Authors: Graham Lancaster
Payback (40 page)
If you enjoyed reading
Payback
you might be interested in
Grave Song
by Graham Lancaster, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from
Grave Song
by Graham Lancaster
Sunday, 15 August 1995: Seoul, South Korea.
The bowed old woman walked slowly and carefully from the cab, not looking up at the
awesome, twenty-floor office block that bore her nephew’s name. She had never seen it before, not having been in Seoul for over forty years. The last time had been to pay her respects to her brother, killed fighting the Chinese in the Korean War. He had been shot dead just two days before the truce in 1953.
There was little for her to recognise in the teeming new Seoul, busier today than usual because of the fiftieth anniversary celebrations of the Japanese surrender. Of course, she well recalled the Royal Palace a block to the east, and she had looked impassively at the neighbouring Ch’angdokkung, the Palace of Illustrious Virtue. It would have saddened her to know that it had been used as Seoul’s zoo until ten years earlier.
Ch’angdokkung leads on through a gate to Piwon, the Secret Garden covering seventy-eight acres. There had been an ancient law prohibiting any structures higher than the garden’s walls. This was to protect the queens and princesses who spent their lives confined within the palace and garden. She noted now that two buildings overlook these time-honoured walls — the modest twelve-floor headquarters of Hyundai, and Garden Tower. These were as nothing, however, to the tallest skyscraper in town, which that day sported a fifteen-storey banner in celebration of the liberation. ‘Her’ building, SGT’s head office, was alongside this, decked in flags and bunting.
This was a day
which she had prepared for and feared over these many decades. How she longed for it to be over so she could return to her island of Chindo and her peaceful days of calligraphy, meditation and shamanism. The bus had left at 6.40, taking over seven hours to reach Seoul -- the driver playing maddening karaoke music all the way. She was wearing traditional white
hanbok
Korean dress with purple bow and trimmings which, with her long hair plaited tightly back and pinned with a wooden peg, were the result of careful preparation early that morning. By sitting very still on the long journey she had ensured there were few creases and she still looked fresh and striking. A security guard, startled by her majestic appearance, bowed and held the door open for her. Sool Kyung-Wha went straight to the pretty young receptionist, announced herself with stiff formality, stated her business and waited, refusing to sit. East Asians put family before given names, and a dignified old lady called Sool meant just one thing — a close relation of the Chairman Founder.
There was a flurry of hurried, urgent messages between reception and Chairman Sool’s assistant, and then finally with Sool Kay-Sheen himself.
‘What does she want?’ he demanded, shaken, having left an important meeting.
‘Just that she must see you, Chairman,’ the young male assistant replied, flushing, always disconcerted by anything unexpected.
‘Did she check that I was even here today?’ Sool travelled incessantly and to find him in the headquarters office was by no means usual on a normal weekday, let alone a Sunday.
He was in only to attend an official ceremony reception later and had decided to bring his people in for a meeting first, to make the best use of his time.
‘It seems she just presented herself and said she would wait until you came, Chairman.’
Smiling Garden Trading — its global corporate identity recently, and expensively, reduced to SGT — was a $25 billion industrial conglomerate, founded by Sool in the late sixties. It now covered shipbuilding, car manufacture, home electronics and banking, and was the most recent entrant to the exclusive world of the thirty or so
chaebol
, the leading companies, mostly now second-generation dynasties, which dominate the Korean economy — including great corporations such as Samsung, Hyundai, Daewoo and Lucky Goldstar, now called LG.
Sool Kay-Sheen at fifty-one, and as a first-generation
chaebol
, was still treated as something of an outsider by the others. Quietly spoken and courteous, at least to SGT non-employees and his peers, he played by the traditional rules — mostly unwritten — of the
chaebol
club. His assistant, however, had never seen his chairman look so worried. It deeply unsettled him and he irrationally blamed himself, as always, for not being prepared in some way. Sool pushed him aside and walked quickly, almost running, to the elevator to greet his visitor personally.
