Assignment: Seoul Page 5

  “It’ll certainly be after midnight, okay?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll end up asleep by four, so by midnight I’ll be ready to get up and play.”

  “I’ll wake you.”

  Rachel paid the bill in cash and the two headed up the wooden staircase. CJ stopped her on the second step, kissed her, and said, “I’ll see you tonight.” Rachel appeared to CJ to be a bit confused, but she smiled and headed up the stairs to the lobby.

  CJ went to the deli across from the Japanese restaurant and bought a small pack of tea bags. Then he went out the side door near where O’Kim’s Irish Pub used to be and walked to the Lotte hotel nearby. He went to the grocery store in the basement of the Lotte and roamed the aisles. Then CJ saw him again: a man, about six feet tall with an athletic build. He was wearing a shiny brown suit, probably silk, definitely expensive. The suit coat was draped over one arm now. When CJ had gone into the Chosun to meet Rachel, the same man was standing near the house phone near the elevators wearing the coat. CJ had thought then that he looked like an Arab – olive skin, a thick black mustache, and a five o’clock shadow five hours before five. Now CJ didn’t think so. Maybe he was Italian. He had gone up the stairs ahead of CJ and Rachel when lunch ended, which explained why CJ didn’t go out through the lobby. CJ thought it was probably just a coincidence at the time. It’s a tourist hotel and this foreigner made the same restaurant choice for lunch that CJ had. Now the two were in the basement of the Lotte together. Bill and Clayton, Rachel’s phone, and now Mr. Mustache.

  The textbook says that when you detect possible surveillance, finish your detection route without letting surveillance know you figured out who they were. CJ chose Plan B. He started walking directly toward Mr. Mustache. As CJ got closer, the man turned and asked the clerk a question that CJ didn’t hear and the clerk apparently didn’t understand. Mr. Mustache repeated himself slowly. “Where is fresh bread?”

  It wasn’t native English for sure, but it wasn’t an Arab or Middle Eastern accent either. Maybe Italian? Spanish? Yes, thought CJ, he’s a Spanish speaker. CJ checked his watch. It was 1:20 p.m. He wanted to see how badly Mr. Mustache wanted to stay with him. He walked quickly out of the grocery store and into the parking lot. He went to an exterior staircase that led to a restaurant, walked in, then took the escalator down to the lobby. He walked quickly to the concierge.

  “I need a ticket for the airport shuttle. How much does it cost and when is the next one?”

  “Are you traveling domestically or internationally, sir?” the concierge answered in much better than average English.

  “To Pusan.”

  “You will need to go to Gimpo Airport in the west of Seoul. A ticket is 12,000 won. It comes every half hour on the hour and half hour. Next one comes in about five minutes. Would you like a ticket?”

  “Yes, please,” said CJ taking out his wallet.

  “May I get someone to help you with your luggage?”

  “I’m just going to Pusan for the day. I’ll be back tonight.”

  “Enjoy your flight, sir. The bus will come just outside those doors. It will be blue and say Korean Airlines on the side.”

  “Your English is excellent.”

  “Thank you so much! I am studying hard every day, sir.”

  CJ walked out and only had to wait a minute or so before the bus pulled up. He got on with about five or six other westerners. The driver collected the tickets and drove away.

  “We stop two hotels more, then airport,” said the driver.

  The bus took the path to the Hyatt that allows the riders to overlook Itaewon. Who sends one guy to follow someone? CJ thought to himself. If someone suspects me, they must know that I’d make Mr. Mustache on my first trip around the block. It can’t be a terrorist, not with all the other crap that is going on. Who has something to lose if I succeed? Only the North Koreans and the Israelis. The guys up north don’t know anything is going on. They’re just going to wake up one night and watch a free Israeli air show. The Israelis don’t know me. The only one who does is GOSSAMER and if he told them about me, they’d have no reason to follow me. What if the Agency is fucking with me? He paused at the thought. Wouldn’t it be just like the CI police to follow me around to see if I’m taking the necessary precautions. Surely they wouldn’t run such a test during a GOSSAMER meeting. Or maybe they would, this being the one case I handle where a screw-up would really get some people fired. We could always swap Pollard for GOSSAMER, I suppose, but I’d be looking for work.

