by Glen Robins
The man, who appeared to be in his late twenties, moved closer to Yong Byun, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted up tight. His stained tank top showed off his chiseled physique. “I knew that man, the one you killed.” The man turned towards the others, meeting their gazes one by one as he spoke through gritted teeth. “It happened a few days ago. Before sunup there was a fire outside of town. Maybe you heard about it?” Some of the other prisoners shrugged while others nodded. “Women were screaming. Children crying.” The young inmate resembled a prowling tiger, pacing in an arc before his victim. “My uncle, he heard it all He knew the man you killed, too. Lives in the same neighborhood. The one you killed worked at your factory. He worked there a long time. He worked very hard.”
This man was stoking a fire of indignation, uniting both groups of prisoners against Yong Byun. Yong Byun imposed calm on his nerves as the man continued, pacing as he spoke. “But you people don’t pay very much. He didn’t do nothing wrong. Nothing but ask for a raise. Nothing but make a complaint that his wages weren’t enough.” The man telling the story stopped when his gaze met Yong Byun’s. He hissed as he finished. “The man you burned alive was a good man, a family man. Why would you do that? Why would you leave his children without a father?”
Yong Byun’s sense of acceptance fled like a prairie dog sniffing a predator in his territory. He wished he could drop down into a burrow and hide, but there was no burrow, no place of resort. His insides went cold, and his breath grew quick and shallow. What had he gotten himself into? Why did he choose to tell them that? How could he get out of this?
“You think you’re tough? You ain’t nothing.” The coyote stepped forward. “Let’s see how tough he is. There’s no gasoline here, no lighters, no matches. Let’s see what you do now, tax man.”
Talk of him choosing a side was abandoned, as the majority of the men in the cell closed in around him, forming a semicircle, with Yong Byun pressed up against the back wall.
The coyote jabbed his finger in the air. “You foreigners come in here and change everything. You hire our people as grunts and bring in your own people to run things, keeping all the money for yourselves. Think you’re all important. Think you’re helping the poor Mexicans. You ain’t helping nothing. Then you burn one of our people? That ain’t right.”
Yong Byun swallowed hard—or tried to. There was nothing to swallow. His mouth was as dry as the Tecate landscape. “I didn’t kill anyone you know. I promise.” The words faltered as his voice cracked. His pronunciation was terrible because his tongue wouldn’t move right.
The huddle grew tighter around him. Their stink was stronger than ever. Their breath, their body odor, the stench of cigarettes and beer and sweat stuck in the threads of their clothing blended together in a sickening potpourri. Yong Byun’s stomach tightened, and he thought he might vomit.
Their faces showed menace, their words conveyed fury, their scents displayed raw connection to the world’s cruelties.
The man who knew the victim struck first. A balled fist that felt like a granite club unleashed a powerful blow to Yong Byun’s gut. He double over, coughing and gasping and staggering. The crowd whooped and cheered on the assailant and panted for more.
More came.
Another hammer-like wallop smashed into his ribs, forcing out what little air was left in his lungs. Yong Byun was sure he had a cracked rib or two. He struggled to breathe. His legs wobbled and the room began to spin. As he fell sideways, one of the men caught him and pushed back up, causing him to stagger toward the other side of the circle. Another pair of hands pushed him even harder back to the opposite side. He was pinballed around until a third strike landed on his cheek, sending him crashing against the wall. From there, he bounced off another body, then landed on the dirt-caked concrete floor. It smelled grotesque.
Laughter erupted, along with more hoots and howls.
As he lay there, more abuse was piled on him. First, he felt warm spit land on his face, one glob after another. Then he felt a sharp jab in the back of his leg, followed by another one in his chest. The crowd calmed and snickered in unison as if anticipating a grand finale. That’s when he heard a zipper being unzipped. He soon felt a warm, wet sensation on his face and shoulder. Soon his shirt was soaked in urine. Yong Byun tried to move out of the stream but was held in place by heavy pressure from the other men’s boots weighing down on his legs and torso.
That’s when he heard an authoritative voice booming in the distance, growing closer, and the banging of the club on the bars of the metal cage.
Salvation came as two pairs of hands grabbed him by the elbows and the belt and hoisted him up amid a hail of Spanish scolding and commands to keep back.
* * * *
Yong Byun shook his head to bring himself back to the present.
He didn’t know what awaited him, but certainly it would not be as horrible as staying in that prison another hour.
Yong Byun lay on the thin but clean mattress. There were no windows and only one door in the room. It was the heavy steel kind with a peephole centered between the left and right sides, about five and a half feet up from the ground. One rectangular light fixture pulsed overhead, shielded by a steel cage, casting bluish-white light that filled the four-meter by two-meter room.
He closed his eyes to clear away the fear and anxiety, trying to replace those thoughts with a game plan. Since his mission had failed and now his escape plan had also failed, Yong Byun was struggling to figure out a winning strategy.
He waited in the barren room for what felt like an eternity. Then he heard voices beyond the door but could not understand what was being said. The fear once again rose inside, an acrid taste forming in his throat. His mouth went dry as his heartbeat quickened. The unknown stirred such palpable distress.
