by Oliver North
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
As soon as he reached the Range Rover and pulled away from the curb, Jake was on the phone to Rachel Chang. “We need to meet, ASAP!”
“I’m with the ASAC at the San Marino Police Department headquarters, mending fences,” she replied.
“Good, I’m heading that direction,” he said, making a turn at the next intersection that tested the advertised traction of the SUV’s high-performance tires.
“Jake, cool down before you get here. Come around to the parking lot in the back. I’ll have Lieutenant Osborne, your new best friend, clear in your vehicle.”
“Not a good idea,” the undercover agent replied. “I don’t know how big Park’s network is. He may well have spotters watching the station or someone on the inside. I can’t take the chance one of his goons could put me or this vehicle up on YouTube as I pull in there.”
“How about the pharmacy parking lot at the end of the block?” she replied.
It took him less than ten minutes to negotiate the traffic. By the time he pulled into the parking lot and spied Rachel on her cell phone, he had dialed back his visible anger. But when he saw Hafner sitting in the government Ford, he slammed the door anyway—just for emphasis.
The ASAC jumped out of the car as Jake approached.
“What the hell was that all about?”
“What?” said Hafner, not quite sure whether to adopt a more forceful demeanor.
“Don’t give me that crap!” Jake yelled. “Nobody told me you and your buddy Wilson were going to show up at Park’s. You almost blew my cover. No one knew about the kidnapping but Park, me, and the kidnappers. Then you start running your mouth about the daughter and granddaughter and calling me Jake when no one addressed me by name.”
If the leadership skills he learned in the Marine Corps taught him anything, it was to praise in public and criticize in private. While on active duty he employed the principle daily when dealing with those he commanded. But when it came to FBI administrators, Jake’s leadership traits had gone the way of the Oldsmobile. Maybe if he burned fewer bridges he’d find more support from the Bureau’s command structure, but tonight his volatile nature was on full display.
Rachel quickly stepped in, attempting to head off a career-ending confrontation between Jake and Hafner.
“Jake, relax. It’s okay. Park’s not suspicious at all,” said Rachel.
“How would you know?” snapped Jake.
“I just talked to Bill Holodnak in the wire room. Park and his security chief were on the phones as soon as you left calling some people we have yet to identify,” said Rachel with a calming professional confidence. “Park has called up additional security personnel and they are on their way to the house.”
“Good,” said Jake, still hot.
Rachel inched away from Hafner, trying to direct Jake’s attention on her rather than the ASAC. The ploy worked as Jake focused on her next statement. “Bill said Park was very appreciative of you being at the residence while the cops were there. He said, ‘The round-eye is a strong ally,’ so he’s not suspicious at all. In fact your little two-step with the ASAC enhanced your credibility.”
Hafner flashed a self-congratulatory grin as if it were all part of his investigatory scheme.
Jake settled down momentarily after hearing the reassurances from his supervisor. She had been a street agent and had done UC work on a nasty sex-trafficking ring and had what her peers and subordinates considered to be street smarts.
“What happened after the police left?” asked Rachel, still trying to divert attention from Hafner.
“He showed me the ransom note for three million dollars.”
Hafner nodded and said a little too enthusiastically, “That’s good.”
Jake barked, “What’s good?”
Rachel answered, “That he showed you the note.”
Exhausted by the events of the day, Jake replied simply, “Yeah, well, why wouldn’t he? He needs to trust someone. He doesn’t suspect me of being behind the home invasion.”
“Does he have the money?” asked Hafner.
“No.”
Hafner nodded again. “Good.”
Jake’s suspicions grew. “Whattaya mean, ‘good’? What’s going on here?”
Rachel remained cool. “Nothing, Jake. We’re trying to figure out what Park’s next move is.”
“His next move is to get his daughter and granddaughter back.”
Hafner smirked. “And how does he do that without money?”
“He’ll have to get it. He said he was going to make some calls this evening.”
“Any idea where he’ll get the money?” asked Hafner.
