by Oliver North
“With yesterday’s payoff, it would appear as though Park may have an exclusive deal with the North Koreans for distribution of Supernotes in this country. Since Yeong and Park are ostensibly competitors for illegal goods coming into the country, I don’t see any way I can get to Park.”
“The last time I scanned the rules and regs, the CIA wasn’t allowed to operate within the United States,” said Jake.
“Actually we can with the right approvals. I first met Yeong in Hong Kong, where I was hired to be part of his security team after two of his goons just happened to get popped for roughing up a prostitute. In the past month I’ve traveled with Yeong to China, Japan, Macao, Singapore, Kish Island, South Korea, and now here to the U.S. Like you, and all of us working undercover, I have to live my legend. As part of Yeong’s PSD, I couldn’t very well avoid this leg of his world tour. Since he isn’t a U.S. citizen the approval process was relatively simple,” said Gabe, nodding at Wilson, who simply grimaced and said nothing.
Knox interrupted. “Jake, the Director of National Intelligence and the Attorney General have signed off on the paperwork. The appropriate authorities are well aware of the Agency’s involvement in this. Yesterday, given the new urgency to find out about what’s happening with the Supernotes, Headquarters authorized me to call this meeting so all of us from every agency involved in this operation understand our respective roles.”
“So are you still in charge of this investigation?” Jake countered. “Or has the Attorney General made a power play to take over?”
Olivia glared at her recalcitrant UC agent and said, “I’m still in charge . . . at least for the time being.”
“And what’s the game plan—to out me and allow the spooks to continue to march?” Then with sarcasm Jake turned toward Gabe’s partner and asked, “Is your name really Wilson?”
Ignoring Jake’s question, Gabe continued. “Being part of Yeong’s security team doesn’t mean much. Some days he lets me drive. Other days I sit around the office and fetch coffee. I’ve yet to break into Yeong’s inner circle and am not sure I ever will. At this point you may have a better chance of penetrating both Yeong’s and Park’s operations.”
“How’d you get in? Is there another friendly inside Yeong’s organizational structure?”
Wilson finally spoke up. “Look, we’re getting way beyond ‘need-to-know’ here. Gabe was hired for Yeong’s personal security detail in Hong Kong because friends of ours arranged to have a couple of Yeong’s goons arrested. Yeong is an officer of the DPRK Ministry of State Security. He is a graduate of the Kumsong Political Military University in Pyongyang. From what we know, Park has a similar background. Gabe was hired by the Ministry of State Security to fill one of the unexpected vacancies in Yeong’s travel team.”
For a moment Jake said nothing, then turned to Gabe and said, “DPRK Ministry of State Security. So you’re a NOC,” the CIA term for an operative working under non-official cover. Most American intelligence officers work from U.S. diplomatic missions under official cover—with titles like “trade counsel” or “economic advisor”—complete with black passports and diplomatic immunity. NOCs have no such protection. As they say in the business, “You get caught spying with diplomatic immunity you get deported. NOCs who get caught spying get decapitated.”
Gabe smiled. “Yeah, I’m a NOC.”
“And your backstopping is secure?”
Wilson huffed, “This has gone far enough! Our backstops for Gabe are just fine. Your concern is noted. Need I remind you, we’re in the business of creating legends.”
“Thanks for that,” said Jake dryly. Turning back to Gabe, he continued, “We don’t need to know each other’s backstory, but it’s good for us both to know there is another ‘friendly’ downrange if someone starts throwing live ordnance.”
“Right,” Gabe replied with a smile. “There is something else that may be helpful,” he added. “Are you familiar with Office 39?”
“No,” answered Jake.
“Office 39 is a secret agency within the North Korean government—separate from the Ministry of State Security. It answers directly to Kim Jong Un and provides money for the Great Successor to run his mafia-like criminal enterprise. Office 39 is responsible for the production and distribution of the Supernotes, the manufacture and distribution of counterfeit cigarettes, clothing, and pharmaceuticals, as well as the distribution of heroin and crystal meth. Revenues from these activities fund terrorism and WMD research and development.
