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asia-correspondent · 6 years

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excerpts ~

CHAPTER 1 ~ RITUALS

SKY FUNERAL VULTURES IN TIBET

On the rocky outskirts of Lhasa, Tibetan mourners whispered prayers while hungry, brooding vultures circled overhead. Cawing. "This is our sky funeral. We let the vultures eat the bodies of dead Tibetans," a mourner told me at the beginning of the somber rites. "I personally think it is too gruesome. But this is our Buddhist tradition." Cremations and burials are difficult to perform. Firewood is scarce throughout much of Tibet. The ground is often frozen or rocky. In 1984 a gray boulder looming 30 feet high, served as the cold altar for Lhasa's Tibetan corpses. The flat boulder's 20-foot by 20-foot surface could be used every day except Sundays. Sky funerals -- bya gtor or "alms for the birds" -- began at dawn with attendees moaning prayers. "Today, four bodies," the mourner quietly explained. "You can see, three of the dead are village women. Also a merchant. He is a murder victim. He was killed two nights ago in the Lhasa market at a card game. Stabbed. We are all friends of the dead. The brothers, sisters, parents and children don't come to these funerals." This morning was chilly and clear. The sun smoldered behind snow-covered mountain peaks while four Tibetan undertakers -- rogyapa or "body breakers" -- and two assistants laid the four corpses face down on the boulder. The undertakers pulled off the bodies' shoes. Mourners glanced at the slumped, immobile humans, then looked away. More friends arrived to honor the deceased. Visitors came in battered, dusty, green Chinese trucks. The vehicles veered off a dirt road, rattled across a small, flat garbage dump, and splashed through an icy, shallow brook. The trucks stopped near the blood-stained boulder. The all-male passengers climbed down and solemnly trudged towards the rock which rested amid treeless lunar foothills dotted with ragged Buddhist prayer flags on the northern outskirts of Lhasa below the stone wall of the 15th century Sera Monastery. Vultures swooped and spiraled, or simply loitered atop a nearby cliff. The birds of prey looked down upon the living and the dead, waiting for the ritual to begin. Six undertakers, reeking of cheap Tibetan chang beer, used thick ropes to noose the necks of the bodies. They attached the ropes to a very heavy stone. This prevented the bodies sliding off the boulder's slightly angled surface. The mourners were becoming increasingly miserable. They clustered around small campfires a few yards away, below the boulder. Some used dented aluminum tea pots to brew hot tea laced with yak butter and salt -- a popular nourishment. Overhead, more vultures circled and cawed. Some of the birds hopped unafraid onto the boulder and inspected the cadavers. A few of the two dozen mourners quietly joked and gossiped among themselves. The undertakers, in filthy, blood-splattered aprons and knee-high boots, pulled out their whetstones. They sharpened vicious, 18-inch knives and heavy cleavers. Someone tossed a mixture of dried yak dung, roots and seeds onto eight small campfires below the rock and five tiny fires on the boulder's surface. The heaving smoke was to signal distant vultures that a sky funeral had started. A noisy flock of about 150 vultures now swooped above the boulder but didn't land. The drunk undertakers appeared numb to the slowly...

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THE DALAI LAMA & THE DEAD

Looking vexed during our third interview at his Namgyal Monastery in McLeod Ganj in 1992, the Dalai Lama revealed that secretive investigations indicated his long dead arch-enemy, China's Chairman Mao Zedong, had been reincarnated. This was the Dalai Lama's first mention to any journalist about Mao's reincarnation, or anything about an investigation. A reborn Mao was alive and well? Somewhere in China? Reincarnated as a child? The Dalai Lama's surprise disclosure about the possibility of a reincarnated Mao emerged when I asked what happens to people who do not believe in Buddhism, or reincarnation, and then die? And what punishment in the afterworld would these people suffer if they committed acts of evil while alive -- I randomly tossed out Mao's name as an example -- according to Tibetan Buddhism? Frowning slightly, the Dalai Lama leaned forward and replied: "According to some indications, Chairman Mao has already emerged as one Chinese boy. According to some mysterious investigations. Usually when somebody has passed away, we start to investigate where they'll be reborn. According to some indications, Chairman Mao may be reborn three times among the Chinese. Three times." Were these investigations into Mao's reincarnation being conducted by Tibetan Buddhists? The Dalai Lama nodded and replied while repeatedly laughing: "Oh yes, of course, of course. No Chinese sources. Certainly not Chinese communist sources. But really I don't know where. Also I have no interest to recognize the reincarnation. Unless we create an institution for Mao Zedong's reincarnation." According to Buddhist teaching, all people whether they are Buddhists or not, are reborn after they die either as a human or a creature. It is difficult to be released from these repeated rebirths because all people, including Mao, are trapped on the Wheel of Life. Each dalai lama is believed to be a reincarnated manifestation of Avalokita, also known as Avalokiteshwara, the Bodhisattva of Compassion. A bodhisattva is a person destined for enlightenment, reborn to serve other people. The Dalai Lama said he could not remember his 13 past lives as previous dalai lamas. As usual during our interviews, I again asked the Dalai Lama -- who was older than me and now 57 -- if he achieved nirvana. He replied: "I think you may achieve it first, or before my age. Even a one month retreat is almost impossible now. When I recite some prayer, or remain in a secluded area with no contact with anyone for 24 hours, I still feel a mixture of happiness and sadness," because longer meditations are impossible. Since 1983, I don't think I've had much spiritual progress." Despite Chinese efforts to control and crush Tibet's elaborate forms of Buddhism, many beliefs survived in...

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HOLY SADHUS IN INDIA & NEPAL

"Soon, probably he starts smoking hemp -- for it is a curious fact that a large proportion of Indian mystics are addicted to this form of intoxication. Later, he becomes a paramahansa, which means a 'great goose,' and is the highest order of holy man."

~ Lowell Thomas, 1930

Meanwhile in Kathmandu, the capital of Nepal, half-naked sadhus are so highly respected that they were allowed to join privileged guests witnessing the cremation in 2001 of nine murdered members of Nepal's royal family and the princely assassin. "I saw them burn the king and queen and the others," Rada Kris Mudari, a 40-year-old sadhu told me at the Pashupati Temple complex where the cremation took place amid Hindu pagodas, shrines, and sadhu caves. "It was not good when they burned them because the public was not allowed. Only the government people and the army people and us sadhus were here" during the mass royal cremations. "But all people become like this," Mudari said, gesturing at a bleak row of flame-blackened cement funeral ghats. The ghats are raised, rectangular platforms along the Bagmati River where most of Kathmandu's deceased -- royals and commoners -- are brought and cremated according to Hindu and Buddhist rites. "The rich, when they die, do not take anything. They lose everything. Even the royal family do not take their palaces. They don't even take their names. They only take their karma," said bearded, turbaned, barefoot Mudari. Another sadhu sitting nearby, white-bearded Bogindra Das, 55, told me: "Unlike royal people or rich people, we sadhus don't need anything. We give up everything and are always in a peaceful place. Rich people live with money. Poor people live with God's name. So when rich people die, they don't have anything. But poor people, when they die, they have God. But we are all equal because anytime we can die. I've been here at Pashupati Temple for nine or 10 years. I have seen thousands and thousands of bodies burn. "When a king burns, it is different. When royal people die, a lot of army people come here and they make music. When normal people burn, undertakers just put them on some wood and make a fire. Everybody has to go, even we sadhus have to go. We don't have to stay here on earth." Asked if he would like to be a king instead of a sadhu, Das grinned, exposing a few missing teeth. "I do not want to live like a king. I like to live this kind of sadhu life. A king is a king and he is a god in Nepal, but he also dies. I am a sadhu without money, but I don't worry about getting food. God takes care of everything, if I do good karma. I have been reincarnated many times, as many things, as animals and so on, and had many, many different lives. I cannot remember my past lives, but in the Hindu religion there are many powerful books and we have learnt about this. Earth is the place to do karma. We are coming naked into this world and going out naked. "But it is better to be born a sadhu than a king, because a king is only a king of the public world. A sadhu is a king of kings, because when a king goes to learn about God, the king comes to the sadhu." During the past few hundred years, Nepal's various monarchs, prime ministers and other rulers often turned away from the deadly intrigue of Kathmandu's treacherous politics and consulted sadhus and other holymen to find wisdom and bliss. While the sadhus spoke, another holy man, Raday Das Biraghee, 42, quietly adorned his forehead with a thick splat of bright yellow powdered dye. Biraghee also covered his nearly naked body in white ash from the sadhus' camp fire, in keeping with ancient Hindu tradition which regards all ash as auspicious because it comes from fire, which is sacred. Stroking his powder-speckled, bushy black beard, Biraghee said: "I agree with Bogindra Das, I also don't want to be a king in my next life, because a king has to take care of everyone, and has to look after rich people and poor people. A sadhu's life is better. A sadhu is carefree. A sadhu can go everywhere. When a king visits another place, he has to take bodyguards and look everywhere and worry. When a sadhu visits, he doesn't have to worry at all. If a sadhu wants to go to another country, such as India, and stay a long time, no problem. But if a king wants to go and stay a long time, it is a big problem." Soon, the group of sadhus rose to look for food, which they got by begging from visitors at the Pashupati Temple complex. The sadhus strolled past the charred ghats where several people had been cremated...

