by Oliver North
“How do you know I went to Kish?” asked Yeong.
“I have my sources.”
“Well,” Yeong continued, “I do not know all that was decided in Pyongyang after the meeting at Kish, so we should await the new instructions. But until then, I wanted to make sure you and I are not at odds or that somehow you blamed me for an indiscretion and took it out on my associate. I did not want to see a war between friends because of a misunderstanding.”
“We are fine.”
“Good. Los Angeles is a large city. There is much we can accomplish without stepping on each other’s toes. I would hope if we have concerns we can bring them to each other over a cup of tea rather than an assassin’s bullet,” said Yeong.
Park held up his cup and smiled. “I would prefer doing this over a glass of soju.”
Gabe watched as the two men rose and bowed. What he had just witnessed was a treasure trove of intelligence that went far beyond Cho’s unresolved murder. The young clandestine officer did his best to conceal his excitement but knew he couldn’t just run out of the restaurant and report to Wilson.
What he didn’t see or hear was the call Candy made on her cell phone from the kitchen, nor did he know . . . Kareem answered on the second ring.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
As Park’s people cleared the room, there was a collective inaudible sigh of relief the meeting had ended without incident. Gabe tracked them out the door and watched as Park and his security team entered a dark GMC Yukon parked on the street.
The CIA operative walked back into the restaurant, where Yeong was talking quietly with the other two members of his three-man security detail. Concern still covered Yeong’s face.
“Were you satisfied with his answers?” asked Gabe in Korean as he approached Yeong.
“I’m not certain. Did Cho ever strike you as the type of man who would cooperate with the police?”
“No. I thought of him as a loyal soldier,” said Gabe.
“I do not understand why Park would have suggested otherwise,” said Yeong, shaking his head.
Gabe knew the real answer. Few living in Beverly Hills were willing to trade a luxurious lifestyle for a crowded cell and prison cuisine. The thought of being sent back to a minimum-security lockup was enough to turn Cho into an informant and spill all he knew about his closest associates.
“You knew him best and you’re a wise judge of character. Did you ever see a flaw in this man’s core?” asked Gabe, knowing the irony since an undercover government operative was asking the question.
“I never saw any such flaw, but I wonder if Park did and had Cho killed to prevent a problem in the future?”
“Wouldn’t he have told us tonight if that were so?” asked Gabe.
“No, I don’t think he would and he certainly hasn’t reassured me of his innocence in this matter,” said Yeong.
“So why Cho was murdered is still a mystery?”
“Yes, it is.”
Gabe saw an opportunity to get out of the restaurant and deliver the information he collected. “Do you want me to see what more I can find out from Li, the guy on Park’s security detail I was standing next to during the meeting? He and I did the advance before everyone else arrived. I got to know him. His family and mine are from the same Pyongyang neighborhood.”
Henry Yeong thought for a long moment before answering. “I don’t think that’s wise. We’ll leave it for the police. I’ve asked on the street and haven’t found any satisfactory answers, but further inquiry might lead the police back to me.”
“Then we’ll abide by your decision.”
Candy approached as Yeong and Gabe completed their exchange. “If nothing else I go home unless you want me lock up.”
“No, Candy, we are fine. I will have Gabe close up. Thank you for being here tonight. You can go now.”
She bowed and before departing rewarded the CIA operative with one of her sought-after smiles.
Turning to Gabe, Yeong said, “You seem anxious to leave. Were you planning to accompany her?”
“No, sir,” said Gabe, perhaps too quickly, for he really was hoping to get off duty and report to Wilson.
“You don’t mind closing up, do you?”
“Of course not,” said Gabe, reconciled to a delay in delivering the explosive information he had just obtained. At least this will give me a chance to “bag” Yeong’s lair for more intelligence after they leave.
“Make sure you turn off the lights in my office upstairs,” said Yeong.
“Yes, of course,” Gabe replied with new respect for the North Korean agent’s powers of perception. To reassure Yeong he had nothing else to do tonight, Gabe hastily added, “I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Would it be okay if I made something before locking up?”
“Certainly, just clean up your mess,” said Yeong in English.
In Korean Gabe responded, “Now you sound like my mother,” bringing a laugh from everyone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
When Henry Yeong and his two bodyguards left the restaurant by the alley entrance, Gabe was immediately conflicted. The information he already had in his head and hopefully recorded on the hidden device was of vital importance, but there might be even more here in Yeong’s criminal compound. He hesitated not because he lacked a search warrant; he simply wanted to ensure he could safely and quickly maneuver inside the building. Constitutional niceties were someone else’s concern. He was a spy, not a cop, and he didn’t have the time to determine if he was pushing the needle of a moral compass a few degrees off true north. He was, after all, gathering intelligence, seeking information about activities that posed a risk to U.S. security, not preparing a case for prosecution.
Gabe’s fear was getting caught and having to explain to Yeong or one of his thugs why he was snooping around the premises. To provide added security he locked the back door before heading to the dining room.