“Maybe he’s taking up a collection. Calling in a few markers. I don’t know, maybe a garage sale.”
“That’s it?” asked Hafner.
Jake glowered. “How about you? You got any ideas? You seem to be on top of things.”
Rachel Chang was beginning to understand the admonition she’d received from Jake’s last supervisor. “He’s great undercover; maybe the best we’ve got, but keep him away from people.” She’d laughed when she heard the warning but had come to realize the wisdom in it.
“Jake,” said Rachel, “if Park doesn’t have the money, he’ll need to reach out to those who do. We may be able to identify the broader scope of the conspiracy. Maybe he’ll seek the Supernotes for payment. The phones are lit up now. Let’s see where we stand in the morning. It’s been a long day for everyone. We could all use some rest.”
Before they parted, Jake handed the evidence envelope with the microchip to Rachel and said, “I know I’m supposed to give this to Trey, but since he’s not here, you should take it back to the office. There’s a lot on it that may mesh with what Bill is picking up on the phones.”
As he watched the transaction, Hafner couldn’t resist one last bureaucratic dig: “We really don’t want administrators testifying in court on chain-of-custody evidentiary issues.”
Jake stared at the ASAC for a long moment, but he had the self-discipline to say nothing. Instead he shook his head, got into the Range Rover, and drove out of the parking lot, headed for home.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
DAY 7
SUNDAY, MAY 4
As the morning sun made its way over the tops of the mid-block high-rises, a metallic black 2013 GMC Yukon XL Denali turned right onto Wilshire Boulevard and two men jumped from the vehicle. They confronted a young Korean male, a minor player in Henry Yeong’s criminal enterprise, walking westbound. For a Sunday, the street was crowded with pedestrians and cars, but no one seemed to notice the abduction. One of the two who sprang from the black SUV jammed a semi-automatic into the back of the young Korean.
“Mr. Park needs to speak to you.”
The young man realized it would do no good to run, hoping he could talk his way out of a violent confrontation. He accompanied the two males a few feet to the back door of the vehicle. All three entered and the driver turned at the next corner. Driving only a few hundred feet, he turned again into an alley that paralleled Wilshire.
When the vehicle stopped, Park, who was in the front passenger seat, turned to confront the young man just snatched off the street in broad daylight. “Do you know why I need to speak with you?”
“No,” said the young Korean.
Park nodded. All five men exited the vehicle with the two heavies holding the frightened man by each arm.
Park repeated the question. “Do you know why I need to talk with you?”
“No,” said the young captive, fright pulsating through his body, raw, fear-induced beads of perspiration appearing on his forehead.
Park nodded and the biggest of his thugs slammed his fist into the man’s stomach. As the victim doubled over, Park repeated the question a third time.
The second gangster grabbed the victim by the hair and straightened him. Gasping for breath the man said in Korean, “I have no idea what you want.”
“I think you do,” said Park. “Wh
ere are my daughter and granddaughter?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t part of it and I swear I’ve heard nothing. Please believe me,” replied the man meekly, struggling to breathe and to stand, his legs weakening as the two abductors propped him up for another assault.
The smaller of the two gangsters cracked the terrified man across the mouth with the barrel of the weapon and blood spattered on the front of Park’s pristine shirt.
Park looked down at his shirt, waving his hand toward the stain, and said, “This blood I can clean, but yours can never be replaced when it drains into the alley. Tell me where my daughter and granddaughter are.”
“You must believe me. I have no idea. I swear my boss was not behind the kidnapping. We do not know who took Jenny and the girl.”
“You are lying,” said Park in a gentle voice, shaking his head slowly. With that, the crime boss pulled from his waistband a North Korean Type 68, 7.62mm x 35 semi-automatic pistol equipped with a Maxim suppressor.
