Clean Cut Kid (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 1)

by Micheal Maxwell

  The revolving doors into the terminal seemed to never stop turning. Inside, the cavernous building echoed with the voices of what seemed like a million travelers. Logan felt completely alone.

  “You look lost.”

  He turned to face the smile of a pretty girl with bobbed strawberry blonde hair and a delightful spray of freckles across her nose and checks. She wore a dress with big yellow sunflowers that hung like a sack. Over it, she wore a sweater that looked like it was woven out of llama wool by a tribe high in the Andes. On her feet were heavy hiking boots that exposed heavy red wool socks rolled down at their tops. Hanging from thick straps across her shoulders was a backpack that looked to weigh as much as she did.

  “Is it that obvious?” Smiling shyly.

  “Where ya goin’?” she asked.

  “Barcelona. You?”

  “Turkey.”

  “Is that safe?” Logan asked without thinking.

  “Safer than Chicago, Portland, or Seattle,” She responded brightly.

  “Point taken. I’m on United flight 413.”

  They stood looking at the huge board that constantly rotated arrivals, and departures in an unending digital waterfall.

  “There it is!” The girl squealed with delight. “Gate 38B.”

  “You make it look so easy.” Logan smiled.

  “Eighty-six countries and counting.”

  “That’s amazing. This is my first trip to Europe.”

  “A virgin! Have you been to Asia or Africa? Australia, South America?

  “Nope. I’ve only been on a plane twice. Just to college and here.” Logan shrugged. He realized his cover story was so well-rehearsed and memorized he automatically told the girl he flew to his college. Logan smiled.

  “Ahh, that’s so wonderful. I kind of envy you. I would love to start from the very beginning and do it all again. Well, good luck!” With a dazzling smile and a cute turn of her head, she was gone.

  He watched her backpack bounce gently on her hips, and as she made her way through the airport, he wished he was going to Turkey too. Not this time he thought.

  The security gate proved to be as annoying as he imagined from his reading. Taking off his belt and shoes was a ridiculous waste of time and effort. He was randomly chosen to get a pat-down. The TSA agent’s breath could have peeled paint. He barely touched him. I could have a ceramic knife taped to my chest he thought. As he sat putting his shoes back on, Logan watched as an old lady with a walker was sent through the scanner a second time.

  “I told you I have a metal hip!” The woman scolded. “Do you not listen?”

  Logan put the strap of his satchel over his head and threaded his belt through the loops as he scurried toward his gate. He arrived at a nearly empty waiting area. Taking a seat, he looked around for a clock. Behind the counter was a sign for gates A and B and a digital clock in-between. His flight wasn’t for two more hours.

  When the final boarding call came Logan was more than ready. He approached the loading ramp and handed his Canadian passport to the man at the gate. He scanned it and said, “Enjoy Barcelona.”

  Without realizing it Logan squeezed his bag a little tighter to his side. In eight hours, Canadian Gary Olsen would be no more and Jean-Luc Sejour the Frenchman would be born.

  As he crossed the threshold into the cabin of the plane the stewardess smiled and said, “Mr. Olsen?”

  For a moment Logan must have looked like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck. He mentally practiced answering to Jean-Luc for hours. Gary Olsen was almost an afterthought in his planning.

  “I’m sorry. Yes?” He finally responded.

  “There’s been a bit of a mix-up. You’re Olsen with an ‘en’ right?”

  “Yes.” He answered hesitantly “Am I on the wrong plane?”

  “No, no.” The flight attendant giggled. “You’re in business class. This is for Economy. Here.” She reached out and took his boarding pass. “This one’s not yours. See Olson, with an ‘on’.”

  “My lucky day,” Logan said with a relieved smile.

  “Your lucky day,” the flight attendant repeated. “This way.”

  The seat was roomy and comfortable. No one was sitting beside him and Logan lifted the armrest. He looked at his watch, nearly seven-thirty. He was beginning to feel the length of the day. The take-off was smooth, and the plane leveled out. The flight attendant offered champagne; Logan passed. He brought up the inflight movie selection. He picked a crime drama and made it nearly twenty minutes into it before he closed his burning eyes.

