by Glen Robins
I shrugged. “Let’s assume Mr. Lee did leave the airport. I don’t think that ends your involvement and, given the circumstances, there’s no time to do a proper hand-off until we have suspects in custody. I think you still need to figure out what happened within this airport. There had to be other accomplices. You might want to check your footage from yesterday and the day before and see if Mr. Lee met with anyone in or around the airport, specifically employees at that newsstand. That bag had to have come through or around your screening process at some point and I’m willing to bet the clerk that I saw this morning was involved. The two guys I took down didn’t have that bag when they went into the store. Once they had it, they moved pretty quickly to the rendezvous with Mr. Lee. The question is whether any of that was caught on camera. Heaven knows you’ve got enough of them around here.”
Robinson shot me a quizzical look. “I thought you were border patrol, not a cop.”
“There’s a lot of police work involved in what I used to do.”
Robinson’s phone rang again. His reflexes were lightning fast. He glanced at the display as he brought it out of his pocket. “Tell me you have something good for me.” His eyes lit up as he listened. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. Give me the details . . . Uh-huh . . . OK . . . West? Employee entrance? I see . . . Hmm. Yeah, send over the images . . . Stay on it and narrow it down as best you can. I need as tight a search radius as you can get.”
He stabbed his phone’s screen to end the call.
“That sounded hopeful,” I said, remembering I still needed to check in with Stephanie.
“Yeah. We were searching for this Mr. Lee by name and got a hit. It appears your man left in a hurry, out that west side employee parking area,” he said as he pointed out the window. “He swiped his badge at 10:14 and headed south on Pershing in an airport pick-up truck. That prompted a search of the camera feed from that exit booth. They say there’s something interesting in the back of the pick-up and want me to look at it.” Robinson stepped back around his desk and plopped down in his chair and spun toward his computer screen. He angled it so we could both see. He clicked his mouse until a picture appeared. It was a split screen showing the truck from four different angles.
The top left image showed the front of the truck, its license plate and windshield. It was high enough resolution to allow us to clearly see Lee’s face when Robinson zoomed in on it. Next, we checked out the top right image, which was a picture of the back of the truck, showing the rear license plate and the back of Lee’s head through the rear window. The bottom left image was the most interesting one. Robinson quickly went to it and enlarged it. This was a top view looking down at the bed of the truck. There was a brown tarp covering some sort of lumpy cargo. Robinson brought the focus in tighter and began to move the cursor around the edges of the tarp. We both gasped at what we saw.
“Would you look at that?” Robinson said. “Not that I ever doubted you, but there’s the proof you needed.” He quickly caught himself and added, “Potentially.”
We were staring at a blood-stained hand poking out from under the side of the tarp.
Chapter 19
Transportation Security Agency Head Office, Los Angeles International Airport
June 5, 2:38 p.m.
“OK. We’ve got an APB out on this guy, this Mr. Lee. Probably a false name, as you indicated, but that’s what we’ll call him for now.” Robinson was pacing behind his desk now. “Tell me again why you think we should close the borders? Why is it you think he wouldn’t just try to lay low and blend in here in the Los Angeles area?”
“First, you have to understand that the leaders of North Korea rule with an iron fist. Literally. There is no room for failure. Failure brings shame. Shame brings condemnation. Condemnation means death—or worse.”
“How does that factor in?”
“See, they’ll have fail-safes in place—people watching the operatives, keeping track of them. There’ll be regular check-ins and protocols for every contingency. If I’m correct, our man is a team leader responsible for planting the bomb onboard. He failed to do so and caused the flight’s delay.”
“Well, technically, you caused the flight’s delay,” said Robinson with a smirk.
“Right. I became a very convenient excuse and distraction. And I was probably seen by their tech guy who was likely hijacking the video feeds from all your cameras.”
“I’d imagine they used the confusion to escape and have no problem letting you take the fall.”
“I’m sure it would be like a broken-bat single, to use a baseball reference. At a minimum, he and his cohorts raised the mission’s profile and caused the plane to be searched. Right? As a result, as far as we know, their plan was thwarted. At a minimum, it was delayed. But if it was aborted altogether? I don’t think I need to spell it out.”
“So, you’re saying this guy’s life is in danger?”
“Yes. And I’m sure he knows it.”
“OK. That makes sense.” Robinson nodded.
I pulled out a chair across from him and took a seat. “Second, you need to know that anyone and everyone recruited for such an operation has a lot to gain from its success.”
“How so?”
“Favors, rewards, advancements. All of the things that will add to their standard of living and status. Desperate people will do anything to improve their lives, but despotic regimes will do anything to improve their leverage on their citizens, too.”
“That makes sense, too.”