Park nodded to the smaller of his two accomplices, who proceeded to pull out his smartphone, press “video app” on the keypad, and point the tiny lens at the young man they had detained on the street just minutes before. The digital device, made in the Republic of Korea, recorded it all:
An off-camera voice asking in Korean: “Where are Jenny and Gracie?”
The terrified, already bloodied face of a young man, replying: “I do not know! Please, do not kill me. I have a wife and two children.”
The off-camera voice saying: “Wrong answer.”
The camera moves slightly to show the barrel of the automatic weapon and the three-inch-long suppressor. Then there is a soft pop as the pistol fires a single round.
A bloody hole appears just above the nose of the young man. His eyes roll back and his face disappears at the bottom of the screen. There is a hole—and a gruesome red stain—on the wall behind where the young man was executed.
The off-camera voice says, “Leave him. I want everyone in our community to know that as many as necessary will die until Jenny and Gracie are free. The person who provides information leading to their safe return will receive one million dollars.”
At 6 a.m. Pacific Daylight Saving Time, the horrific “snuff video” was posted on YouTube. It immediately went viral—first on Korean-language websites and then globally. FBI Headquarters in Washington learned about it from the DoD/NSA Cyber Command at Fort Meade, Maryland. The Los Angeles Field Office received it from FBI HQ at 6:47. Though no one in Washington could identify the voice of the shooter, Jake Kruse would know exactly who it was.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Sleep rarely comes easily to an undercover agent. For Jake Kruse it never did. Even supposedly routine assignments came with their own brand of tension, the need to be constantly “on guard” and a nagging “what if” uncertainty about being exposed—caught in the open—with no cavalry riding to the rescue.
Jake’s key to survival and success was an innate ability to keep track of the “who am I?” question—and his skill at projecting that persona every waking minute, even while in church, which he would be missing this morning. He had to believe in himself and in the person he was portraying, and be so comfortable in his character that every response in every situation came naturally—and appear believable to the criminals he was deceiving.
Living two lives at once requires extraordinary self-confidence. It means never becoming complacent. The consummate undercover agent lives like a spy in enemy territory—and lives to tell the story. Jake Kruse knew he was very good at living by his wits. But he also went regularly to the range and practiced putting ten rounds into an eight-inch circle at twenty-five yards—just in case.
Despite a restless night’s sleep, Jake hopped out of bed when the alarm went off at six thirty. He grabbed his workout clothes and hit the trails. Running cleared his head but it also brought immediate goal-oriented satisfaction, something undercover work seldom did.
With UC assignments, significant accomplishments could be weeks, months, maybe even years down the road. On two particular assignments Jake never knew the final results, nor would he ever. On both occasions he was tasked with compromising foreign dignitaries working in the United States. Though much of his undercover work was secret, at least until the indictments were unsealed, on both of these missions he was required to sign nondisclosure agreements preventing him from ever discussing the targets or the nature of the assignment. He was successful both times in “neutralizing” the subjects.
In one instance, he set up an embassy official in such a way that his government would have killed the diplomat had the foreign power learned of his dealings with an American undercover agent. Jake assumed the short, squat, swarthy individual was on the FBI’s payroll singing dutifully about Middle Eastern affairs, grateful to be alive. In the other assignment, one of the three targets would never sing again, and Jake could only assume the two remaining subjects were used in a never-disclosed spy swap.
Jake pushed himself this morning, aiming for a six-minute-mile pace. But throughout the run, a question kept nagging: Who is behind the Park kidnapping?
He intentionally arrived early for the meeting at the Koffee Kombine on Ventura Boulevard. The place was open—a counterintuitive location for clandestine encounters. The patio was nearly empty—yet perfect. The church crowd would be joining them soon, but the participants in this morning’s meeting had a clear view of others approaching. The ambient noise from the street traffic prevented surreptitious monitoring of their conversation.
When he could, Jake always chose locations like this for conferences with colleagues—and his criminal co-conspirators. He reconnoitered entries and exits in advance—and knew where to look and what to look for. It gave him a measure of certainty in situations that could quickly get out of control—far preferable to exchanging information in a “brush pass” at a supermarket vegetable stand. From experience he knew the more obvious he was, the less obvious he would appear.
