Bloody Sunday

by Ben Coes

  “You were supposed to be in my office fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Chill out.”

  “You think this is some sort of joke?” said Yao.

  “Who do you work for?” said Dewey. “If it’s us then fuck you, Yao. Get me inside.”

  Yao exhaled with an exasperated sigh, but said nothing.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” said Dewey, quieting down. “I was attacked in the bathroom off the lobby. If you don’t believe me, there are two bodies in there. You’re going to need a cleanup crew.”

  Yao’s mouth went slightly ajar. He leaned back and whispered something in Mandarin to the limo driver, who climbed out of the vehicle and moved quickly toward the hotel.

  “Who was it?”

  “Iranians.”

  Yao nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Why the bar?” said Yao.

  “I needed a drink. Now if it’s okay with you, can we get going?”

  “Fine, just a couple things. As you’re standing in front of the table—dealing—the needle is sticking forward, toward where he will be sitting. The gun is to the right. It’s chambered, no safety, suppressor.”

  “Fine.”

  Yao nodded. “You should know,” he said, “Yong-sik is a big man.”

  “How big?”

  “Not as big as you, but nearly. He won’t go down without a fight.”

  Dewey grinned.

  “Thanks for the heads-up, now can we get moving?”

  * * *

  “Yong-sik will bet upwards of a million dollars a hand,” said Yao, leading Dewey back inside the hotel. “Some people think he counts cards. He’s made and lost tens of millions of dollars at the Mandarin. Right now, his house account is up by more than eleven million dollars.”

  Near the elevators, Dewey and Yao were met by a pair of security men from the casino, dressed in dark business suits, one of whom held a large steel briefcase. Inside were two card shuffling machines, several new decks of cards, and $20 million in chips, already paid for by the People’s Republic of North Korea.

  “They’ll take you,” said Yao. “By the way, the suite is soundproof.”

  Dewey nodded and climbed aboard the elevator with the two security men. One of the men slid a thick metal card into the elevator console, then pressed PH. The elevator moved silently up toward the top floor. When the doors opened a minute later, they moved left, toward the end of the carpeted, dimly lit hall. They arrived at the Presidential Suite. Four men were standing guard outside the large mahogany double doors. They were dressed in military attire—light khaki—and each man wore a black beret and clutched a submachine gun.

  They were North Korean Special Forces soldiers, positioned outside Yong-sik’s suite of rooms.

  Dewey stayed behind the casino security men.

  One of the North Koreans—a short, wiry man in his thirties with a thin mustache—stepped forward, holding his hand up to greet one of the hotel security men.

  “Lùjūn shàngxiào,” said a hotel security man, speaking in Mandarin. “Huānyíng huí dào guóyǔ jiǔdiàn.”

  Colonel Pak. Welcome back to the Mandarin.

  “Who’s he?” said Pak. “I’ve never seen him before.”

  One of the hotel security guards nodded toward Dewey. “This is Pablo. He’s been working in Monte Carlo for several years. As you requested, he speaks neither Mandarin or Korean.”

  The four North Korean soldiers all looked suspiciously at Dewey, scanning him from head to toe with a skeptical look. Colonel Pak started speaking in Korean, asking Dewey a question.

  “He’s Spanish,” said the hotel security man. “He speaks Spanish and a little bit of English, that’s all.”

  “Where in Spain are you from?” said the North Korean, his English perfect but heavily accented in staccato Korean.

  “Sevilla,” said Dewey.

  “Where?” Pak persisted.

  “Montequinto,” said Dewey.

  Pak continued to stare at Dewey.

  “Your jacket, very dirty.”

  Dewey nodded.

  “I work all day, sir,” said Dewey with a slight Spanish accent. “My apologies.”

  Finally, Pak nodded, saying nothing. He turned to one of the other North Korean agents, who stepped forward and patted Dewey down, looking for a weapon.

  One of the other North Koreans knocked on the door. After waiting a few seconds, he opened it.

  “General Yong-sik,” the man said in Korean as he peered cautiously inside, “the card dealer from the casino is here.”

  “Send him in,” came a distant voice from inside the suite.

  As three of the gunmen remained in the hall, the senior North Korean, Colonel Pak, led Dewey and the others into the massive Presidential Suite.

