Counterfeit Lies

by Oliver North

  Jake hesitated with a response. That wasn’t his reasoning but it sounded good. “Yes, exactly. You are a wise man, Mr. Park. Make sure you call exactly at seven forty-five tonight and read the message as I’ve written it.”

  Park smiled, sincerely appreciative of all Jake was doing to recover his daughter and granddaughter. In a final logistical act for tonight’s drama, the North Korean intelligence agent handed him the two large burlap bags containing the three million in Supernotes. Jake recognized the grand gesture of trust it represented. Even if the counterfeit money cost Park nothing, the contents embodied the lives of Jenny and Gracie. Their safe return rested upon the shoulders of a man Park had met less than forty-eight hours earlier.

  As Jake prepared to leave, Park grabbed him and gave him an uncharacteristic hug. “Thank you, Jake. You first approached me because you had been hired to kill my daughter. Now you are willing to risk your life to free my family. You are the only non-Korean I have ever allowed inside my organization. You know the most important thing tonight is to free Jenny and Gracie—after that we will worry about how to get the money back.”

  Jake nodded and said, “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  “Are you sure you do not want some of my men to follow you at a distance in case you need help?”

  “The kidnappers said to come alone,” the FBI agent replied. “If they spot your men, they will kill your daughter and granddaughter.”

  Park pondered that for a moment, nodded, and said, “You are right.” Grasping Jake’s hand, the North Korean intelligence officer whispered, “I will never forget you.”

  As Jake pulled away from the residence, he spotted the candies he had taken from Yeong’s restaurant sitting in the cup holder. He unwrapped a piece and popped it in his mouth. As he let the confection rest on his tongue, the familiar smells of peppermint flooded the car. The memory took him back to the night of the kidnapping and the piece of candy he found on the floor following the melee. “Yeong’s gotta be involved somehow,” said Jake out loud.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Jake turned into the alley where Trey and Brian were waiting in a Bureau car. He pulled alongside as Trey rolled down his window, shaking his head. “This is never going to work.”

  Jake offered a confident smile and said, “Of course it will.”

  “I’m not sure I can go along with this,” said Trey, hesitation in his voice. “There are too many moving parts.”

  Jake’s extortionate smile continued. “Trey, do you remember yesterday morning when you told me about those top-secret matters?”

  Trey looked puzzled. “Yeah.”

  In a tone half serious Jake said, “Well, if you don’t go along I may have to tell Hafner about our conversation. Then we’ll both be doing background checks in Adak.”

  Precisely at 7:45, Park picked up the prepaid cell phone and punched in the number Jake had written on the card. When Yeong answered, Park slowly read the words: “The round-eye will be at the Shanghai Hotel, room 212 at eight p.m. tonight. You can get even then but you must hurry. Don’t be late or you will miss him.”

  When asked, Park repeated the name of the hotel and the room number.

  Jake, Trey, and Brian walked down the alley, their vehicles parked on a side street just off Olympic. All were wearing worn, paint-splashed coveralls Jake picked up at a used clothing store. Jake and Brian were also carrying oversized, mismatched plastic toolboxes. As they approached the rear entrance of the Shanghai Hotel, Trey said, “What’s with you and the alleys? Why don’t you ever use the front door?”

  Jake snapped, “Knock it off.”

  “Whoa. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.”

  “No, but this is serious. We need to focus.”

  “This isn’t serious. This is crazy. You are diving into the shallow end, my friend. If you want to call this thing off I’m behind you all the way. We phone up the cavalry now. I drop a dime on SWAT or just make a call to LAPD. Tell them we have a kidnapping in progress.”

  Jake was focused as he opened the rear door. “This will work.”

  “Yeah, just keep thinking that,” muttered Trey.

  Jake paused before entering, then said, “Trey, we’re in the business of worst-case scenarios.”

  “Oh, that’s comforting.” The sarcasm was evident.

  The hallway smelled of stale sweat and the hotel had no shot of being mentioned in the AAA guidebook. Jake had been here before and knew his immediate destination.

  “I did a couple of dope deals here several years ago,” said Jake to Brian, excited but apprehensive as to what was about to happen.

