A Northern Thunder (40 page)

“Why LA?”

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

Creighton had flown recently to Seoul and knew what Tom was talking about. Inchon International fulfilled Korea’s dream of becoming Asia’s new air transportation hub. A massive steel and concrete airport facility had been constructed on filled-in land in Inchon’s bay. The airport was tied into Seoul by a network of bridges and highways, but could easily be shut off in a massive manhunt. With someone murdered at Korea’s shining new star, a hop to Los Angeles might be the safer bet for the murderer.

“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,” said Tom.

“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—with 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 forty-thousand 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 amidst light wood trimmings, Tom felt like an interloper living in another man’s house.

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

“We’re probably going to get there about eight-hundred forty-five 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.”

W
hile 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 one-hundred fifty knots pushed the aircraft to a ground speed of more than seven-hundred fifty 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 a gray-brown 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 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.
I need to stop him quickly
, Will decided.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the attendant, “we’re landing in Los Angeles at 8:15 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.

“International A-26,” she said.

“And where is Delta?”

“I believe they’re in Concourse B.”

The flight attendant was a thin wisp of a Korean girl—beautiful, too—who bowed every time he spoke to her.

“If we got in early, I was hoping to catch a different connecting flight,” said Will.

“I see.”

“I appreciate the airplane being early, but my original connection is not for several hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would it be possible for me to move down to the door after landing so I might have a chance to make that earlier connection?”

American carriers would not likely be so hospitable, but Korean Air took great pride in its reputation for excellent customer service.

“Of course, sir,” she said. “As soon as we touch down, you can come down to one of our crew chairs near the door.”

“Thank you.”

Shortly thereafter, Will felt the float as the behemoth aircraft raised its nose on final landing rotation. In his mind, he could see the pilot pulling back on the yoke as the tandem wheels came down onto the tarmac.

The engines went into a high-pitched whine as they reversed their thrust. As soon as the aircraft’s forward momentum slowed, Will unbuckled his seat belt and headed down the short flight of stairs from the bubble to the main deck. There, the attendant waited near the door, signaling him to an open, adjoining crew seat.

Will sat down, straightening his Marine uniform, and inspected his enlisted cover. His highly-shined Corfam shoes glistened in the daylight. The flight attendant gave him an awkward smile as the 747 taxied across connecting runways, finally reaching its gate.

“I’ll open the door and get you going,” said the flight attendant.

He smiled at her again. “
Kamsa hamnida
,” he said in thanks.

“
Ch’onmaneyo
.”

It would have been different if Mi were here
, Will thought. The seat next to him, through the night, had been very, very empty. It was hers. The thought made him still more focused.

The giant door swung open just as the aircraft came to its final stop, and Will, glancing over his shoulder, saw the passengers in both first class, behind him, and coach, to his side, begin to bunch up in their surge to the exit after their ten-hour flight.

Then Will bolted, leading the crowd out of the Jetway.

“Welcome to Los Angeles, Gunny,” a KAL attendant said, greeting him at the end of the hall. “U.S. Customs is to your left.”

“Thanks,” said Will.

Will moved down the hallway to a massive open room with lines of desks and Immigration officers. One line was marked for U.S. citizens.

“Yes, sir. Welcome back,” said the Immigration officer as Will approached.

“Thanks.”

“Are you on a passport?”

“No, I’m returning on orders from a military conference in Korea,” said Will.

“UFL already?” The Immigrations officer was a plump red-headed woman with an Irish dose of freckles. She’d worked many an aircraft coming from Korea and knew that a military conference, or a short stay, probably involved a UFL exercise.

“You bet,” said Will.

“Anything to declare?” His blue eyes caught her attention.

“No, ma’am.”

“Okay, thanks.” She passed him through.

Will began to walk away, but then stopped. “Miss?” he said.

“Yes, sir?”

“There was a man on the flight—I hate to say this about anyone.”

“That’s okay. We appreciate everything.”

“He’s about ten back in this line, black leather jacket, gold ring.”

She glanced, trying not to be obvious. In a fake gesture, she seemed to be counting the people through the line, as if assessing how much work was left in the day. “Yeah?” she said.

“He may be carrying some drugs.”

“Thanks.”

Instead of going to Baggage Claim, Will crossed to an escalator, outside Customs, that headed up to the main terminal. He didn’t have much time. As he rode up the escalator, Will watched a mother and her young child ride down. Will looked at his watch, an unneeded reminder.

