Chosen Path: An International Thriller

by Glen Robins

  The looming jetliner crisis, however, had the potential to be like the wind that blew the cherry blossom petals after their moment of glory. General Noh’s bid for the presidency, though splendidly promising just days ago, seemed destined to wither and blow away like the iconic flowers.

  An airliner exploding over Seoul threatened more than just the many lives that would be lost. It would single-handedly lay waste to months of preparation, late-night strategizing, and tedious brainstorming that had already been invested in General Noh’s potential run for the Blue House.

  Having his son mixed up in such a catastrophe would annihilate his chances of victory and, in the opinion of many citizens of South Korea, the hope of achieving a lasting peace with their Communist neighbors based on their military might and not on concessions to the dictator in Pyongyang.

  The press was busy grousing around for details about the man wearing the Dodger’s jacket. How soon before they discovered Jeong Tae’s involvement? Anything short of a miracle and he would be implicated in another scandal.

  Beyond the compound’s perimeter wall was Itaewon-ro, a heavily traveled thoroughfare in this area of Seoul that was popular with the foreign tourists. Filled with all manner of shops selling all manner of wares at bargain prices, the busy commercial district epitomized the success of the free market in his country. Vendors sold goods for a profit and customers benefited from the low prices brought about by open competition. It had its drawbacks, but the market thrived in an atmosphere of freedom where hard work and business savvy translated to success.

  Across Itaewon-ro stood the War Memorial of Korea, a constant reminder to those who worked in the Ministry of Defense that theirs was the responsibility to protect their countrymen, their economy, and their way of life from attack by their hostile neighbors on the other side of the Demilitarized Zone.

  This day, the sixth day of the sixth month, had significance. Memorial Day in Korea. The day the nation commemorated those who fought and died to resist the communist aggression from the North. The war started in 1950 and continued even today. A signed ceasefire, not even a treaty, was all that kept the two countries from continuing the violence. A cessation of fighting without the benefit of a surrender or peace accord was all that stood between the opposing nations. In other words, there was no official end to the war.

  Nowadays, the struggle was more political as far as the world knew. For many families, including General Noh’s, that had been divided when the border went up, the continuing conflict was deeper and more personal. The irony of the date South Korea’s enemies had chosen to send a plane full of explosives into the crowded capital city underscored the ideological chasm that separated the two countries sharing the peninsula. The North Korean regime hated the South and wanted to suppress its rise in the global community.

  Today, rather than becoming a candidate, General Noh would take action as a military leader and focus on the safety of the passengers on that airplane.

  The role of a leader was difficult when intel was limited. Jeong Tae was working covertly with the US authorities but communication from him was sparse. General Noh was relegated to the role of spectator to some degree. He couldn’t control nor direct the hunt for the perpetrators. The only thing he could do was wait and trust his only child.

  Fortunately, the press had been contained. They knew nothing of a bomb onboard. The plane in Los Angeles had passed rigorous reinspection before it was cleared for take-off, so the moment of tension had passed, and they were on to something else. But if that plane exploded, the press would snoop until they discovered every tantalizing tidbit about what led to the disaster. Surely Jeong Tae’s involvement would be suspect, and surely they would broadcast every shadowy detail. There was much to fear if this happened.

  A knock on the door startled the General. He turned and called out, “Duhl-eoh O-seyo.” Enter, please.

  Mr. Park stepped in and cleared his throat. His face was taut, and his movements were jittery. Something was terribly wrong.

  “Yes, Mr. Park. What is it?”

  “Bad news. That foreign correspondent from MBC News—you know, the pretty one with the long legs—just aired a report from Los Angeles speculating that a flight from LAX to Seoul may be carrying a suitcase full of plastic explosives.”

  General Noh froze in place, staring at Park. “Where did she get her information? We need her source.”

  “She won’t reveal her source but says that it is someone ‘close to the investigation.’”

  Both men remained silent for a long moment. Beads of sweat formed on General Noh’s brow. “This is unacceptable. We have no confirmation from our intelligence community and here she is broadcasting rumors.”

  “It’s running on other channels, too. The press is clamoring for a response from the Blue House. They demand to know what we know and what we’re going to do about it.” Park paused, eyeing the General with apprehension.

  The General’s facial expression was inscrutable, a stone face.

  Park continued tepidly. “A press conference has been arranged. President Jang will address the crisis, then turn it over to you to respond and share what you know. In thirty minutes. It’s the only way to get out ahead of the story and minimize the damage.”

  “But…how can I share what I know when we have no solid information? We also have no solution. It would be unwise to unveil an unsubstantiated threat without discussing our response to it.”

  “But any lack of action would be portrayed by the press and interpreted by the public as weakness and incompetence. As a military leader, you need to show strength. Of course you can’t talk about specifics, but you put our military on high alert. Send tanks and troop carriers into the streets. Scramble fighter jets to fly over the city. Make your response visible. You know from past experience that this kind of action will calm the people. They want to know that our armed forces are ready to protect them. This is your opportunity to be seen as a decisive and courageous leader.”

  General Noh cocked his head toward Mr. Park. “Is it on social media platforms, as well?”