As the doors opened he immediately saw the incongruous small figure, silhouetted against the sunlight. A sickening feeling of foreboding washed over him and he had to steel himself to approach her.
He bowed deeply. ‘Sool Kyung-Wha, my father’s sister. You honour us with your visit.’
She met his bow with her own, matching but carefully not exceeding its depth. Then after a brief smiling silence she locked him in eye contact — something normally avoided by Koreans as impolite. When he rapidly broke off she finally spoke the words she had rehearsed these many long years.
‘Sool Kay-Sheen. I have a message. A message from your mother.’
They had the immediate impact she had intended. His mother had taken her life when he was five, yet he still retained strong, if ethereal, memories of her. Slender, beautiful, but always unbearably sad.
Ashen-faced and barely able to speak, he simply mouthed, ‘Come. Please,’ and led her to the private elevator up to his office suite — the ‘blue house’ — on the top floor. She refused tea or even water from the minions who swarmed around them. Sool waved them away impatiently and they were alone again.
He could not resist the great discourtesy of being direct with her. ‘Sister of my father. You tell me you have a message from my mother. I await it with all the patience I can command.’
His aunt looked at him with her formal face, knowing she was about to break the man. Her formal face was correct for such a situation. Like many women who live on Chindo Island, off the south-west coast, she was of the ancient shaman faith. Before coming she had consulted a hereditary
mudang
— a mystic priestess skilled in using magic to tell the future and to commune with the dead. The middle-aged, lower-class woman had held a
kosa
ritual, during which she had passed on a question to the long-dead sister. In response she sanctioned Kyung-Wha’s solemn mission, but ominously predicted the release of devils. Devils released by what she had called the Grave Song, which would cause great evil before they were at last conquered. Conquered — she foresaw — by a venerable and strong foreign woman. A woman never known by a man.
After a deliberate pause, to force Sool Kay-Sheen to compose himself, she began. ‘The World War, our war with Japan, ended fifty years ago today. This you know.’
‘There are official celebrations everywhere today, of course. I am the guest of the President later,’ he replied. ‘And at long last we will begin to demolish the Capitol Building.’ This oddly neo-classic granite edifice was built by the Japanese in 1926 and used during the war as the colonial headquarters. Located at the end of Seoul’s main boulevard, Sejongno, and obscuring the Kyongbokkung Palace, the brooding structure was now the National Museum. It remained an open sore for Koreans however. The Japanese had sited it deliberately to subvert the ancient laws of geomancy according to which all the centuries-old palaces and temples of Seoul had been arranged, severing the line of power flowing from the throne hall through Kwanghwaamun. The city had lost its harmony with the universe. The axis of power on which the nation’s fate hinged had been fatally tilted. Later that day, the top of the building’s dome was to be symbolically removed, prior to full demolition the following year. The ancient harmony would soon be restored.
Sool, like m
any of his generation of countrymen, hated the Japanese for the war atrocities and long history of humiliation they had inflicted on his nation. The most visited area in the Hall of Independence at Chonan was the Japanese Aggression Hall. Each week, thousands of children were shown the waxwork tableaux of Japanese soldiers beheading Korean men buried to their necks, and women being horribly tortured. A new statue to celebrate Korea’s liberation had been erected outside. Sool himself enforced an unwritten rule that any suppliers wanting to do business with SGT should first visit the exhibition, just as some Israelis expect visitors to Jerusalem to experience the Holocaust memorial.
She noted the depth of his hatred, sadly, and continued. ‘Your mother and I were close friends. I had the honour to assist as she left her intolerable life. The night before we sat together and agreed that fifty years
after the end of the War was long enough. I now think that fifty years is not long enough. I think that no time for what you are about to learn could ever be long enough. But I made a sacred promise. It is my duty. And you, Sool Kay-Sheen, must be strong.’
Now avoiding his eyes, and bending her head, she offered him a yellowing envelope. The shaking hand betrayed her formal face.