  The bus was stopped at a light. If you took a right you could wind your way through the residential part of Itaewon and end up at the bottom of the hill in the shopping district. The light changed and the bus headed further up the hill, ending with a right and quick left to get on the Hyatt property. While the new passengers got on, CJ slipped off. He went into the hotel, passed the reception area and the elevators, turned right past the telephones, and went to the bathroom. He came out and called Rachel’s phone. He left a voice message: “Call me in 10 minutes at the Paris Grill.”

  He took the elevator down one flight and wandered into the Paris Grill.

  “Lunch buffet over now. Do you want to see a menu?”

  “I want a big plate of fresh fruit cut up in small pieces.”

  “No fruit plate here.”

  “Is Jake still the head chef here?”

  “Yes. Mr. Jake always here.”

  “Give him my card and tell him Conner wants a big plate of fresh fruit cut up in small pieces. Do it now, please. I’ll find my own seat. I’m expecting a phone call soon too.”

  The hostess just stood there. “Palee palee,” CJ said and the woman scurried off.

  CJ found a seat in the back near a window. A waiter appeared with a cordless phone and gave it to CJ.

  “If you wanted more lunch, you should have told me. You knew I was buying,” said Rachel.

  “I’m just taking a fruit break between meetings. Where are you?”

  “After you pushed me up the stairs, I decided to go back to my hotel. I’ve got jet lag big time. What happened outside the restaurant anyway? Did your wife show up?”

  “No, she’s dead; I killed her with a sharp knife. Actually, I had a sudden attack of Hiroshima’s Revenge and thought you’d prefer not to see again what I had just eaten.”

  “I’ll sleep better knowing those details. What’s up?”

  “I just called to make sure you really wanted me to wake you up tonight,” CJ lied. He wanted to make sure other Mr. Mustaches had not done something to her.

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to bed now. It’s about two something. I’m going to be well rested by midnight. You better be rested too.”

  “I’ll try. Sleep well.”

  “CONNER JAMES ALLEN,” boomed a voice as big as the speaker in a strong Australian accent. “I brought the fruit. I see you still eat like a faggot.”

  “Jake the jackal!” laughed CJ, standing to shake his hand. “What’s a guy got to do to get a plate of fruit around here? What kind of joint is this?”

  “You scared the piss out of Miss Kim. ‘Big angry man says you must bring fruit now,’ she told me crying. I told her no worries because you were a fag and hated all women. I haven’t seen you since Munich. What are you doing in Seoul?”

  “I really wanted some fruit and I was worried about the mad grapefruit disease sweeping Europe.”

  “FUUUCKKK. My old kitchen in Munich had more than a thousand kilos of that beef. They had to eat the loss. Get it? Eat the loss.”

  “Jake the jackal. Now I remember. Cooking, 10. Humor, 3. Someone told me you were moving to Seoul. Never thought I’d see you again. Figured you’d last a month here before the Koreans sent you back to your wife in that British penal colony you call ’stralia.”

  “That wife is long gone.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I’m working on finding number three here in Seoul. That’s why I asked for the transfer, mate. I tell everyone this story. My
first wife died after eating poison mushrooms. My second wife died of a fractured skull. Why? Because she was allergic to mushrooms. Get it?”

  “Cooking, 10. Humor, 2.”

  “Fuck you. Hey, my girlfriend has girlfriends. Let’s have dinner at my place and we’ll share a good a meal and everything else.”

  “Now I remember why everyone calls you the jackal. I have a female friend here, but I’m not interested in sharing her with you. The meal sounds like fun. I’m tired of hotel food already.”

  “Fuck you. The fruit tastes the same at my apartment. Tell you what. I’ll make you some shrimp stuffed with crab meat. The Koreans say it makes their shrimp as big as Jake’s. Your girlfriend will appreciate my cooking. Is she Korean?”