*****

CALCUTTA'S DOM CASTE UNDERTAKERS

India's spiritual rituals also have a miserable downside for those who cannot escape Hinduism's traditions. When Hindus die in India, regardless of how wealthy or high caste they are, only impoverished and scorned Untouchable caste Doms can prepare the cremation fire and prod the smoldering corpse to ensure it burns. Doms are even allowed to facilitate the last rites of Hinduism's highest Brahmin caste members, but Doms have been forced for generations to remain trapped into being India's undertakers. They are widely despised and discriminated against. Except at the gates of death. "We think Doms are lowly because the work they do is unsophisticated," Rajiv Prakash, a middle-class Hindu told me in his Calcutta shop where he sold home appliances. "I would not marry a Dom. I cannot go against society like that. I think it is wrong, there should not be Untouchables, and they should not be treated like that. But if I marry a Dom, I would suffer and be rejected by my society. Even if I love the girl, if I came to know she is a Dom, I would break it off," Prakash said. Madhab Ghosh, a Toshiba salesman from Bangladesh visiting Prakash's shop agreed and said Hindus can identify a Dom even if the person lies about their caste. "A Dom would not be able to conceal their caste. You would know from the way they dress that they are a low caste. Or the way they talk would not be so intellectual." The Indian government meanwhile has officially tried to end "caste discrimination" but the problem remains widespread. "The president of India was an Untouchable," Ghosh said. He was referring to the 1997 election of 76-year-old K. R. Narayanan to the largely ceremonial role. Narayanan was India's first Untouchable caste president. "I could marry his daughter, but that's because it would be different. Because if it were the president's daughter, people would forget that she was an Untouchable," Ghosh said. "But I cannot be a rebel against millions of Hindus in India. If I wanted to be like that, it is better I go to America or Germany or some place. Even I know it is wrong, it is already inside my brain. It is like with computers. There is ROM and RAM inside. I would not accept a glass of water from a Dom. I would say, 'I am not thirsty' so as not to hurt their heart. If I were alone, OK, I might take it. But not if someone could see me. Because then my circle would reject me. I can't help it. You cannot go against your society." Foreigners who happen to die while holidaying or working in India are often given by their embassies to the Doms, who see that the corpse is neatly stacked atop wooden logs of a funeral ghat in whatever city the foreigner happens to die in, or placed in a modern "electric crematorium" if one is available nearby. Foreigners' relatives who oppose cremations, or want the body sent back to their country of origin, can pay airlines expensive fees to ship the corpse home in a sealed coffin. Less costly is to send an urn of ashes by air freight. "I am a Dom, my work is dead bodies," Sham Sharma, 22, told me while a funeral began in Calcutta's squalid cremation zone at Kali Ghat. "I burn bodies every day. In one day, maybe five bodies. My uncle, father and my grandfather are Doms and they also burn bodies. I don't know how many bodies I've burnt. In my life, maybe 2,000 bodies? "I'm working here six years. My only one problem is money. I like working here. No money, then it's not good. Money, it is then alright. I collect the bodies and put here. And do everything. People say, 'He is Dom. Very, very good. Here is a dead body, come here." As he spoke, a relatively rich group of men arrived. Twelve of them carried a bamboo stretcher which supported the body of an elderly woman. She had been tied to the stretcher's green bamboo slats, so she would not slide off when the small procession walked to the ghat. A Brahmin priest offered instructions to the men on how they should perform age-old Hindu funeral rituals. The eldest son, bare-chested and head freshly shaved as required by the rites, picked up a red clay pot of nearby Hooghly River water and poured it over his mother's corpse. The son's "thread" -- a white string worn throughout life and slung diagonally across his chest and back, from shoulder to waist -- showed he was a Brahmin. The woman on the stretcher had been wrapped in a blue sari, concealing all but her wrinkled face. Her dead mouth was open. The family quietly fussed over her. They removed a bright marigold cloth which was emblazoned Hare Krishna, Hare Ram repeatedly printed in red ink. The son sprinkled flower petals upon her. He watched as nearby Doms built a rectangular pyre...

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CHAPTER 2 ~ KILLERS

JAMPA PHUNTSOK & TIBET'S ARMED REBELLION

"The Dalai Lama had already left the palace and was traveling to India, so I did not have a special conversation with him about my decision to pick up a gun. Instead, I went and prostrated three times before the Dalai Lama's empty throne and I spoke my heart for the cause of Buddhism and Tibet's independence. Then I asked the Dalai Lama to please kindly forgive me for giving up my vows." In the dim firelight of the Potala's butter lamps, Jampa then took off his maroon woolen robe and changed into civilian clothes. Jampa told other monks about an armory of ancient weapons stored in the Potala Palace's basement. But most of the monks withdrew to follow the Dalai Lama's caravan. Only a small group accompanied Jampa into the dark, musty cellars. They removed dirt-encrusted rifles, swords and other outdated weaponry. Jampa knew they were no match for China's well-organized People's Liberation Army. But he distributed the inadequate weapons to rouse the monks to fight, and he hoped to get better weapons very soon. Grasping a rifle for the first time, the monks were unsure how to shoot. Through the palace's windows they could see Chinese troops storming the Potala's walls and entrances, hunting for the Dalai Lama. Some monks were so frightened by the loud explosions and falling masonry that they dropped their guns and fled. Even Jampa was alarmed when he watched the Chinese troops advance. "I thought the Chinese were cowards and we could kill them easily. But the Chinese troops were attacking. Never retreating. They were courageous. Tibetans were forced to retreat by the sheer number of Chinese soldiers. We weren't able to defend the Potala for very long." A messenger told the monks the Dalai Lama had safely escaped Lhasa. Elated, Jampa decided their tiny group should leave the Potala before it was completely cut off. They would regroup later and attack Chinese convoys and outlying camps. To engage the Chinese army in the capital now would be suicidal. Several weeks later, Jampa was no longer recognizable. He traded his clothes for a traditional horseman's outfit. He would now wear a brown woolen knee-length chuba coat, fur hat, and tall leather riding boots. Like many Tibetan warriors, he protected himself from bullets by wearing a gau amulet box, slung on a leather strap across the left side of his body. Inside the box, two small statues of protector deities included a traditional blessing from the Dalai Lama, written in gold ink. Jampa now saw himself as a guerrilla. He brandished a rifle and galloped alongside other Tibetans across the rugged moonscapes and forests of Tibet. "There was a highway robber called Samphal and he collected a large gang. Together we rode our horses across the countryside fighting the Chinese. We had tents and all the utensils and extra horses to carry our rations and equipment. There were 150 in my group. They were 100 monks from various monasteries, plus some lay Tibetans and soldiers. Also included were five or six bandits. Many in my band died." Jampa and the other rebels used hit-and-run tactics. He believed the Dalai Lama protected him through supernatural powers. Jampa said he never suffered major injury in any fighting. And he felt he was also fulfilling his great-grandfather's tradition to defend their homeland. "I fought the Chinese until 1960. I killed about 30 Chinese. But I'm not sure the total number, because I don't know how many I killed in battle. I'm very sorry to tell you now that I felt satisfaction when I was killing Chinese. I know as a monk I should not tell you, but honestly, I feel I achieved something and I wished I could kill more Chinese. "We divided ourselves into units of 100. I was appointed the gyapon, or leader, of one unit." The duty of the gyapon was to carry out decisions arrived at the guerrillas' secret meeting...

