A Northern Thunder (39 page)

He smiled at her again. “Before we go, I’ve got to call an old friend in Georgia.”

“Who?”

“A guy named Gary Matthews. He’s not involved in this.”

The elevator, though empty, felt cramped. As they entered, Mi turned to the sliding doors, glancing through them into the open terminal floor, at the mass of people.

“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 Airline’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 Mi 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, and his agreed-to 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.

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.

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 someplace so empty?
she thought, knowing it gave him every opportunity.

The clerk at KAL’s prestige lounge announced KAL Flight 017 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 Will 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 were 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 don’t feel the razor when it cuts across the neck, only the pressure of a hand. You feel dizzy, then cold, then very tired as life drains 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 farmhouse. 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, young lady,” 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.

LA
, he thought.
Perfect.

“H
oly Jesus!” said the usually 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 terminal six—a joint, highly classified Department of Defense and Department of Justice computer that received and monitored classified e-mails. Many of the e-mails 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 e-mail account at oh-six-hundred Eastern Standard Time. He often began his typical fourteen-hour day by swinging past the operations center and reviewing critical e-mails. Immediately, an alarm on his computer beeped, and as he scanned the e-mail text, he was already dialing the home telephone number of Dave Creighton. “Boss, this is Tom.”

Creighton talked to Tom every day, seven days a week, usually at seven in the morning. Their conversations were always to the point. By the timing of the call, Creighton knew instantly the caller and the subject. If Tom Pope called an hour early, something was up.

“Yeah, what’s happened?” said Creighton.

“I’m at the SIOC and just received this e-mail info’d to me.”

“What part of the world?”

“The resident agent in Seoul,” said Tom. The FBI stationed agents 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 anti-drug society, but that was rare. And Seoul was not known for terrorists.

“What’s he got?”

“Let me just read it to you.”

Inchon International Airport discovered body of mid-twenties Asian 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.

“Sounds like that’s a match to Boston,” said Creighton. “I’m e-mailing him an urgent reply and I’ll attach the Boston photo,” said Tom.

“Good idea. Call the Aviation Department.” September 11th 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 twenty-four seven 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 7X was the newest addition to the FBI fleet. It had a range of over five-thousand seven-hundred nautical miles. The triple engine jet could make it from Washington to Honolulu in a single straight shot.

“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 heard the bang of the front door as she finished cleaning up the kitchen.
Oh, boy
, she thought.

Tom 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.”

Debra had just returned from taking the kids to school, relieved that this promised to be a reasonably sane week—no sick children, no school plays, and no major school projects. Tom worked hard staying involved in his children’s lives, despite long days and weeks of work. The seventh day usually meant just a few hours of telephone calls and e-mails.

The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” said Debra.

She ran 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.

“Tom, it’s the Bureau,” said Debra, handing Tom the phone.

“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.

Tom’s 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 to talk to Headquarters on a secure telephone,” he said.

Another man, wearing a black FBI hat and a black FBI-imprinted sweater, pointed toward a different office. The desk placard read, “Walter Hudgins, 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 LA.”