At the top of the escalator, he crossed over quickly and purchased, at a small tourist shop, an LA Dodgers jacket and hat, and a copy of the
Los Angeles Times
. The headline “North Korea’s TD-3 Missile Fails” covered much of the front page.

“Sir, that will be five-fifty.”

Will smiled at the young Hispanic clerk, and she gave him a shy grin back.

“Hey,” he said, “could I ask a small favor?”

“I don’t know,” said the clerk.

“I have to make several telephone calls,” said Will, “and it would be a big help.”

“For?”

“For me to give you this ten and you give me that five dollar roll of nickels.” The cash register had several rolls of coins.

“Oh, I guess I could,” she said.

“Thank you.”

Will walked quickly from the LA international terminal to a restroom just above the escalator. His heart was beating rapidly again, as if he were back in North Korea. In one of the back stalls, he pulled off his Marine sweater and cover and put on the oversized Dodgers jacket. He absentmindedly bent the bill of the cap, pulling it down over his eyes, and then bundled up the sweater. As he headed out, Will spotted the door to the maintenance closet, tried the handle, and opened it. He stashed his sweater and Marine cover behind a box of paper towels.

At the top of the escalators, he found a bank of chairs. He began reading the
Times
, waiting, blending in.

• • •

Rei reached the Immigrations desk a few minutes after Will. From the eyes of the Immigration officer, he sensed that something was wrong.

“Your passport, please,” she said.

He handed her the blue and gold U.S. citizen passport.

“Mr. Nagota of San Francisco?”

“Yes.” His English was perfect.

“Do you have anything to declare?” she said.

“No, not this time.”

“Why did you return to Los Angeles if you’re from San Francisco?”

“It was a more convenient flight.”

“I thought KAL had several flights to San Francisco that left the same time as this one.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.” Rei, nervous, twisted the ring around on his finger. Another Immigration officer arrived, this one with the body of a football linebacker, his hand on a holstered Glock 40-mm pistol.

“Mr. Nagota, I must ask you to accompany this officer. It’s nothing unusual. We’re just required to make random inquiries with occasional U.S. citizens.” She was well-trained not to alarm either the suspect or other passengers.

“No problem,” said Rei.

“Follow me, sir.” The larger officer walked ahead, slightly to Rei’s side, and kept his weapon holstered but available. They passed Baggage Claim on their way to an office marked “IMMIGRATION.” Rei walked in silence, smiling. As he passed a pile of bags on a cart, Rei deliberately caught his foot and stumbled to the ground.

“Hey, sir.” The officer didn’t fall for it. He kept his distance as Rei stood up and brushed off his clothes.

“I’m sorry,” said Rei.

“No problem, sir.”

Rei turned his back to the officer, but then swung around, catching the man’s hand with the ring’s point.

“Damn it,” said the officer. As he reached for his pistol, crushing chest pain sunk him to his knees. Rei backed off.

“This man is sick!” Rei screamed.

The crowd, along with several other officers, turned toward the fallen man. Rei backed out, turned, and headed up a hallway to the escalator. He tried not to show the smile on his face, intentionally staring downward as he hid his ring hand in his jacket pocket. With his other hand, he held onto the escalator rail. He glanced about quickly, smiling at another man descending.

What a silly jacket
, Rei thought, observing the man’s blue and white jacket and matching hat.

Will turned his left shoulder toward the man riding up, then braced his left foot on the lower step, his right foot above.

The swing of his fist, reinforced by the roll of nickels, caught Rei squarely on the nose and crushed through his facial bones. Lifted off his feet by the force of impact, a bent-over Rei fell down the stairs as the blood from the subdural hematoma pooled almost immediately in his brain. He looked like a Raggedy Andy doll as he landed at the base of the escalator, one leg bent behind the other.

It would be hard to know if Rei was conscious when Will stepped over his body and rode the escalator up. The Immigrations officers found their suspect near death, bleeding profusely from his nose and left ear.

Meanwhile, the FBI’s Tom Pope had thought he and his team would arrive early enough to catch Rei—until they learned KAL Flight 017 had arrived nearly an hour ahead of schedule.

Rei was transported to the UCLA Hospital Head Trauma Unit, where he was diagnosed with a massive brain injury. With tubes inserted into his throat, he lived for just two more weeks. There were no suspects in his death. Tom couldn’t ask any questions of, or get any answers from, the man. First he was comatose, then he was dead. But Tom knew his search for the North Korean assassin was over.