  “She looks Korean, but she’s quite American. Speaks English better than you do.”

  “Fuck you. Women love me and it ain’t because of the way I talk, mate.”

  “I love you too and it’s great to see you again. Give me your card and write your number on it. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

  “I take off Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you don’t call tomorrow, you’ll have to wait until next week. How long you in town?”

  “I have no idea. Until I earn enough to eat a real meal here.”

  “No worries. Save your money. I’ll tell Miss Kim to comp you.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can. Thanks for the fruit.”

  “LUNCH IS OVER, BUT I’LL MAKE YOU ANYTHING YOU WANT!” boomed Jake as he jumped up and started across the restaurant. He had seen two young salesman-looking types come in.

  CJ did a double take. It was Bill and Clayton.

  “It’s time for answers and no more bullshit,” said CJ to the techs after Jake had taken their order and disappeared behind the grill. “I don’t have a degree in electrical engineering, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Fancy meeting you here,” smiled Clayton.

  “It is not just the quality of hotels,” chimed in Bill. “Case officers eat better than we do too. You promised to buy us dinner at the Nashville Club. Will you spring for a late lunch here instead?”

  “Fine. Why are you following me?”

  “Well you know we’re not techs, so that line about electrical engineering is the bullshit you’ve asked us to refrain from.”

  “I know you’re not techs?”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk. More bullshit.” Bill took a small tape recorder from his pocket. It was about the size of the box that a pen and pencil set comes in. He pushed a button. CJ heard his voice saying “Then who the hell was in my shower yesterday?”

  “You guys are pretty technical for not being techs. You bugged my room before you started showering together. Who are you working for?”

  “We’re your friendly colleagues from CID.”

  “CID?” repeated CJ. The only CID he knew was the criminal investigative division that Colonel Flagg worked for on the old M*A*S*H television series.

  “Counter-Intelligence Division,” explained Clayton. “We’ve been following you, or at least trying to. We lost you this morning at Tongdaemun after you bought the ties. The concierge at the Lotte told Jose you were headed to Pusan. I told Jose no way, but he went to the airport and caught a plane, I guess.”

  “Jose is an olive-skinned guy with a silky brown suit and a thick mustache?”

  “Good job. You passed that test. The mustache is a fake by the way. However, you failed the business before pleasure test in a big way. You just had to get into Miss Lee’s pants, didn’t you?”

  “She can’t be CID,” said CJ definitively.

  “Of course not. She only got involved because you sent in the trace request and the chief of the Israel desk said we could have some fun with you and her. We were just going to follow you, but when you sent that ‘please retransmit, battery low’ crap, we got permission to make your life a little miserable. Her 1-800 number being tied to the Israeli embassy was just a ’net glitch. I guess you know that now.”

  “And you found me here because you did something to her phone and you knew I called her from upstairs?”

  “Close, but no cigar. What we did to her phone allows us to hear her messages,” said Bill pushing a button on the tape recorder again. “Call me in 10 minutes at the Paris Grill.”

  CJ remembered a bumper sticker that sprang up all over Texas after the Waco bombing: “I love my country,” it said in big letters with an American flag. Underneath was written “but I fear my government.” “Well done, boys. Now what?”

  “We’ve had about all the fun we can handle and will probably leave tomorrow. We took the bug out from under the chair at the desk in your room. You probably don’t believe that, but the techs told us we had to bring all our cool toys home. Miss Lee’s phone is fine too. Pretty good guess that we played with that thing. How did you know?”

  “Just a pretty good guess.”

  “I think you’ve got a future in this business. We’ll say nice things about you in our report. You beat Jose in a big way. But someone is going to get in your face about that ‘please retransmit’ line. Sorry. You seem pretty cool. That, however, was a big no no.”

  Jake returned with two plates and seemed surprised to see CJ still in the restaurant. CJ left a 100,000 won on the table and walked out. “Your lunch is on the house,” shouted Jake as CJ walked away without looking back. CJ just kept walking.

