"Why do you want to see my boss?" he said coldly, his face expressionless.
"I want to ask him about another man," Burke said.
Bigfoot shoved the chair back in place and said, "Come with me."
Burke followed him out to the parking lot and over to a black Mercedes Benz, where a younger, more trim Chinese stood. Bigfoot ordered him to spread eagle against the car and patted him down. As Burke straightened up, he was hit with a sudden shock. His wrists were seized behind his back and handcuffed together.
"What the hell?" Burke blurted.
He was caught by a backhanded slap across the face that stung as if he had encountered a wasp. "Shut up! You were sent here by the Narcotics Suppression Center. Why?"
"You're crazy," Burke said in angry voice. "I only wanted to talk to Mr. Ahn about his father."
He was suddenly confronted with the business end of a 9mm Walther semiautomatic.
"Farang liar," said the big man. "If you do not come from the police, you must be a Kuomintang spy or a communist agent."
Burke had the unhappy feeling of a soldier caught in the crossfire between four competing forces. There was the Shan network, represented by these thugs; the Thailand National Police Department, which had been making headway against the drug trade, though too many influential officials still stood in the way; the remnants of Chiang Kai-Shek's defeated forces chased out of mainland China by Mao and ousted from the opium trade by the Shan; and the Burmese communists, who had turned to narcotics for funds when Beijing became an unreliable source. He had to convince them that he wasn't a combatant.
"Look," he said earnestly, "I don't give a damn about your opium or your heroin. My business with Ahn is something entirely different. Would I have come here alone, unarmed, if I was involved with one of these other groups? I'd have had my own army standing by."
The younger man said something in what Burke presumed to be Thai. Then Bigfoot jerked open the rear door and said, "Get in."
Burke obeyed and found himself sharing the back seat with the burly Chinese. Where were they taking him, he wondered? And what did they plan to do? He hadn't counted on this kind of reception. He knew there was a possibility the drug kingpin would doubt his motives, but he was prepared to reveal enough to justify his request. Now he wondered if he would even get to see Ahn Pom-yun. These two were obviously not out to do their good deeds for the day.
They drove across town and out the road toward Doi Suthep. Before reaching the foot of the mountain, the car swerved off the road and through a gate in a white wooden fence. Moving quickly back between lines of palm trees, the car glided to a stop beside a large, two-story white house with a gently sloping roof. Above about waist high, the walls appeared almost solid windows, a succession of tall, narrow panes. Burke was led into a parlor furnished with dark, lustrous teak wood furniture.
A man of medium height with obvious Korean features came into the room. He wore a black, pajama-like outfit with a large black sash at the waist. Dressed as he was, he might have been a Taekwondo master, but he didn't appear particularly menacing. What he did have was a certain presence, an unstated distinction that said this man was "somebody" to be reckoned with. "Gentlemen," he said, "please remove our guest's shackles."
Bigfoot unlocked the cuffs and Burke slowly rubbed his wrists where they had been binding.
"My assistants tend to be a bit over-protective at times, though not without good reason," said the Korean with a smile. "Please overlook their heavy-handedness. You are Mr. Burke Hill, I believe. I am Ahn Pom-yun. Please sit down."
Burke took a chair facing his host. "Your men seemed to think I had something to do with the police, or with some rival narcotics group," he said. "I can assure you I have no connection to any of them."
"I'm not sure what you mean by a rival narcotics group, Mr. Hill. I am in the import-export business."
And I sell words by the pound, Burke said to himself. "Your business is really no concern of mine. I work for an American public relations firm with an office in Seoul. I flew into Chiangmai today hoping to talk with Ahn Wi-jong, your father."
"There have been others from Seoul here in search of my father," said Ahn. "Unfortunately, they did not wish him well. Why do you wish to speak with him?"
"I'm a bit surprised to hear somebody else was looking for him. Would they have been connected with the current South Korean government?"
"Most likely. But you haven't answered my question."
