by Glen Robins
There was another long pause. I inhaled through my teeth and said, “Yes, there’s more to it. I just can’t tell you over the phone. It’s complicated and we have very little time.”
“Then maybe you can tell me in person. When will we get to see you?”
“When I get back from the World Competition next week,” I said. “I’ll be on the next plane to Seoul this evening.”
Stephanie knew Korean Air’s flight schedule better than I expected. “This evening? The evening flight doesn’t leave until 7:40. That means we have time to meet up and have something to eat together. That’ll give you time to explain what’s going on and to say a proper good-bye to your wife and children. Where shall I meet you?”
Stephanie could be assertive when she needed to be. Going along with a ruse was not something she was good at, but confronting me directly rarely worked, either, because I get defensive and shut down usually. But I had left her no other option.
“I don’t think I’ll have time,” I started to say.
“Why not? We have five hours. If I leave now, we’ll still have more than three hours to talk. You can tell me the whole story while we enjoy a nice meal together.”
“That sounds very nice, Hon, but I’m afraid I’m really busy. Like I said, I’m working with these TSA guys and there’s a lot to do to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again.”
“Well, I’m sure you can wrap things up in the next two hours while I get myself and the kids ready and fight through the 405 traffic to get there.” She was not backing down. Not when she knew something was up, something I didn’t want to tell her.
After several seconds passed, I knew I couldn’t avoid it any longer. In a defeated voice I said, “Fine. Let me save you the trip. The FBI just found a dead body not far from the airport, in a burned-out pick-up truck. Although the body was charred, the injuries to the skull match the ones I inflicted on one of the two guys that I took down.”
“Wait, what? You took down two guys? You seem to have left that out of the conversation until now. That’s kind of important, isn’t it? Why would you do that? What is going on?” The streams were reconnecting and gaining momentum.
“I had to because I thought they were trying to put something dangerous on our plane.”
“You’re leaving out a lot of details, JT. Why did you take down two guys?” Her voice was starting to quaver. I could tell tears were working their way to the surface. “Who were they?”
“There were these two strange-looking guys in the airport before our flight. Two Korean guys. They looked out of place. They kept wandering around the airport this morning, looking around to make sure no one was watching them.”
“But you were watching them, weren’t you?”
“I had to. They stood out to me because they were trying so hard not to be noticed.”
“What made you think they were doing something wrong?”
“I don’t know. Gut instinct, maybe. Then I overheard part of their conversation as they walked by me. They must have thought I was asleep or not paying attention. They spoke with a dialect I clearly recognized once I heard it. They were definitely from the North, Honey.”
“What do you mean, ‘from the North?’”
“North Korea. I know the accent, the dialect they use. It’s different enough to be recognizable. When you’ve heard it as much as I have, you know. Obviously, that caused suspicion.”
“Two guys from North Korea? What would they be doing in Los Angeles?”
“That was my question, too. When they went into a store empty-handed and came out with a heavy suitcase, I knew they were up to no good. So, I followed them through an unmarked door they snuck through. That door led to a hallway with a staircase going down to the tarmac. I watched them take that heavy bag under the plane and hand it to another guy working on the loader. I’m pretty sure he’s a North Korean, too.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Again, gut instinct. I followed the third guy and the bag onto the plane, into the cargo area, and got stopped there by four American guys who were loading bags. Actually, two of them were Tongans—big, huge guys. That’s when the cops came.”
“This is unbelievable,” she said, her words slow and methodical. I could tell she was trying to picture the scene in her mind. “OK What happened to the North Korean guy and the bag?”
“He disappeared behind a big luggage rack loaded with suitcases and stuff. I couldn’t follow him and get the bag because of the big guys blocking my way.”
“Why didn’t you tell them what was going on?”
“I did. But, as you can imagine, they thought I was crazy. Plus, you know how bad my English gets when I’m nervous. They didn’t give me a chance to explain my story. They just called the cops.”
“OK. That explains you being hauled away in a cop car. Let’s go back to the other two guys. What happened to them?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“Jeong Tae.”
“OK, we had a little run-in after they handed the bag to the third guy, the guy who took it into the cargo hold. I lost track of them because I was watching the bag. They ambushed me. It was two against one. I had to defend myself.”
“JT.”
“It’s true. They were coming after me. I did what I had to do to neutralize the threat, but I’m sure they weren’t dead when I left them. They were hurt bad, but not dead. We now suspect that the third guy, the baggage handler I followed into the plane, took the guy that was hurt the worst to a warehouse that he then burned to the ground.”
“JT, you’re skipping some big parts of this story.”
“I know. The TSA Director is looking at me. I don’t have time to tell you all the details right now.”
“This can’t be good. This whole thing.”
Trying to divert the conversation again, I asked, “Where are you?”
Stephanie was slow to respond. “I’m sitting here in my parents’ kitchen.”
“Where are the kids?”