  “Good Morning, this is your captain. We will be landing in Barcelona shortly. Please make sure your seat is in the upright position and your electronic devices are turned off and stowed in the seat in front of you.”

  “I hope you had a good rest.” The flight attendant smiled cheerfully.

  “I seem to have missed the movie,” Logan returned her smile.

  “Several. I hope you don’t mind I took the liberty of unplugging your headphones.”

  “Not at all.”

  She turned and took a seat and belted in. The landing was a jolt. It seemed the speed would never reduce. Logan wasn’t sure if it was normal or not, but he didn’t like it.

  The baggage claim conveyer belt groaned and squeaked a bit as it made its way around for the third time without Logan’s bags.

  “We need to leave.”

  The voice behind Logan was firm but not unfriendly. He ignored it as he leaned forward to spot his bags.

  “I’ve got your bags, Jean-Luc.”

  Logan turned, perhaps a little too quickly to find a pretty young woman of his age standing behind him with a luggage cart. There was something very familiar about her. Was she from one of his training classes? No, farther back, he thought.

  He looked into her eyes for a long moment. Recognition came in the form of a memory. She was the girl in the diner at the university. She was with the two Muslim girls the day Travis took on the bullies. She was Agency?

  As she leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek she whispered, “Hello, Logan.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The sun beat down on the pressure-washed gray concrete outside the hotel. A crew came by early in the morning. Logan first heard them at about 4:00 AM local time. They blasted the sidewalk outside of the hotel with diesel-power washers before moving to the next building. It was all for show. This section of Pyongyang was reserved for foreign delegations and diplomats. That meant that the average citizens of North Korea weren’t allowed there anyway. Nobody much cared to visit North Korea. So, it was nearly empty at all times.

  Logan stepped out onto the pressure-washed concrete and adjusted the collar on his suit. He’d spent all morning reading the rest of the briefing books that he didn’t manage to finish on the plane. The last chapter was just statistics on a cargo airplane from the 1950s.

  He should have opted for a lighter colored suit. The temperature was already starting to climb, and it was only eight AM. Sydney Firenca pushed her way through the revolving doors at the hotel. She wore a business skirt and a loose top. She looked decidedly more comfortable than Logan. Women might face significantly more pressure about their appearance, but at least they get comfortable options. If you’re a man and it’s not good suit weather, then too bad, you’re just going to be uncomfortable.

  She fanned herself with her hand as she walked up. “Bonjour, Jean Luc.” She liked Logan’s alias Jean Luc Sejour. Sydney knew his real name. She remembered him from a dust-up he and Titus had a few years ago in a diner. But she was going to maintain his cover. If an agent was going to maintain a false identity, it was best to maintain it all the time. It couldn’t be like a mask that he put on and off. It had to be real. Even the best agents would slip up that way. The safest option was to maintain the fiction twenty-four hours a day.

  Jean Luc shaded his eyes with his hands to study the empty street. “Bonjour. What do I call you?”

  “En français s’il vous plaît. Je ne p
arle pas anglais,” she responded. In French, please. I don’t speak English.

  Jean Luc groaned and rolled his eyes. She was right, though. They must keep up the fiction at all times. “Quel est votre nom, madame?” What is your name, ma’am?

  “Marion,” she replied.

  Before he could speak again, the revolving door spun. A pair of French security officers in black suits pushed their way through the doors first. Jean Luc studied them and determined they weren’t very high level. He didn’t know exactly what delegation he was traveling with but if this was their level of security, they must not be very high ranking. The first security guard wore his black hair slicked back. His suit fit pretty well, but the coat didn’t hide his pistol. He chose a suit with a single vent at the back—a single vertical slit up the back of the coat. That meant that one side of his coat fell a little shorter than the other. It was only an inch or two difference, but Jean Luc spotted it. If he spotted it, a good North Korean spy could as well.