"I learned from an old soldier in Pyongyang that your father was a partisan fighting the Japanese in Manchuria during World War II. He said that during the latter part of the war, your father was part of a guerrilla group inside Korea called Poksu. I want to talk to him about a friend of his who was in that group."
Ahn was frowning. "My father has talked about the war in Manchuria, but I have never heard him mention a Poksu group."
"Why do you think someone is after him now?" Burke asked.
"He has been living in America for the past twenty years. About two months ago, someone shot at him while he was driving down the street in a suburb of Chicago. The police said it was a gangland style shooting. He was lucky they missed. But my father has never been involved in anything to warrant such an attack. He is an accountant who worked in Pusan before emigrating to Canada, and then to the United States."
Burke smiled. "I'm an accountant myself," he said, pulling a business card from his shirt pocket and handing it to Ahn. "And since you brought him to Thailand, someone has pursued him here?"
"About two weeks ago."
"The Coalition for Nuclear Freedom is a client of our firm," Burke told him. "I've been working with them to try and track down a possible conspiracy involving the proliferation of nuclear weapons. We think it involves some faction in the Kwak government. I suspect it's the same people who are looking for your father. I think he could help me track them down. Would you ask him if he'd talk to me?"
Ahn studied him thoughtfully. "You came unarmed. You appear to be alone, and you went about your business quite openly. Perhaps you are what you say you are. I shall make an inquiry. But my father is not here. I can't reach him before morning. I will call and let you know if he is willing to meet with you."
Burke enjoyed a more congenial ride back into the city, although his escorts were sullenly silent. He thought they enjoyed their bullying tactics more than the simple role of chauffeur. It was late when he reached his room at the guest house, and he fell into bed as soon as he undressed. The air had just enough chill for fine sleeping. But his dreams were as troubling as his waking hours. He was riding a giant ferris wheel in an amusement park in Seoul. Ahn Wi-jong sat next to him. Each time they reached the top, Hwang Sang-sol, who occupied the adjacent airplane ride, fired a shot at them. The shots kept coming closer and closer. Despite the cool air in the room, he woke up sweating. It took him awhile to get back to sleep. Like Captain Yun before him, he was now reconciled to the inevitability of a confrontation with the elusive assassin.
Chapter 62
The call came while Burke was shaving. He had just noted the rather haggard look on his face and realized he would have to manage a little more rest somewhere along the way. To start with, he had neglected to take the time difference into account. When he'd gotten to bed at one a.m., it had been three o'clock in Seoul. To make matters worse, he still felt a tad muddled from the lingering jet lag of the long flight across the Pacific. Maybe he could catch a few winks on the flight back to Seoul, he thought.
He gave the troubled reflection in the mirror a wry grin. Hope seemed to be what he was existing on these days. Hope and rice.
"My contacts verify your connection with Worldwide Communications Consultants, Mr. Hill," said the businesslike voice of Ahn Pom-yun.
How had he managed that overnight, Burke wondered? Surely not through anyone in Seoul. Most likely he had a contact in the U.S., where the business day would have been in full swing, making a discreet inquiry relatively simple.
/> "My father has agreed to meet with you," Ahn added.
That served to buoy Burke's spirits, sending a new surge of hope to fire up his lagging confidence. "Hey, that's great. Can I see him this morning?"
"Are you familiar with Wat Prathat Doi Suthep?"
"Sorry." Burke thought a moment, then his map of the area began to come into focus. "Isn't Doi Suthep the big mountain west of town?"
"Yes. The temple is located near the summit. You should be there at nine-thirty. Stand beside the large bell that hangs between two posts at the right side of the courtyard. I'm sure someone at the guest house can give you directions."
Would someone meet him at the temple and take him to another location for the rendezvous with Ahn Wi-jong? He hoped whoever it was proved a bit more hospitable than last night's welcoming committee. But why meet at a remote temple high on a mountain top? He recalled reading that Bhuping Palace, the king's summer residence, was hidden away somewhere in that area. Evidently it was a scenic locale.
