Northern Thunder

by Anderson Harp

  “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong?” Will looked at her face, which had suddenly turned white. She slumped back against the wall of the elevator.

  “Nothing.” Mi tried to appear as normal as possible.

  “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  “I thought I saw someone I knew a long time ago.” She leaned her back up against the wall for support, trying to remain calm.

  “What do you need me to do?” Will said.

  “Nothing.”

  They showed their boarding passes and entered Korean Air’s opulent teak and gold business-class lounge. This is quite a distance from the conditions of the past few days, Will thought as he headed toward one of the telephones. He dialed the international operator, placing a collect call to Georgia.

  “I’ll be right back,” Mi said. He barely heard her as she headed back out the entrance. The telephone rang on the other side of the world.

  “This is Harold Wilson, calling collect,” Will said. Wilson had been one of their professors in law school; it was his agreed-on alias.

  * * * *

  Mi, in the elevator, took one look at Will, sitting back in the oversized leather chair by the phone, intently concentrating on the conversation. She knew that this whole thing had been so unsafe. She knew it would end soon.

  The elevator opened onto the main floor of the massive terminal and Mi crossed it, openly, certain her every move was being watched. Fear had occupied much of her life. Today was no different.

  “Can you tell me where the ladies’ room is?” she said. She purposely didn’t use the one in the lounge.

  The KAL clerk smiled and bowed slightly as she pointed to a side hall. Mi walked directly toward it, finding it nearly abandoned. How could I walk from such a congested place to some place so empty? she thought, knowing it gave him every opportunity.

  * * * *

  The clerk at KAL’s prestige lounge announced KAL flight KI017 to Los Angeles just moments after she left. Will hung up the telephone. His message had been brief because the call was expected. It would only have been a surprise if the call had not been made.

  But Mi was gone. Looking at his watch, he thought it strange she wasn’t back by now. Will decided to head down to the main floor, hoping to cut across to the gate and save time. Something felt wrong, though, as he scanned the terminal. She was nowhere in sight. His heart kicked up a beat. “I’m looking for a lady, dressed in a brown business suit,” he said to the KAL clerk.

  “Yes, sir,” the clerk said, “I believe she went to the ladies’ room over there.”

  “Thank you.” Will’s heart raced.

  The hallway was long and dark, with poorly lit, blinking fluorescent lights. It was empty, save for one person. As Will walked down the hall, he was passed by a man in his early thirties, wearing a black leather coat and bearing a deep scar on his hand. The man looked down. Will made a point to remember his face.

  At the end of the hall stood two doors facing each other. One was the men’s room. Will glanced quickly into the men’s room, expecting nothing, and was unsurprised. When he opened the other door, he saw nothing but a row of gray metal stalls facing a row of white porcelain sinks.

  Will stopped and squatted down, looking through the bottom of the stalls. His heart sank when he saw, on the far end, a slumping leg. He ran to the stall.

  Mi Yong sat against the side wall, staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed, her blouse soaked in blood. A large, gaping wound ran across her throat.

  They say you didn’t feel the razor when it cut across the neck, only the pressure of a hand. You felt dizzy, then cold, then simply tired as life drained away.

  Will slammed his fist against the wall. He knew that reporting the murder would be useless. The police would detain him, then discover there was no Gunnery Sergeant Donald Ruskell in the Marine Corps. Meanwhile, the killer would be gone and Krowl might be warned.

  Will kissed her on the cheek and gently closed her eyes. He had to flee before anyone else saw him in the restroom. He backed out, leaving the stall door slightly open, so she’d be found soon.

  Fortunately, Will made it down the hallway before anyone else turned the corner. His heart pounding, he walked across the terminal, looking at the international gates of each flight, hoping for any opportunity.

  At none of the gates did he find what he was looking for. He kept moving, past flights to Tokyo, to Singapore, to Los Angeles. Still no man, no scar.

  * * * *

  Rei knew the police would cover all exits from the airport once her body was found. His original plan was to leave the airport, then take a taxi to the remote farmhouse that hid the secret tunnel to the North. Her death was well worth a plan change. Killing Mi settled an old score, and it would bring great praise from his superiors.

  The smartest plan change, he decided, would take him somewhere least expected. “I need one ticket to Los Angeles.”

  “Sir,” said the woman at the check-in counter, “this isn’t usually done when the flight’s boarding.”

  “I’m sorry, but traffic held me up.” He held out a blue American passport, knowing it would eliminate any dispute over visas. He also held up a gold American Express card. “If you have a seat in first class,” Rei said, “it would be appreciated.”

  “Yes, sir, I think KAL 017 does have a seat in first.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’ll cost $5,128.61.” She shuddered to give him the amount, and gave him a slight bow as she did.

  “Yes, that’s fine. My expense account can handle it.” He returned the bow.

  “Thank you, Mr. Nagota. You can board at your leisure.”

  “Thank you,” he said, smiling.

  Will saw only the shape of the man and his black leather jacket as he passed through the boarding gate, but recognized him instantly.

  L.A., he thought. Perfect.