  “I always thought of you as a Hyatt Regency type of guy,” said Trey.

  Jake seemed to relax just a bit and smiled, saying, “I like to expand my acting horizons. Hate to be typecast as strictly a high-roller. I can work Beverly Hills or urban back alleys.”

  The floor creaked with every few steps as they tried to lighten the footfalls.

  In a near whisper Trey said, “I bet this place hasn’t seen any repairs since the Johnson administration.”

  “Lyndon or Andrew?”

  Jake found the door he was looking for and the three descended concrete steps into a dark, damp basement housing the power, electrical, and fire sprinkler systems, and an ancient HVAC air handler. The noise was a few decibels below deafening as every piece of equipment was badly in need of repairs.

  Jake removed the coveralls and was now dressed as a semi-casual drug dealer, his shirttail out, hiding his Glock 19 on his right hip and a mini-Glock stuffed in the small of his back. He had three magazines, fully loaded, in his left hip pocket.

  “This is never gonna work,” said Trey.

  “Yeah, I heard you.”

  “What?” Trey spoke just above the noise of the basement power system.

  “Yeah, I heard you. It will work. It has to.”

  Jake pulled out two black plastic cases from the toolbox he’d carried into the basement. He popped open the first one and removed a tiny transmitter. Holding it up to the light, he wanted to make sure he was installing it “sunny side up.” He then dropped his pants, getting a “you’ve got to be kidding me” look from Trey.

  Jake blew his case agent a kiss and mouthed the words over the basement noise, “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”

  Allowing the transmitter to dangle at his ankle, he ran the microphone wire up his leg, near his crotch, placing the mike just above the belt line. As he rolled some tape around the wire on his leg, Trey smiled and said into Jake’s ear, “Sweetie, that’s gonna hurt when you pull it off. Shoulda shaved your legs before you decided to run with the big dogs.”

  “Try this,” said Jake, handing the earpiece to Trey.

  Jake walked to the far end of the basement and said, “Testing one, two, three.”

  Trey shook his head. “It’s all static. I can’t hear a thing.”

  Jake mouthed an expletive as he sat down, crossing his legs to get better access to the transmitter. He made some adjustments and again said, “Testing.”

  Trey ripped at the earpiece. “That about blew out my eardrum.”

  “Sorry, let me lower the volume. Too bad Hafner’s spook friend couldn’t lend us some of his equipment,” said Jake as he made the adjustment.

  “Maybe if you would have cut them in they would have,” said Trey.

  “Yeah right. How’s that?”

  “Better,” said Trey.

  “Good.”

  Jake opened the second black plastic container and removed a small transmitter device, disguised to look like a butane lighter, and placed it inside his front shirt pocket. “Back up,” said Jake as he pulled up his pants and buckled his belt.

  Grabbing the top shelf from the large toolbox, Jake tossed it aside.

  When Trey looked in the oversized box he spotted bundles of currency, U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills. Trey picked up a bundle and began to examine it. “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Need-to-know,” sai
d Jake, taking off his shirt and double-stuffing ten bundles of the hundreds—one hundred thousand dollars—inside his waistband.

  Both Trey and Brian gave him looks of confusion.

  “Can I trust you to keep an eye on the rest of my retirement stash?” said Jake as he grabbed the bundle from Trey and threw it back into the toolbox.

  “This stuff looks perfect,” said Trey.

  “It almost is,” said Jake, buttoning his shirt, concealing the money and the two weapons he was now carrying.

  It was ten minutes to eight. He called Park and learned the North Korean kingpin had to repeat the name of the hotel and the room number. Turning to Trey and Brian, Jake said, “It’s not Henry Yeong. He didn’t know anything about the hotel or the room number when Park called him. I’m not sure who or how many will be up there. The timing is important, so when you hear a commotion, set off everything. It should be straight-up at eight.”

  Jake’s confident demeanor washed away most of their misgivings. Trey, out of friendship, and Brian, because of that Marine Corps Semper Fi thing, were ready to go with Jake into battle.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  As Jake climbed the stairs from the basement to the second floor, he remembered Katie’s Bible verse from the book of Job. Maybe today was the limit he could not exceed.