He ordered coffee and was reading the Times sports section when Trey Bennett pulled up to the curb in his silver Ford Fusion. Jake watched over the top of the newspaper as Trey threw the FBI radio microphone over the rearview mirror and hopped out of the vehicle. The hanging mike was a common sign to meter maids and patrol cars to extend “professional courtesy” and not ticket an illegally parked government vehicle. Even on Sunday these meters needed feeding.
Trey walked into the patio but before he could sit, Jake looked up at his friend and said quietly, “Please don’t ever do that again when you are coming to a meeting with me.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t hang your mike. Here’s a quarter. I know all agents are cheap but you just signaled everyone—the good, the bad, and the ugly—that you’re a cop. I’d like to maintain some semblance of secrecy. It might just keep me alive.” Jake flipped him the quarter and Trey sheepishly retreated to the car, pulled his mike, and pumped the quarter into the meter.
When Trey returned he apologized.
“Don’t be sorry, be cautious.”
“Yeah, like meeting you in broad daylight on the busiest surface street in the Valley is cautious.”
“Hey, if you want to do the paperwork to rent a motel room for every meet, that’s fine with me. I thought you’d appreciate I’m only sticking you with coffee, but we can do the Ritz any time.”
“A bit testy this morning, aren’t we?” said Trey, trying to lighten the moment.
“Screw you and the horse you rode in on,” said Jake without the hint of a smile.
The waitress approached and both men quieted. She topped off Jake’s cup and filled Bennett’s when he said he wasn’t ordering breakfast.
Trey took a long sip of the coffee, then said, “That plate you grabbed from the car as you arrived at Park’s house last night comes back to Sharaz Ali al-Sattar.”
“Am I supposed to know him?” asked Jake.
“Only if you follow Iranian TV. He runs Irani
an International Television, which has production facilities in Hollywood. From everything I could find in our files, the entire operation is funded by Tehran.”
“No way.”
“Yeah,” said Bennett. “I haven’t had time to listen or watch the playback of all you recorded with Park last night, but has he given you any clue that he is engaged with any Iranians or Mideasterners?”
Jake thought for a moment and said, “Not a word. But if Park’s involved with the Iranian community here in L.A., that would be a stunner. It’s way out of our lane, but it looks to me like the Iranians dropped off the charts last year after they closed that interim nuclear weapons deal in Geneva.”
“You’re right about that,” said Trey. “Crime stats on Persian perps are way down from a year ago. Some ayatollah must have issued a fatwa to knock off the wife beatings LAPD would report and the clandestine caviar and illicit pistachio imports CBP used to catch.”
Jake was still thinking about the car leaving Park’s place as he and Tommy arrived. “What does Bill Holodnak say? Does he have any calls between Park and this Iranian we saw leaving his place last night?”
“Nothing.”
“Park must be communicating by means we aren’t monitoring,” Jake said. “That has me concerned. I don’t like going in blind and deaf. Can we get the judge who issued the wires warrant to broaden the fishing license?”
“I’ll try,” Trey said as he made a note in his iPhone.
“That could be important,” Jake said. “There is no doubt in my mind the dead guy at Park’s last night was Middle Eastern. He could have been Lebanese, Syrian, Iranian, Iraqi, whatever. But Park is convinced it has to be someone with connections to the Korean underworld. He has some ideas but wasn’t interested in sharing them with me last night. Have you seen any forensics to ID the dead guy?”
“That’s going to take days if we get it at all,” Trey replied. Then, consulting the notes he had made on his phone, he continued, “Here’s what the medical examiner’s office told me this morning: There was no ID on the corpse. Initial assessment, large trapezius muscles, indicative of carrying a military backpack and/or wearing an armored vest. Dental work appears to be Middle Eastern or south European—gold, not amalgam. Stomach contents, were—”
