Counterfeit Lies

by Oliver North

  “Why would the North Korean government allow you to leave?” asked Mohammed with genuine curiosity, standing in front of Gabe, poised to strike again.

  “Why do you think?”

  Mohammed backhanded Gabe. An evil smile crossed Candy’s face.

  “Okay, okay. The North Korean government wanted me here. They wanted me to watch Yeong, to protect him. They sent me.”

  Kareem looked at Mohammed. “What do you think?”

  “I’m not buying it,” said the cell leader.

  Gabe protested. “It’s the truth. You didn’t have to beat me to learn this. You only had to ask. Check it out.”

  Candy cocked her head. “He’s lying.”

  Mohammed threw a backhanded slap, snapping Gabe’s head to the left, then grabbed him by the hair and whipped Gabe’s head back. “Cho never told you he was working for the police?”

  Blood from his battered nose and mouth was filling his throat faster than he could swallow it, but Gabe managed to gurgle, “Never. I would have killed him. I was sent here by the North Korean government.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe Cho made up the story,” said Kareem.

  “He know. He working with Cho,” said Candy.

  “You’re crazy,” said Gabe defiantly, earning him another backhanded strike to his face, which was now swelling and bleeding profusely.

  “Maybe he’s telling the truth,” said Kareem, questioning whether they might have misread Gabe’s role.

  “He’s lying,” said Mohammed.

  “How can you be sure?” asked Kareem.

  “It no matter. We can’t take chances,” said Candy, excited by the blood.

  “Doesn’t matter?” said Gabe, spitting blood. “You are beating me for no reason.”

  Mohammed had psychopathic skills and prepared to exercise them again. He grabbed the little finger on Gabe’s right hand and twisted it back, wrenching it out of the socket, ripping muscle and tendons.

  Gabe screamed, gasping for relief before shouting, “I’m telling the truth.”

  The jihadist repeated the performance with the ring finger.

  Again more screams and denials.

  Mohammed grabbed the lug nut wrench and stood next to Gabe, waiting for answers. When no response was forthcoming the terrorist wiggled the wrench as if waiting for a waist-high fastball. With a powerful two-handed swing he crushed the undercover operative’s right kneecap, the bones splintering.

  Gabe cried out, fighting the pain surging through his body.

  Candy, wired by the carnage, said, “Make him talk.”

  “You’ll tell us the truth,” whispered Mohammed. The Iranian-trained jihadi picked up a single-edge razor blade from the workbench. He then sliced away at Gabe’s pants, exposing his left thigh.

  “What do you want?” screamed Gabe as Mohammed held the razor in front of the captive’s face.

  Gabe knew in that instant he was straddling death at the hands of a jihadist—just as Navy diver Robert Stethem had been in Beirut, aboard TWA 847. Even in his agony, Gabe remembered the hidden micro-recorder was documenting this terrible ordeal and he resolved in that instant to get the maximum information from the man who was killing him. “What do you want from me?” he managed to say through a mouthful of blood, broken teeth, and a fractured jaw.

  “I want the truth about what you know of the nuclear weapons arrangement between Iran and North Korea,” said Mohammed, his face pressed near to Gabe’s ear.

  “Nothing. I don’t know what you are talking about,” gurgled Gabe.

  “Then die, infidel,” said Mohammed as he used the razor to slice deep into Gabe’s exposed thigh. There was a gush of blood as the femoral artery was severed.

  “Tell me what you know and you live,” breathed Mohammed in Gabe’s left ear, waving a tourniquet and bandages in the CIA operative’s face.

  Though Gabe’s resolve remained strong, his body was rapidly failing as the hemorrhage from the gash in his thigh compounded the effects of the wounds he had already endured. He sucked in a breath and said a quiet prayer, the bruises, cuts, and broken bones bearing testimony to the savagery.

  In his last moment he looked up into the muzzle of Candy’s .45-caliber M1911A1 just as she pulled the trigger. His lifeless body slumped in the chair, only the duct tape preventing him from collapsing to the floor.