Chiangmai nestled on the edge of the hill country, approximately a thousand feet above sea level, giving the morning air a crisp, fresh feel that helped rejuvenate him. As he ate breakfast, he looked across at the tour counter that flanked the restaurant and noted a gathering of trekkers, probably American, late teens and early twenties, some of the boys sporting beards to lend themselves a more rugged look. Heavily-laden backpacks were lined up nearby, awaiting their chance to turn the youths into beasts of burden, little different from the working elephants that could be seen toting teak logs about the mountains to the north and west. A large map behind the counter showed various trails leading toward the borders with Burma and Laos. He wondered if the youthful trekkers' motivation was the scenery, a curiosity about the hill tribes, or a convenient route to experience drugs straight from the source? If it were the latter, they were playing a dangerous game. Thai law decreed death or life imprisonment for possession, manufacture or transportation of more than 100 grams. Death was by firing squad.
Burke had his own trek to worry about and stopped by the registration area to consult a dazzling young beauty with black, shiny hair. Chiangmai was noted for its wealth of pretty girls. When he asked the best way to reach Wat Prathat Doi Suthep, she told him to locate an area just outside the Changpuak Gate where he could hire one of the red song taow, literally "two benches," for the ride up the mountain. These were pickup trucks with open-sided tops and passenger benches on either side.
After about twenty minutes of rocking around the twists and turns, the baht bus finally pulled into a parking area across from the entrance to Wat Prathat. Getting from there to the temple was an equally spectacular trek. It required ascending 290 steps flanked by the undulating forms of naga, or serpentine, balustrades. Dragon-like multiple heads reared up at the base of the stairway. Weekend crowds swarmed up and down the steps as though it were Disneyland in the sky.
He reached the bell a few minutes early and paused to examine the Chinese characters that adorned it.
"Mr. Hill?" inquired a heavily accented voice behind him.
Burke turned to face an old monk in a tattered orange robe, a thin man with knobby elbows. "Yes, I'm Burke Hill," he said.
"Come with me, please," said the monk, and guided him around to a stairway that led down to the lower level. He was escorted into the monastery's living quarters, to a small cubicle where he encountered a short, grizzled, white-haired man with wrinkles around his narrow eyes, as though entertaining the beginnings of a smile. Burke had seen similar looks on white-hatted old men around Seoul, though most of them had sported scraggly gray goatees. This man was clean-shaven.
"I am Ahn Wi-jong," he said, rising from his chair, thrusting out his wrinkled hand. "Late of Chicago. I understand you're from Washington. I've visited there, but never spent much time. More politicians per square mile than any place on earth, so I'm told."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ahn," Burke said, shaking his hand. He noted the lack of harshness in the Midwestern flavor of Ahn's Korean-accented English. He smiled. "I understand you've had some pretty notorious politicians in Chicago."
The old man shrugged. "I think the late Mayor Daley was of a dying breed, Mr. Hill. Won't you have a seat? Tell me about this anti-nuclear crusade you're on."
Although the quarters of the Buddhist monks were quite spare, they had provided the old Korean with a couple of chairs. Burke took the other one and looked across at the weathered face. He appeared to be in good health and mentally sharp. Since Ahn had lived in the States for twenty years, Burke hoped there might be a reservoir of patriotism he could tap into.
"I wouldn't call it an anti-nuclear crusade exactly," he said. "The difficulty is that any new atomic weapons anywhere around the world would increase the threat to America, to Thailand, to every country that's trying to live in peace."
"I understand you think somebody in the government of Kwak Sung-kyo is plotting to develop nuclear weapons."
"That's right, Mr. Ahn. I believe it's this man." Burke pulled a photograph from the large envelope he carried and handed it to Ahn.
The old man's face opened like a morning glory and he grinned broadly, his teeth gleaming with numerous patches of dental work. "Son of a bitch! Where'd you get this?"
"It came from a man in Pyongyang named Chung Woo-keun. You recognize the Young Tiger? The Poksu leader?"