“In the DPRK, grass is a vegetable. It’s a country totally dependent on international aid to feed its people. Yet the government pours hundreds of millions of dollars into terror and weapons of mass destruction, which eventually become revenue generators themselves. But the ‘seed capital’ has to come from somewhere—”
“That ‘somewhere’ is the illegal contraband you’ve seen so far in this UC assignment,” interjected Knox.
“Sounds like a well-oiled criminal conspiracy,” said Jake.
Gabe nodded. “It is, and Yeong gets his share of the grease. As ADIC Knox just said, crime is an integral part of North Korea’s economy. By some estimates Office 39 brings in more than a billion dollars a year.”
“I guess that makes Yeong a worthy target,” said Jake.
“And Park,” said Gabe.
“Let me see what I can do,” said Jake, starting toward the door. “Nice to know you’ll have my six when I’m out there.”
Gabe slowly nodded, then to Wilson he said, “I think we owe him the rest.”
“The rest of what?” said Jake, stopping abruptly, anger seeping through the words.
Wilson nodded.
Gabe said, “I’ve had trouble penetrating beyond the gunsel role in Yeong’s organization. The only other inside person we had on this side of the Pacific was killed earlier this week in his home in Beverly Hills.”
“That sounds like Cho Hee Sun, known as ‘Sonny’ out here,” said Jake.
“How do you know?” shot Wilson in a tone that sounded to Jake as if he was being accused of Sonny’s untimely demise.
“I know I’m only an FBI agent and not some CIA superspy, but the Bureau has a new requirement. We now have to be able to read before the FBI will hire us. And guess what, Wilson, it was in the L.A. Times, and Sonny’s enemies and friends have been discussing his unfortunate end all over town since it happened.”
Gabe intervened. “We were told the murder looks like a contract job. Nothing was taken. He was shot through the door. Apparently, no one even broke into his house—before or after he was killed. Does that square with what you know?”
“Yep. So far that’s what I’ve heard. But what was Sonny’s role in all this?” asked Jake.
“His brother in Hong Kong used family connections in Pyongyang to get me hired on with Henry Yeong’s security detail.”
“Sonny’s brother in Hong Kong works for us?” asked Jake.
At this, Olivia Knox motioned for Robert Bauer, the Secret Service SAC, to join them. As Bauer approached she said, “Bob, tell Jake about his recently deceased friend, Sonny.”
Bauer shrugged and said, “Cho Hee Sun worked for us. He was a U.S. Secret Service informant. We actually recruited the brother in Hong Kong first. Thanks to information the brother provided from Hong Kong and North Korea, we jammed Sonny up on counterfeit securities he was pushing here in the States.”
Jake threw up his hands in frustration and turned to Olivia Knox. “When were you going to clue me in on all this? Had Reid not paid me off in Supernotes, I can only assume I’d still be out in the cold, running around with informants getting whacked, spies inside the organization, and me and my ass hanging out like some donkey waiting for anyone to pin on the tail. This is like a sing-along with no words. You guys are truly amazing.”
No one spoke.
Jake looked at Trey. “Did you know about any of this?”
Trey shook his head and the undercover agent believed him.
Jake took a lon
g breath, shook his head, looked at Gabe, and said calmly, “So you’re one degree from removal.”
“It looks that way.”
“One last question—Marine-to-Marine. You mentioned that you accompanied Yeong to Kish Island. What was he doing there?”
“I don’t know exactly,” answered Gabe. “It was a big hush-hush, three-day powwow with about fifty big shots from Pyongyang and twice as many Iranians. Not all of them were towel-heads. Some were IRGC.”
“Was Park there?” Jake asked.
“If he was, I didn’t see him. We’ve identified about half of those I could get images of using the AV recording device I was wearing. Seems like at Kish on both sides a lot of them were nuclear scientists, missile engineers, and—”
“That’s enough!” Wilson interrupted. “This conversation is superfluous to the purpose of this meeting and I insist we wrap it up. Now!”
