Chapter 5. Monday, June 25. 13: 20 Onboard United Flight 131 from Newark Liberty to Tokyo Haneda
Stan Goldman stared out the window as the Boeing 777 taxied towards the runway, preparing for takeoff. He had a great view across the Hudson towards the Manhattan skyline, the two clusters of skyscrapers, one at Midtown and one Downtown, where One World Trade Center, the replacement for the twin towers that had fallen on that fateful day in September, 2001, towered above the rest.
He thought about the many friends and colleagues who’d perished on that day. Stan had been on sick leave that day, home with a sprained ankle he’d gotten slipping on some rotting produce while chasing a suspect down an alley. He’d wanted badly to rush down to the site, but he knew that a guy who could barely walk would only get in the way, so he’d watched it on TV like everyone else. The ankle hadn’t spared him from attending the funerals, though.
The unfailingly smiling Japanese flight attendant came through the cabin preparing for takeoff, collecting the champagne and nuts that had been dispensed as the passengers had taken their seats, making sure the trays were stowed and the seats were in the upright position. He smiled at her and at the Japanese businessman in the next seat as they exchanged a few words in their native tongue.
Stan had been tickled pink when he had noted that the ticket Björklund had sent him was for business class. He’d never travelled in such luxury before-except for the time on their book tour when Moore had changed their hotel in London to the Dorchester without telling him. And unlike then, this time someone else was paying. He hoped the comfortable, almost fully reclining seat would let him grab some sleep, so he’d arrive ready to fulfill his assignment.
The engines roared and the plane rolled down the runway, lifting and turning to the northwest, heading on the Great Circle route over Canada, Alaska, then along the coast of Siberia to its destination. Soon they reached cruising altitude and lunch was served-a first course of excellent sushi with some warm sake, followed by salmon with rice, washed down with a nice Oregon Riesling.
The wine made him think of his absent partner. Barb always drank Riesling, sometimes more than she should. ‘Had he been too harsh with her?’ he wondered. Normally, his punishments of her-and occasionally hers of him-had an element of playfulness and erotic tension despite the obvious pain.
But when someone throws away the biggest part of your life savings, that kind of cuts into the element of joyful sexual excitement. Of course, Stan knew, though he hated to admit it, that it hadn’t been entirely Barb’s fault. After all, he could have said no.
But no was something he’d always found hard to say to Barb, at least after she’d gone out of her way to cajole him into agreeing. And, truth be told, he wasn’t immune to lure of easy money and, as their initial investment had grown, each subsequent addition was easier than the last.
‘Well, that’s water under the bridge now. Time to focus on the task at hand,’ Stan thought. His seatmate was busily typing away at his laptop, so Stan pulled his out of the briefcase that he had stowed under his seat and called up the first of the files that Björklund had sent him:
Gun Thorell, 34. Joined the Uppsala Police Department out of college more than a decade ago. Made Detective after five years on the force. Partnered with an older detective by the name of Bertil Hansson.
Stan was impressed-it had taken him almost ten years to make detective. Of course, with a name like Gun, how she not have a successful career as a cop?
There was a long list of commendations for diligence and bravery, including some recent ones for her actions in the kidnapping of Barbara Moore and the subsequent attempt on the North Korean dissident.
To top it off, she was attractive, at least to judge by the photos that Björklund had included in the dossier. Brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail, a serious demeanor at least for the camera, little or no makeup. Not model material, but not a woman Stan would mind chatting up in a bar.
A confidential note from Björklund, however, suggested that Stan might be wasting his time. Gun Thorell, it seemed, preferred the company of other females, particularly that of Professor Barbara Moore, with whom she had developed a very intimate relationship.
Next was the intern:
Annika Sjöberg, 22. A senior in Criminal Justice at Uppsala University, doing her final-year internship with the police department.
Unlike Gun, she looked like what an American would imagine a Swedish woman would look like-shoulder length straight blond hair and blue eyes.
According to the reports she had played a critical role in stymying the efforts of the Syndicate to kill the defector, along with Gun and Barbara Moore and the Swedish human rights rapporteur, Åke Persson, who would also be attending the conference in Tokyo.
Annika had led a couple of senior cops, Chief Bjōrklund himself and Gun’s partner, Bertil Hansson, through a blizzard and acquitted herself heroically in the ensuing gunfight. Stan imagined that she would have a great career ahead of her with whatever Swedish police agency was lucky enough to snag her.
Finally, and most affectingly for Stan, was Barbara Moore:
Her passport informed the reader that she was 37 (two years younger than his erstwhile partner), born in Chicago, with brown hair and brown eyes, of medium height and an appropriately corresponding weight.
Her bio noted that she had done her undergraduate degree at Uppsala in Sweden and was fluent in the language. She had then returned to the US to complete her PhD and pursue an academic career at a large Midwestern university. She was currently on leave working with the UN Human Rights Commission.
That was all impressive, and so was her physical appearance-brown hair, brown eyes, a well-shaped face with a cute nose and a sensuous mouth, altogether a very attractive package. But what really did it for Stan was her resemblance to his Barbara. Not that they were spitting images or would be mistaken for sisters, but one wouldn’t be too far out of line to think they might be cousins.
He had a vision of Barb and Gun, naked in a king size hotel bed, Barb on top in a 69 position, her head buried between Gun’s legs, as he, himself, naked, his erection rampant, prepared to take Barb from behind. He imagined himself entering her, as, completely absorbed in Gun’s evident pleasure, she turned her head, gave him a warm smile of encouragement and then returned to her Sapphic preoccupations.
But which Barb was it in his lurid fantasy? After all, his Barb was far from immune to the charms of her fellow females. He thought back to the case where they had busted the suicide cult, where Barb had had to pretend to desire the women cult members who lured other women into killing themselves. Stan was pretty sure that Barb’s performance had not been an acting job.
These thoughts were getting Stan a bit excited. He glanced over at his seatmate, who was busily working on his laptop. Just to be safe, Stan draped the airline blanket over himself.
He quickly killed his mounting desires by turning to the file Björklund had sent him on the activities of the Syndicate. Reading through the list, Stan wondered if it might have been quicker to detail the crimes that they were not involved in. The ones they were involved in ran the gamut-drug trafficking, human trafficking, arms trafficking-in all more trafficking than the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway at rush hour.
They operated world-wide, easing their entry into new markets through the bribery of public officials with whatever they might desire-money, the sexual favors of young women (or men where that was preferred). They formed alliances with local criminal networks-the drug cartels in Latin America, sex slavery rings in Eastern Europe and the Middle East, and, of particular importance to this assignment, with the Japanese Yakuza.
And, perhaps of the most concern, they had allied themselves with the brutal and corrupt government of North Korea, putting the power of that rogue and heavily militarized state behind them.
Reading of their exploits, Stan had some serious second thoughts about having taken on this assignment. ‘Well, it’s too late now, Goldman. I don’t think the pilot is going to turn the plane around,’ he told himself.
To make things worse, Japan had extremely strict gun laws, which, while they were likely a factor in why Tokyo had fewer murders in a year than New York had in an average week, meant that his trusty old 9 mm pistol was sitting at the bottom of his bedroom closet. No, he’d have to take on the Syndicate and any partners of theirs with his wits alone. But those had seen him through life so far, more or less, so they’d have to do.
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