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TONY "POE" POSHEPNY, CIA IN LAOS

America's Central Intelligence Agency actively supported the failed guerrilla war in Tibet against the Chinese, and the defeated Dalai Lama's escape to India, with training, weapons and cash. Years later, the CIA moved into Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam during the US wars in those three countries, all of which also ended in failure. But unlike Tibet, the regional Vietnam War included direct, deadly roles by Americans on the ground. In Laos, the macabre CIA paramilitary officer Anthony A. Poshepny became infamous because he demanded -- and paid for -- dead Lao communists' ears and their chopped-off heads. Poshepny, popularly known as Tony Poe, said he dropped some of those human heads onto America's enemies while flying over his targets. He also boasted about impaling communists' heads on spikes in the jungles of Laos and joining his tribal fighters in celebratory tribal dances around the dead heads of the vanquished. "I threw two heads from an airplane, it was a Dornier plane. The heads landed right in that [Lao] bastard's front door. We were flying at 100 feet," Poe, laughing, told me in his loud, tough, gravelly voice in the living room of his San Francisco home in May 2001. Whose heads? "Any [communist] Pathet Lao or someone else we didn't like. I had a bunch of heads in my hut and the blood was seeping through the floor. It was sticky. And [CIA officer] Bill Lair said, 'Get rid of those goddamn heads'." Poe gleefully described how he also let his ethnic minority Hmong guerrillas celebrate in their stronghold deep in the jungle of northern Laos. "These people are animists. After fighting, they had to have a ceremony. They'd put the heads on bamboo stakes and did a traditional dance around the heads, and throw pebbles at the heads. To show they were victorious." Poe would also explain why he personally executed Vietnamese doctors who he imprisoned in a hole in the jungle even though they begged to defect from the communists. The loquacious Poe said he rewarded his Hmong guerrillas when they brought in, as he demanded, the sliced-off ears of communists killed by the Hmong. It was Poe's way to confirm his Hmong fighters were not lying. He paid them for each ear. But Poe soon demanded the hacked-off head of each enemy, as much more reliable proof. After several years based in the rugged highlands of Laos where he was seriously wounded three times, Poe grew angry at attempts by senior CIA and American Embassy officers to control his activities. In response to US officials' complaints that Poe's gruesome behavior was counterproductive, he sent a bag filled with his Lao enemies' ears to the CIA station in Vientiane, capital of Laos. Poe wanted to prove his Hmong guerrillas were successfully killing communists. The unopened bag arrived on a Friday and sat in the CIA's office over the weekend, he said. "The ears were putrid. I shouldn't have done it because the secretary opened it up and she went crazy. The ears were in cellophane. They dried right up. You know, ears are mostly water. The human body is 80 percent water. And those...

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JAMES "MULE" PARKER, CIA IN VIETNAM

When asked during our interviews about the CIA's Vietnamese spies who Parker and others relied on while writing CIA reports for Washington during the war, Parker replied: "Ah, the lying spy syndrome." For the CIA throughout the world, "it's hard to recruit spies, to find them, develop them, recruit them to steal secrets, dispatch them, and then debrief them on their return. "To the uninitiated, it's tougher than it looks. And here's another thought: when that guy or gal you've recruited to be a spy comes back in with the secret information you sent him to get, it's only at this point where the whole process gives a return on our country's investment of time, money [and] risk. "Not the meeting, assessing, developing, recruiting, training, dispatching and the debriefing when he returns. No. You and your agent are only of value to the intel community when you finally, finally write up the intel report. The process can take years sometimes, progressing from one case officer's development to another." Parker recalled how in South Vietnam during the war, "you find a new [Vietnamese] guy through your own spade work or maybe by referral from the US military or South Vietnamese police, and you go on to assess and vet him and recruit him and train him and send him out. And then sometimes he just disappears, losing his nerve when it comes down to actually doing what he has been tasked to do. "And out in the bigger world of spydom, what's the life of a productive [mercenary] spy? Five years maybe, sometimes longer, but not often. They lose their edge -- their interest in having their lives disrupted and endangered -- or they lose their access. Or, after two or three [CIA] case officer handlers, the personal attachment can become weak and the [mercenary] guy maybe just doesn't gee-haw [get along] with the new case officer. "It's a tough business under any conditions. In Vietnam, this difficult business had to be done under combat conditions, where to be found out, meant sure death for the spy." During the Vietnam War, the CIA's American "case officers turned over every couple of years as their tours expired, and the new [CIA] guy was often taken advantage of by the existing [Vietnamese] agents. "For example, if these [Vietnamese] agents were what is known as 'principle' agents, they sent out other Vietnamese contacts as their intel gatherers. These sub-agents were hard to keep up with...as does accountability and chain of acquisition of their information. And, perhaps most common, these hard to verify sub-agents were often ghosts, as in not really there. Vietnamese agents were found out to be 'fabricators' time and again." As the war dragged on, some of the CIA's Vietnamese spies became increasingly corrupt. "We're talking the end of the war here where [Vietnamese] 'principle agents' had come to know pretty much what the CIA generally was looking for. So the good scammers would just stay in place for years -- up until the end really -- feeding marketplace mush to the CIA case officers. "And for years, if 'principle agents' who had worked for the CIA were found out to be phony, or if they hyped low-level info into something that sounded sexy [and] were found out and terminated in one province -- since they knew the business, these slicky boys would often just move to another province and make indirect contact with Americans there with a whole new invented network of sub-sources and sell their fabricated newspaper-inspired stuff, or general ground truths, to an unsuspecting new CIA guy as 'intelligence'," Parker said. "All that new local [Vietnamese] intel entrepreneur had to do was mix in a little truth, and he would look like he had potential. Some of the [Vietnamese] agents identified as 'fabricators' were not necessarily criminal and deceitful in their work but had, along the way, lost their access or their agents were killed or just didn't come back from missions. But [they] continued to pretend that they had sub-agents, when in fact the 'principle agent' was just making up what the [CIA] case officer wanted to hear." Among the CIA's American staff, problems arose because their own bosses demanded more and more information. "You gotta remember that there was pressure on us CIA case officers to produce intels," he said, referring to intelligence reports. "So the emphasis, certainly from say 1968 to 1972, was to believe your [Vietnamese] agent over reasonable doubt sometimes, and keep him on -- to provide the necessary number of reports you need for promotion, or to keep the [CIA] base you were operating from, up to standards." As a result, CIA case officers experienced a "lot of resistance to cleaning your stable of [Vietnamese] assets, or vetting them anew after a year or so in which they had produced five or ten reports a month to you," he said. "It does get into sources and methods that I want to avoid. Suffice it to say that good clandestine trade craft involves constant vetting of your intel agents, and there are probably a great number of case studies that show how a lack vetting resulted in bad ops and funky 'intelligence'. "The general feeling by most [CIA] case officers is, and was, that your [mercenary] agents will always lie to you...”

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INTERNATIONAL "BIKINI KILLER" CHARLES SOBHRAJ

"Let me please introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste. And I laid traps for troubadours, Who get killed before they reached Bombay."