Olivia Knox nodded, looked at her watch, and said, “That’s right. Recess is over, boys. Time to get back to work.”
As the gaggle moved toward the door, Jake edged up to Gabe and whispered, “Watch yourself. Somebody is playing for keeps and the stakes in this card game are pretty high.”
Gabe nodded. He didn’t know it, but he’d been dealt a bad hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Tommy Hwan and two members of Park’s crew were almost done loading boxes of counterfeit Rolex watches into the back of an old Ford Expedition. The SUV was packed and if Tommy was successful at entering the merchandise into the stream of commerce, as he had so many times in the past, a lot of people paying a discounted price for a Submariner or Oyster Perpetual Date Sea Dweller would be dumping good money into the coffers of Office 39 in the DPRK.
Most of Tommy’s imports would be sold on the street or online. The majority of consumers would know the watch was a knockoff because of the price and would actually prefer the cheaper counterfeit, hoping to fool their friends. Others would pay close to full price only to learn the return policy from the online vendor didn’t fulfill the Better Business Bureau truth-in-selling requirements.
Tommy’s entire initiative was focused on criminal behavior. Had he applied his intellect and sales skills to legitimate commerce he might be a candidate for the Fortune 500 “Entrepreneurs to Watch” issue. But Tommy liked to party and most of his profits quickly evaporated once the music started.
Jake walked into the warehouse through the alley entrance.
“Tommy, I need to see you before you pull out,” hollered Jake above the noise of Rain, Korea’s answer to Justin Timberlake. The rock star’s music was blasting through a stolen sound system.
The Korean “fixer” pointed toward his office and Jake made his way there as the crew finished loading the SUV.
As Jake entered the office he grabbed a Hite from the refrigerator, plopped himself in a worn leather chair, and began drinking the Korean beer. As he was staring out the window contemplating his approach, Tommy walked in.
“You wanted to see me?” said the criminal entrepreneur, grabbing a beer for himself before sitting down at his oversized desk.
Tommy flashed a counterfeit Rolex at Jake. “You want one?”
Jake smiled and slid his sleeve halfway up his arm, displaying a Rolex Oyster for Tommy to see.
“Is that real?” asked Tommy as he popped the tab on the Hite.
“Is that one?” said Jake, referring to the watch Tommy was holding.
“Nope.”
“This one is,” said Jake, then matter-of-factly continued, “Took it off a dead guy. He should have sold it and paid off the debt he owed my client. Said he didn’t want to part with a family heirloom. He lost his life and the watch.”
“Dead men don’t pay very well.”
“I was hired to send a message and I sent one.”
Jake had gotten the watch from the undercover inventory, but he spun the tale to reinforce his credibility as a hired gun—and because he liked screwing with Tommy’s head.
The Korean street thug, apparently unimpressed with Jake’s watch-acquisition story, said, “I let those guys go on. They’re taking the watches to some camel jockey who hopes to sucker his Dearborn rug merchant brother-in-law. What did you need to talk about?”
There was a sense of urgency in his voice when Jake said, “I need to meet Mr. Park.”
“I’m not sure I can make that happen. Why would he sit down with any white guy, especially you?”
“We’ve been at this for two months and you’re still ticking like a cheap Timex. I need to see him and I need you to make it happen.”
“Why?”
Jake took a long sip. “The ‘why’ isn’t important. ‘What’ is important. If I don’t meet him and people get killed, I’ll make sure the word on the street lays it all on your skinny little backside.”
“And that threat is supposed to make me want to help you?”
Jake offered an evil grin. “It’s your memorial service if you don’t make the introduction. Look, it’s important I meet with him. Make it happen and I’ll give you a twenty-five percent discount on your next container.”
Tommy shook his head slowly and deliberately. “That’s not much incentive. Park isn’t the type of guy you mess with. If I make an introduction and any of this goes sideways I might just end up as man-sushi.”