Gabe placated his desire to get to Wilson by telling himself Yeong’s order to close up the place alone was a degree of confidence in Gabe’s loyalty not previously acknowledged. If Henry Yeong suspected Gabe of working for the government or involvement in Cho’s death, the Korean crime boss would never have allowed him unfettered access to the business. Gabe knew nothing more about Sonny’s death than the others and was increasingly confident he had not been tainted by whatever suspicions the Koreans had about Cho.
In that, Gabe was dead wrong.
During many visits to the restaurant, the undercover CIA officer had repeatedly looked for security devices, cameras, or other such surveillance. He’d found none. And since he previously accompanied others on the closing procedures Gabe was familiar with the duties, even to the point of knowing how to set the alarm near the back door. He double-bolted the front door, lowered the shades, and turned out the lights in the dining area.
Before heading to the kitchen he did a hasty perusal of the hostess stand, opening the drawers and giving a quick read of a tattered reservation book. Nothing stood out as being of value or even mildly informative. Most of the notations were written in Korean, and since he was fluent it didn’t create a problem once he was able to decipher the sloppy handwriting. The restaurant enjoyed minimal success and served more as a cover for Yeong’s criminal activities. He could survive an IRS audit, but his lifestyle wasn’t based solely on the income from those in the neighborhood seeking a Korean food fix.
This was Gabe’s first time alone in the restaurant and he assumed any information of value was in Yeong’s office upstairs, even though the man spent little time there. Figuring the crime boss would conceal evidence of his criminal activities where he felt most comfortable, Gabe wanted to concentrate his efforts in the upstairs room where Yeong had delivered the two kilograms of methamphetamines to Jake two days earlier.
Though the small office didn’t appear to be a place where a ton of secrets were likely to be stored, Gabe didn’t want to miss the chance to surreptitiously explore. He hoped the walls might have hi
dden compartments holding the intelligence nuggets he was hoping to gather. After a search of Yeong’s desk he would begin examining the office walls, floor, and ceiling.
As he headed up the stairs to do a hasty search of Yeong’s office, there was a loud banging at the back door. Gabe jumped as his stomach took a quick somersault. He assumed it was one of the homeless who frequented the alley asking for handouts as the evening crowd waned. He hoped the nighttime solicitor would move on.
There was a brief pause in the heavy knocking before it started again. This time it was accompanied by someone calling his name, “Gabe.”
He didn’t recognize the male voice and Gabe moved closer to the door.
“Gabe!” More banging.
“Yeah, what do you want?” said Gabe in a commanding voice, irritated his search had been interrupted before it even began.
“Gabe, open up. I need your help.”
When Gabe relented and opened the door, Kareem was standing there with a heavy-duty lug nut wrench in his right hand.
Gabe nodded from behind the closed screen door. “Yeah.”
“Sorry to bother you, man. I just saw Yeong leave and he said to ask you for help. My battery is dead and I need a jump.”
“Why are you here?”
“I was partying down the street and parked in the alley. I guess I left my lights on,” said the bartender with enough sincerity to be believed.
“Yeah, I can help you,” said Gabe with some reluctance. “Do you have jumper cables?”
“Yeah, I got a pair.”
“What’s with the wrench?”
“Hey, it’s dangerous out here. I don’t have a gat but thought if some homeless dude wanted my wallet this provided the answer.” Kareem waved the wrench like a weapon.
“Where are you parked?”
“On the other side of the alley.”
Gabe opened the screen door and stepped out into the alley. As they crossed toward the car, Kareem imperceptibly fell behind a step and before Gabe realized it the wrench came crashing down across the top of his head. He collapsed immediately, blood streaming from a large gash.
Kareem wasn’t interested in sparing Gabe further injury, quickly dragging him behind the Honda Pilot and then opening the hatch. Before throwing Gabe’s limp body into the back, Kareem wrapped the CIA operative’s hands and feet with duct tape, taped his mouth, and covered the rear cargo area with blankets to soak up the blood still flowing from the head wound.
Grabbing the hose used to wash out the trash bins, Kareem flooded the immediate area and watched the fresh blood in the alley flow down the drain. He laid the hose on the ground, allowing the water to continue running, and raced to the rear door of the restaurant, where he turned off the lights, set the alarm, and locked the door.
With the alley clean, at least of Gabe’s blood, Kareem shut off the hose, got into the Honda, and drove less than a mile to his next destination.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Gabe,” said Candy softly into his ear. “Please, Gabe, wake up,” as she gently stroked his face and continued her pleas.
Gabe began to stir. Through blurred vision, he focused on a comforting Candy standing in front of him.
“Gabe, I so glad you awake. I worry about you. I care for you.”
“What’s going on?” mumbled Gabe as he slowly realized he was restrained to a metal chair bolted to the greasy concrete floor of a run-down garage. He had no way of knowing he was less than eight blocks from the restaurant where he’d been bludgeoned unconscious.
“You must whisper. I no want Kareem to know I here.”
“Where are we? What’s going on?” asked Gabe as he struggled to loosen the duct tape securing his arms.
“Kareem think you bad. I no want to see you hurt. Please tell him everything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Please, Gabe, you must tell Kareem the truth. Only then will he let you live. Kareem bad person. I no want to see you hurt. We could be friends.”