~ Mick Jagger & Keith Richards

During our interviews while Sobhraj inside Tihar Jail, he still appeared suave, muscular and excited. He moved easily among guards and other prisoners in the visitors' hall. He had been advising wealthy Indian jail mates how to present their cases to the courts and local media. When I asked how many people he killed during his lifetime, Sobhraj replied in aggressive, French-accented English: "Officially, I am denying I killed anyone. Of course I am denying!" Wearing his typical gear of neatly pressed slacks, slip-on shoes, a shirt rolled up at the elbows and a big golden wristwatch, Sobhraj resembled an urbane Vietnamese salesman, with high cheekbones, giving a hard-sell to a customer in a snazzy showroom instead of a convicted prisoner in the bowels of a wretched prison. He projected bravado while a cluster of Indian prisoners watched in awe from a respectful distance. The now-balding Sobhraj told me his priority was to block extradition from India to Thailand, where he feared certain execution because the statute of limitations had not yet expired for the wanted Bikini Killer. "According to the Thai constitution, they can shoot anyone without trial. So I don't think you can get a fair trial there. There is no evidence to connect me with the crimes there. If I go free from this jail, I will try to stay in India, get residence here and do my writing," Sobhraj said, grinning. "I have my own cell. I make it like an office, with an electric typewriter. I find pleasure in writing short stories. I will try to get married. I don't know yet. I want to settle. Kids is what I want. There is no question of my going back into crime. I've been trying to legalize my situation. I fought my cases patiently. Years ago, I said I would win. Now I want to live quietly." Sobhraj tried to project a woeful image of innocence and repentance during our interviews -- a performance he repeated since childhood to everyone close to him. "My advice to a young person is, it will not be worth getting into crime. As far as possible, a young criminal should try to get out of crime. Society will have to play a role in that. But the most important role is yourself, the psychological changes, your thinking and instincts. Accept the advice of specialized people." Then came Sobhraj's classic, ghoulish cliché: "Here," he said, handing me a bottle of soda. "Have something to drink." For several years, he lorded over Tihar Jail's miserable universe including the prison's superintendent who Sobhraj blackmailed. Whenever Sobhraj went to the superintendent's office, their conversation inevitably turned to ways that the superintendent could profit from Sobhraj, who generously offered to cut him in on a slew of devious business deals which would easily profit the delighted jailer. But Sobhraj also planted eavesdropping devices which recorded the superintendent's illegal rackets. When Sobhraj later played a few sound bites, the frantic superintendent had no choice but to agree to share power with the usurping inmate or else suffer exposure. That scam worked for a while but eventually leaked and hit India's media. The government investigated the superintendent's activities, and transferred him elsewhere. Despite denying that he ever killed anyone, Sobhraj wrote descriptions of himself promoting his never-published memoirs, shamelessly hyping that he was a "master jail breaker," "master criminal" and "master murderer." He showed me short stories he wrote while in prison, including his version of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi's 1984 assassination. Sobhraj's written description of her two Sikh bodyguards shooting her dead in the garden of her New Delhi residence was filled with his own fantasies and macabre, bloody imagery rendered in graphic slow motion detail with her splattered blood reverently depicted in words. When I asked about various charges against him in seven other countries, Sobhraj smiled and replied: "Nobody has applied for my extradition except the Thais." Sobhraj said he enjoyed sharpening his wits by reading German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche and Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung. "I believe the childhood I had played a lot in my development. Certain traumatic things in my psychological setup." He enjoyed respect among Tihar's staff. "He is a good man," a policeman guarding the main gate told me. "I know Charles very well. Maybe he is a killer. But he is a very brave man." In 1986, about a year after our prison interviews, Sobhraj did the thing he knew best: he escaped Tihar Jail by hosting a birthday party for the Indian guards and serving them drugged sweets. They nodded out after stuffing their faces. Sobhraj drove out through Tihar Prison's gates in a shiny white car...

*****

INDIA'S "BANDIT QUEEN" PHOOLAN DEVI

She glumly sat in Gwalior's squalid jail fearing extradition back to her home state of Uttar Pradesh, which had a list of her alleged 22 Behmai village murders and where she faced a possible death sentence. Sitting on a bench in the bleak, sun-baked yard of Gwalior Jail, Phoolan Devi winced while denying direct involvement in the massacre. Dark-eyed, short and dowdy, Phoolan Devi did not appear as anyone's idea of a female gangster. Barefoot, she wrapped herself in a black-and-purple sari. She wore a cheap metal stud in one nostril. A few green plastic bangles jangled on her arms. Phoolan Devi looked like a stubby village woman with a defiant expression, perpetually on the verge of tears. "In the Behmai massacre, I didn't kill anyone. Everyone else in the gang did," she told me in a Hindi dialect at the jail. "I searched the houses." Later in our interview, she boasted of having "killed some people" during other escapades. "I didn't want to become a dacoit. People misused me," she said, alternating between sarcastic, earthy remarks and genuinely frightened weeping. When asked what she would do now that she was imprisoned, she smiled and bragged, "I'll escape and become a dacoit again." Her advice to any young girl trying to decide whether or not to follow in her footsteps? "Oh yes, be a dacoit," Phoolan Devi said, sneering and sassily tossing her head to the side. "If she's been harassed, she should harass." Beneath the bravado lived a terrified woman who knew that India's justice system often twisted slowly and brutally. Suddenly bursting into tears, she said softly: "I don't want to be released. I want to die. I want to be punished, because I don't want this burden carried over into my next life. When I am reborn, I want to be a man. It is much easier for men to live. "They're not oppressed. And there's not so much revulsion against them. I regret surrendering because of all the problems I have now." Authorities said her surrender was unconditional, but she insisted the government verbally promised to give her family a gun license so they could buy a weapon to protect themselves in their vulnerable village. No license had yet been issued. And a cousin had seized her defenseless family's land, police said. Phoolan Devi also complained she was not being allowed to leave prison to visit her family, who often stayed in Gwalior just to be near her. Phoolan Devi had expected occasional day-trips as part of her rehabilitation program. When news of Phoolan Devi's surrender appeared in American newspapers, Susie Coelho Bono, wife of former American entertainer Sonny Bono, flew to India and wooed Phoolan Devi with dreams of fame and fortune. Susie, of Indian parentage and a model bent on becoming an actress, reportedly smuggled a tape recorder into Phoolan Devi's cell and spent four hours a day, for two weeks, taping her story with the aid of a translator. "We became good friends," Susie was quoted as saying at the time. "In fact, by the time I'd finished interviewing, I felt as if we were sisters. I hope one day to get her out of India and bring her to the United States." Phoolan Devi now cursed Susie Bono. "She told lies," Phoolan Devi said, gazing out the door at Gwalior's dusty, hot prison yard. "Nothing ever happened. Susie said they would make a film and pay me 60,000 rupees [$5,000 at the time]. But all she did was send me some clothing and paid me 3,500 rupees. I feel used because of this." Phoolan Devi's short-lived notoriety did attract other fans. "Someone from France came to Gwalior wanting to marry me," she chuckled. Bombay's giant film industry made a box-office hit about Phoolan Devi. Not amused, she filed a defamation suit against the Bollywood movie makers for $50,000 in damages. One of her objections to the film, titled Kahani Phoolwati Ki, was that dacoits do not dance around trees when they fall in love. Though Phoolan Devi felt abandoned, she had not been forgotten by the man who risked his life...

