the larger problem: social media.” He paused for effect and to gauge his boss’s reaction. “For the most part, there’s no attempt at accurate narrative on the Internet. Only opinion posing as fact. Pictures and videos are shared with no interpretation, only comments from unknowledgeable people based on an emotional reaction. Something like this could go viral. Millions could potentially see your son in handcuffs—again. Maybe his name will get attached, maybe it won’t. No way of knowing right now. Everyone who sees it will form his or her own conclusions based on what they see. Containment becomes impossible; the damage incalculable.”

  General Noh, who was no fan of social media or the untamed frontiers of the Internet, grimaced. “What images are currently circulating?”

  “I’ve only seen footage from the Los Angeles news report. Luckily, your son’s face is not vi
sible. I’ve already placed a call to the LAPD Airport Division requesting a gag order on the release of his name to the press, so I think the information is contained so far.”

  “Good,” said the General. “Then we can move on to other items of business.”

  “Before we do, let me ask you: Have heard from your son?”

  The General cleared his throat. “Not directly.”

  “Oh, I see.” Park stopped there, though his mouth was open as if ready to ask another question.

  The General remained silent, a tight-lipped grimace hiding his emotions.

  Park squinted at him. “I must ask, sir: How did you obtain the information about your son’s … situation?”

  The General kept a straight face. There would be no mention of what he and President Jang had done earlier nor the fact that his wife had received a call from Jeong Tae’s wife at 4:30 in the morning. He had learned everything second hand. His only son had not called him directly.

  The General’s wife had subsequently begged him to believe in their son’s innocence and to do everything he could to get him out of jail. She pleaded with him, reminding him of all the good things their son had done and how the General needed to take this opportunity to make up for his mistakes—what he had failed to do—during their son’s trial years before.

  His wife was rarely as forceful as she had been in the wee hours that morning. When she was right, she didn’t back down. The fire in her eyes and the ire in her voice said it all. “You need to put aside your pride and be there this time for our son. It is time to do the right thing for this family, no matter the cost,” she had said. A mother’s instinct, General Noh had learned, was not a thing to trifle with.

  The General knew she was right. His son was not guilty of colluding with terrorists. He knew there was a logical explanation for what he did. But he was not like his wife. He couldn’t stake an unfounded claim like that without some substance behind it. If he were to say, “His mother knows he didn’t do anything wrong” or “I support my son, based on his mother’s intuition” he would be laughed out of the building and, ultimately, out of his job. He needed proof, confirmation, something concrete.

  At the same time, the moral obligation to defend Jeong Tae, to advocate for him as both a father and a military leader, weighed on his soul. If there was a chance he could mend his broken relationship with the son who had done him so proud, outside of the one and only blemish on his record, he would take it. The problem lay in the size of that one blemish, and the timing. That blemish had destroyed Jeong Tae’s career and standing within his own country. Only by distancing himself had the General preserved his own credibility and retained his position.

  Today, perhaps, would provide a chance for both men to redeem themselves.

  Chapter 18

  Transportation Security Agency Head Office, Los Angeles International Airport

  June 5, 2:34 p.m.

  I was tired of waiting around in Robinson’s uninspiring but functional office. Since I couldn’t sit any longer, I walked over to a bank of large windows that looked out over a row of 747s parked at the gates of the international terminal. I stood watching with fascination the constant activity of the ground crews and the kinetic movements of a variety of machines. Specialized vehicles of all types moved in and out of sight, around and between each plane. It looked to me like a loosely choreographed interpretive dance.

  The fog had mostly burned off, so I could see a cluster of buildings directly in front of me, several hundred meters to the west. Vehicles moved to and fro between the terminals and those structures. Most of the buildings were low and long, except for the tall white tanks across the tarmac and to my right that I guessed were for fuel. I knew that the Pacific Ocean lay two or three kilometers beyond where I stood. There remained a thin layer of gray between the airport and the ocean obscuring my view of it. I could imagine it would be spectacular when it was clear. I guessed being the Director of the TSA’s operations at one of the country’s busiest airports got you a corner office with a nice view, but few creature comforts.

  As I gazed at the scene spread out before me, I realized that Los Angeles International Airport was like a beehive. Thousands of people and machines in constant motion like a swarm of mechanized insects. It had never occurred to me what a symbiotic cluster of organized chaos a massive transportation hub like LAX was.

  From this vantage point, it seemed to me that the chances of one slip up, one mistake, one moment of carelessness happening was much higher than the number of incidents that ever made the news.