“Mom is upstairs putting Matthew down for a nap. Dad should be home any minute with Sophia. Knowing him, he’s getting her an ice cream cone down at Chantilly’s. Why else would it take him so long to get back?” Her voice, which had trailed off at the end of the question came back with another. “How did you find that burned body?”
“When the building went up in flames and the gas in the truck exploded, someone called 9-1-1. The Fire Chief called the airport police when they discovered the airport logo on one of the truck doors that had been blown off. I’ve got to go. I’ll tell you more later.”
“JT, you can’t just leave it at that. I’m worried sick about you. What am I supposed to do?”
“Honey, this is all going to work out. You don’t need to do anything, except maybe tell my father that I’ve got things under control.” I tried to reassure her by projecting confidence I didn’t have. “We’re on the trail of the baggage handler. If we can find him, we’re hoping to find out what was in that bag and where it is now and make sure we eliminate the threat without causing wide-spread panic. So, you must promise me that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone, OK?”
“Who would I tell?”
“Your parents, for one. I love them. That’s why they cannot know about this. It’s for their own good. Tell them what I told you: I’m working to help make the airport more secure. That’s enough for now. I can’t have your dad trying to solve problems for me, too. Also, don’t tell the press anything if they call. It would cause us more problems if word got out. I’ve got to go now. The TSA guys want to talk to me some more.”
I hoped she knew I didn’t mean the part about not telling her parents. She told them everything. I had a closer relationship with her father than with my own. By far. That bit about not telling her dad? That was supposed to be code. I knew she would go to him for help. And that’s what I wanted. If anyone could calm her in my absence, it was Sunny. It would be much better for everyone if Sunny knew
what I had done and what I was up against. He could handle the press if they came. He could calm Stephanie and her mother and keep my kids entertained and oblivious.
With Sunny, there was never an insurmountable problem, only ones that hadn’t been solved yet. If I couldn’t be with my family, I needed Sunny’s optimism there.
Chapter 21
Ministry of National Defense, Yongsan-gu, Seoul, South Korea
June 6, 7:31 a.m.; June 5, 3:31 p.m. California Time
“We need to leak information to the press,” Park the campaign manager said as he paced the floor at the head of the long mahogany table. “Make sure the words ‘estranged son’ are used. Getting ahead of this mess is the only way to save your chances of winning the nomination.” Twenty chairs encircled the massive rectangular conference table, but only three were occupied. General Noh had just reentered the room, hoping for an updated assessment of the situation. Two earnest looking campaign strategists, one in his mid-twenties, the other pushing forty, sat forward in their chairs, pained expressions on their faces. Their early morning vigor quickly fading. “His impeccable timing threatens to once again derail what promised to be a winning campaign. On a national holiday no less—the day we planned to announce your candidacy. Unbelievable.”
A third man, the fifty-four-year-old Mr. Song had worked on four previous presidential campaigns. He leaned back and pulled out a cigarette, pressed it between his lips without lighting up. Having been shamed too often for smoking in the office, Song didn’t care for all the verbal abuse but never tired of stirring things up. He pushed his chair back from the table and crossed an ankle over a knee as he pulled the cigarette out and eyed it.
Park shot him a warning glance just in case he was entertaining the notion of lighting it, then continued. “Your announcement today could be marred by the revelation of your son’s involvement in what seems to be a North Korean plot. Maybe you can enlighten us, General, on any relevant specifics?”
“My son has been released from custody. No charges were ever filed. His name has not been given to the press. There is nothing credible linking him to anything happening in Los Angeles.”
“Need I remind you the negligible role truth, credibility, or honesty play in social media?” The older man across the table twirled the unlit cigarette between his fingers as a Cheshire cat grin crossed his face.
General Noh shot Mr. Song an angry glance. His jaw muscles tightened. “The story is that Jeong Tae has been hired by the TSA as a security consultant. Today’s incident came about when he exploited a security weakness, as he was hired to do. All of the news stations will be properly briefed if his name is ever brought up. The situation is contained.”
Park barely masked his exasperation. “That may be the official narrative, but that guarantees you nothing. It’s what people say online that matters most, at least with the younger crowd. Remember, everyone with a phone has a camera and a video recorder. We don’t know how many people in the terminal saw and recorded him. A post like that could go viral. Anyone out there could see your son’s face and identify him. Then we’ll have a real crisis on our hands.”
Mr. Song cleared his throat and spoke slowly, as if in deep thought “When it comes to unfortunate newsworthy events such as this, we can manipulate the press and the news media, control the message because we’re the ones feeding it to them. It sounds like you’ve already done that, sir.” He paused, cocked his head, and looked directly at the General. “As you may or may not be fully aware, social media is an entirely different animal. It is beyond our control. Sources are often unknown and almost never scrutinized. Someone snaps a picture or takes a video of something inappropriate, potentially scandalous, or just odd and, KABAM, your reputation goes up in smoke. These posts, tweets, snapchats, and stories go out into the ether completely unverified, unfiltered, unchecked. But they are seen by thousands or tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of people.” Another pause for effect. “If someone took a picture or video of your son and his face is recognized …We may have a bigger problem than we know.”