Sool stared before taking it, knowing somehow that when he did his life would never be the same.
John Blake had just picked at his evening meal on the full Lufthansa London to Frankfurt flight. It was almost always full, the two cities still fighting for supremacy as financial capital of Europe.
When travelling alone he much preferred a meal in his hotel, or better still in a nearby restaurant if it was not too late. Tonight there would be no nearby restaurant because the airport hotel was marooned in acres of airport facilities and feeder roads to the city centre and beyond. Two more Johnnie Walker Black Labels compensated for most things however. He had only asked for one but the attractive blonde stewardess had winked conspiratorially at him and left two. Perhaps the crew were overnighting at the hotel, he thought optimistically. He caught her eye as she passed again and lifted his glass slightly as a thank you. That secret smile again …? Or just the fruits of a damned good customer relations training programme.
Once decanted at the airport, he walked on autopilot to level A1 and waited five minutes for the hotel bus to take him on the three-minute journey, past the car park, to the Steigenberger. Holding his suit-carrier he stood in line at the busy reception desk to check in. The place was indeed bustling with airline crews, but there was no sign yet of the girl. When at last it was his turn the receptionist took an imprint of his charge card, tapped into his computer screen and announced, a little theatrically Blake thought, that as a valued guest Mr Blake had been upgraded to the executive block. No-smoking room, as usual, Mr Blake.
The executive tower, with its own elevators, is to the left beyond the bar. Blake’s practised eye had
taken in the mix of people as he passed. There were a lot of attractive, fashionably dressed young things, mostly girls. Much too well dressed for crew. It looked like some kind of fashion or pop music convention. Many were wearing badges, and he noticed a now-unmanned registration desk opposite the bar by the entrance to the meeting rooms. That decided it. No lukewarm club sandwich in his room tonight. A quick shower and he would be back down.
The TV screen in his room welcomed Mr J. Blake. Hanging up his suit and shirts, he took the shower, quickly ran his shaver over the day’s stubble and was downstairs in the bar within fifteen minutes — nursing another Black Label (
mit
Wasser
,
ohne
, ohne,
Eis
), and a smoked turkey sandwich and frites on their way. Slipping off the barstool he found a table next to a group of the delegates. Three girls — eighteen, nineteenish — and a dark-skinned, perhaps Turkish man in his late twenties. All the girls were smoking long cigarettes and stubbing them out less than halfway through to create another excuse to light up, with sexy flamboyance.
The girl directly facing noticed him watching her. She was dressed in what looked like a fabulously expensive soft black leather suit and had Bardot/Schiffer-like hair framing a face that was pretty yet very young for such packaging. Blake looked away immediately, embarrassed. At forty-two he was old enough to be her father, but no dirty old man. He just travelled too much, mostly alone. And all frequent fliers unwittingly become voyeurs — be they single, married or, like Blake, divorced.
Ten minutes later and the sandwich and frites arrived just before she did. He was sure it was her. The blonde stewardess had changed into casual, loosely cut trousers and sweater and her hair was now brushed out. She came towards him from the restaurant side of the bar, smiling her smile, and raised her hand, twinkling her fingers in greeting. Blake put down his plate, wiped his hands on the napkin and started to get up, heart racing in anticipation. Without even seeing him, she swept by to the table immediately behind and kissed a waiting young man full on the lips.
Nobody had noticed the incident but Blake felt foolish and annoyed with himself. Quickly downing the excellent sandwich and the whisky, he signed the bill, decided against even taking a look in the adjoining disco, and went back to his room, a tad
vin
triste
. Just one more Black Label from the mini-bar, order that seven o’clock call, and then out with the files for tomorrow’s meeting. Blake was International Director of Globecom Messaging, the third-largest public relations group in the world. His job was to court and win big international clients, get close to their senior management —chairmen and chief executives — and, once the relationship was cemented by whichever local Globecom office had been picked to lead on the business, move rapidly on to the next multi-national prospect.