  I became even more sure of the fact that with all the activity and movement I was witnessing, it would not be so difficult for someone with malicious intent to leverage all of this commotion to do just what I suspected had been done this morning.

  It also occurred to me that Alan Robinson was ultimately responsible for the safety of millions of travelers, as well as workers, who came through this place each year. And if today didn’t go well, he would be packing up and leaving this office very soon.

  Robinson, I had learned, was new to the job, just settling in after being appointed less than a month before. He’d worked his way up the ranks quickly, much like I had before I got derailed. Oddly, I felt a kinship with him and didn’t want to see him suffer the same fate I had.

  Behind me, Robinson had his cell phone cradled between his ear and his shoulder as he punched the keyboard on his desk. There were stacks of files on the corners of the wooden slab and a few loose papers spread out between his monitor and his keyboard. Robinson was obviously a busy man and the TSA apparently spent its budget on things other than office furnishings for its executives.

  As he listened and typed, Robinson gestured for me to take a seat on the opposite side of the desk in one of the wood-framed chairs with the dark blue cloth seats that lacked any noticeable padding. I’d been sitting too long, so I indicated that I’d rather stand.

  I stood transfixed, looking out over the very same tarmac where I had taken down the two suspects and where the Korean Air 747 had been. It was gone, of course, and that caused a knot to form in my stomach. In its place was another jet. All I could see was the back half of it due to the building between me and the plane. I relived those few moments I had spent down there and how those few moments had altered the course of my day. Worse yet, I contemplated how my failure to stop those two suspicious characters from loading their mysterious black bag onto my plane could alter the course of thousands of lives. The clock was running. That plane was due to arrive in less than ten hours. It was very possible that something horrible was going to happen before it landed in Seoul.

  My thoughts darted from one idea to another, much like the human and mechanical ballet happening below me, but at warp speed. Worried about my students, I wondered what the best solution was to keep them and the other passengers on that plane safe. Could they just dump the contents of the cargo hold into the Pacific Ocean? Had Mr. Lee Baek Young, the supposed baggage handler, removed whatever was in that mysterious bag? If so, where had he put it?

  I wondered what Jin Sook had told my wife and what her state of mind was, but I figured she was probably still angry about our argument this morning. If she knew that I had gotten myself arrested, things could only get worse. At this point, I didn’t want to throw gas on the fire, so I chose not to contact her until I knew something more. What good would it do me to call her and say I didn’t know what was going on, when I’d be ready to come home, or how I’d save my students? At the same time, I knew I couldn’t postpone that conversation forever. I owed it to her to provide her with some information, but it had to be solid. I gave myself half an hour to come up with something intelligent to say to my beautiful and smart and inquisitive wife. No way could I get away with half-answers or vague generalities with her. Not in this situation.

  For some unknown reason, I thought about my father. Given his position, there was no doubt he had been informed of my arrest. I suspected he had played a major par
t in getting me diplomatic immunity and the contract I had signed to work for the TSA. What if I failed to thwart the impending attack after all he had done for me? It would bring unspeakable shame. He would have to resign his post. My failure would surely end all possibilities of him becoming the next president of Korea—a noble goal for a man whose heart was, for the most part, in the right place. He had a few things to learn about leading civilians, but he had immense capacity to do good and help make Korea better. No one questioned his devotion to his country or his desire to make it a safe place for his countrymen to thrive. Why is it, I wondered, his only son got embroiled in national security controversies during the run-up to elections?

  The volume of Robinson’s voice rose, and his tone became strident. Hearing that snapped my attention back to the present. Although I wasn’t paying strict attention before, I had heard him talking about traffic cameras, timeframes, an increased radius, and more eyeballs on the task. He threw out phrases like, “avoiding a crisis,” “epic bureaucratic failure,” and “blood on your hands and mine if we don’t.” I knew he was enmeshed in the political and organizational complexities of dealing with an unknown threat from an unknown source, but I couldn’t allow myself to be dragged into that swamp.

  I didn’t miss that part of my former job.

  Robinson cursed as he ended another call. “Why is it so hard to get you people to understand what is going on here?” he yelled at the phone in his hand.

  When our eyes met, my face must have conveyed deep empathy.

  He grimaced. “Yeah, you know all about that, don’t you?” Robinson rounded the corner of his desk. “Here’s the update: we’ve got the camera feeds from approximately 9 a.m. until noon. That should give us a good window to start with. We’re running all that footage through facial recognition software. I’ve got the FBI involved. They’re sending two agents for now, more later if we get a hit on facial rec. Assuming this moves beyond the confines of this airport, the FBI will take over the lead of this investigation. You willing to cooperate with them?”