  * * * *

  Pyongyang’s troops were moving across the city. Armed guards were on each corner with no one walking the streets. The city, like the country, had become an armed camp ready to explode.

  Kim Jong-un was surrounded by his most loyal guards as he entered the Nuclear and Chemical Defense Bureau. Now was the most dangerous time. He had to move fast. His father had told him that it was critical that he got to this one man first.

  “Choe Hak-son, will you follow me?”

  The old man was respected by the military. The answer was critical. Likewise, it meant that the wrong answer was death for either the young man in the room or the old advisor.

  “You are the one.”

  “Yes.”

  Kim Jong-un had thought that he’d have some time before this day came.

  “There is an order that must be given and must be executed now.” Kim Jong-un had that same cocky style of his father. “Jang Song-thaek.”

  He didn’t need to say more. The uncle was a threat.

  In less than an hour, men from the Ministry of State Security showed up at the Politburo and dragged the old man out from the meeting hall. It was very public, which was intended. At the same time agents showed up at the North Korean embassy in Havana with orders that Jang’s son-in-law was to immediately return to Pyongyang with his wife and children. Jang’s son, the ambassador to Malaysia, was also recalled under armed guard.

  They and their families were shot within an hour of returning to the city. The granddaughters and grandsons cried for mercy, but their pleas fell on deaf ears.

  Jang had a special fate. He was fed to a pack of captive, wild dogs.

  Chapter 46

  FBI Headquarters

  “Holy Jesus!” said the normally soft-spoken Tom Pope. The others on the morning shift at the SIOC operations center turned his way.

  As a frequent visitor to the FBI’s operation center, Tom was cleared to use computer termina
l six—a joint, highly classified Department of Defense and Department of Justice computer that received and monitored classified emails. Many of the emails were random communications on global events. A few were directed to specific recipients. If the subject matter was critical, the computer flashed an attention-getter as soon as the user logged on.

  Tom Pope logged onto his email account at 0600. He often began his typical fourteen-hour days by swinging past the operations center and reviewing critical emails. Immediately, an alarm on his computer beeped; as he scanned the email text, he was already dialing the home telephone number of Dave Creighton.

  “Hey, this is Tom.”

  “Yeah? What happened?” said Creighton.

  “I’m at the SIOC and just received this info emailed to me.”

  “What part of the world?”

  “The resident agent in Seoul,” said Tom. The FBI had agents stationed in certain spots around the world. For the FBI, Seoul was not considered one of the more critical assignments. In the criminal-justice system, Seoul was similar to Japan, in that crime was well-contained by both the local culture and aggressive police departments. There was the occasional drug trafficker, particularly dangerous in this antidrug society, but he was rare. And Seoul was not known for terrorists.

  “What’s he got?”

  “Let me just read it to you:

  “‘Incheon International Airport discovered body of mid-twenties Asian-American female bearing U.S. passport for “Kim Ruskell” of San Francisco, California, murdered by a sharp object severing the arteries in her neck. Estimated time of death was fourteen-hundred local time. Investigation reveals the passport to be false. Fingerprints fail to identify subject. A witness noted a mid-thirties Asian male wearing a black leather jacket seen walking in the vicinity of the crime. Only other noticeable feature was a scar on one hand.’”

  The world was starting to tumble in its orbit.

  “He sounds like a match to Boston,” said Creighton.

  “I’m emailing an urgent reply and I’ll attach the Boston photo,” said Tom.

  “Good idea. Call the Aviation Department.” September 11 had brought many changes, including millions of dollars to the Bureau to enlarge its aviation department from half a dozen airplanes to well over eighty. The pilots were all FBI agents, and many of the airplanes were used for surveillance of suspects. Electronics allowed the aircraft to, among other things, eavesdrop on possible terrorist cell phone calls.

  The FBI air force also provided executive transportation when critically needed. It was available 24-7 to those on a very short list. Dave Creighton was on that list.

  “Tell them it’s Creighton-approved, whiskey tango authorization ten,” said Creighton. “Call me for confirmation and it’s an international trip to Seoul.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’ll probably recommend the Falcon 7X.”

  The Falcon 7X was the newest addition to the FBI fleet.

  “They’ll want to take two crews and probably need to stop in Alaska or somewhere on the West Coast for refueling and a change-out of crew members,” said Creighton. “Who do you need to take with you?”

  “My team,” said Tom.

  “Okay. She can carry you five easily and even with the backup crew, you’ll have plenty of room.”

  “I’ll check with you from Andrews.”

  Tom was impressed with the Aviation Department’s reply. It didn’t hurt that he mentioned authorization whiskey tango 10 and Creighton’s name. The aircraft would be ready for departure before he could even get to Andrews.

  It didn’t take long to gather his team of five agents. All were at work in the other end of the building, and each had to scramble to their homes to grab a bag. No one knew how long they might be overseas.

  Debra Pope looked up as Tom banged through the front door. He gave her his sheepish grin.

  “Where to this time?” said Debra.

  “Korea.”

  “What?” As he frantically packed a bag, she leaned against the door to their bedroom. “How long?”