  Park nodded in the affirmative.

  General Noh grunted and turned to face the window again. Several moments passed. “Our response must be measured, appropriate. The official word out of Los Angeles is still that the aircraft was thoroughly inspected and cleared for departure. We cannot react because a news outlet demands it.”

  “But this is your moment to shine, General.”

  “I need to hear from Jeong Tae first. How could I act on something this important in a vacuum of knowledge? He is our only operative in the field at the moment. I will base my decision on his assessment, not some news reporter’s story.”

  “Fine. Call him. Get all the information you can. Just be ready to face the cameras at Cheong Wa Dae in thirty minutes.”

  “Cheong Wa Dae in thirty minutes? I don’t have enough time to get over there.”

  “I’m sure they can delay a few minutes for you.”

  Cheong Wa Dae, also known as the Blue House—South Korea’s equivalent of the United States’ White House—was a compound built in the traditional Korean architecture that housed the executive branch of the government. It sat roughly five miles north of the complex that housed the Ministry of National Defense and General Noh’s office. With traffic congestion that always clogged the city’s streets, it could take anywhere from thirty to sixty minutes just to get there, which left him with no time to prepare himself properly.

  “Come,” said Park, gesturing for the door. “We must hurry. Your car and driver await.” Park pulled the door open. “Don’t forget to call Jeong Tae.”

  General Noh heaved a deep breath and shook his head, staring into the distance at the majestic mountains that created a natural fortification for the city of Seoul. Fifty kilometers beyond lay the DMZ.

  Park cleared his throat again. “General?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m coming.”

  Chapter 29

  Procuraduria Gene
ral de la Republica, Tecate, Mexico

  June 5, 10:15 p.m.

  While he waited for what would come next, Kim Yong Byun couldn’t help but relive the trauma he had just experienced. It circled around his mind despite his best efforts to channel his thoughts elsewhere.

  His time in the Mexican prison was the most harrowing of his life. From the moment he was thrust into general population, he was forced to make choices, the outcomes of which he had no way of predicting.

  The first choice was where to place himself when he was shoved into the pen. After catching his balance, he had to decide quickly which side of the lockup to move to. The holding cell was no more than seven or eight meters left to right and maybe six meters front to back. There were at least a dozen men already in there. A tall, mangy man with long hair stood out from a group that occupied the left side of the cell. All looked mean and angry.

  On the right side, the most prominent figure was distinguished by his muscles, tattoos, and scowl. The others behind him seemed to have similar features, as if there had been a sting operation at the gym. As he drifted toward the muscle-bound men on the right, one of the men from the left side said something like, “Be careful of who you make your friend.” At least, that’s how he translated it in his head.

  Yong Byun stopped short, feeling like he was stuck in a veritable no-man’s land. Laughter erupted from both sides. He heard derisive words like, “Who’s the China boy?” “He doesn’t belong here,” and “where did this one come from?”

  He froze as they jeered and taunted, asking him, “Who’s going to be your friend?” It became clear to him that the occupants of the cell were more or less divided down the middle behind these two presumed leaders. It seemed that each man in the cell had chosen one of the two groups. Tensions were high, like a war was about to break out and if he chose the wrong side, he would tip the balance and escalate things to bloodshed.

  Yong Byun’s head was on a swivel, roving from one side to the other while his eyes darted from one man to the next. His heart was racing, and his palms were sweating. He worried that he might faint. And then what would happen?

  He turned to face the door of the cell and backed himself against the wall, right in the middle.

  Laughter erupted for a fleeting moment. Then an angry voice on his right demanded silence. On the left, the tattooed leader spat on the floor and said, “That’s no good. Pick one side or the other, China Boy.”

  The long-haired man, now on his right, stepped forward. “Don’t even think about it. He’s ours.”

  The trolling group of miscreants behind him tightened their circle around their leader and glared across the cell at the opposing group on Yong Byun’s left. Yong Byun had to make a decision. Which group do I fall in with? What happens next? If a fight breaks out, what becomes of me?

  “Wait,” he cried, throwing his hands out like a traffic cop bringing cars to a halt. In faltering Spanish, he pleaded, “Please don’t do this. Not because of me. I don’t want to start any trouble.”

  “He speaks,” said the leader of the long-haired group.

  A fresh chorus of jeers from both sides broke the rising tension.

  “He knows Spanish?” said someone from the other side.

  “It’s not very good,” said another.

  “Sounds like a little kid,” said someone else.

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” said Yong Byun. “But don’t do this because of me. I’m nothing special.”

  “Oh, really?” said the leader from the muscle men. “You look special to us. We don’t see too many China Boys like you around here.”

  “Except the ones in the factories,” said one of his cohorts.

  “Yeah, that’s true. You from the factories?” asked the leader.

  Yong Byun faced another decision. He surveyed the faces on his left, then on his right. They all seemed to be holding their breath, waiting to hear what he said next.

  “Yes, I am,” he said with all the confidence he could muster.

  The leader of the muscled men drew his mouth into a tight crease. “My sister works at one of those factories. You the owner?”

  Yong Byun assessed the question, stalling long enough to make his next decision. He repeated the word “owner” as if he was translating it. “No, I’m not the owner, but I work with him.”