  The second security guard sported a shaved head. That was a good idea for covert ops; it minimized the chances of leaving behind DNA evidence. It could be noticeable though. People remembered a cleanly shaved head. The best covert operatives were middle-aged white men with a slight beer belly and a cul-de-sac. Nobody remembered an average-looking white guy.

  So, the French weren’t bringing their A-team. That could mean he wasn’t in much danger and they didn’t think they needed the best of the best. Alternately, it could mean they were underprepared and he was in some serious danger. He’d have to stay focused.

  Juliette Verlay came through the revolving door in a pencil skirt and a black suit coat. Her hair looked like a perfect helmet placed on her head—short and efficient, while still being stylish. Officially, she was a deputy minister in the Ministry of Europe and Foreign Affairs in France. Jean Luc studied her file while he was on the plane over, back when he was still Logan. Hers was some menial job in the ministry, but it was just cover. She was a spy.

  As she walked out of the door flanked by her security, Jean Luc looked her over. She wore a pair of stiletto heels with her pencil skirt. It all looked very professional, but how could she ever run in that? She was sacrificing martial efficiency for style. Male spies didn’t make that sacrifice very often.

  Jean Luc studied Juliette’s legs in her shimmery stockings. Then again, it could be an effective distraction.

  “Bonjour,” she said. “Je Suis Juliette Verlay. Ravi de vous rencontrer.” Hello, I’m Juliette Verlay. Nice to meet you.

  Jean Luc responded the same. They shook hands and about the same time, a town car pulled up. The car was apparently made by a company called Zunma. That was according to Juliette Verlay’s security guards who ran their mouths constantly. The car was just a Hyundai but it was built in North Korea and sold under a different name. North Korea didn’t produce much on its own. The fake Hyundai town car pulled away from the curb. The North Korean driver said nothing as they drove. He didn’t even look back. He kept his eyes glued to the road as they made their way through empty streets.

  He was way more focused on the road than he needed to be. There were no other cars on the street. Juliette said that the Pyongyang streets felt like Disneyland Paris. The buildings were half-constructed mockeries of real buildings. You walked into the building at Disneyland that said “Bank” and you could be anywhere. Then when the park closed, the employees swept it clean and it sat empty until the new guests came the next day. It was a good analogy.

  Buildings they passed were labeled in Korean. The signs said, “People’s Bank” or “People’s Groceries” but there was no one in them. They were just empty buildings with pretty faces. The showcase section of Pyongyang was a party after all the guests went home for the night.

  Finally, after ten minutes or so, they encountered some traffic. A series of drab green Army trucks trundled through an intersection. The driver of the limousine sat with his back straight and waited for the trucks to pass. Each truck flew the North Korean flag as if some bystander might forget where they were. The last Army truck rumbled passed, and they started on their way again.

  In contrast to the empty Disneyland, this area was a swarm of activity. The limousine pulled onto a street that suddenly bustled with activity. People from all over the world darted back and forth from building to building carrying briefcases or talking on their phones.

  Jean Luc noticed a few black people walking out of one of the glass and steel skyscrapers, headed for a restaurant of some kind. He thought back to the briefing books he’d read on the plane over. He knew Ethiopia maintained diplomatic relations with North Korea. The black men could have been Ethiopian.

  The car pulled up to a concrete and glass building flying the South African flag. The South Africans would be their go-betweens to the North Koreans since France had no diplomatic relations with the Hermit Kingdom.

  Maybe I’ll find out what the hell we’re doing here, Jean Luc thought.

  * * *

  The North Koreans made them wait. It was a pretty common diplomatic tactic. The North Koreans brought them into a boardroom with plastic folding chairs arranged around a polished oak table long enough to fill the entire room. The plastic chairs looked like they would be more appropriate for a cookout on the patio. They were hard, squeaky, and uncomfortable. Juliette Verlay, Jean Luc, and Sydney folded themselves up to sit on the lawn chairs. The two security guards—Baldy and Slick—stood watch by the door.