*****

JONATHAN "JACK" IDEMA IN KABUL

"That's what I love about Afghanistan, if you tell someone you are going to kill them, they fucking believe you," Idema said during our interviews in December 2001 and January 2002 in Kabul. "If I'm in New York and I tell someone I'm going to kill them, they say, 'Yeah motherfucker? Well, I'm going to kill you first.' But not Afghanistan. Here they believe you." Born in Poughkeepsie, New York in 1956, the short, stocky Idema dyed his salt-and-pepper hair black and loved to show off his weapons which he occasionally fired to intimidate people. He traveled with a handful of young, armed Afghan men who he ordered about, often shoving wads of US dollars into their hands and waving his big military knife at them while theatrically laughing with glee. His knife was the same blade he used in Kabul at home, to eat thick, grilled steak when he invited me for dinner alongside his Afghan gang. Meanwhile, in a worrying display of intimidation, Idema also threatened to murder an American foreign correspondent representing the Stars and Stripes newspaper. The reporter remembered interviewing Idema in a federal prison during the 1990s after Idema had been sentenced to three years for defrauding dozens of US companies for a total of $260,000. When the journalist revealed this overlooked and disgraceful biographical information to other correspondents who were gathered together during a December 2001 party in Kabul, Idema went verbally ballistic. "I just might have to fucking kill you! Now get the fuck out of here before I do!" Idema shouted at the reporter while other worried correspondents hurriedly exited the dining room. The two men then loudly argued while I discreetly stood behind them, eavesdropping and slowly scooping frosted cake into my plate. "You don't believe me? Test me. Just test me! But get the fuck out of here now or else," Idema ranted. The shaken journalist was hosting the party and politely mentioned that this was his rented house. Idema responded: "I said get the fuck out of here. Now!" "But this is my house." "You think this house is yours? This wasn't your house before, so shut the fuck up. If I hear another word out of you, I swear I will..." Several days later, the correspondent told his colleagues: "Look his name up on Internet, and the story of him in jail will come up. His name is spelt I-D-E-M-A." Most foreign journalists avoided Idema and warned everyone else that he was an unstable trouble-maker who liked to brandish weapons and take advantage of Afghanistan's anarchy. Idema insisted he was acting to protect innocent Afghans from being exploited and abused by all sides, so they would not suffer from the US invasion or revenge attacks by recently ousted Taliban and Osama bin Laden's al Qaeda network. "I work for God and country," Idema, who wore military-style fatigues with a US flag shoulder patch, said. After much coaxing, he showed me his supposed, impossible-to-confirm resume, which he kept on his laptop. It listed military badges he claimed to have earned and his experience including: El Salvadoran Master Parachute Wings Royal Thai Army Balloon Wings Royal Thai Army Master Parachute Wings Royal Laotian Combat Parachute Wings Kuwaiti Police Commander Badge German Senior Parachute Wings Nicaraguan Senior Parachute Wings 11 years in the United States Army Special Forces 18 years in Special Operations 1978: Military adviser in Nicaragua and South Africa 1979: Primary SWAT instructor for New York State police Olympic SWAT team, Lake Placid 1980: Primary weapons and tactics instructor for British SAS commandos during Operation Honeygift 1982-83: Special Forces adviser El Salvador 1984: Chief instructor/adviser for the USAID Diplomatic Protection Guard during the Haitian coup attempt 1984: Chief tactics and firearms instructor for Ron Reagan, Jr., David Morrell, author of First Blood Rambo 1985: Chief instructor in tactics and hostage rescue training for SEAL Team Two, Counter-Terrorist Group Academy 1986: Director of training for United States National Park Service and Park Police for the Statue of Liberty rededication ceremonies, SWAT, counter-terrorism and explosives training 1987: Led a classified successful rescue recovery mission to the Caribbean for a Mid-Eastern prince 1991: Adviser to the Lithuanian national police, National Academy and ARAS Commandos, The Eagle, Lithuania" Idema also named a slew of courses he completed at Fort Dix in New Jersey, Fort Benning in Georgia, Fort Bragg in North Carolina, Fort Drum in New York and Fort Devens in Massachusetts. His biography stopped in 1991. "For the past 10 years, I've been 'black'," Idema said, hinting at secret missions he could not divulge. In Afghanistan, Idema dubbed himself "a civilian adviser to the Northern Alliance." The alliance was comprised of the late Ahmad Shah Masood's former mujahideen and other guerrillas who were now helping the US invade, hunt the Taliban and their al Qaeda allies. "I am a [former] Green Beret." Idema also boasted that armed enemy Afghans recently threatened him on a road near the eastern city of Jalalabad, until he shouted that he was an American and bluffed that if anyone hurt him, a retaliatory US air strike would obliterate the place and everyone there...

*****

CHAPTER 3 ~ WAR

AMERICANS, SOVIETS & MUJAHIDEEN IN AFGHANISTAN

"What has war brought them? Grave instead of shelter. Shroud instead of clothes. Bullet in the stomach instead of food."

~ Marxist Afghan President Najibullah

"I command 5,000 Tajik tribesmen, 1,000 of whom are armed," Roziya told me, smiling in front of her Dohab home in the undulating desert. "I usually carry my Kalashnikov, but I know how to use a pistol, rifle, hand grenades and all other weapons. "I was a mujahideen from 1980 to 1984. But I left the mujahideen to join the government of Afghanistan. The mujahideen were deceived into thinking Islam was in danger in our country. But I realized it wasn't true. I like the Russians. They help us. When we don't need their help, their army will go back." Her direct, challenging brown eyes scanned the horizon's low hills rippling towards Iran and peppered with deadly landmines buried by the Marxist regime to ward off cross-border rebel attacks. Most women in Afghanistan are forced by Islamic tradition to wear a chador, covering her head and upper body. Less popular is a head-to-toe burqa sheet, which allows only hands and feet to remain exposed. While covered in a chador or burqa, females peer out through a lattice of embroidered tiny holes at eye level. Women work, shop, chat and travel while draped. A chador or burqa is enforced by most males because they fear the exposed face or bodily shape of a female can be an immoral, shameful display of tempting sexuality. As a result, Afghanistan's women spend most of their lives apart from men, secreted away in a curtained-off purdah room at home -- purdah means curtain in Persian -- or in female-only huddles at mosques, on buses, and even among friends. After the 1978 revolution, the Marxist government shocked Afghan society by announcing women could, overnight, enjoy freedom to dress as they pleased, work in the civil service, fight in the armed forces, join institutions, and receive other equal rights. Commander Roziya said she emerged from the revolution in a stronger position than before. Her husband sheepishly admitted that in some ways, she also had become superior to men. "We have been married for four years. Maybe she's a better fighter than I am," Roziya's 32-year-old husband Ali Mohammad said laughing. "She knows things better than me, that's why she's a commander. In my home, she is also my commander." But even among the government's supporters, not everyone was pleased with communist-style feminism. In the northern city of Mazar-i-Sharif, the top Muslim clergyman inside the city's big-bubbled, blue-domed mosque said in 1987 he loved the Russians and the Afghan regime, but he never allowed women's liberation in his own home. Moulvi Abdul Hameed, 47, was the burly imam of the ulema, or Islamic clergy, of Mazar-i-Sharif and the surrounding desert and mountains of northern Afghanistan's Balkh province which bordered the Soviet Union. He was surprisingly blunt about whether or not women should be unveiled. "The wearing of clothes such as a chador or short skirts does not make a woman a Muslim or an infidel," Hameed told me inside the Blue Mosque. "Women now have this freedom. But Islam says every woman who makes herself beautiful only for her husband is good. For example, I am married with two sons and two daughters. My wife is a housewife. She wears a chador when she goes outside. Why? Because it is our custom and our tradition. It doesn't show man is superior. It is for the decoration of women." Hameed chuckled. "For those women who are very ugly, it is better for them." He chuckled again. "I don't tell you if my wife is beautiful or not. But I like for her to wear a chador. She looks more beautiful with a chador than without!" If Hameed were born a woman, would he want to wear a chador? "That is a funny question! It is nonsense to ask me because I am a moulvi." Elsewhere in Mazar-i-Sharif, at an all-girls' school named after Afghan female poet Fatmay Balkhi, none of the students wore veils. Wajma Nahi, an 18-year-old student, told me in a classroom interview: "I wore a chador until last year. I stopped because conditions here became better. Now it is peaceful. Some years ago, the counter-revolutionaries [Islamist guerrillas] said, 'You should wear the chador.' It was compulsory. I don't like wearing it because everyone likes freedom and I didn't feel free." Back in Kabul, the Marxist regime continued to discourage chadors and burqas...

