by Glen Robins
The thing that really set Jin Sook’s nerves on edge was the presence of the fighter jets. Maybe other passengers hadn’t noticed them, but he did. In only a momentary glimpse as the passenger jet banked hard to the left, he saw them in formation off the port side of the plane. They quickly retreated as the 747 made its turn to the south.
The flight attendants went about their routine, but it was apparent to Jin Sook that something was off. There was a tightness about them, and he caught the furtive glances among themselves as they moved through the cabin asking passengers if they needed anything. He overheard one flight attendant explain to a passenger two rows in front of him that there was something on the ground that had to be resolved before they could be given clearance to land, so the pilot had routed them back out to sea until further notice.
Jin Sook looked at his watch. His patience was reaching its end. The plane should have been on the ground three hours ago.
Chapter 49
Costa Mesa, CA
June 6, 3:15 a.m.
I didn’t relish what lay ahead. I only wanted a few vital bits of information and I wanted them quickly. Sunny, on the other hand, was in a zone like never before. He was ready to get started.
At the same time, the two North Koreans seemed to be wishing they could sink through the floor. There was a sour smell emanating from their side of the room. I recognized it: the smell of fear. And we hadn’t even done anything yet.
I checked my watch again. The next plane, the one with my students, had less than forty-five minutes’ worth of fuel. I wasn’t sure if that would be enough time. Interrogations, even enhanced interrogations, take time. There are both psychological and physiological processes involved in breaking a person down. The more they’ve been trained and the deeper their commitment to whatever the cause they’re representing, the longer it takes. Things like physical strength and mental stamina, of course, play a part as well. I had heard that the Americans had stretched some interrogations out over the space of six days. The Russians, on the other hand, held the dubious honor of both the longest and the shortest such information gathering sessions. These records, like so much that goes on in the geo-political underworld, was known solely within the clandestine community.
I had to figure out how to leverage my advantage while also determining how to exploit their individual and collective weaknesses. What a task. And only forty-four minutes to accomplish it.
Knowing what I knew about the way the North Korean regime operated, I figured these two needed to understand that their lives were never going to be what they had imagined when they signed up for this mission. So, I began a detailed, but fast-moving monologue explaining to them what I had learned in my eight years of dealing directly with the North Korean military, both leaders and soldiers, and more to the point, what the defectors and asylum-seekers had shared.
I needed these plotters to know that their dreams were now irreparably shattered. Whatever recognition they may have been hoping for in the form of extra rations, nicer living conditions, or better jobs outside the country where real money could be made had been hopelessly snatched from their grasp by the high-minded carelessness of their leaders. I reminded them of something Yong Byun had admitted during his interrogation. “You’re all being used as pawns in a very dangerous game. You mean nothing to your leaders. Look at what they made you do to your partner, Yong Byun. They make you kill a Comrade who steps out of line. Think about it. Whoever sent you has total and complete deniability. You realize that, don’t you?”
They were working hard not to crack. I got empty, far-away looks, but I kept going.
“There is no link between you and them, nothing that can prove their involvement. You will be painted as rogue agents and radicals. You’ll be described as ‘traitors to the cause of peace,’ ‘escapees trying to thwart the reconciliation with the South.’ Your failure will be on your heads. That’s why they sent you here with a plan that was always doomed to fail. Always. You were nothing to them before, but now that their poorly-conceived plan has failed, you are toxic. Anyone who comes near you will be destroyed. Your lives have been carelessly discarded. You’ve been used like experimental lab rats, sent on an errand the so-called Supreme Council hoped might work. These are the same people who have treated you and your families like dirt for generations.”
Words are not normally my forte, but in that moment, I felt like my words were working for me.
I continued by telling stories that I was intimately acquainted with from both personal experience and experiences my father had shared with me in private. The names, dates, locations, and granular detail I used were likely familiar to someone like them who had been recruited to infiltrate the South.
While I hoped my stories were having an impact, I continually reiterated that not only were their hopes dashed, their lives were essentially over. Building a true sense of hopelessness, according to Sunny, was the first step in getting a captive to talk. Physical pain worked, but only after the mental barriers that created the initial resistance had been torn down.
Failure, I reminded them, was not tolerated by the Supreme Leader nor his Supreme Council. Blowing up one plane was perhaps a victory, but it would be considered a small one because it didn’t create a shower-storm of fiery debris on top of the residents of Seoul. The death toll, while unacceptably high by civilized standards, was a fraction of what Pyeongyang wanted.
I cleared my throat as Sunny tinkered with the sharp instruments.
“Because the leadership in South Korea, like my father and the entire security council, are now aware of your diabolical plot, those planes will not be allowed anywhere near Korean airspace. They will simply fall out of the sky, landing far out in the ocean where no one can see. There will be no shock and awe in the skies over Seoul. No live newsfeed, no cell phone video footage going viral. Therefore, there will be no earth-shaking terror killing tens of thousands.” I checked their eyes for comprehension. I could see something shift in the woman. She knew more, it seemed, than the other guy.