  Then, the waiting started. They sat quietly for probably the first thirty minutes, just waiting for the North Koreans to show up. Jean Luc still didn’t know what the heck they were doing in Pyongyang. His mission was just to “gather intelligence”, but on what?

  After maybe a half-hour, Juliette said, “So, do you know a lot about cargo planes?” She said it in French and Jean Luc was feeling pretty confident that he wasn’t automatically translating it into English in his head. After only a few hours, he was starting to think in French. That would make him quicker on his feet.

  It was bizarre to ask about cargo planes out of nowhere. Either they were in Pyongyang on some kind of cargo plane mission—at least that was the cover—or she was bluffing. He looked to Sydney. She nodded just barely; it was so slight that no one else in the room even noticed the look or the response.

  Jean Luc responded, in French, “I’ve been on several planes. I even took a plane here. So, I’m something of an expert.”

  Juliette smiled politely. Then, she said, “I’m just wondering why they sent you on this diplomatic mission.”

  Sydney leaned forward and said, “Please forgive my associate. He jokes too much. We are members of the Belgian Air Component. We operate the C-130 Hercules cargo aircraft for the Air Force. We are here because we hope to secure a less expensive cargo plane that does not require the permission of the Americans.”

  Juliette smiled and nodded as she leaned back. That answer seemed to satisfy her. “And you are pretending to be French because you believe it brings you more power. Yes, of course.” She said it with so much distinctly French arrogance that Jean Luc wanted to vomit. She just needed a skinny cigarette in a long cigarette holder to complete the look.

  Jean Luc took stock of the series of lies. An actual operation had levels of lies, and he needed to keep them all straight. He was an American named Logan who worked for a nameless agency, pretending to be a Belgian named Jean Luc who worked for the Belgian air force, who was pretending to be a Frenchman named Jean Luc who worked with a French diplomat. On top of all of that, the French diplomat was a spy.

  They went back to silence for a while. Out of nowhere, Juliette swung her head around and said, “How many pallets does a C-130 hold?”

  She’s testing me, Jean Luc thought. Luckily, he’d memorized the briefing books. “463L pallets? Six. Five in the body and one on the ramp.”

  Juliette shook her head. “Incorrect. It holds eight.”

  Jean Luc sat upright. “The C-130 Hercules holds six pall
ets. The maximum weight of pallet positions one through four is 10,355 pounds. The maximum weight of pallet position five is 8,500 pounds. The maximum weight of pallet position six is 4,664 pounds. Maximum height of positions one through five is 96 inches. The maximum height of pallet position six is 76 inches. You’re thinking of a C-130 Super Hercules. That’s a different plane. Are we done with the tests?”

  Juliette shrugged and sat back in her chair. Sydney smiled. Jean Luc quietly let out a slow breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding. It was a stroke of good luck that he’d read the C-130H cargo plane specifications.

  He was starting to put together what was happening. If he was here to “gather intelligence” and he was pretending to be a cargo plane technician, he must have been gathering intelligence on cargo planes. Now, the question was, was he spying on the North Koreans or the French?

  The door opened, and a woman walked in. She was a tiny woman with a round face and her black hair pulled in a bun. She wore a black business suit with square-heeled shoes. Jean Luc ran his eyes over her for a second. Square-heeled shoes. She wants to be formal but she wants to be able to move easily. Loose black skirt. It’s business appropriate but she could probably run in it. She wore a wedding ring on her left hand but accessories were someone’s way of self-expression. She had no accessories; not even a hair tie or a simple bracelet. She was a complete company woman.

  Another woman came in who looked almost the exactly same. She wore the same suit as if it were a uniform. However, her’s was a slender face with her lips pressed together in a tight line. The first woman, with the round face, shrank away from her a little bit.

  Okay. Slender Face is the one in charge.

  The first woman set her briefcase on the desk.