  Behind the double doors was a gilded entrance area, with a beautiful red Oriental carpet, a large, gold-framed mirror on the wall, and a stunning Murano glass chandelier—colored a light orange—hanging from the ceiling. Beyond was a larger open living room.

  A blackjack table was in the middle of the room.

  The suite occupied the entire corner of the hotel’s penthouse floor. The outer walls were all glass. The suite was luxurious, even exotic, with curving modern sofas in plush material and comfortable-looking club chairs arranged around various tables of thick glass. Those walls not made of glass were covered in ornate wallpaper decorated with green and blue bamboo trees.

  Yong-sik had the lights low. Macau sparkled through the windows, the lights of the city’s skyline like a wall of stars.

  One of the Mandarin security guards placed the steel briefcase on the blackjack table and opened it. He started setting up the table.

  Dewey stood behind him, looking around for Yong-sik, but seeing no one. He became aware of music playing softly over speakers in the large room. It sounded like a guitar playing high notes accompanied by a female singing in a language he didn’t understand.

  The card table was six feet long, four feet wide, with a half circle cut out for the dealer to stand. The security man stacked the chips neatly on the table along with the two shuffling machines and several decks of cards.

  One of the casino men looked at Dewey, nodding. Then both men left as Dewey remained standing still just inside the living room.

  Suddenly, Dewey heard Yong-sik’s voice coming from another room. He was speaking Korean.

  The North Korean agent stepped to Dewey, still not trusting him and afraid he might eavesdrop.

  “Water?” said the North Korean, in English.

  Dewey shook his head.

  Yong-sik entered through a door on the far side of the room, pocketing a cell phone. He was taller than Dewey expected, six-foot-two or three. He was thin but clearly in good shape—muscular, with the gait of a fighter. He was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt and khakis. From the file, Dewey knew Yong-sik was in his fifties, but he looked younger. He stared at Dewey, analyzing him. His eyes were black and calculating. Dewey felt a slight tinge of uneasiness.

  He clutched a champagne glass in his hand. He crossed the room and stood before Dewey. He scanned him up and down, just as Dewey would expect a man who’d spent his life in the military to do. Dewey remained quiet, his eyes emotionless and calm, looking beyond Yong-sik.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Pablo.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Spain,” Dewey said, with a Spanish accent. “Recently, Monaco.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Yong-sik. “I would like very much to go to Monaco.”

  “It is nice,” said Dewey, nodding politely and avoiding eye contact.

  Dewey caught Colonel Pak in his peripheral vision. He was watching Dewey carefully, alternating between staring at Dewey and looking at Yong-sik, who looked back. They were assessing Dewey. Was he a card dealer? Was he an American spy? A British spy? An Israeli spy? It was a question they had to ask themselves every time they stepped foot out of North Korea.

  “May I see some ide
ntification?” said Yong-sik.

  Dewey reached into his back pocket and produced his wallet, handing it to Yong-sik as if he had nothing to hide.

  Pak joined Yong-sik, standing next to him and parsing through Dewey’s wallet. Yong-sik removed a laminated work visa, worn at the edges, showing that Pablo Rios, born in Sevilla, Spain, was a Spanish resident. He held the card up next to Dewey, comparing the photo of the man on the plastic card with Dewey. Yong-sik put the card back in the wallet and handed it to Dewey.

  “Precautions,” said Yong-sik with a malevolent grin. He looked at Pak and brushed the air, sending him away. Colonel Pak turned and walked to the suite doors, exiting and shutting the doors. Dewey and Yong-sik were now alone.

  Yong-sik looked at Dewey.

  “Let’s play some cards, yes?”

  Dewey nodded without emotion.

  He stepped to the table as Yong-sik went to the bar, pouring himself a large glass full of vodka.

  Dewey moved to the card table and picked up a deck of cards. It was wrapped in plastic. He waited for Yong-sik to return to the table with his cocktail. After he sat down, Dewey presented him the unopened deck to inspect. Yong-sik brushed the air, indicating the gesture was unnecessary.

  “I’ve been to the hotel many times,” said Yong-sik. “There is no need.”