When the door finally opened, Yong Byun startled at the sight of General Noh’s son. His last bastion of hope banished.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Doing so made the room spin and his stomach flip. Sharp pains in his head, back, legs, and torso overloaded his brain. The cracked rib shot agony through his core, stealing his breath. He did his best to hide his discomfort, but sensed his attempt fell short.
Noh strode across the room and stopped at the bars that separated them, scowling. No words were spoken.
Mr. Noh held him in his steely glare for an uncomfortable amount of time. Finally, he spoke in Korean. “Mr. Lee, if that’s really your name, you are very fortunate that we had not yet returned to Los Angeles. You’re also lucky that the Mexican authorities decided to cooperate with us, at least so far. They are eager to try you for human trafficking. They say you have been taking young girls and selling them across the border. They don’t appreciate that sort of thing. Not when the girls are only eight and nine years old.”
Yong Byun didn’t feel all that lucky, but he knew better than to speak. Instead, he turned his head downward and to the side, refusing to acknowledge the truth of anything the South Korean said. He did not want to give his enemy the satisfaction.
Mr. Noh continued. “Of course, if you aren’t in the mood to cooperate with us, we’ll let them take you back.”
Yong Byun hesitated, not sure what to believe. It seemed he was at the mercy of two undesirable masters. His mind raced, filled with uncertainty and distrust.
“OK, then. It seems you don’t want to cooperate. That’s fine.” Noh turned and started for the door.
Yong Byun had another decision to make. It seemed to him a choice between prostituting himself one way or the other. Given what he had been through during his brief stay in the Mexican prison, cooperating with the Americans seemed the less reprehensible alternative. “Fine.”
Noh paused as he gripped the door handle. “Fine? Fine what? Fine you’ll tell me everything I want to know? Or fine you’ll go back to the prison and await your fate?”
“I’ll talk,” Yong Byun said, still facing the floor.
Noh stuck a key into the lock, sw
ung the barred door open, and launched himself at Yong Byun, extending his right fist into Yong Byun’s midsection. The force of the blow knocked him backwards against the bed, forcing the air from his lungs. Shockwaves crashed his nervous system. Yong Byun gasped for air, physically unable to breathe, mentally spinning through space. Fear, helplessness, and an intense desire to avoid further pain swept through him instantaneously. He curled into a ball as he fought to regain the ability to draw in air. The urge to vomit overpowered him and he lurched all over the clean sheets.
Noh stood over him like a lion over its prey, fists clenched and jaw muscles pulsing. His dark eyes left no room for misinterpretation. If Yong Byun didn’t cooperate, more violence was on the way. “No more games. No more lies. No more hiding anything. You tell me everything you know, starting with where to find someone who knows how to disable that bomb. Tell me now or you’ll go back and spend a very long time in that prison cell. I’m sure they’ll treat you with all the dignity you deserve.”
Chapter 30
Procuraduria General de la Republica, Tecate, Mexico
June 5, 10:17 p.m.
My frustration level was so high it was all I could do to not rip this guy’s head off. I wanted to pulverize him. All the energy and tension of the day had reached a boiling point and it felt like I might let loose in a whirlwind of flying fists and feet. Precious hours had passed, and we hadn’t gained any actionable intel. This Mr. Lee had told us many things we didn’t know, but nothing that would help us prevent a disaster in the air.
The first confession he had made was that his real name was Kim Yong Byun. Small progress, but it was something to build on. It’s always better when they’re not hiding behind a false name.
Mr. Kim had paid the price for his earlier noncooperative stance by spending time in a Mexican jail and by absorbing a punch to the gut delivered at about 75% of full strength. As I stood over him, feeling a bit like an alpha male silverback, a sense of futility swept over me. My outburst would likely yield little, if any, forward progress toward our goal.
But it made me feel better, if only for a moment.
I dropped a clean set of clothes and a wash rag on the bed next to him and commanded him to get himself cleaned up. I then exited the cell and locked the barred door. His every movement as he changed his clothes and washed his face and rinsed his mouth was as deliberate as could be. When he finished, I held open a plastic garbage bag for him to drop in his stinky soiled clothes. I took it to the door and placed it in the hallway.
As rationality settled back in, I was painfully aware that the clock was ticking. My two eight-year-old students’ faces popped back into my mind.
Mr. Kim’s turtle-like pace allowed me time to impose tranquility on my impulses. I regained my stone face. Control was imperative in this situation. I couldn’t control him if I couldn’t control myself.
But that clock kept ticking.
The first thing Mr. Kim did once he was cleaned up and had recovered from the nasty blow to his gut was smile a devilish smile and cough out a sinister laugh. “You recognized me,” he hissed. “In the airplane. From that night.” He was wheezing but trying to hide it.
I retreated half a step. “Not at first, but it came to me later.” The sudden anger and hostility in me receded like a wave that had crashed on the beach, replaced by curiosity.
The smugness that he exuded would have left one thinking he was the one who had landed the first punch. It amazed me that changing his clothes and washing the vomit and urine off his face could so quickly restore his over-confidence. “That night, between the fences, was your high point. Look at you now.”