His file on SGT was bulging and there was even more in his lap-top. He had presented four times to them already. Once in Frankfurt, their European headquarters, once in New York and twice in Seoul to Chairman Sool himself. It had gone well —Blake had worked with the Koreans before — but so far there had been nothing but costs involved in the long courtship. Over $50,000 already, and
no fees or firm contract yet in return. Most of the costs were coming from Blake’s own budget. This all had to be pinned down tomorrow. From then on the meter would have to run. As his American colleagues put it, the candy shop would be closed. The thought cheered him up. He knew that when the fees did begin to roll they would be high, giving his end-of-year bonus a welcome boost. And they would further raise his star at Globecom. Despite the help from the various local offices, this would be very much his account win. He understood and liked Koreans. This had been noticed, especially by the shrewd but of late highly eccentric Chairman Sool. Blake had won the chairman’s confidence, and in the end that was all that mattered in a
chaebol
. Nothing happened at SGT without Sool’s say-so. They were all terrified of him. And if the stories that circulated were even half right, not without reason.
The huge worldwide account was all but in the bag and SGT and Chairman Sool were about to become a big part of Blake’s life. Just one more Black Label to celebrate. Why not?
*
The fat Greek came out of his small, black-windowed sex shop, looked up and down the street, and then hurriedly locked the door and steel shutters. He cradled a paper grocery bag to his chest with both arms as if it were a Gucci briefcase containing the crown jewels. In his terms it did — and paper grocery bags don’t get snatched by bums. Looking around again, he set off down West 40th Street from the junction with Seventh Avenue, walking quickly, his hat bowed into the wind on the bitterly cold New York November evening.
Richard Trent was stationed at his trigger point seventy-five yards away as leader of the five-man FBI street surveillance team. Making up the rest were, on foot, a female First Office Agent, positioned ahead in the direction they expected the Greek to go, and three other agents — a phoney ‘Domino’s Pizza’ delivery-bike man, and a ‘Federal Express’ van with a driver and spare footman sitting alongside. It was a team designed to cover the Greek if he walked, drove, took a cab, or shot down a subway.
They were using real-time reporting and Trent said, ‘Go. Go! Foot. West.’ He was throat-miked to a GP-300 two-way radio with covert fit.
In the jargon of professional watchers the Greek — Peter George Alexander Pangalos — was a surveillance-aware target who would take evasive action as a matter of routine. His business was hard-core pornographic videos, shot to order to meet the special tastes of the seriously rich. For him, surveillance by the New York Police Department and from the Mob underworld went with the territory. By now he had learned the techniques used by the watchers, and how best to frustrate them. First off he knew they never worked alone and that they dressed to merge in with their surroundings, often buying hand-me-down clothes. Unlike Hollywood sleuths they generally followed from the opposite side of the street. That way they got a better view and were less likely to be spotted themselves by the target. Ducking in and out of shop doorways twenty paces behind was strictly for amateurs.
Special Agent Trent was no amateur, but it had been a long time since he had been on routine street surveillance squad duties. Pangalos, and where his trail of filth led, however, had become something of a fixation with him. It was personal as well as professional. Because of his wife. Pulling nervously at the peak of his baseball cap, he kept watch on the distinctive rolling gait of the Greek over to his left, on the opposite sidewalk. Passers-by, if they noticed him at all, would have seen a thirtysomething, wiry man of medium height. A pleasant-looking guy-next-door type whose attractive, even features were marred only by a nose job, courtesy of a college football game.
Just a few minutes into the operation and his eyes ached from watching sideways and from the chill wind. They covered an uneventful block, heading towards the river, when the Greek paused by the subway at the junction with Eighth. Trent held his breath, but Pangalos walked across the busy road, past the Burger King. Then, for the first time, it occurred to him that the Greek might be heading for the heliport at West 30th. The only eventuality he had not covered. Still, for now he carried on along 40th, leaving Trent on the right side feeling exposed against the long expanse of plain brick wall that forms the side of the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Then suddenly Pangalos stopped. He was by a right-angled shop window on the junction with Ninth, and had turned to use it as a vantage point to look around. A
very
surveillance-aware target.
