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Authors: David Hagberg
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well. Give him all the food he wants, showers, clean uniforms, and exercise every day,”
“I don’t have it that good,” Ri complained.
“No. But we’re not going to trade you to China.”
“What’s next?”
“You and I have to do some homework, and then I have to arrange for a flight out.”
“Where’re you going?”
“New York.”
New York/Sarasota
THIRTEEN
The only decent jetliner in North Korea’s small fleet was an aging Tupolev Tu-134 twin turbofan, on which their Russian-trained mechanics lavished loving care. If the need ever arose for Kim Jong Il to get out of the country in a hurry this was his personal aircraft.
It was five in the morning and still dark when Pak’s car was cleared through the gate and Sergeant Ri dropped him off at the rear of the terminal where the plane was being refueled and inspected. The entire area was bathed in harsh white spotlights, armed soldiers everywhere.
“Make sure that nothing happens to our prisoner,” Pak said getting out of the car. He retrieved his single nylon sports bag from the backseat. “Especially no more drugs. When the time comes I want him perfectly sane.”
“Dr. Gi might have something to say about it.”
“If you get into any trouble while I’m gone call Dear Leader’s people. Tell them that you work for me and you’ll be protected.”
Ri looked at him like he was crazy. “The last thing I want is to be noticed by his people.”
“If you need help you can get it.”
Pak started to turn away, but Ri called after him, “Who’re you going to see in the States?”
“Someone I think can help us,” Pak said. “Maybe.”
His credentials were checked before he was allowed to get anywhere near the airplane, and then when he went aboard the flightattendant, a pretty girl in an Army sergeant’s uniform glared at him. “Welcome aboard, sir.”
“Am I late?”
“Yes, sir. May I take your bag?”
Pak shrugged. “No.” He glanced at the pilot, copilot, and flight engineer who had finished their preflight inspection and were on the flight deck preparing the jet for takeoff, then went down the aisle to a window seat a few rows back next to an emergency exit hatch.
The only person aboard the plane other than himself, the cockpit crew, and their replacements seated forward, was Lin Hun-Haw, deputy ambassador to the U.N. who was on his way to New York to try to convince the Security Council that North Korea was not responsible for the assassination, a task nearly everyone thought would fall on deaf ears. Lin was in his early sixties, slightly built and somewhat stoop-shouldered, with a scowl that seemed to be permanently etched on his face.
“You’re late, Colonel,” he said sharply, as Pak was stowing his bag in an overhead bin. “Explain yourself, before I allow you to continue with me.”
Pak and Ri had spent the afternoon, all of the evening, and most of the morning trying without success to come up with something on an ex-KGB agent named Alexandar who apparently lived in Tokyo and had ties to the Mafia, but Internet service in North Korea, even for high-ranking intelligence officers, was practically nonexistent. They’d also secured a second set of papers, including credit cards, identifying Pak by name, but as a South Korean-born American businessman, as well as the flights and rental car he would need once he got to the States. Right now he was tired and impatient. What he was going to the States to do was nothing short of dramatic and had about a zero chance of success, but so far he’d been unable to think of anything else.
“Telephone Dear Leader, I’m sure that he will be happy to answer your questions,” Pak said. He took down a pillow and a blanket. The flight from Pyongyang straight through to San Francisco, then on to Chicago, and finally New York, including fuel stops, would take nearly twenty-four hours. Once on the ground Pak figured he wouldn’t begetting much
“I don’t have it that good,” Ri complained.
“No. But we’re not going to trade you to China.”
“What’s next?”
“You and I have to do some homework, and then I have to arrange for a flight out.”
“Where’re you going?”
“New York.”
New York/Sarasota
THIRTEEN
The only decent jetliner in North Korea’s small fleet was an aging Tupolev Tu-134 twin turbofan, on which their Russian-trained mechanics lavished loving care. If the need ever arose for Kim Jong Il to get out of the country in a hurry this was his personal aircraft.
It was five in the morning and still dark when Pak’s car was cleared through the gate and Sergeant Ri dropped him off at the rear of the terminal where the plane was being refueled and inspected. The entire area was bathed in harsh white spotlights, armed soldiers everywhere.
“Make sure that nothing happens to our prisoner,” Pak said getting out of the car. He retrieved his single nylon sports bag from the backseat. “Especially no more drugs. When the time comes I want him perfectly sane.”
“Dr. Gi might have something to say about it.”
“If you get into any trouble while I’m gone call Dear Leader’s people. Tell them that you work for me and you’ll be protected.”
Ri looked at him like he was crazy. “The last thing I want is to be noticed by his people.”
“If you need help you can get it.”
Pak started to turn away, but Ri called after him, “Who’re you going to see in the States?”
“Someone I think can help us,” Pak said. “Maybe.”
His credentials were checked before he was allowed to get anywhere near the airplane, and then when he went aboard the flightattendant, a pretty girl in an Army sergeant’s uniform glared at him. “Welcome aboard, sir.”
“Am I late?”
“Yes, sir. May I take your bag?”
Pak shrugged. “No.” He glanced at the pilot, copilot, and flight engineer who had finished their preflight inspection and were on the flight deck preparing the jet for takeoff, then went down the aisle to a window seat a few rows back next to an emergency exit hatch.
The only person aboard the plane other than himself, the cockpit crew, and their replacements seated forward, was Lin Hun-Haw, deputy ambassador to the U.N. who was on his way to New York to try to convince the Security Council that North Korea was not responsible for the assassination, a task nearly everyone thought would fall on deaf ears. Lin was in his early sixties, slightly built and somewhat stoop-shouldered, with a scowl that seemed to be permanently etched on his face.
“You’re late, Colonel,” he said sharply, as Pak was stowing his bag in an overhead bin. “Explain yourself, before I allow you to continue with me.”
Pak and Ri had spent the afternoon, all of the evening, and most of the morning trying without success to come up with something on an ex-KGB agent named Alexandar who apparently lived in Tokyo and had ties to the Mafia, but Internet service in North Korea, even for high-ranking intelligence officers, was practically nonexistent. They’d also secured a second set of papers, including credit cards, identifying Pak by name, but as a South Korean-born American businessman, as well as the flights and rental car he would need once he got to the States. Right now he was tired and impatient. What he was going to the States to do was nothing short of dramatic and had about a zero chance of success, but so far he’d been unable to think of anything else.
“Telephone Dear Leader, I’m sure that he will be happy to answer your questions,” Pak said. He took down a pillow and a blanket. The flight from Pyongyang straight through to San Francisco, then on to Chicago, and finally New York, including fuel stops, would take nearly twenty-four hours. Once on the ground Pak figured he wouldn’t begetting much
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