“But, if you fully understood the living conditions for the common man in that country, you would understand what I’m talking about. See, there is no middle class in North Korea. Most of their population is a week or two away from starving. They know nothing other than living day to day. That’s it. They wake up each day, go to work for ten to twelve hours. Stand in line to buy rice and vegetables. Go home and eat their meager portions and prepare to do it all over again the next day. At least the working class in South Korea and America have a weekend to look forward to, usually. Not in the North. They have nothing to look forward to and can’t buy groceries in advance. People in free countries are also allowed to have religion, which breathes hope into their lives. Not so in North Korea. Very little hope, very little chance of improving their lot in life.”
“How does this factor into our hunt for the bad guys?”
“The masterminds of this plan thought long and hard about how to make their plan work. They needed dedicated servants who were bright and clever.”
“And desperate,” added Robinson.
“Yes,” I agreed. “But almost everyone is desperate there. It’s finding ones that are sharp enough to follow and execute a complex set of instructions over a long period of time and are willing to believe everything they are told. They need servant-types who will believe that doing a dastardly deed will improve their lives and the lives of their loved ones. They also need those servants to be eager to return home, so they come across the border heavily indoctrinated and ready to do their leaders’ bidding.”
“That’s unbelievable,” said Robinson.
“Believe it. Also believe that fear is a powerful motivator. Reprisal is not just for the individual, but for everyone he loves.”
I could tell Robinson believed me. Something behind his eyes shifted, as if a puzzle piece clicked into place. A right hand went to his face, thumb and fingers spread out, forming a line between his nose and mouth. His left arm folded across his chest, holding up the right elbow. He huffed, then spoke. His words were slow and barely audible, like he was thinking out loud. “This guy could be anywhere. He’s got several hours’ head start.” He paused and stared into space for a moment. “What’s our first step?”
“My best guess says he’ll head for Mexico, try to escape the manhunt he knows is coming—both from the US and from his own handlers.”
“You said that earlier. You seem pretty sure.”
I inhaled deeply as I gathered my words. “De
spite all the rhetoric lately, it’s still an easily-crossed border, especially going into Mexico.” I stopped and looked at the wall across from me. “My guess is, he’s more afraid of his own people than he is of us.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Robinson said.
“One of their greatest fears is defection. Next is detection. So, it’s very likely that they have set up precautions against both. Safeguards to keep their operatives from defecting to the United States. It wouldn’t surprise me if each of their operatives have a tracking device planted in them. Most likely, there are observers living here in the area, keeping tabs on their movements and activities. Each operative would be keenly aware that they are being watched. I’m sure there’s a system for checking in regularly and delivering reports daily, if not twice a day. Beyond that, I’d be willing to bet they have a network of informers in every Korean neighborhood in Southern California. Tight control is the norm with them.”
“You’re saying the North Koreans have sent over hundreds of babysitters to govern their operatives?”
“No. They have contracted the right kind of people to communicate anything suspicious.”
Robinson’s forehead wrinkled again. “You’re going to have to give me more details.”
“The North Koreans will use the South Koreans’ paranoia and nationalism to their advantage. They probably have a number of extremely loyal, high-ranking officers who pose as counter-terrorism intelligence officers from the South. These officers go around to the owners of the Korean markets, tea houses, bars, gas stations, night clubs—you name it—in secret, asking for information about certain people. They’ll show pictures of their own operatives. They’ll simply explain that they have reason to believe these individuals may have ties to the North, knowing the South Koreans, especially the older generations, loathe spies from the North. They will give a number where they can leave anonymous tips.”
“So, they use their enemies to spy on their own people?”
“Yes, is there a more efficient way to do it?”
“I guess not,” said Robinson.
“It’s simple, but effective. We’ve documented several cases, back when I had a promising career in border protection.”
Robinson furrowed his brow and nodded his head. He let my last comment go and stayed focused on the next step. “So, our guy will flee to Mexico?”
“Yes,” I said with certainty. “There are several border towns where South Koreans own and operate factories and warehouses. Tecate and Mexicali both have significant Korean populations. He would know that. He would assume that he could blend in there and bide his time.”
“Wouldn’t the North Koreans have set up a similar network of informants there?”
“It’s possible they have, but I’d be surprised if they have as extensive a network down there as they do up here where the action is. It’s probable they’ve made their operatives believe that the network is ‘everywhere,’” I explained.
“It’s a cheap deterrent, if nothing else. Even if it’s only partially effective.”
“Common knowledge that your activities are being tracked and recorded instills fear and keeps the troops in line. It scares people into compliance, especially when their loved ones’ lives are on the line. But secret knowledge? That’s how to trap unsuspecting violators.”
Robinson’s eyes widened. “So, they make it known to all their covert operatives that they are being watched, just in case anyone gets any funny ideas about defecting over to the US?”
“Correct.” I said, sensing the light go on in Robinson’s mind.
“But, if the op went sideways . . .” Robinson sat back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, his eyes dancing back and forth. “I guess that makes sense,” he said as he exhaled.