  The three conspirators who had watched the young American die never bothered to question the success or failure of their mission. Two potential obstacles—real or imagined—Cho and Gabe, had been removed from their calculus.

  There was little left to do. Kareem picked up the spent shell casing and, after a quick cleanup of the garage, Candy headed home. In their haste to prepare for Isha, the last of the daily prayers, the two jihadists dumped Gabe’s body in a nearby alley in hopes it would look like another random street crime, a common occurrence in Los Angeles.

  When the beat cop found the body, he assumed it was that of a foreign tourist, murdered for a wallet. The pockets were empty. There was no ID, passport, or driver’s license.

  The subsequent electronic report from the L.A. County medical examiner’s office included a dental imprint and morgue photos of the “unidentified male victim” and close-up images of an “Eagle, Globe, and Anchor” tattoo above the words “Semper Fi” on the right bicep of the deceased. Only later would the CIA’s Office of Personnel Management realize Gabe had answered “no” on question 143 of the hiring application: “Do you have any identifying marks, scars, or tattoos?”

  There was also a notation about the victim’s personal effects and clothing being held for next of kin:

  “One pair, New Balance athletic shoes, size 10 C [blood spattered]; one pair, white cotton sport socks w/o label [blood spattered]; one Jockey label boxer underwear, size 28; one North Face label, size 28 x 33, dark green trousers [damaged and blood spattered]; one Kirkland label, size large, dark blue polo shirt [bloodstained]; one Casio label wristwatch w/ dark green, nylon wristband [bloodstained]; one hand-stitched leather belt w/o label, w/ faux-brass buckle, size 28–32.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  DAY 6

  SATURDAY, MAY 3

  Jake had been looking forward to this meeting all morning. He hopped out of the car and handed the keys to the parking valet. He was immediately struck by the warm breeze blowing in from the ocean. He loved the Malibu heat. Two hours earlier, when he met with Henry Yeong and Tommy to discuss an exclusive use of his services, there was a chill in the air. Now as it was nearing noon, the famous California sunshine had turned it into a beautiful day.

  Jake pocketed the claim check, questioning whether anyone ever read the fine print, and headed into Gladstone’s, a beachfront restaurant favorite.

  Two couples were ahead of him as he made his way to the hostess stand. He waited patiently to give his name but as he scanned the outdoor patio he spotted her. He jumped out of line and strode toward the wooden plank table near the back of the patio. She stood and the two embraced. At eight months pregnant it wasn’t quite as easy to get his arms around her.

  “I’m glad you were able to make it. I can never count on your schedule—too many criminal variables,” she said.

  Using a very poor French accent, Jake said, “Quiet, don’t blow my cover. The Bureau thinks I’m meeting some hooker named Natasha working for a Mob-run escort service.”

  “Jake!”

  “No, my name is Pierre and I am businessman from Paris garment district. You are Natasha. I told madam running operation I like big Russian women.”

  “You are impossible,” she said, hitting him playfully as they both took a seat.

  As the two began to peruse the menu, Jake said, “I know you have this craving for seafood but wouldn’t you be satisfied with Long John Silver’s? I think I have a coupon in the car.”

  “You don’t think I’m Gladstone’s worthy?”

  “Oh, you are worth the French Riviera. It’s just that I can afford fast-food fish and chips, not
the market price for the Iced Seafood Tower.”

  “You don’t even know what the market price is. Maybe you can afford it.”

  “Trust me. I’ve eaten here before. I can’t afford their market price anything.”

  A bleached-blond college-age server, who was probably wasting his daddy’s savings on a higher education at UCLA or Pepperdine, came to the table dressed in a blue logo T-shirt, white trousers, and the Gladstone’s blue apron. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “We’ll both take iced tea,” said Jake.

  “I better not have caffeine,” she said. “Do you have any decaf tea?”

  The server shook his head.

  “Then just bring her water with lemon,” said Jake.

  “You got it, dude.”

  When the server left, Jake, shaking his head in disgust and employing his weak French accent, asked, “So, Natasha, dude, how are you feeling?”