General Noh turned to his campaign manager. “Mr. Park, certainly you have someone monitoring the social media channels. What have they seen thus far?”
Park stood with his hands on his hips. “Nothing that specifically names him yet. But that video of an Asian man in a Dodger’s jacket is making its way around. Over one hundred thousand views so far.”
Just then, the General’s phone began to ring. He pulled it out, checked the screen, and nodded. “Good. That doesn’t sound too damaging, especially if he has not been identified. Flood the social platforms with the right story and keep me posted. I have to take this.”
With that, the General exited the room as briskly as he had entered.
Chapter 22
Southbound Highway 188, Near US-Mexican Border at Tecate Port of Entry
June 5, 4:59 p.m.
The desert heat was winning the battle with the Ford Focus’s air conditioner. Despite having it on “max” with the fan blowing full force, the car felt like an oven. The desert sun streamed in through the windshield in front and pressed inward from the side windows and the metal roof, negating much of the cool air pumping through the vents. That was the problem with buying an old car in a hurry.
Yong Byun wiped sweat from his forehead. He grimaced as he realized he would need to figure out a way to live in this hot, barren, foreign country. The nagging concern over being caught invaded every thought like an unwelcome guest he would never be able to evict. Dread and loneliness, together with the heat, made it hard for him to breathe.
Just a hundred meters and a few dozen lined-up cars lay between him and another new, unfamiliar life. The border crossing into Mexico with its overhead sign and traffic controls was just ahead. On the other side of that sign, the new beginning he had imagined only as his worst-case contingency plan.
Yong Byun’s mind was full of questions and fears as he waited his turn to enter his new country. The adjustment to living in the United States had been tempered by the fact that he was surrounded by teammates, bound like brothers in a righteous cause, supported indirectly by their glorious Leader and his Supreme Council. Now, crossing into Mexico to avoid a certain ignominious death at the hands of those who once supported him, Yong Byun felt empty, having no mission to fulfill, and completely isolated with no team to support him. Up to this point, someone else had always planned out his life. Now it was up to him and that realization loomed even more daunting than living amongst enemies in the US had.
Failure had put him in this unenviable position, failure caused by that pesky general’s son.
His fake passport sat waiting on the passenger’s seat. It had already passed the first, more critical border crossing, the one from Mexico into the United States four years earlier. Because of that success, his confidence was high. Rather than worrying about crossing into Mexico, Yong Byun worried about living there. The food was foreign and didn’t match his palate. Sure, it was spicy like Korean food, but in a different way. He hoped his taste buds would eventually adapt.
Then there was the language. He had been sufficiently tutored and had spent long hours practicing both English and Spanish with teachers brought in especially for that purpose. Those teachers had mysteriously disappeared at the end of the group’s formal and informal language training. Still, his Spanish was rudimentary at best, which left him anxious. The native Mexicans spoke so fast and with so many colloquialisms that he could not keep up. During his brief time in Mexico, prior to entering America, he had found that most of the people there were kind and patient and spoke slowly enough for him to comprehend most of what they were trying to say. Time would help him deal with the communication issue. He’d get better the longer he stayed.
The biggest hurdle would be blending in. He would have to mix and mingle with the local Korean community. That presented its own set of challenges. During their heyday in the nineties, many South Korean businessmen and investor groups had pu
rchased small factories near the border in Mexico. They made sandals and handbags and leather wallets and cheap trinkets, among other low-skill items, that they then shipped into the United States. These factories kept the local population employed and happy, for the most part. But they were always managed and overseen by South Koreans.
In order to blend in, Yong Byun would have to associate with that group and somehow befriend them. He worried that they might report him as a defector once they picked up on his accent. If his team members were successful in bringing about the devastation the Supreme Council wanted, would he become a suspect? Would they turn him in to the authorities? Or would they welcome a brother from the other side of the border? These questions kept rattling around in his mind, creating an unease that he couldn’t shake.
Yong Byun felt a pang of homesickness. The protection of his once simple, yet sheltered life evaporated in the shimmering heat as his little car idled in the line-up. When he signed on for the Chammae Boksu mission, he knew that life would change. He had just never counted on leaving his home country permanently. His dreams had centered around a hero’s welcome upon his eventual return and the accompanying financial increase that would move him and his family a step or two beyond the hand-to-mouth living conditions which marked their existence, like that of most North Koreans.
The citizenry of North Korea was taught that their efforts combined to support the greater good of the nation. Everyone had a part to play and if they did what was asked of them, better days would come. Whether they made clothing or shoes in large unheated sewing rooms, or built parts and ammunition for the military, or toiled in the fields to supply rice and vegetables for their community, they were told that their contributions were important underpinnings to the “Great Society.” Everyone was an equal. That’s what the leaders constantly said. Sacrifice by the individual made the whole stronger.