Jake laughed. “Sushi’s Japanese.”
“We all look alike to you anyway, and I’m not interested in being displayed on the Food Network as an Asian three-course meal.”
Jake leaned forward to convey sincerity and lowered his voice just a bit for effect. “Think of the money you’ll pocket.”
“But why?”
Jake leaned back in his chair. “Look, all I’ll tell you is somebody wants to shaft Park.”
Tommy raised his eyebrows and threw open his hands. “So let him. Don’t tell me you’ve grown a conscience.”
“No, but I recognize if you do big favors for important people, the returns have an exponential effect.”
“For a white boy who makes his living with a gun, you’ve got a pretty big vocabulary.”
Jake smiled. “I read a lot.”
“I just don’t know. It seems pretty dangerous.”
“You’ll save money. My fees eat into your profits.”
Tommy paused, maybe more for effect as well. He looked out the window and while taking a long gaze into the parking lot said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Tommy turned to Jake and now it was his turn to lean forward in his chair. “If you screw this up I won’t have time to regret it. Just keep me out of it once I get it arranged.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
“And I want a fifty percent discount.”
“A third,” countered Jake.
Tommy nodded.
Jake threw his hand across the table and the two shook.
“I’ll set it up for tomorrow,” said Tommy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Following the Maghrib, or sunset prayers, Mohammed, Rostam, and Kareem retreated to the small office in the back of the strip mall mosque. The tiny place of worship certainly wouldn’t warrant inclusion in a book on the great cathedrals of North America, but it served the needs of a radical Islamist sleeper cell operating in metro Los Angeles. A single lamp, providing muted light, shrouded the room as if the demons of terrorism hovered overhead.
Rostam, Mohammed’s most trusted associate, had an air of superiority and, though several inches shorter than Kareem, still managed to look down his nose at the black American convert. The Hezbollah fighter’s beard was thick, his hair shoe-polish black, and he often questioned why Mohammed included the convicted felon in the terrorists’ mission. Mohammed and Rostam had discussed many times the threat jihadist wannabes posed to their objective. Rostam believed the homegrown terrorists had adversely impacted the cause by alerting law enforcement authorities to the Islamist hidden agenda.
Mohammed countered that, i
n fact, “Jihad Jims and Janes” springing up in America’s heartland helped the cause by instilling fear in a nation of sheep and distracted law enforcement authorities from the lethal work of Allah’s real warriors. “Let them waste their dollars erecting new security walls that will be breached by our brothers.”
Now, in the presence of their latest recruit, Rostam was silent about his concerns. The three men exchanged small talk about a new Islamic center being built in the Midwest before taking their seats at a scarred table that rocked whenever someone leaned on one side or the other. It annoyed Kareem, who was constantly shoving folded napkins under one leg or the other in an effort to stabilize the battered piece of furniture.
As Kareem engaged in his ritual repair, Mohammed engaged in a ritual of his own that had nothing to do with religion. He turned on the small transistor radio positioned on a nearby shelf. “All News KNX 1070” had become a constant part of every discussion in this room—not from any desire to keep up with current events, but because the IRGC had schooled Mohammed that such background noise made it more difficult for listening devices to pick up conversations.
Mohammed offered Kareem and Rostam tea and both accepted as Mohammed, acting as teacher, led the discussion about the new Islamic center. “The mega-mosques serve a purpose. There is great propaganda value in having moderate imams proclaim that jihad is simply a personal struggle against the sin and weakness in one’s soul. The peace-loving leaders in these places do us no harm. They will never rise at Friday prayers to condemn the actions of men like Nidal Hasan or the martyrs who blow themselves to pieces while killing infidels.”
“But these places serve as magnets for our cowardly brothers and sisters, those who think we can have sharia without bloodshed,” countered Rostam.
“This is true,” responded Mohammed. “But as long as one in a thousand attending prayers in these places comes to know that we will never succeed with weakness, never conquer through Da’wa, lip-service jihad, then we will raise sufficient numbers to conquer through the sword.”