“Yes,” I explained, “it will be a tragedy to lose the passengers aboard those planes. An extreme tragedy for those affected and for the nation, but not the type of theatrical knock-out your leaders were no doubt looking to score.”
I let that sink in, but I didn’t have the time to wait for all the puzzle pieces in their minds to click into place. I had to keep building my case, trying to weaken their resolve and motivation.
“Failing to blow up the other four planes over their intended targets and land the ultimate sucker punch your superiors thought they were going to land is nothing short of a colossal failure. Five downed planes is only enough to make your efforts appear juvenile, a hollow imitation of the 911 perpetrators, a copy-cat crime that lacks originality and, worse yet, any damage to the country’s infrastructure. It will be a glancing blow at best, one that would make life for your fellow countrymen even worse than it is currently. The rest of the world will react with condemnation and further sanctions. I can assure you of that. Nothing good will come of your efforts to kill innocent people.”
As I talked, I had removed their shoes and socks, flicking and pinching the soft spots near the arches of their feet, as if testing for the most tender place on each foot. I could see the woman trying to divert her eyes. A slight tremor shook her slender frame. I had struck a chord within her and she was clearly uncomfortable.
“Needless to say,” I said as I grabbed the corkscrew and inspected its sharp tip. “You will not be welcomed home. There will be no praise, no medals, no rewards. Each of you, and most likely all of your loved ones, will suffer an ignominious death.” I needed to drive home that point by reminding them of several would-be defectors who had failed in recent history. I brought up the spectacle the state-run media had made of each. Their eyes widened. I’m sure they didn’t expect me to know the inner workings of their hermit nation. Each of these little factoids would be another deposit in my asset column.
I bent the
top of one of her feet backward to expose the ligature that ran along the arch. Pressing the corkscrew against it, the woman flinched and tried to draw her foot away from me. I held her foot firmly in place with one hand and twisted the corkscrew until I drew blood. The guy’s eyes grew almost as wide as hers. She was doing her best to suppress the yelps of pain, but a few emanated despite her efforts. I could see all hope beginning to fade, replaced by terror.
“I’ll keep digging in here until I reach the plantar fascia, a big, long ligament. This thing will tear it apart, making each step you take very painful for the rest of your life.” Her countenance slumped even further.
Watching them deflate, much as Yong Byun had earlier in the jail cell in Tecate, bolstered my confidence that I was making progress. I was in unchartered territory and not at all comfortable with it. Torturing another human is not in my nature but sparing the innocents on those planes took precedent.
While I spoke, Sunny made a show of preparing his collection of hardware. He wanted to intimidate them, instill that dark sense of hopelessness so vital to unlocking guarded secrets. I told him before we got started that I thought I could manage the interrogations so as to keep the blood off his hands, so to speak. Nonetheless, his background theatrics played a strong supportive role.
I mentioned a name that I was sure they would recognize. I also gave the corkscrew a quarter turn. These were either spies or military officers who had been caught in recent years trying to gain intelligence from South Korean military sources, infiltrating a Western financial institution, meeting with ranking officers of a high-tech firm with ties to military equipment manufacture, or in one case, South Korea’s Presidential Security Service. These spies had failed and had been publicly shamed, their names and faces dragged through the twenty-four-hour state-run news cycle repeatedly before they disappeared, never to be heard from or spoken of again. The executions of the so-called “traitors’” families were never publicized through official media channels, of course, but the gruesome killings were made known through word of mouth by eyewitnesses—a disarming tactic used by governments around the world to control the masses. “Leak” information about what happens to those who step out of line, then deny any involvement or knowledge of the atrocities.
Each name I mentioned brought a flash of recognition, followed by an increase in the tension in the room. Each twist of the corkscrew broke down a measure of their resistance. It was like adding a ten-kilogram plate to each side of a barbell as a weightlifter held it overhead. The mention of these names seemed to cause their collective psyche to sag a little more, leaching a measure of hope or strength. I didn’t have to bring up any details. I just dropped each name and twisted. By the third turn of the corkscrew, the woman was shrieking.
Chapter 50
Costa Mesa, CA
June 6, 3:17 a.m.
Stephanie Noh was not entirely at ease driving a stolen FBI vehicle. Her dad was certain they would be tracking it, despite JT’s efforts to disable such capabilities. She had to hurry, but not attract any undue attention. Speeding recklessly was not a great option but driving casually wasn’t either. At that time of night, with few cars on the road, she decided ten-to-fifteen miles over the speed limit was an acceptable compromise.
At that rate, she was able to make it to the crowded Long-Term lot at John Wayne Airport in roughly eleven minutes. This, she and her dad had agreed, was the perfect place to hide a car. Following his instructions, she used the hand towel she had stuffed in her waistband to wipe down every surface of the car. Trying to imagine where JT might have left prints, she worked the door handles inside and out, the steering wheel, the gear shift, the seat belt latches, the radio, the wires he had pulled, and the window buttons. Every hard surface received attention.