"Hmm, you know about that?" Ahn frowned. "Of course, I recognize the bastard. I spent enough years with him. We agreed to keep our role in Manchuria and with Poksu a secret. As far as I know, neither of us ever told a soul. How did you find out about it?"
"Actually, an officer with the Seoul Metropolitan Police Bureau tracked it down. He's now dead because of it. The same thing happend to a historian at Seoul National University. He received identical information and was murdered. I'm wondering if that attempted ambush in Chicago wasn't part of the same plot? It seems anybody who knows anything about the identity of Young Tiger Lee winds up dead."
Ahn lifted a wrinkled brow. "You look pretty healthy."
"After what happened just before I left Seoul, I don't know how healthy it's going to be for me when I get back."
Ahn looked thoughtful. "I never related the Chicago incident with anything like this. The hoods that came looking for me over here, hell, I thought it was some old grudge from ages ago. I was an accountant in Pusan for several years, did some work for the prosecutor's office. I helped send some pretty powerful guys to prison. But this." He stared at the photograph, then shook his head. "He's capable of it, all right. He's as hard-assed as they come. If he's caught in some shady deal and thinks I might compromise him, he'd do anything to prevent it. What do you want to know?"
"Everything about him," said Burke.
Seoul, South Korea
Chapter 63
It was around eight that evening when two security men at Kimpo International Airport strolled through the international arrivals area as part of their routine patrol. Ostensibly, their job was to provide protection for those who used the airport's facilities. But their main task was to monitor the comings and goings of airline passengers. They were briefed regularly on individuals of particular interest to government agencies, such as known terrorists, foreign intelligence agents, international criminals, troublesome dissidents, and certain people who were identified as being of immediate concern. It was one of the latter who attracted the ever alert eyes of the security man named Seo.
"I have a make," he said to his partner, Kim. "Coming through the gate. The flight from Bangkok."
Kim stopped to make a perfunctory adjustment of his tie and casually glanced toward the gate entrance. "He's on the 'hot sheet,' all right. Do we need to follow him?"
"No," said Seo. "They know where he's going. It's where he's coming from they're interested in."
As Burke Hill headed for the passport control booths, Seo lifted the portable transceiver from his belt and reported his observation.
As soon as he arrived at the Ch
osun, Burke went to a public phone and called Duane Elliston's apartment. He no longer trusted his room phone. "I'm back," he said when Duane answered. "We hit the jackpot this time."
"Any problems?"
"Not of any consequence. But I'm sure it's only a matter of time. I need to brief you and Nate as soon as possible. Can you get a taxi and meet me in front of the hotel in about forty-five minutes? We'll go over to the office."
"Whatever you say," Duane replied.
A bit surprised that Duane sounded so agreeable, Burke stopped to get his room key, then took the elevator up. When he entered his room, he pushed the door all the way open to make sure no one was hidden behind it. He propped a bag against the door before stepping inside to switch on the lights, first in the bedroom, then the bath. Satisfied, he retrieved his bag and latched the door.
He had left a few threads in strategic places, drawers where his clothes were stored and among a stack of books and papers that should not have been disturbed by the maid. Every single thread had been moved. Someone had searched his room. Now he had no doubt that he was a marked man. He put together a few things he needed to take to the office, placed a new telltale thread in the closed door and went back down to the lobby.
With about fifteen minutes to kill before time to meet Duane, he found a seat at one side of the busy lobby and studied the people who milled about. There was a constant stream of assorted humanity heading in and out of the hotel's restaurants and bars, smiles flashing as friends recognized one another. Some chatted animatedly, while others, like himself, sat alone, solitary ships anchored in a bustling harbor. He saw no one with any resemblance to Hwang Sang-sol. But he knew the "Man of a Thousand Faces" would not be easy to spot. He was obviously a pro at this deadly game.
The shock of Seoul's frigid wind had provided a chilling welcome back to the real world after that brief flirtation with Thailand's endless summer. He tightened the scarf about his neck as he strolled out front and found Duane waiting in the taxi. It was only a five-minute ride to the office through the cold starlit night.
The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2) Page 41