*****

INDIA'S KASHMIR

All along the route, distraught residents in tiny villages described tortures inflicted upon them by Indian troops. While riding in the car during the last section of our journey to meet Salludin, one young, laughing mujahideen sitting next to me in the backseat, held up a hand grenade for me to admire, as if he were displaying a delicious ripe apple. The rebel proudly vowed, if Indian troops tried to stop this vehicle, he would throw the grenade at them. Then we could all run away and escape. Soon, a low-roofed house appeared, heavily guarded by a dozen mujahideen armed with AK-47 assault rifles, rocket launchers, walkie-talkies and hand grenades. The young mujahideen gently rolled his grenade back into his pocket, stepped out of the car, and dutifully took up a watchful position along a wall. Salludin had confirmed by walkie-talkie that he would be waiting inside. When he appeared, Salludin explained to me how he was leading a jihad, or holy war, to rip valuable Kashmir away from India, attach it to Pakistan and establish a fundamentalist Islamic society where true Muslims could be protected and dwell in peace. "If someone does a theft, his hand must be cut off, so society can be saved," Salludin said in a voice which initially hid its gruffness. "But we do not cut the hand of every thief. First, the government is bound to provide the necessities of life for every citizen. And we can't stone a person to death who is not married. It is a person who is already married, who rapes a woman and uses an illegal way for sexual satisfaction, and has brutal behavior. We want to save the society, so we want to give him a stern punishment." Salludin's rebels also traveled to Afghanistan which was admired by Islamist guerrillas around the world as the best and most violent campus available to learn how to fight, because it offered sophisticated weapons training and proven, experimental insurgent tactics. "More than 4,000 Kashmiri militants have received training in Afghanistan and, at present, more than 3,000 are there in Afghanistan now. That's a total of 7,000," Salludin boasted. "As Afghanistan has done in winning, and the Soviet Union has disintegrated into so many pieces, India will also disintegrate if it does not recognize the self-determination of Kashmir's people. "The Indian army kills the innocent masses. When we are going to hit a military convoy, we feel they will take their revenge on innocent people. In spite of that, we attack them. Then the people suffer. So, we try to hit them out of the population areas. But the people are ready for this cause, and tell us, 'Don't lose heart'. "We hope to obtain a corridor along the border area," Salludin said, describing what he hoped would be the first-ever slice of guerrilla-held territory in Kashmir which could allow them to enjoy better supply links from sympathizers in northern Pakistan's part of Kashmir. "It is in the best interest of Kashmir to become a greater Kashmir with Pakistan, and make a great Islamic nation." As the fighting worsened, ardent Islamist guerrillas from other Muslim-majority nations sneaked in to help Kashmir's rebels battle India's army, which often appeared confused and poorly disciplined. The most admired of these new, foreign combatants were battle-hardened Afghan mujahideen. At another of Salludin's safe houses, one of his "battalion commanders," Mohammad Abu Nasar, 36, proudly introduced a handful foreign Muslim guerrillas who had clandestinely crossed into Kashmir and joined their fight. From Afghanistan, heavyset Akbar Bai, 27, showed me his sinister "two-in-one" AK-47. He had the assault rifle customized with an additional, built-in, fat-barreled rocket launcher. Bai said he captured the rocket launcher from Soviet forces before they lost the war and withdrew, and he realized it could fit onto his rifle. From Khartoum, Sudan, came curly-haired Yasin Salin Masood. "I went to Afghanistan two years ago to fight, and came here to Kashmir one month ago," Masood told me. "I came to share in the jihad. There are 300 to 400 Arabs here, from Libya, Algeria, Bahrain and other places. My organization in Sudan, the Akhwan Muslimeen (Muslim Brotherhood), first sent me to Afghanistan and then said: 'If you'd like to go to Kashmir, go'. They sent me for the experience. Here you feel the meaning of Islam and jihad." Back in Srinagar meanwhile, victims languishing in...

*****

THE LIBERATION TIGERS OF TAMIL EELAM

A much more devastating war was ripping apart Sri Lanka, turning its popular cliché of being a "teardrop-shaped island" into a grim reality. "He deserved to be shot," an excited Tamil businessman said loudly, waving his hands at a limp, gray-haired corpse tightly roped to a lamp post in Jaffna city's central bus station in the early morning. A horrified crowd gawked at the bullet-riddled body -- a grisly public warning not to inform on Sri Lanka's ethnic minority Tamil guerrillas. "You see the sign next to his body?" a Tamil housewife angrily announced to the gathering crowd. "It says he informed to the army about the boys." The dead man had been positioned and tied so he slumped upright, leaning against the lamp post. Bare-chested, he wore a blood-stained white cloth knotted around his waist. His weight caused the thick coarse rope to squeeze into his chest under his arms and thighs. His bare feet rested, slightly splayed, in the gutter. Alongside him was a big, taller sign which displayed a long message handwritten with blue paint in Tamil language. It also showed three signed documents stuck to the sign with thumbtacks above an illustration of an elephant using its trunk to grab and lift a bicyclist off the ground. A striped tiger -- symbolic of the guerrillas -- pounced on the elephant's head, drawn to resemble Sri Lanka's President Junius R. Jayewardene. The big blue text said the dead man was Nirmalan of Chithankarni village on Jaffna's outskirts. He was executed by the Tamil Eelam Army, one of the smaller guerrilla groups among about 35 Tamil rebel organizations fighting for independence for northern Sri Lanka's Jaffna Peninsula and Eastern Province. Frowning shoppers, workers and bus passengers jostled to get a closer look at the body and read the sign. Many of the Tamil witnesses muttered that the man got what he deserved. One shopkeeper, gazing at Nirmalan's corpse, said to me the killing was "correct because he put the lives of the militants in danger by informing to the army. "We have not yet gained our independent Tamil nation, so we do not have our own police, courts and prisons to give the fair trials usually held in democratic countries for these people. So, though I do not like to see bodies in our streets, there is no alternative." As he spoke, several men clustered nearby and angrily blurted: "Yes! Yes!" A businessman insolently gestured at the body and caustically told me: "We feel he has received a fair trial because the militants are well-educated university boys under strict discipline by their leaders. This dead man must have received warnings, and would not have been killed unless the militants were absolutely certain he was an informer...”

*****

CHAPTER 4 ~ SEX

MICHELLE, IN PEEPLAND ON 42ND STREET

"I was on Stage One. She was on Stage Three. And it was not too far from Thanksgiving, and there were not too many girls there because it was a Sunday afternoon. I was alone on stage and I was making pretty good money. What you could do is, you stood on the little coin box that's in front of each booth. And then you could look over the partition and see, like, the other stages and the guys. "And when I was standing up there, because usually we call guys in that way, I saw Alison on the other stage and she bent over. It's like she took the money. And she bent over. And all of a sudden, this guy just took a knife and stabbed her in the butt. "And then she just screamed like it was an unbelievable sound. It all happened very quickly. She fell. So another girl grabbed her, someone yelled for security. There was one [security guard] who came inside on stage to see what happened. And the [customer] guy was still in the booth, so the security guard went and basically held him inside. "I didn't see him after this, but this is what they told me -- he was crouched down on the ground like he was in shock or something and, um, they just locked the door and called the cops. "Alison was pretty bad. There was blood everywhere. "I wanted to stay off stage because I went there to see how she was doing and, um, basically they told me to get back to work because they didn't want to leave the stage empty, because there were still customers there. "It was truly bizarre because you had security guards screaming holding this guy, you had Alison screaming with blood everywhere, and you had all of these customers who just continued to go into the booths and um, you know, wanted to, um, ha, ha, just, you know, continue working business as usual. And it was funny, because the money was very good too. It was like just the fact that the place was in such disarray, there were people screaming, it's like it turned them on, they wanted to spend more money. "And then the cops came and they were all over the place. "They came into the booth, and they asked me if I wanted to go out. They tipped and touched me and asked me for my phone number and they were totally like no one had cared that this girl had just gotten stabbed. They just carted her away in the ambulance and dragged the guy up from the booth, kicking and screaming. He was really freaked out, yeah. So I guess that was one of the freakiest things. "Alison stayed away for several months. She went on to marry her pimp. "It seemed like the guy [with the knife] had been there before. He was regular customer who just lost his mind. It was the first time I realized the real threat that there is, when you are working with a customer. "They would have things, like, guys who would do stuff. Like, they'd put something on their hands that would burn you. I don't know what the substance is, but a customer is touching you between your legs and he has something on his hands or on his gloves. There were guys who used to come in and they would wear these kind of surgical gloves. If you were not really watching a customer, he has access, he can do anything to you. So if he put some ammonia on his fingers, or some liquid that was alcohol-based, he would try to put his fingers in your pussy to burn you. "So that stuff happens. Then you have to be careful of guns and hypodermic needles because we were on 42nd Street and all of the locals would come down. I mean these guys were basically drug dealers and gang members and, of course, pimps. Like these are the guys you didn't want to piss off because you always had to walk back outside again. "I had a customer and then, after work when I was leaving, he followed me out of the building and was trying to talk to me. But because I was outside, I became myself again and I wouldn't talk to him. I was ignoring him. "And, uh, he freaked out on me and he screamed at me when I was half-way down the street: 'You stupid bitch. You think you're too good to talk to me, but I just touched your pussy for five dollars.' "It was mortifying. Because it was like, you know, when there's a scene, everybody watches you. So all of a sudden there are dozens of people who all turned to look at me because of his screaming and carrying on. And now they know I work in a peepshow. "There was one particular who used a flashlight and he would want you to kind of, like, you would have to hold onto its handle and you would have to...

*****

Rituals. Killers. Wars. & Sex.