  As he was walking down the hallway toward room 212, two Asian women, practitioners of the world’s oldest profession and painted for the evening, greeted him.

  The shorter of the two said in heavily accented English, “You must be looking for friend.”

  “I’m looking for my friend.”

  She smiled. “Then you come with us.”

  The other woman seductively touched Jake’s arm and, wrapping hers in his, said, “You want to party all night with us instead?”

  “Business first, ladies. Then maybe we can celebrate.”

  The three walked to the far end of the hallway and, just outside the door to room 212, Jake stepped on a loose board, which moaned a loud, painful wail as he put weight on it.

  “What’s with all the squeaky boards in this place? Is the maintenance staff on sabbatical?”

  Both women looked at Jake, confused by his complaint. The shorter woman knocked on the door and waited for a response. When the door opened Jake was greeted by a Middle Eastern man in his thirties with a thick, dark beard.

  “He come alone,” said Jake’s escort.

  The undercover agent entered as the ladies retreated down the hallway, seeking additional income for the evening. Jake’s eyes swept the room. In the hotel’s heyday it would have been a “parlor”—now it was just a drab, run-down “suite,” with a sagging foldout couch flanked by two mismatched end tables. In front of the couch, a scratched and scarred coffee table, two battered wooden chairs, an incongruously placed wingback easy chair, and a vintage Queen Anne–style side table complete with a crystal lamp, circa 1940—all reminiscent of a much earlier era.

  Kareem Abdul, the bartender, occupied the tattered wingback, a large-caliber semi-auto pistol and an open bag of salted sunflower seeds within easy reach on the side table. His tired, bloodshot eyes revealed sleep had not been a recent luxury.

  The two others—both apparently of Mideast extraction—were standing and both had oversized semi-autos tucked inside the front of their waistbands. The one who had opened the door for Jake looked like a Doberman ready to pounce. The other, whom Jake guessed to be in his mid-forties, stood by the couch, his posture indicative of indifference instead of aggression.

  The sounds of traffic from a busy Olympic Boulevard flooded through an open window and Jake noted the door to an adjoining room was slightly ajar. He took in the disheveled appearance of the three men, empty takeout food wrappers from Aladdin’s Mediterranean Delights, the hot plate with a cheap teapot, five plastic teacups, the stench of stale sweat, and concluded: This is amateur hour.

  “You are a huge disappointment,” said Jake, directing his comment to the bartender.

  Kareem surveyed the undercover agent. “You came alone. At least you listened, but unless you’re keistering three million in foldin’ money, we got no business.”

  “I guess you weren’t rehabilitated with that latest prison stint,” said Jake.

  “Shut up!” screamed Kareem, trying to establish his dominance, his eyes intense.

  Jake sized up the situation, positioning himself to keep an open shot to the hallway door or the adjoining room. All three opponents were close enough that should Jake need to shoot he could easily drop them without much maneuvering. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that but he didn’t want the men spreading out, making a rapid assault more difficult.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends? You know my name but I really feel at a disadvantage. Maybe we should print up name tags. We need a little guy-time before the fun begins,” said Jake, trying to keep everyone distracted with his self-assured banter.

  Kareem shook his head.

  “So what do I call them, Dopey and Bashful? You didn’t pick these guys up off Craigslist. Obviously they’re two more pimps of war. Come on, Kareem, we’re among friends. Surely their mamas call them something.”

  Kareem bit. “Mohammed and Rostam.”

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. So, who’s who?”

  There was a moment of silence before the older of the two said quietly, “I am Mohammed.”

  “Hi, guys. Nice to meet you. I’m guessing you’re hoping to get rich this evening.” Jake remained calm; his demeanor in the face of horror was unsettling to the three terrorists. . . . If you have no fear, they have no power.

  Frustrated, Kareem looked to Mohammed, the cell leader, before returning to Jake and barking, “I need to see some green.”

  “I brought earnest money for the first round of negotiations,” said Jake, noting Kareem sought Mohammed’s approval.