  Dewey fed the first deck into the card shuffling machine, running his hand along the underside of the table, trying to avoid the needle. He felt the long thin plastic of the syringe containing the poison, held to the table with a small piece of double-sided tape. He moved his hand left and felt the butt of the pistol, also stuck to the underside of the table.

  Dewey did not make eye contact but instead continued to watch the electric shuffler as it moved cards frenetically through the machine.

  He didn’t want to waste time. There was good timing and bad timing in all operations, but knowing the right moment to move on a target was less about experience and more about luck. For whatever reason, Dewey continued to feel a sense of unease. Moreover, he was still flustered from what happened in the lobby of the hotel. First, Paria, then being tricked by Yao’s female agents. Both situations had worked out, but either could’ve gone sideways. Dewey didn’t feel lucky. He wanted to get out of Macau as soon as possible.…

  As Yong-sik lifted the glass of vodka to his mouth one more time, Dewey reached beneath the table and grabbed the pistol. He swept the gun above the table and trained it on Yong-sik, holding him in the firing line of the vasiform suppressor. With his other hand, he removed the syringe from beneath the card table and slowly raised it, placing his thumb atop the plunger—the needle extended like a dagger. He kept the gun aimed at Yong-sik, saying nothing.

  Calmly, the general looked up at Dewey, not flinching. Yong-sik raised his hands, indicating he was not going to fight.

  “I’m not here to kill you,” said Dewey, his Spanish accent now gone. “But if you want to live you need to do exactly what I say—”

  “Central Intelligence Agency?” said Yong-sik. “And what is in the needle?”

  “Poison,” said Dewey. “You’ll have twenty-four hours to do what we ask. Although if it was me I’d try and get it done sooner. Apparently the last few hours aren’t much fun. The first hour sucks, too. You’ll spike a fever. That’s how we teach you we know what we’re doing. You go back to Pyongyang, do exactly what we tell you to do, we tell you where the antidote is.”

  “Clever,” said Yong-sik, nodding respectfully. “So let me guess, you want me to kill Kim?” Yong-sik paused. “I will not. Go ahead and shoot me. He is my leader and my God.”

  “Why was Paria here?” said Dewey, who took a half step backwards. He needed to move around the side of the table to hit Yong-sik with the needle.

  Yong-sik remained seated, watching Dewey as Dewey moved slowly to his right—

  Suddenly, Yong-sik kicked out into one of the legs on the underside of the table. It was a brutally hard kick and the table flew violently into Dewey’s waist, knocking him back. Yong-sik’s abrupt move caught Dewey off guard. Less than a second later, Yong-sik kicked the table again, this time sending Dewey tumbling back. He lost his balance, falling sideways and landing on his right arm. He felt a sting as the needle stabbed into his chest during the fall. Dewey rolled to his back, clutching the gun in his left hand. He pulled the needle from his chest, registering the plunger. He hadn’t pressed it in. He swept the gun toward Yong-sik, who was already leaping over the card table. Yong-sik’s feet touched the tabletop and he caught air, left foot and fist extended as he pounced. Before Dewey had time to react, Yong-sik landed on Dewey’s torso and lunged down at Dewey’s head, his right fist slashing down at Dewey’s neck. All of it happened in the silent half second after Dewey hit the ground, and Dewey knew he was now on the defensive. Yong-sik’s fist slammed into his neck. A second fist, from Yong-sik’s other hand, followed. Dewey twisted right as a third strike from Yong-sik cut the air. His fist hit the carpet next to Dewey’s head. Dewey swung the needle up at Yong-sik, but Yong-sik slammed his foot down on Dewey’s elbow, trying to break it, sending a painful electric jolt through Dewey’s body. The syringe went flying from Dewey’s hand. Dewey watched the needle roll along the carpet, as if in slow motion.

  Dewey understood the signs. The operation was heading sideways and he knew what that meant, what he had to do.

  Cut your losses.

  He’d moved too soon. He should’ve let him drink more. He …

  It doesn’t matter. Get out of here before he …

  If he couldn’t poison Yong-sik, he at least needed to kill him.