“Where am I?”
“Kareem is in the other room. He would hurt me if he know I try to help you. Gabe, please tell him.”
“Tell him what?”
“Tell him who you work for. I no want to see you hurt.” Her eyes were begging and she rewarded him with a tender smile. “I know I can help you if you tell truth. Kareem listen to me. He know I like you. He would not hurt my friend but you must tell truth.”
“Help me get these off,” said Gabe, continuing to fight at the restraints.
“I cannot. He hurt me if he catch me helping you. You must tell him who you work for, then he let us both go.”
“I work for Yeong. You know that,” said Gabe, confused by the inquiry.
“He think you work for Cho and he know Cho work for police,” whispered Candy, looking over Gabe’s shoulder trying to determine if her presence at the auto repair facility in the aging industrial complex had been detected.
“What?”
“Cho tell me one night he work for police.”
“He did what? Why would he tell you that?”
“He think it make him important in my eyes. He always trying to impress me by who he know. He say he can help my brother in prison because he work for police.”
Gabe fought against the duct tape wrapped around his arms and legs but was unable to free himself. “Get a knife and cut me loose.”
“I afraid Kareem catch me. Only way for you to go free is to tell Kareem who you work for. He only want truth. Once you tell him he let you go.”
“I work for Yeong. Tell Kareem that’s the truth.”
“Cho tell me you work with him and you both could help me if I told about Supernotes.”
Gabe hesitated with a response. He’d been betrayed by the Secret Service informant and his fate seemed settled unless he could escape.
“I see you talk much in corner. If you tell Kareem truth he forgive you. He very forgiving man. His religion require he forgive if you tell truth. Please tell him, then Kareem let you go and we could be friends. I always like you. You good person, not like Cho.”
“Help me get out of here and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Please tell truth. I want us to be happy. I want us to be together but it not happen if Kareem mad. He would chase us down until you tell truth. Tell him and we can go away unhurt,” begged the young female with a beautiful smile.
“Get me a knife and we can both get out of here. I’ll protect you. I promise.”
The silence hung between them. Then the long moment was broken by Mohammed’s shout. “Enough! It’s not working.”
Mohammed and Kareem entered from the shadows as Candy stepped back, failing in her attempt to deceive the undercover operative.
From his back pocket, Mohammed grabbed a thick black glove, the fingers lined with lead. He slipped it on to his right hand and backhanded Gabe, the loud crack of lead on bone being drowned out by Gabe’s wail.
Kareem, no stranger to blood and pain, looked around the garage as if questioning whether others heard the cry, but calmed remembering the industrial complex was empty at this hour.
“Who do you work for?” asked Mohammed.
Gabe looked at him with pained incredulity, then toward Kareem. “You know who I work for.”
This time a backhand from the left side. “Who do you work for?”
“I work for Mr. Yeong.”
“Liar,” said Mohammed, repeating the backhand.
“I work for Mr. Yeong.”
“Who did Cho work for?” bellowed Mohammed.
Gabe was now struggling to simply survive the attack. “He worked with Mr. Yeong,” he mumbled through the blood gushing from a broken nose and smashed lips.
Mohammed threw a powerful right hand to the base of the rib cage. “Who else?”
It took Gabe a few moments to catch his breath. “I didn’t know he worked for anybody else until she just told me. I sure as hell didn’t know he worked for the cops. I would have kil
led him if I knew he was ratting us out,” said Gabe.
“Why is your English so good?” said Mohammed.
Through the bruising, the blood, and the pain, Gabe offered a limp smile. “Good teachers.”
Mohammed slapped him hard and repeated the question.
“I grew up here. I went to school in Northern California,” said Gabe, spitting blood as he turned his head from left to right.
“But you came here with Yeong when he returned from a trip to Hong Kong and North Korea,” said Kareem.
“Yeah, so what? My father was from North Korea. He came here just before I was born, working for a unified Korean trade delegation. I still have family in North Korea. Even though I’m a U.S. citizen I got a Korean visa through them.” Gabe wasn’t sure they would buy the legend the CIA created, but if they stopped beating him long enough to do an Internet search of immigration regulations and a government records check, it would back up his story.
Kareem, Candy, and Mohammed looked at each other, not sure whether to accept the explanation of the tortured man.
“Why did you return to North Korea?” asked Mohammed.
“After my father died I was allowed to return. I visited our family and found work there.”
“What kind of work?” asked Kareem.
“I worked for the government.”
“The North Korean government?” asked Mohammed.
“Yeah, what other government operates in North Korea?” said Gabe with an attitude that cost him another sharp backhand across the face.
“How do you know Cho?” barked Mohammed.
Gabe returned to his cover story. “I know Cho’s brother. He lives outside of Pyongyang but he does a lot of business in Hong Kong. He was in Hong Kong when some of Mr. Yeong’s security men were arrested by the Hong Kong police. He called me up in Pyongyang and asked if I wanted the job. I flew to Hong Kong and joined Mr. Yeong’s security team.”
“I didn’t think anyone could leave North Korea?” asked Kareem in an almost civil tone.
“Sure you can, as long as the right people in the government approve.”