  “No idea. Best guess is probably five days.”

  The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said, running down the stairs as Tom finished packing his hanging bag. He’d learned a long time ago that packing for five days was the only thing that worked. More than that was too bulky and with less, he always ran short.

  “It’s the Bureau,” said Debra, handing Tom the wireless handset.

  “Hey, this is Pope,” said Tom.

  The conversation was brief.

  “Thanks.” He hung up.

  “What’s up, Tom?” She hated to ask the question, because she already knew the answer.

  “I can’t say much.”

  “Oh.”

  “But it’s a change. No Korea—California.”

  * * * *

  Tom followed protocol and stayed off his cell. At Andrews, the Department of Justice hangar would have a landline, and he could call Creighton and give him a secure update.

  As he pulled into the gated parking at the hangar, Tom saw the white three-engine jet just beyond. A man in his mid-thirties wearing a black baseball cap walked around the glistening aircraft, peering into the engine’s cowlings. Even across the parking lot, Tom could see a bright white FBI monogrammed on the man’s cap.

  “Change of plans, guys,” said Tom.

  His team waited in the hangar’s lobby, bags stacked near the door.

  “I need to talk to Creighton first,” said Tom, heading into the hangar’s office. “I need HQ, please, on a secure line,” he said.

  Another man, who was wearing a black FBI hat and a black FBI-imprinted sweater, pointed toward a different office. The door placard read Aviation Director. Tom dialed Creighton’s private number directly. “Boss,” he said, “this is Tom out at Andrews.”

  “Yeah, what’s up?” said Creighton.

  “The SIOC called me half an hour ago. They got a confirmation by the KAL clerk on the photo. The man seen heading toward that hallway was the one in Boston. Another KAL clerk confirmed he was on a flight leaving Narita, Japan and going to Seoul just an hour earlier.”

  “Narita?” Creighton liked how, at the end of an investigation, all the pieces would fall into place.

  “Yeah,” said Tom, “and we know something else. He’s not in Korea or headed to Korea. He was last seen boarding a KAL flight to L.A.”

  “Why L.A.?”

  “I don’t know, but my guess is Seoul got too hot or too hard. That new airport, Incheon, was built in a harbor and basically has just one access route.”

  “It’s just after eight here. What time does his flight get into Los Angeles?” said Creighton.

  “It’s supposed to get in at nine.”

  “So if you take off now, you might get there before he does.”

  “It’ll be close.”

  “Do you want local help?” said Creighton.

  “Right now, I’d like to keep it small and low-key—just us.”

  “Okay, get going.”

  The Falcon spun out of the hangar and taxied to Andrews’s main runway. Tom soon felt the three engines surge as they pushed him back into the seat during the 40,000-foot climb. Many of the Bureau’s aircraft were gray-paneled, office-type accommodations. The Falcon 7X, though, was the director’s international transport for his many long flights, so it was outfitted in a far more opulent manner. Seated in the plush leather seats amid light wood trimmings, Tom felt like a squatter occupying another man’s house.

  “Fellas,” he said, “how we looking for arrival time?” Tom had wandered up to the cockpit after the aircraft had leveled off. It was an azure blue day—clear, with only a wisp of high-altitude clouds.

  “We’re probably going to get there about 0845, local time,” said the pilot. “The winds are fighting us today.” />
  Tom looked down at his watch. It was half past eight on the East Coast. He could call for help, but was afraid it might pose too high a risk if the assassin spotted local agents. And if they were this close, he didn’t want the guy flagged off by some misguided agent.

  “If it looks later than that, let me know.”

  Chapter 47

  Aboard a Korean Jet above the Pacific

  While the Korean Airlines Boeing 747 flew across the Pacific, throughout the night and into the day, Will could not sleep. He stared at the constantly moving map in his lounge seat in the jumbo aircraft’s bubble. The winds had been favorable as they crossed the water to the east. A tailwind of well over 150 knots pushed the aircraft to a ground speed of more than 750 miles per hour.

  Will didn’t care much about the speed as he heard the engines’ throttle change on the final descent into LAX. The jetliner banked several times, and on the third or fourth turn, Will saw the coastline. Los Angeles was covered by marine-layer smog. He could see approaching aircraft, all traveling from east to west in a long, straight line, heading down into the cloud cover until they disappeared one at a time.

  The man in the black leather coat sat at the far end of the first-class cabin, closer to the nose and farthest away from both the door and stairway of the business-class bubble downstairs. Will had checked on him twice during the night, once watching him drink champagne. Surprise remained Will’s advantage. If the man knew of his connection to Mi, Will had no sense of it.

  As the airplane crossed over Los Angeles and turned back to the west for landing, Will considered what to do.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the attendant, “we’re landing in Los Angeles at eight-fifteen a.m. local time, well ahead of schedule, due to a tailwind. Please fasten your seat belts and bring your tray tables and seats to an upright position.”

  Will looked at his watch, the Soviet-made one he had worn in North Korea. He had changed its time through half a dozen time zones. It had been a long week.

  “Miss, what gate will we be going to?” said Will, stopping the flight attendant.