  She smiled. “I’m great. A little tired. I slept until almost nine this morning. I had to hustle to make the doctor’s appointment, but she said everything looks fine and I’m right on schedule, maybe even a little ahead.”

  “You think junior might punch out early?”

  Offering a smile, she said, “I’m ready if he is. He’s got to be a lot like his dad.”

  There was an awkward silence, neither quite knowing what to say, as they both looked out toward the ocean pretending to breathe in the salt air.

  “How’s your week been going?” she asked.

  “You know, same ole, same ole. Set up a contract killing, scored some meth from members of an ethnic minority group, and wasted a breakfast meeting this morning on two mopes who will be eating prison food soon. Just risking it all to keep the world safe from democracy,” said Jake with a mischievous grin.

  “For democracy, not from democracy,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Whatever. Have you decided what you want?”

  “I’ll take a cup of clam chowder . . .”

  “I can afford soup, good choice . . .”

  “And the Niçoise blue crab salad.”

  Jake gave her a look.

  “Pierre, I’m eating for two.”

  Just then the surfer dude brought the iced tea and water with lemon. Jake ordered . . . the crab salad and soup for her, just the soup for him. He didn’t have a coupon!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The sun was beginning to set but the day’s warmth refused to wane as the shadows lengthened. As promised, Tommy arranged for a “meet and greet” with Park Soon Yong.

  Jake followed Tommy’s black Lexus LS F Sport through the tree-lined streets of San Marino, an exclusive community near Pasadena, part of “greater” Los Angeles. Occupying an area less than four square miles, some thirteen thousand people called the city home. Over half those residents were of Asian descent. Even in a residential market downturn, the typical San Marino home carried a $2-million-plus price tag. Large lots and massive structures were the norm; upscale and expansive, just the type government employees like Jake could never afford.

  Yet he was savoring the moment. Here was a lawman, listening to a CD of Peyton Tochterman singing “God and Country”—a song about Red Roundtree, America’s oldest bank robber—while trailing a Korean mobster driving a luxury car built in a country that once enslaved his own ancestors, on the way to a mansion occupied by an agent of a government committed to bringing down all these trappings of “bourgeois capitalism.”

  It just doesn’t get any more surreal than this! Jake said to himself. But then it did.

  As the two cars approached the destination address, a dark 2013 BMW 640i Gran Coupe was leaving the residence. Through the lightly tinted windows, Jake thought the driver appeared to be Middle Eastern, perhaps Mexican or Latin American—but certainly not Asian. Jake did a quick head turn as the car passed, catching the license plate. Grabbing a pen from the glove compartment, he scribbled the numbers on a piece of scrap paper.

  Jake followed Tommy to the driveway, where they were greeted by ten-foot beige stucco walls, a large black steel gate, and enough surveillance cameras to give Fort Knox a sense of inadequacy. At the entrance a security device was mounted on an arm extending over the yellow brick paving stones. Tommy punched some numbers into the keypad and Jake, his window down, could hear the device calling a phone. Like a drive-thru call box at a fast-food restaurant, a voice came over the speaker.

  “Good afternoon,” answered a female voice.

  “It’s Tommy Hwan. My friend in the car behind me and I are here to see Mr. Park. He’s expecting us.”

  Within seconds the giant gate opened and the cars slowly entered. Jake wasn’t sure what to expect and wondered if he was about to be ambushed by a North Korean hit squad.

  The long, winding driveway bisected a well-kept botanical garden and perfectly manicured lawn. The U-shaped home had a five-car garage on the north end of the drive. The garage was connected to the house by an enclosed walkway. Pyongyang’s answer to Al Capone lived in opulence.

  “Sin pays,” said Jake as he exited his car.

  “I’d downplay your cute little witticisms if I were you. Show some respect. Mr. Park is an important man and not one who will take pleasure in your Western comedy.”

  “Witticisms? Now who’s using big words? I’ll try to contain my comic alter ego.”