~ Tibet, India, Nepal, Laos, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Sri Lanka & New York

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B086Y7D48L

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delightfulnerdinfluencer-blog · 7 years

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Misunderstandering Chapter 3 A Mystic Messenger Fanfic

Trigger warning: graphic imagery!

The scenery blurred into a smear of differing shades of grays, browns, and white as the tiny sports car drove passed. Weaving in and out of traffic at speeds that some might seem dangerous. The sun trying to peer through clouds was blinding at times. With the thump of the subwoofers rattling in his chest; Saeyong ran through his plan for the 100th time. He was doing his best to get into the mindset that use to be so easy to fall into. That of the cold and calculated agent, because right now Saeyong wanted to go home.

He forced himself not to look at Sky University or Jumin’s building as he passed. Agent 707 had no family or friends. The man in his ear was not his brother but a handler much like Vanderwood. He was going into a war zone. He had been in many over his years as a hacker. That was the mindset he needed to be in. The man who walked into war zones with guns echoing in the air while he worked in the darkness. Saeyong needed to be the man who crossed into North Korea to steal information. Back then it was so easy to put everything out of his mind. The man who no plans on living long. Sure as hell having no plans to pass on his DNA. Trying to resurrecting this man was harder than he had thought leaving the bunker.

Wipe. Thump. Wipe. Thump. Wipe. Thump.

At some point in time, the music had turned itself off leaving the sounds of the salt-covered road and the windshield wipers filling the small vehicle.

Wipe. Thump. Wipe. Thump. Wipe. Thump.

As his mind cleared a wash of cold came over him. Back straightening from its usual slouch. Slight pops from each vertebra as he adjusted into the straighten pose. Golden eyes becoming narrower and glazed over. Mind racing with tactics and probabilities that were ingrained in him. As his body went into auto pilot navigating the highway.

Finding a parking deck three blocks down from the prime minister’s building, Saeyoung set to the streets. The sidewalks were filled with a mix of men and women in business suits going on their lunch break. College students going to and from classes, backpacks loaded down with what they were going to need for the day. Couples walked hand in hand under the array of lit up hearts welcoming the upcoming valentine’s day. U.S soldiers in groups enjoying their free time from the base that was nearby. The streets packs with yellow taxis and sleek black cars. The restaurants and cafes had delicious smells wafts out into the crowd. Luring people in like sirens luring fishermen to death untimely deaths.

It was not that cold walking around in the crowd of people. He could barely feel the breeze as it raced through the street. His scarf and the thick green bomber jacket kept him warm enough for sweat to start forming down his back. The falling snow that was present on the drive into the city now was nowhere to be found. Even the snow that had made it to the ground from the night before was already cleared away in dirty piles on the curb. The crunch of the salt that was on the sideway and road was all that was left behind to tell that there was a hard freeze going on. There were even people walking around without coats on. With the mass of people and cars in the city it was understandable to forget it was below freezing.

Saeyoung stopped at a familiar sound. It was Zen’s singing coming out of the theater he worked at. He did not realize that he would be crossing this close to someone he knew. A small horde of fangirls around the large wood doors of the theater squealed at the sound of his singing. Zen’s face plastered across the side of the building announcing the next performance that would be showing, ‘Beauty and the Beast’, Zen would be playing the Beast. When he had told the group, there was much teasing about it. Saeyoung would have to make sure before his other trips around the building that Zen was not out for a break or anything. He had to try to keep his cover.

“So, I have realized something. I never want to be an office worker.” Saeran’s voice came in through Saeyoung’s ear piece. This comment got a chuckle out of the older twin as he placed his headphones over his ears.

“Why is that?” Saeyoung asked as he waited to cross the street that was in front of the ministries building. The building itself was a white and red brick structure that was about fifty stories tall. Some low hanging clouds obscured the upper floor. Even with that, the building loomed ominously as a testament to the power to the internal government. The windows of the building were blacked out that hid the people behind them. So if he wanted to go to another building and watch there would have been no way for him to know where the prime minister was or who he was really looking at. Flags of the different nations in the front circled around a large fountain. Four security guards standing still at the door. Making a mental note of everything before looking down at his phone to look at the blueprints that Saeran had sent him with a red dot telling him where he was. If anyone looked at his phone it looked like he was playing one of those mobile games that had the player walking around to get things. The little red dot moved when he moved and the map angled their self to match.

“It just seems boring. Also, the prime minister only left his office once to talk to a woman in the front. I guess to tell her you were coming. Then he went back into his office and made a phone call on his cell. I couldn’t tell you who it was to, though, but it was very short. Maybe a minute or two. The rest of the time he has been filling out paperwork.” Saeyoung nodded as if his brother could see him.

The line went silent as he walked the streets flipping his attention back and forth between his phone and the building. Taking in every little detail he could. There were very few escape routes from the building that he noticed. Most of the building was behind an iron fence that only left the entrance open for the public to walk on as they pleased.

“Where are you now?” Saeran’s voice once again buzzed in his ear.

“In the back. Looks like a loading dock.” Saeyoung uttered under his breath as he went by the entrance gate. The back lot of the building had tall thick bushes hiding it. Every so often there would be a missing patch that a person could look through.

“The loading dock has no guards.” Saeran stated through the sound of a flurry of keystrokes. “One of the legal twins has come in and handed him more paperwork… Now she’s gone.”

Saeyoung made three more passes around the building. Differing his pattern each time. Going one way then to backtrack in the opposite direction on the other side of the road. On the last pass, a chime let Saeyoung know that there were people in the chat. He took a quick look, it was Zen and Jaehee. Possibly talking about his new performance. If he was on break Saeyoung would have to be careful when he walked by.

Passing by the theater, Zen was out on a smoke break, dressed in his track suit he used for practice. He was not paying any attention to life around him as Saeyoung walked by. The actor was too busy on the messenger app to notice anything. This was a blessing but deep down Saeyoung wanted to know if the man he had known for years. A man that he thought of as family, a brother even, would notice him. If his disguise would work on him it would work on anyone. Maybe that was the agent wanting to know. He had heard of other agents doing the same with people they knew. Even though they were not supposed to have friends or things of that nature, it still happened.

Saeyoung went back to his car to change into a black button-down shirt and black slacks. The parking deck was dark with the overhead lights the only source of light. He could change in his car without the worry of someone seeing him. Removing the black box that was clipped to his belt, Saeyoung began the task of untangling himself from the wires of his microphone.

“I’m only going to have the ear piece in. So, I can’t speak to you nor can you hear me.”

“Do you think that’s safe?” Saeran’s voice was soft in his ear. Caution was the forefront of his mind and the older twin knew this. No one wanted to explain to the rest of the RFA what had happened if it did go south.

“Yeah, as long as you watch the cameras I should be good. I should always be on the screen.” Saeyoung tried to sound hopeful. Even if it sounded weak to his ears. “The earpiece looks like a hearing aid so no one would think it was anything else. The mic is a different story.”

“Then rig the mic to something else.” Saeran quick shot back.

“I will make something when I get home.” He tried to calm his brother down.

“Fine, just get in there and come home.”

“That was my plan. I’m going dark now. I will talk to you when I get home.” With that, he turned off the mic and placed it in the dash.

There was no such thing as too careful in this mission. Everything had to go off without a hitch for him to return home. There was no room for emotions, for emotions on missions gets you killed. This was how it always was and always will be long after his death. Jumin was correct about getting rid of his emotions, but he would never tell him that. There was a difference between signing a contract on a big deal and facing a certain death if one messes up. That did not mean that he was a robot. He knew how to handle his emotions and push them away. To bottle them up and put on a persona that was not who he was. He did it for years with the RFA.

Reaching out to open the car door he stopped. His body was shaking, not from the cold. The car was warm enough but from something else. The unknown about what was going to happen as soon as he walked through those glass doors. He took a moment to breathe. Closing his eyes. Inhale. Wait. Exhale. He repeated this until his hands listen to him and opened the door.

Saeyoung rested his head back, “God, let me go home today. That is all. Amen.”

It was the first time in a while that he had prayed. He knew that if was to get out of there he would need some divine intervention. For the longest time, all he had was his trust in God. That no matter what God would bring him salvation.