Trent kept walking, eventually crossing Ninth, still moving anonymously with the flow of the people. ‘Listen, all of you!’ he hissed. ‘Target stationary at 40th and Ninth. He’s glassing. Larry go!’ Then, in accordance with standard operating procedures, he repeated it all.
The FedEx van driver pulled over and let Larry out. Trent had been giving the driver — now on 39th Street — his location at every junction to enable him to keep criss-crossing the one-way blocks to stay close. New York is a dream for street surveillance with its simple geometric street grids. Larry Engel cut up Eighth and on to 40th to become the rear footman, moving just fractionally faster than the pedestrian traffic flow until he established eye contact with the target.
‘Got him.’ Larry was wearing what looked like a personal stereo headset to pick up and transmit his messages. ‘He’s still heading towards the river. Wait … Shit! No. He’s flagging down a cab to head back downtown. Repeat he’s in a Yellow Cab, licence number 5J82
going east. It’s a Ford. A “Carlton is Lowest” cigarette ad on top. Repeat 5J82.’
Again a surveillance-aware tactic, walking against the one-way three-lane traffic flow then taking a cab away from the marooned foot watchers and any immediate vehicular support.
‘Mike. Go. Go. Wheels — collect me. Now!’ spat Trent.
The Domino’s Pizza delivery man — Mike — accelerated to Ninth
and then turned off, gunning the Yamaha in search of the cab, checking for the roof ad and licence numbers.
‘Contact!’ he reported, just as the van collected Trent and itself traversed a block in pursuit.
‘Good, Mike. We’re on your tail real soon. We’ll maintain positions.’
Trent was mightily relieved, but did his best to hide it from the team. Pangalos had definitely been trying to flush out and lose any tail — bottlenecking — before heading for whatever was his real destination with that package. Two vehicles and a team of five was not ideal, but short of setting up blanket surveillance, with operatives — some static — and five or more vehicles across a wide area, there was no real alternative. Legend had it that the New York office all-time surveillance record was sixty officers, used to monitor atomic secrets spy Judy Coplon. But armed with no more than an informed hunch, Trent had been lucky to get authorisation at all from the head of the surveillance squad. Anyway, blanket operations were always leaky. His chief had backed him, he knew, because the Bureau was desperately in need of a break on the gruesome Japanese murders. And because they all knew it was only a matter of time before the political pressure began to be felt — from both Washington and Tokyo. This had been the eighth consecutive night’s watch and
he was going to abort after two more, afraid his hunch had been an embarrassing and expensive misjudgement. A very public Thanksgiving turkey for himself and his chief.
They were now on
Madison Avenue heading north. At then, after the usual stop start at the forest of junction lights, the cab pulled over at the corner with 86th and Trent saw Pangalos paying the driver before walking briskly East towards Yorkville. The FedEx van followed, drove a safe distance past Pangalos and then slowed. Its brake lights had been removed and nobody saw Trent jump out as it stopped. In the excitement of the chase he had not realised where they were. Suddenly his heart leapt. He knew where Pangalos had to be headed. Trent grinned widely as he followed his man towards the discrete luxury apartments, fighting the temptation to sprint. Still clutching the bag, the Greek was going into the entrance to one of the most exclusive and least known residential addresses in the USA. It was simply called 29 River Views. His hunch
was
right. Surely. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
If the Greek was supplying the filth tailor-made for the very rich, then they did not come any richer than the
residents at 29 River Views. There were just twenty apartments in the twelve storey block. Unimpeachable owners were rumoured to include movie and rock stars, bankers and rich European ex-pats — along with embassies and international business tycoons. Trent watched as Pangalos talked his way in past the doorman, and then he waited, biting back his impatience.