  “He’s buying our lunches,” said Bill. “Will 100,000 won be enough?”

  Chapter Six

  CJ awoke suddenly in his room to a beeping sound. He hit the snooze button on his clock, but the tone continued. The clock said it was 6:30 p.m. He picked up the phone and heard the dial tone and the beeps. It was not a phone call. As the cob webs started to clear, CJ realized it was his computer beeping. CJ figured it would be a “please respond immediately” cable asking him to explain with which Agency staffers he had been meeting since no techs were sent. He was tired of Langley continuing to play the CID game under the assumption he had not figured it out. They hire you because you are smart or clever, then they treat you like an idiot, CJ thought.

  He walked to the other room and hit the button on the computer to end the beeping. Instead of reading the message, he plopped down on the sofa and turned on the television looking for the U.S. military channel, “Armed Forces Korea Network”. It showed sports and sitcom reruns aimed at pleasing the average 19-year old private serving in Korea. It was the only non-cable station in the world where one could watch professional wrestling every day. It was part of the “Armed Forces Radio and Television Service”, or “A FARTS” as the soldiers affectionately called it. CJ could not find it on channel two where it had been for 40 years, then remembered the Korean government had moved it to channel 34 on the UHF band where Koreans would need a special antenna to receive it. For 40 years, Koreans had watched AFKN to learn English and gain an insight into life in America. Now the Koreans apparently wanted to end U.S. cultural imperialism under the guise that they needed the VHF band for military communications.

  No professional wrestling this afternoon. It was Ellen talking about mothers and daughters who couldn’t communicate. CJ remembered an old Tom Lehrer line to the effect of if two people can’t communicate then they should just shut up. CJ switched to CNN International, a station he hated in Asia because it was basically a paid advertisement describing how wonderful everything was in Japan and how the rest of Asia was still trying to catch up. But it was the only other English-language station available at his hotel so he decided to suffer through the bottom-of-the-hour news headlines. The lead story was how well Kobe was doing rebuilding after the earthquake. There was not much else to report, but an announcement was made that the Israeli Prime Minister was in Seoul today for talks about how to expand economic cooperation. CJ smiled. Sometimes he really loved his job.

  CJ was going to order room service, but decided to shower and take a doubly long surveillance detection run and just incorporate a food stop as part of the run. He thought it w
as silly to shower and shave before going to a sauna, but he did so anyway just to avoid the bed-head look. Everyone stared at him anyway because, at least he thought, no one that tall with round eyes would be eating the same things they were eating. Anyway, he could not make himself shorter or the nose smaller, but he could wash his hair.

  The surveillance detection run was uneventful, dinner was delicious, and CJ was now more stuffed than the mondu dumplings he had consumed in great quantity. The King Sejong Hotel sauna was quiet at 9:30 p.m. Most Koreans usually went with a group on Friday or Saturday nights. Those old timers who might venture out on a Wednesday night had probably come and gone. CJ showered from head to toe and jumped into the heated pool. It was hot like kimchi and, just like kimchi, it was not designed for foreigners. About 30 minutes later Dani arrived and started to join CJ in the pool.

  “No no no no no no!” a little man said in horror as he came running up to Dani. “Shower before bath, please. Water clean, you dirty.”

  CJ believed that on nine out of 10 occasions, Dani would have just smiled politely and showered for two minutes to allow that man to think he had done his job. But tonight Dani shouted back at him in German and the man ran away.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t speak German. I think it is the national anthem or something. I hear it every time they come to Jerusalem to tell us how sorry they are and would we please buy more Mercedes. I hate Israelis the most, of course. Then I hate the Palestinians. I really hate the French. Maybe the French more than the others, but then it is the Germans with their affordable yet luxurious cars. I hate the Germans.”

  “Please rinse the foam from your mouth before you enter the bath. You sound like you’re having a nervous breakdown. You sound like Holden Caulfield.”

  “Holding what?”

  “Holden Caulfield. The Catcher in the Rye. J.D. Salinger.”