Satisfied that the car was free of any damning evidence, she locked the keys in and took off in a crouch between the parked cars in the lot, darting from row to row, in case there was anyone in the area that she wasn’t aware of. Once clear of the parking lot, Stephanie ran to the arrivals area. She caught a taxi driver taking a nap. Startled awake, the driver muttered something she couldn’t understand then unlocked the doors. She jumped in the cab and was greeted by the ripe aromas of body odor and halitosis. She paused, taken aback by the assault on her olfactories, then asked him to take her to the Home Depot in Costa Mesa, where her minivan sat waiting in the darkest corner of the parking lot. This was the spot Sunny decided they would hide her car. It was out of the way enough so that she would not run the risk of crossing paths with any law enforcement. A taxi, he said, would not attract their attention.
Before starting the engine, she checked her phone. No messages—text or voice. Stephanie’s thumb hovered over the “favorites” screen where both JT’s and her dad’s numbers were displayed. The digital clock glowing on the van’s in-dash screen showed 3:32 a.m. According to what JT had told her, the next plane would run out of fuel in twenty-seven minutes. JT’s students, many of them the children of friends, neighbors, and fellow churchgoers, were on board. She shook her head and put the phone in the cupholder. Best not to disturb them.
She squeezed her eyes shut and said a prayer.
Shifting into Drive, Stephanie headed toward the Do Jang. The streets were virtually empty. The fog was rolling in from the mighty Pacific, lending an eerie glow to the orange street lamps and the neon lights of the small businesses that lined Harbor Boulevard as she pulled out of the parking lot.
Two turns later, her phone lit up and buzzed against the plastic lining of the cupholder. It was her dad.
“Appa,” she said. “The car is in the long-term parking lot now. Should I meet you at the Do Jang now?”
“Yes. Come quickly. Your husband is doing very well. Not bad for his first go-round in wet work.” Sunny sounded out of breath, tense. “It shouldn’t be too long until he has the information he needs. In any case, he wants you and me out of here. I fear we don’t have much time before the FBI come, even with the diversion. After they get the car, they’ll see on the GPS tracker where he’s been. They’ll come here next.”
“On my way. Let’s get you out of there.”
“Yes, meet me at the back door. Hurry.”
Out of an abundance of caution, Stephanie took the next right and made her way to the Do Jang on the main thoroughfares. It didn’t feel as covert as taking the back roads, but since time was of the essence, it made the most sense.
Chapter 51
Costa Mesa, CA
June 6, 3:35 a.m.; Thirty minutes of fuel remaining in the LAX-ICN plane
My tactics were working. The woman was quivering uncontrollably after only three turns of the corkscrew. I had one knee firmly on her calf muscle and my left hand gripped her ankle so she couldn’t squirm or kick. Sunny held her other leg. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and her face was white as a sheet. Her howling tugged at my heartstrings for a fraction of a second. But then the thought of the families of the passengers and crew helped me sweep away any sympathy that I might have been tempted to entertain.
Despite the fact that I hadn’t touched him, the guy looked to be in no better shape than her. Dark stains had formed under his arms. His eyes were big as saucers. Sweat dripped from strands of hair stuck to his forehead.
I stopped twisting for a moment to show them that I was not a sadist.
“Anything you want to tell me?” I asked.
Through terror-filled eyes, the two exchanged a meaningful glance. It felt to me like there was something to the silent communication. Perhaps it was just some sort of non-verbal encouragement, but I couldn’t have that. I decided right then that the two of them needed to be separated, so I stood up, dropping the woman’s foot and glared at the guy. She let out a muffled howl when I pushed myself up off her foot.
I walked a few steps and opened the door to the darkened gym to make sure the blinds were drawn. They were, so I dragged the woman in there by her heels. The sharp implement dangled for a second or two, then fel
l out on the floor. A steam of blood began to flow, so I grabbed the duct tape to cover the wound and slow it down. While I was at it, I used an excessive amount of tape to strap her ankles together. I rolled her onto her stomach, pulled her legs back, and used even more duct tape to hog tie her. Any movement of her arms or legs would put pressure on her windpipe. If she struggled to get loose, she would likely strangle herself.
When I returned to the back room, I could see the abject fear in the guy’s eyes. He tried to hide it, but it was there. Sunny gave me a nonverbal que and stepped toward her. I had left the door open on purpose. I wanted her to hear what was going on. I had also positioned her just so, allowing her to get a look at the table full of implements, but not at her comrade.
“Trying to be brave, are you?” I said. “Let me remind you, there is no sense in withholding information from me now. The best you can hope for is a quick end.” I studied his face for any hint of comprehension. This message had to resonate, but it hadn’t yet hit its mark, so I continued. As I spoke, I pulled another sharp instrument off the table, deliberate in my movements as I twirled it in my hand. Sunny shook his head at me, so I set it down. I moved to the drill and picked out one of the long bits used to counter-sink screws into wood. The bit had a tip that protruded from the end, then broadened slightly, exposing a fiendish, razor-like cowling edge. I secured the bit into the chuck and squeezed the trigger. A gratifying mechanical whirr emitted as I hefted the power tool in my hand, feeling its weight and balance.