  Dewey swept the pistol and fired twice in rapid succession. Two dull thuds—thwap thwap—hit the air, but Yong-sik had again moved too fast for Dewey. The slugs hit the ceiling as Yong-sik blocked the sweep of Dewey’s arm with his left foot, following it with a vicious kick to Dewey’s chin. As Yong-sik reached to wrest the pistol from Dewey’s hand, Dewey had no choice but to hurl the gun away from them both, across the room, just as Yong-sik grabbed Dewey’s forearm, wrestling him, twisting his wrist. Struggling to catch his breath, Dewey punched Yong-sik in the side of his ribs, once, twice, three times, as he tried to extricate his other arm from Yong-sik’s clutch. After a fourth punch to the North Korean’s exposed torso, Yong-sik let go. Dewey wrapped his arm beneath Yong-sik’s armpit and ripped backwards, hurling Yong-sik a few feet in the air. He landed on his back and was up in no time. But Dewey used the split second to crab toward the pistol. He grabbed it and swung it in Yong-sik’s direction, again acquiring the North Korean in the firing line of the suppressor.

  Yong-sik’s face was flushed with anger, though with a confident sneer.

  The room was soundproof. Maybe Yong-sik knew that—but Dewey doubted it. Either way, he hadn’t even attempted to call out to the soldiers outside. As Dewey’s eyes met the general’s, he understood why. His face showed hatred and confidence; he wanted to kill Dewey on his own. He was enjoying himself. Now that Dewey held him in the aim of the pistol, the North Korean didn’t say a word.

  But by not firing immediately now that Dewey had him, Yong-sik also understood full well how badly Dewey wanted something.

  From the ground, on his back, gun trained on Yong-sik, Dewey fought to catch his breath.

  The North Korean had knowledge of a type of martial arts Dewey wasn’t familiar with. Which meant he was a true student; it meant any more face-to-face combat with Yong-sik was likely going to be a losing proposition.

  Yong-sik took a deliberate step toward Dewey.

  “Not another step,” said Dewey.

  Yong-sik’s eyes moved to the syringe. Dewey’s followed him there. The syringe was six or seven feet to Dewey’s left, lying on the beige carpet.

  Yong-sik took a step toward the syringe.

  “I said don’t move.”

  “If you were going to kill me you would’ve,” said Yong-sik. “You need something.”

  Slowly, Dewey stood, gun aimed at Yong-sik.r />
  “You’re right,” said Dewey, stepping slowly to his left, toward the syringe.

  “And what is it you want? Perhaps I’ll give it to you without all this fighting and needles.”

  “All North Korean military plans,” said Dewey. “Nuclear capabilities, locations, everything.”

  Yong-sik laughed as he took another step toward Dewey.

  “And why would I give you that?” he asked. Yong-sik pointed at the syringe. “If I don’t you’ll poison me? Do you think I have all the plans right here? And why would I—”

  Dewey glanced at the needle—and in that flash of a moment felt the hard force of Yong-sik’s bare foot hitting him with a brutal kick in the neck. His head snapped back. His neck muscles could barely stop the jolting kick, a death strike intended to kill Dewey. Dewey went flying backwards, as if he’d been kicked by a mule. The gun fell from his hand and slid …

  Dewey clutched his throat as he hit the carpet. He couldn’t breathe. Instinctively, he turned to see Yong-sik charging for the pistol. Dewey didn’t bother getting to his feet. He saw Yong-sik running for the gun and he scrambled, knowing Yong-sik was closer to the weapon and that if he didn’t stop him he’d be dead in seconds.

  Yong-sik reached the gun, grabbing it and sweeping it toward Dewey just as Dewey lunged. Yong-sik fired; a dull, metallic thwack echoed inside the palatial suite. But the shot missed. Dewey’s hands found Yong-sik—he grabbed his midsection, tackling him, slamming him down on his back, sending the gun spiraling toward the corner of the room. Dewey grabbed Yong-sik’s right wrist and twisted hard—trying to break the North Korean’s arm at the elbow. But Yong-sik had already grabbed Dewey by the neck, wrapping his arms around Dewey’s neck, interlocking his arms—all in a blurry moment—and suddenly had Dewey in a death hold. Dewey struggled to get out of it but it was futile, and he lost access to oxygen within seconds. He tried to use his body weight, but every lurch he made, trying to slam Yong-sik backwards as he clutched his neck, was a waste of time. Yong-sik anticipated everything. He was on Dewey’s back, on the ground, holding Dewey’s neck and trying to kill him.