  The ex-con bartender spit a mouthful of sunflower husks on the floor and said, “I don’t need no earnest money and there’s no negotiating. I want to see three million.”

  Jake noticed the one called Rostam, his lips curled in disgust, was looking at the well-chewed detritus on the worn carpet. These are not happy campers.

  In the hotel basement, Trey could barely hear what was happening in room 212. Between the static from the transmitter and the noise from the pipes, the conversation was garbled and barely audible.

  He slammed his fist on the workbench as he tried to focus on the situation on the second floor, knowing Jake’s life hung in the balance. Cupping his hands over his ears in an effort to block out the extraneous noises, he debated moving from the basement but wasn’t sure of the layout of the hotel and whether two white guys would bring more attention to the pending eruption.

  There was no panic in Jake’s eyes as he looked directly at Mohammed rather than Kareem. “I’ve got your money,” he said. “I want to see Jenny and the girl.”

  “You’re not seein’ nothin’ till I see the money,” said Kareem, trying to get Jake’s attention.

  “I brought the money, a little here and a lot outside. I want to see Jenny and Gracie,” said the ever-defiant undercover agent, showing absolutely no fear.

  Kareem laughed but didn’t smile. “That ain’t right, Batman, unless Robin is hangin’ on the other side of the door. You came alone and I know you ain’t dumb enough to leave a pile of cash in the hallway. I need to see a three and six zeroes now!”

  “You’ll see all the money when I see the girls, but here’s a little taste,” said Jake with calculated assurance.

  He reached inside his shirt and Kareem’s two partners immediately drew their weapons from their waistbands, pointing them at Jake.

  “Whoa, fellows! Mohammed, Rostam, let’s not get trigger-happy. I’m just reaching for some bundles of Kareem’s Monopoly money, or is it Mohammed’s play dough? I can’t tell who’s calling the shots but I’m guessing it’s not you, Rostam. Kareem says you’re just Mohammed’s chai boy.”

  The
bartender jumped out of the chair and shouted to Mohammed, “Teacher, I never said any such thing to this infidel.”

  “Well,” said Jake, looking at Mohammed, “I guess that means you’re the boss man.”

  Jake grabbed three bundles of the Supernote hundreds and threw them on the couch. Three pairs of eyes followed the bundles as they bounced on the stained cushions.

  Jake continued to focus on Mohammed. “Now it’s your turn to play nice. Let’s get this over with. Bring in Jenny and the little girl.”

  Mohammed nodded toward Kareem.

  “Bring them in!” hollered Kareem.

  With that, Candy walked in from the adjoining room, a .45-caliber, M1911A1 auto pointed at Jenny, who was a step in front, her mouth gagged and her hands behind her back. With Candy’s free hand she was holding Gracie’s hand, tears running down angelic cheeks.

  Jake looked at Jenny. “Are you guys okay?”

  Jenny put her head down, refusing to look at Jake, and nodded slowly.

  “Gracie, why don’t you come stand over here with me?” said Jake.

  “No,” said Kareem.

  “For an ex-con bartender you have no sense of fair play. You’ve still got Jenny and it’s four to one. You have to like those odds. I want to make sure the little girl’s okay,” said Jake.

  Kareem thought for a long moment, then looked to Mohammed, as did Candy. When Mohammed nodded, Candy released her grip. The tiny ballerina, confused and frightened, slowly made her way to Jake, who crouched down and cradled her in his arms, her head on his shoulder as she sobbed softly. “It’s going to be okay, Gracie. You’ll be going home to your grandfather soon.” Turning to Candy, he said with a calm, deliberate delivery, “Tommy loved you and you had him killed. That’s pretty cold.”

  Candy said nothing, focusing her attention on Mohammed rather than Jake.

  Looking at Candy and Kareem, Jake said, “I’m confused by Mohammed and Rostam. Is this some eclectic UN kidnapping conspiracy? You must really believe in diversity and equal opportunity. This is a regular rainbow coalition. And Kareem, I’m not paying attention to you anymore. I thought you were my go-to guy, but since Mohammed is in charge, I’m directing all my comments to the boss.”