“I always thought of you as a Hyatt Regency type of guy,” said Trey.
Jake seemed to relax just a bit and smiled, saying, “I like to expand my acting horizons. Hate to be typecast as strictly a high-roller. I can work Beverly Hills or urban back alleys.”
The floor creaked with every few steps as they tried to lighten the footfalls.
In a near whisper Trey said, “I bet this place hasn’t seen any repairs since the Johnson administration.”
“Lyndon or Andrew?”
Jake found the door he was looking for and the three descended concrete steps into a dark, damp basement housing the power, electrical, and fire sprinkler systems, and an ancient HVAC air handler. The noise was a few decibels below deafening as every piece of equipment was badly in need of repairs.
Jake removed the coveralls and was now dressed as a semi-casual drug dealer, his shirttail out, hiding his Glock 19 on his right hip and a mini-Glock stuffed in the small of his back. He had three magazines, fully loaded, in his left hip pocket.
“This is never gonna work,” said Trey.
“Yeah, I heard you.”
“What?” Trey spoke just above the noise of the basement power system.
“Yeah, I heard you. It will work. It has to.”
Jake pulled out two black plastic cases from the toolbox he’d carried into the basement. He popped open the first one and removed a tiny transmitter. Holding it up to the light, he wanted to make sure he was installing it “sunny side up.” He then dropped his pants, getting a “you’ve got to be kidding me” look from Trey.
Jake blew his case agent a kiss and mouthed the words over the basement noise, “Don’t ask. Don’t tell.”
Allowing the transmitter to dangle at his ankle, he ran the microphone wire up his leg, near his crotch, placing the mike just above the belt line. As he rolled some tape around the wire on his leg, Trey smiled and said into Jake’s ear, “Sweetie, that’s gonna hurt when you pull it off. Shoulda shaved your legs before you decided to run with the big dogs.”
“Try this,” said Jake, handing the earpiece to Trey.
Jake walked to the far end of the basement and said, “Testing one, two, three.”
Trey shook his head. “It’s all static. I can’t hear a thing.”
Jake mouthed an expletive as he sat down, crossing his legs to get better access to the transmitter. He made some adjustments and again said, “Testing.”
Trey ripped at the earpiece. “That about blew out my eardrum.”
“Sorry, let me lower the volume. Too bad Hafner’s spook friend couldn’t lend us some of his equipment,” said Jake as he made the adjustment.
“Maybe if you would have cut them in they would have,” said Trey.
“Yeah right. How’s that?”
“Better,” said Trey.
“Good.”
Jake opened the second black plastic container and removed a small transmitter device, disguised to look like a butane lighter, and placed it inside his front shirt pocket. “Back up,” said Jake as he pulled up his pants and buckled his belt.
Grabbing the top shelf from the large toolbox, Jake tossed it aside.
When Trey looked in the oversized box he spotted bundles of currency, U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills. Trey picked up a bundle and began to examine it. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Need-to-know,” said Jake, taking off his shirt and double-stuffing ten bundles of the hundreds — one hundred thousand dollars — inside his waistband.
Both Trey and Brian gave him looks of confusion.
“Can I trust you to keep an eye on the rest of my retirement stash?” said Jake as he grabbed the bundle from Trey and threw it back into the toolbox.
“This stuff looks perfect,” said Trey.
“It almost is,” said Jake, buttoning his shirt, concealing the money and the two weapons he was now carrying.
It was ten minutes to eight. He called Park and learned the North Korean kingpin had to repeat the name of the hotel and the room number. Turning to Trey and Brian, Jake said, “It’s not Henry Yeong. He didn’t know anything about the hotel or the room number when Park called him. I’m not sure who or how many will be up there. The timing is important, so when you hear a commotion, set off everything. It should be straight-up at eight.”
Jake’s confident demeanor washed away most of their misgivings. Trey, out of friendship, and Brian, because of that Marine Corps Semper Fi thing, were ready to go with Jake into battle.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
As Jake climbed the stairs from the basement to the second floor, he remembered Katie’s Bible verse from the book of Job. Maybe today was the limit he could not exceed.
As he was walking down the hallway toward room 212, two Asian women, practitioners of the world’s oldest profession and painted for the evening, greeted him.
The shorter of the two said in heavily accented English, “You must be looking for friend.”
“I’m looking for my friend.”
She smiled. “Then you come with us.”
The other woman seductively touched Jake’s arm and, wrapping hers in his, said, “You want to party all night with us instead?”
“Business first, ladies. Then maybe we can celebrate.”
The three walked to the far end of the hallway and, just outside the door to room 212, Jake stepped on a loose board, which moaned a loud, painful wail as he put weight on it.
“What’s with all the squeaky boards in this place? Is the maintenance staff on sabbatical?”
Both women looked at Jake, confused by his complaint. The shorter woman knocked on the door and waited for a response. When the door opened Jake was greeted by a Middle Eastern man in his thirties with a thick, dark beard.
“He come alone,” said Jake’s escort.
The undercover agent entered as the ladies retreated down the hallway, seeking additional income for the evening. Jake’s eyes swept the room. In the hotel’s heyday it would have been a “parlor”—now it was just a drab, run-down “suite,” with a sagging foldout couch flanked by two mismatched end tables. In front of the couch, a scratched and scarred coffee table, two battered wooden chairs, an incongruously placed wingback easy chair, and a vintage Queen Anne — style side table complete with a crystal lamp, circa 1940—all reminiscent of a much earlier era.
Kareem Abdul, the bartender, occupied the tattered wingback, a large-caliber semi-auto pistol and an open bag of salted sunflower seeds within easy reach on the side table. His tired, bloodshot eyes revealed sleep had not been a recent luxury.
The two others — both apparently of Mideast extraction — were standing and both had oversized semi-autos tucked inside the front of their waistbands. The one who had opened the door for Jake looked like a Doberman ready to pounce. The other, whom Jake guessed to be in his mid-forties, stood by the couch, his posture indicative of indifference instead of aggression.
The sounds of traffic from a busy Olympic Boulevard flooded through an open window and Jake noted the door to an adjoining room was slightly ajar. He took in the disheveled appearance of the three men, empty takeout food wrappers from Aladdin’s Mediterranean Delights, the hot plate with a cheap teapot, five plastic teacups, the stench of stale sweat, and concluded: This is amateur hour.
“You are a huge disappointment,” said Jake, directing his comment to the bartender.
Kareem surveyed the undercover agent. “You came alone. At least you listened, but unless you’re keistering three million in foldin’ money, we got no business.”
“I guess you weren’t rehabilitated with that latest prison stint,” said Jake.
“Shut up!” screamed Kareem, trying to establish his dominance, his eyes intense.