  He watched Tommy punch the doorbell and a melodious tune could be heard through the large oak door. Patience was not one of Jake’s virtues and the wait seemed longer than normal. He was hoping the crime boss wasn’t racking a round in the chamber of a high-powered automatic. He wanted to pound on the door, but knowing the importance of the man on the other side, he stepped away from the portal and “bladed” himself, trying to become a thinner target should bullets start flying.

  Tommy gave Jake a questioning look as if to say, “Should I ring the bell again?” But before he could open his mouth a twenty-something female opened the massive door. Though she wasn’t stunning, her almond eyes were accentuated by shoulder-length black hair and a perfect porcelain complexion.

  “Hi, Tommy,” said the female with a beautiful smile.

  Tommy gave her an extended hug and she returned the embrace, looking over his shoulder, and with that same smile eyed Jake. Then Tommy introduced the undercover agent to Jenny, H. Daniel Reid’s former love interest and the target of Jake’s fictional assassination attempt. There’s no accounting for bad taste. Why would a girl living in such luxury be attracted to some aging barrister just because he belches big bucks?

  Jake and Tommy stood in the entryway and watched Jenny as she casually walked down a long hallway to an open door.

  “Father, Tommy and his guest have arrived.”

  Jake heard a voice say, “Show them in.”

  Jenny returned and ushered the men toward the hallway. An older female and young girl walked out from the kitchen as the men passed. Tommy stopped and in Korean greeted the woman. She smiled and bowed. Tommy turned to Jake. “This is Soo Min, Mr. Park’s wife. And this is Gracie, their granddaughter.”

  “I’m Jake. How do you do?”

  Soo Min smiled and bowed without speaking. Gracie bowed and held up four fingers. “I’m four. How old are you?”

  Jake smiled. “A little older than that.”

  Jenny continued to lead the men down the hallway to the study.

  Jake was hardly surprised when he entered Park’s office. Everything this man did was beyond excess. The marble floor and oak-paneled walls shouted wealth. His large antique desk was situated to overlook the Olympic-size swimming pool in the backyard, the water cascading down a man-made falls.

  The criminal kingpin was sitting in a high-back brown leather chair and Jake quickly spotted two Asian males posted in opposite corners at the far end of the room, quietly standing guard. He saw the bulges beneath their matching dark green Tommy Bahama shirts and assumed the two were well armed. There was a strange familiarity with the smaller of the two men; his manner, his
eyes. Jake couldn’t quite place it but it was unsettling. He needed to focus but the nagging question persisted.

  Tommy strode to Park and bowed. “Mr. Park, thank you for seeing us. Allow me to introduce my friend, Jake. He is the one who has been assisting us in our business.”

  Park nodded toward the security guards, then said to Jake, “You will understand if my men perform a cursory search.”

  Jake smiled, lifted his shirt, and turned around slowly, displaying the Glock 19 resting in the small of his back. “With your permission I’ll remove it. I have no intention of using it but understand your reluctance to discuss business with an armed man.” Using two fingers, Jake carefully withdrew the semi-automatic and laid it on a nearby dark walnut antique Korean medicine chest.

  Anger and embarrassment flashed across Tommy’s face; he had been unaware Jake was armed. “Sir, I can assure you I had no idea this man brought a weapon into your home.”

  Park waved him off. “He is a careful man. It is okay. Should he have chosen to use the weapon he would not have left alive.” Smiling, Park spoke in Korean to the larger of the guards. The man stepped forward, picked up the firearm, deftly dropped the magazine into his palm, set it on the chest, cleared the 9mm round out of the chamber, and placed the empty weapon beside it. As the big man returned to his post along the wall, he slid the round into his pocket.

  Jake was unapologetic. “I didn’t mean to dishonor you by bringing a weapon into your residence. I have enemies who might strike at any time . . . so when we leave, I would like to have the bullet your man removed from my pistol. I may need it.”

  “No offense is taken. I understand. And of course you may have your bullet . . . when you leave.”

  The preemptive strike of revealing the weapon prevented a pat-down, which might have uncovered the recording device. He might not have been armed during the conversation, but it was being preserved for posterity.

  “Tommy has told me a great deal about you,” said Park.