I was dumbfounded but tried to hide it. I cocked my head as the memory of his face peering at me from behind a rock gained clarity. “You survived.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes, I did. And so did several other teammates. Thanks to you, we were able to complete the first phase of this mission.” The satisfaction on his face reignited the anger in me.
“What are you talking about?”
“Phase I: Gain passage to South Korea with our falsified passports and documents. Phase II: Gain employment with Korean Air Lines and learn about their aircraft, security protocols, and, most importantly, their vulnerabilities. Phase III: Seek a transfer to one of the West Coast hubs, like Los Angeles—”
“Hold on. You snuck across the border that night? That night led to this?”
“I did. Our whole forward team did, too. Other teams crossed at other times. It was all thoroughly planned and carefully executed.” He flashed that devilish smile again. “The fact that you were the commander on duty was no coincidence, you know?”
A queasiness gripped my insides and worked its way up to my head. I found myself dizzy as I realized the full extent of what he said and the far-reaching effects that event continued to have on my life. I leaned against the wall behind me for support.
Mr. Kim continued. “Yes, we knew about you. General Noh’s son. It was like—how do they say it here? —buy one, get one free. It was genius. General Noh is shamed and drops from the race and twenty-five of our operatives cross the border, including myself.”
“Twenty-five? No, there were not that many—”
“Yes, twenty-five. Hiding inside fake rocks and in underground chambers, waiting for the commotion to start.”
“It was all a set-up.”
“Yes. A glorious victory for the true Korea and a good omen for the rest of our mission.”
“The rest of your mission,” I repeated weakly.
His smirk was unnerving. I could feel the balance of power in the room shifting and knew I had to regain control quickly or I’d lose more than just face. I’d lose the chance to save lives. I wanted to send him back to that Mexican prison.
“Yes. It is a grand mission with a glorious outcome.”
“If twenty-five of you came across the border …where are the rest?”
“I admit I do not know where all of them are. I only had a supervisory role for the baggage handling detail at LAX. When I called out a mission abort, each member of the team is to follow his own set of instructions, known only to that individual, for such circumstances. I do not know anyone else’s Plan B.”
“So, your Plan B was to come to Mexico? Then what?”
His face twisted, and he sucked in a deep breath. “No. I had to change my plan.”
“Change? Why?”
“I cannot return home …”
“Of course you can’t.” My wits were coming back. “You failed in your responsibility. Punishment is certain. Shame is guaranteed.”
His head drooped, though I could tell he was trying hard not to allow me to see him defeated. “I am responsible for the outcome. At least in their eyes. But truly…”
His voice tapered off. I didn’t jump in because my mind was busy churning through multiple possibilities. Still leaning against the wall, I stared at a spot on the floor ahead of me.
Mr. Kim continued his narrative. “I worked very hard these past six years. It was not easy to gain the promotions I needed in order to acquire the access cards to every area in the baggage handling system. Then I had to work harder to get transferred to Los Angeles. It took me two years to reach supervisor level. That is how I was able to get my Comrades into position.”
“Of course,” I muttered, still processing all of the moving pieces. “But where are the others? There were only three of you that I saw. That leaves twenty-two more. Where are they?”
That smirk returned along with the spark of devilish delight in his eyes. “So many questions, Mr. Noh. Questions that I cannot answer. Not because I don’t want to, but by design. I am not privy to all the secrets and the tactics. I only know what was supposed to happen today in Los Angeles.”
I shook my head, trying to formulate the next question.
Mr. Kim continued. “You must appreciate the enormous amount of planning involved in our operation in order to understand how meaningless it is for you to
know about the explosives,” he calmly chided.
“But I need to disarm that bomb.”
“Again, you don’t realize what you are saying.”
That infuriated me, but I let it pass. Instead, I made an insincere compliment about the genius behind the plan and bade him continue.
Mr. Kim ran his tongue along the inside of each cheek, clearly feeling superior, as he chose his words. “I am not the technical expert. I apologize that my knowledge about these things is superficial at best,” he said. “All I know is that each of the bombs have special detonators that are connected by Bluetooth to smart phones with GPS. Once the planes reach the airspace over Seoul, they will be set off.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, holding my hand out like a traffic cop. “What do you mean planes—plural?”
“That’s right, Mr. Noh. I am explaining the whereabouts of the other twenty people who crossed the border with me that night. There are multiple planes,” he said calmly, as if I should have already known that.
“How many?” I said, tensing and clenching my fists again.
“Five. Scheduled to arrive within thirty minutes of each other.” He cocked his head at me when he said it, like he relished my reaction.
“You see,” he continued, “one plane would not mean much. Two planes, even, is not very dramatic. Three is good. Four planes is the same number as the 911 hijackers. Five, though, is a bigger number. Five planes lighting up the sky above Seoul—boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. They will explode over the city as they approach the airport. Each flight path goes over the city, a very densely populated city, I might add. There will be many casualties, on the planes and on the ground. There will be great destruction—offices, apartments, churches, roads, historical sites. It will be a spectacle—glorious and beautiful. Then will the world come to know our resolve. Five planes will be enough to make everyone understand that The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, the true Korea, is powerful, sophisticated, and capable of many great things.”