“We’ve got nothing else to go on unless your guys were able to figure out who tampered with the security cameras and how.”
“No luck there.” Robinson stood and paced; his hands clenched together almost in a prayer position. “There’s got to be something we’re missing. He must have had other accomplices . . .”
“Too much time has passed now,” I said. “They’ve scattered to the wind is my guess. Most likely, they had some sort of prearranged meeting spot, but finding that will be harder than finding this guy,” I said, pointing at the screen. “Surely you’ve got his cell phone. If so, we can track him using that.”
Robinson seemed distant. His hands were pressed together and he was lost in thought, pacing. “Yeah, I’ve got a team checking on that.” He completed another turn, then came to a stop. He gesticulated with his hands as he zeroed in on a line of thinking. “So far we know he’s left the airport with at least one body. We’re not sure if that one body was dead or alive, which brings up the question of the other body you severely injured.”
“My guess is, he’s somehow disposed of that body that was in the truck. If we track his cell phone, we should get the answers we need about him. But the bigger question is the other guy, the big one. He most likely survived and it’s apparent he didn’t leave the airport with these two. Have your guys been able to find the footage around those planes?”
Robinson’s phone rang before he could answer my question. He held up a finger as he pressed the talk button and moved the phone to his ear. He listened, then said, “Good work. Let’s get some people to the scene. Who’s there? . . . LAPD and the fire department? An explosion? Holy cow.” Robinson barked out a series of orders having to do with reports and evidence and sharing information and the time-critical nature of this investigation. I barely heard him. My mind was racing in another direction. I was more convinced than ever that this “Mr. Lee” was the linchpin we needed to unravel this mystery.
When his call concluded, Robinson pointed at me. “Mr. Noh, since you are now an agent of the Department of Homeland Security, you’ll need these.” He yanked open a drawer and fished something out of it. He tossed a badge onto the desk in front of me. “Come with me. We’ll get you a weapon and a better jacket. You’re not going anywhere until we get this guy.”
Chapter 20
Laguna Hills, California
June 5, 2:43 p.m.
Robinson answered another phone call, giving me an opening to call my wife. Knowing she would be upset with me made it that much harder to call her. “Stephanie, listen,” I said with an air of dignity and urgency that staunched the flow of questions I knew were bound to come. “Something has come up. I’m working closely with the TSA to resolve some security issues. I’m safe. The kids got on the plane and are on their way to Seoul. Jin Sook is with them, so they’re in good hands. I’ll join them as soon as I am able.”
“Why did you take so long to call?” Her voice was half hurt, half accusing.
“These security issues take time to review and more time to resolve. I’ve had to answer a ton of questions and repeat my story a dozen times. I just didn’t have a chance until now. I took a break to let you know I’m fine and that I’ll be busy and may not be able to talk much for the next day or two.”
My authoritative tone and my message seemed like a dam that had been dropped in her stream of consciousness, splitting and diverting all of her thoughts and worries into smaller, less forceful streams as they moved around the obstacle. After a moment, though, the streams seemed to regroup into coherent questions somewhere below the dam. “What is going on, JT? I saw something on the news that an Asian man in a Dodger’s jacket had been taken away in a police car. Tell me that wasn’t you.”
I exhaled audibly. “That was me, but it’s not what you think. I saw something going down, something that didn’t look right to me, and I got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was all a misunderstanding, so they let me go.”
“Then why did you say you’re working closely with the TSA?”
“Well,” I said. “They wanted to know how a normal guy like me was able to slip past their security and get to the tarmac. Once they learned that I’m former military, they thought they could u
se my input to tighten security. So, I’m lending them my considerable expertise.” I tried using a more playful tone.
“Very funny, JT. I know when you’re bluffing. What’s really going on?”
“I’m telling you the truth. I am providing them input regarding beefing up their security.”
“You’re telling me the truth? The whole truth?”
I sensed a hidden obstacle that was about to be thrown in my way. “Of course. Why would I lie?”
“That’s a good question.”
I stayed silent for a beat, trying to anticipate the next question. “What are you getting at?”
“If you’re telling me the whole truth, then why did your father call me and tell me he was sending over a delegation from the consulate to save your sorry butt?”
Another pregnant pause while I sorted out the implications of this bombshell. I tried to play it off. “My butt is not sorry,” I said with faux indignity. After an audible chuff to show my pretend feelings of disgrace, I added, “And it sure didn’t need my dad’s help. I’ve got it all under control. Don’t worry.”
It’s a difficult thing to pull off a lie with one’s wife. They have that keen sixth sense and know when you’re bluffing. My attempts at humor had not sidetracked her as I had hoped.
“I’m not buying it, JT,” she said sternly. “That was the first-ever phone conversation I’ve had with your dad in the six years we’ve been married. You can’t just blow off a call from the top general in Korea. Why would he call me and tell me he’s sending help? There’s something more serious that you’re not telling me.”