  The man nodded his head and turned up his lip as if he were a human lie detector, assessing Yong Byun’s words. “If you’re not the owner, then what do you do there?”

  Another tough choice to make with only a split second to make it. “I’m an accountant. Did I say that right? Accountant? I prepare tax reports.”

  Yong Byun felt the tensions between the two groups ease. “An accountant?” said the longhaired leader. “Yeah, you look like an accountant.” As he said this, he jabbed an elbow into the man next to him, who went along with the joke and laughed out loud.

  “What did you do to get here?” asked a man standing next to the other leader.

  Yong Byun turned slightly to face that group, his mind racing to come up with something that might sound legitimate for an accountant. “How do you say it? I…uh…in English, they say ‘tax evasion.’”

  There was discussion amongst the two groups. Both sides seemed amused by his response.

  “Tax evasion, huh?” said the big muscle-bound leader on the left, an evil grin on his face. “You lie. They don’t bring people who evade taxes here. Not to this prison. What did you really do?”

  Yong Byun cursed himself. That was stupid, he thought. From what he could surmise, his fellow prisoners were probably awaiting charges ranging from assault to kidnapping to drug trafficking. How could he be so dumb as to say, “tax evasion?”

  One of the men in the back, whom they had referred to as “coyote”—the infamous and unscrupulous businessmen who crammed dozens of desperate peasants into bobtail trucks and left them in the desert to cross the border into the United States on their own after collecting huge fees from them—seemed to have a particular problem with Yong Byun’s lie. “No, no,” he said, adding several other words which Yong Byun guessed were curse words. “You are not in here for tax evasion. Maybe you’re guilty of that, but you didn’t come here because they caught you cheating on taxes.”

  The tension amped up again. Every man in the cramped cell seemed to grow more agitated as the coyote spoke.

  Yong Byun cringed when the coyote’s eyes met his. A silent signal had been given that he was about to regret what was coming. His heart skipped erratically at the thought of what might happen to him if he didn’t appease the man somehow. He wished he could evaporate or shrink to the size of a rodent so he could escape this awful place. Or an insect, even a cockroach. He would do anything to get out before this mob turned on him.

  Yong Byun’s mind raced faster than his heart as fear took hold. There was only one way to gain respect and placate this group. “You’re right. Even though I may be guilty of cheating on taxes, that’s not why I’m here.” He surveyed the faces staring at him. These men seemed ready to pounce on the “China Boy” because, he assumed, they viewed him as soft. A tense hush spread among the prisoners. They hung on every word as he hastily concocted a plan to win a modicum of respect.

  Yong Byun spoke deliberately, buying himself a few precious seconds to put his story together in his mind. “No, they didn’t catch me for that.” He paused again, knit his eyebrows together, and allowed the darkness inside to come out. Nothing could be more convincing than the truth. He just had to play it right. His eyes widened and his countenance grew hard and a wicked grin pulled at his mouth. “I burned a man alive. In a truck that I stole. Not far from here.”

  The reaction of his fellow inmates was priceless. Their esteem for him rose instantly, he could tell by the way their expressions changed.

  Hushed murmurs spread through the two groups as they considered his confession among themselves.

  After a moment, one of the men called out from the back. “Why sho
uld we believe you?”

  Yong Byun, whose face was still consumed by the malevolence of what he had done, turned an icy stare toward the man. “Maybe you can still smell the smoke and the gasoline on my hands.”

  One of the men from that side of the cell approached him warily, sniffing. Yong Byun held out his hands. Even though he had washed, he knew there was likely still a faint trace of it.

  The man nodded to his Comrades. “I can smell it.”

  Others did the same, each confirming the truth of what Yong Byun had said. A sort of reverence for him replaced their cynicism and malice. One of the men next to the long-haired one asked him why he did it.

  “That man failed. He could not do the job he was assigned. He jeopardized our operation. He had to die, and I had to send a signal to the others that there is a steep penalty for failure.”

  A collective “ooh” rose from the group. Yong Byun felt that his stature among these men had gained new elevation. There was silence for a moment, then whispered chatter among them. He leaned back against the wall, sucked in a deep breath, and congratulated himself for his quick thinking. Maintaining the dark look on his face, he hoped, would gain him additional respect. It would not be good to let his guard down now—or ever, not in a place like this. Even criminals had a code of dignity. His deed, though he loathed himself for it, had brought him a measure of esteem from his cellmates when he needed it most.

  A delicate truce emerged as the group processed what he had said.

  But that peace didn’t last long.

  The whisperings became more animated. He couldn’t understand it, but he could sense a shift in their demeanor. They weren’t afraid of him; they were angry with him.

  The leader with the muscles and tattoos listened to the rapid-fire report from a man who moved in close and uttered something to him with his hand in place to block his mouth from Yong Byun’s view. The man’s dark eyes showed contempt. The leader pointed his chin at Yong Byun, indicating “go ahead.”

  “You, China Boy, came to our country and burned one of our men alive?” The hostility in the man’s voice sent a chill through Yong Byun, stealing away his short-lived confidence. “So, now we know who did it.”