Before leaving the car, he made sure to have the pack of cigarettes on him and to check on the gun under the seat. Getting out of the car he put back on the bomber jacket and made his way to the building. Another rush came over him, the rush of the mission. An adrenaline high that he knew all too well.

Once more he walked up to the building, as he neared the security guards bowed and one of them opened the door. The building was warm and the front part where everyone checked in was round. The walls looking out on the street were made of glass. Giving the people inside an almost 360-degree view of the center city. The back half of the circle was in wood paneling with a large desk with four women offering help. Pictures of previous Prime Ministers in a line behind the desk looking out to the people who entered. The floor was a bright with gold flakes embedded in. Making the lights from overhead dance as the person moved around the room.

The metal detectors were the walk-through kind. A person had to empty their pockets before entering, nothing Saeyoung hadn’t seen before. Although one would have assumed that there would be a higher degree of safety if they were to protect not only the Prime Minister but some members of the congress and some foreign dignitaries.

Saeyoung did as the people in front of him did. First emptying out his pockets then stepping through the detector. The feedback from the ear piece screamed in his ear. Making Saeran educate him on the creative uses of the word ‘fuck’ before turning off the mic. One of the guards waved him aside to run the wand over him. As the wand reached his head Saeyoung tilted his head to show the modified hearing aid.

“Sorry if this was what set it off.” Trying to give a sheepish smile to a very annoyed looking guard. With a grunt, he was set free to collect his things.

The ladies at the reception desk were much happier. All four looked to be in their twenties. Vests over a white button down and a black skirt. Each one had their hair tied back.

“Yes, how can I help you, sir?” One of the women beamed as he neared the desk.

“My name is Choi and I have an appointment with the Prime Minister at noon. I know I’m early. If I have to wait that’s fine.” Saeyoung smiled back. The women tapped at her computer and wrote something down on a piece of paper.

“Yes, sir, we were told to send you straight up as soon as you came. So, what you’re going to do is go to the elevators. Go to the 6th floor. There will be another desk. Talk to the person behind it and they will take you there. I will call ahead and let them know you’re coming.” She handed him the paper and bowed. He, in turn, gave a light bow.

When he entered the elevator, he looked at what she had written.

CHOI

Prime minister 12 pm appointment

Send straight to P.M.

No waiting

The paper was like a hall pass if anyone stopped him he could just show it. Another woman waited in front of the elevator as he stepped off. She was an older woman than the ones downstairs. Her gray hair tied in a bun on the top of her head. She wore something much like the women downstairs. A skirt with a white button-down top. Unlike the sunny demeanor of the ladies downstairs, this one was stern looking. Much like a headmistress at an all-girls prep school or something.

“Mr. Choi, I am here to guide you to Prime Minister Chon.” Her voice was stern making Saeyoung stand a bit straighter. Almost expecting her to tell him to stand straight or he’d be smacked with a ruler.

He was led down a brightly lit corridor. A badge opened the doors to go in, on the other side, it seemed as if one could walk out without a badge. This was something he did not notice on the security cameras. Neither of them spoke, so the click of her heels on the tile filled the void. Dusty framed art hung on the walls. The pictures looked as if they were found at a second-hand store. Old and faded, nothing newer than at least ten years.

Prime Minister Chon’s office was the last in the hall. A large wooden door with the Korean flag on either side, let Saeyoung know he had arrived.

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here…

The next room had five more people at their desks typing away at their computers. The room was rather large. On one side, there was a sitting area; the other was where the desks were. The smell of fresh coffee filled the office space. Looking around He could not see either one of the legal twins. He was sure that he had heard that one of them worked for their father. Saeran even said that he saw one walk in. If they were not here at the moment, then it would be for the better. It would have been obvious if the two of them stood near to one another that they were related in some way. The woman at the desk closest to the door in the back stood. She looked more like the women on the first floor than the headmistress that he was currently following. The older woman walked up to her with Saeyoung trailing behind. He was busy taking notes on the space of the room. If there was a spot where he could get out if needed.

“Mr. Choi to see Prime Minister Chon.” With a bow, the older woman left. The woman, who must have been the chief assistant, laughed as soon as the door closed.

“She scares me too!” This got a small chuckle out of her colleagues. “Here Mr. Choi, Mr. Chon has been expecting you.” Walking around her desk, she knocked on the door twice before opening it.

“Mr. Chon, Mr. Choi is here.” The door opened wide onto the room. With an uneven step and a shaky breath, Saeyoung stood before the Prime Minister.

Prime Minister Chon stood behind his large wooden desk as the door closed behind Saeyoung. Much like the lobby, the entire back wall was a window looking out onto the city. Expensive rugs, that would have made Jumin look cheap in comparison, laid across the wood flooring. Book shelves stacks high with books on his right. On the far side of the room was a sitting area with large overstuffed chairs with a coffee table in the middle. That was where many of the photo ops were taken.

Saeyoung knew about the Prime Minister’s life. Studying law in university was natural for him since his family was powerful lawyers. What some might call his grandparents most likely wanted him to take over the law firm that they had. But he had chosen to enter the political field after leaving law school. Starting out in local government in his home province. Moving up from there to the national political stage quickly. His wife was a lawyer as well, now she was trying to change the public-school system. The legal twins were a year older than Saeran and him. Both went to Harvard the same time he did. Thankfully, the school was a big enough school that they had never met. One was an elementary school teacher and the other worked for their father. Neither of them was married and still lived with their family.

Now, Saeyoung stood before the man. His golden eyes mirrored back at him. There was never any wonder where he and Saeran had gotten their looks from. Their golden eyes and red hair came from their father. As well as many of his facial features came from this man. The man was about as tall as he was maybe a bit taller. His hair slicked back; his hair was a reddish brown with gray mixed in. Still, Saeyoung figured that this was what he was going to look like when he was in his 50’s.

“Please, come in Choi! Is there anything I can get you? Water, tea, coffee?” Prime Minister Chon’s voice was laced with excitement. His golden eyes shown with the same wonder and happiness that a child’s did on Christmas. The older man moved quickly to stand in front of Saeyoung. Examining him closely, making Saeyoung take a step back.

“No thank you.” Saeyoung said as politely as possible. One of the first rules an agent learns is to never accept anything to eat or drink when in contact with a target.

Saeyoung had watched enough of Zen’s performances to know that the way to draw a person into one’s act was body language. To make the audience believe that the actor is the character was in the movements and well-rehearsed lines. Much like actors, politician did the same thing. This man was nothing more than an actor on stage. Trying to pull in his audience of one into his performance to make Saeyoung believe that what he said was sincere.

“Please, over here.” The Prime minister motioned to the sitting area. “The chairs are much more comfortable than the ones at my desk.”

The chairs of the sitting area were facing the door unlike the two at his desk. This would give a good advantage if someone rushed the door. Saeyoung only nodded and let his father take the led to the area. Just before sitting he removed his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his black button down. His father did not sit until Saeyoung had, lingering for a moment looking over him. The excitement still in his eyes.

“Don’t worry I can still see you. Everything is clear.” Saeran’s voice was a whisper in his ear.

A moment of silence fell over the men as they stared at each other.

“Please, I understand this might be uncomfortable for you, but thank you for humoring an old man.” Prime minister Chon smiled again. The younger man could only nod.

Every question that he had as a child came back, and this man offered the answers to him. Even if these answers might just be lies. They were answers none the less. Even though he wanted to speak, his mouth did not let him. The hacker could not take his eyes off the older man. It was a waiting game for him. Waiting to see the bodyguards pop out and take him. He should have been taking in the surroundings, not focusing solely on the man in front of him.

“I am happy to see you have grown to be a fine young man, Choi.” Chon smile was sad as he spoke.

A fine young man was not something Saeyoung would describe himself as. He was a hacker wanted in at least five different counties, including this one. At least a dozen bounties on him by different organizations throughout the world.

“How did you find us?” Saeyoung’s mouth finally opened to ask what had been burning inside of him since the phone call this morning.

“I’ve been watching you two since you were small. I have had private investigators follow you and your brother. That was until both of you went missing.” Chon’s voice trailed off. Saeyoung knew this, it was hard to miss the men in suits following him when he went out. “When I had heard of your mother’s death I went undercover to see if I could meet the two of you. I asked about you both and someone told me that both of you were missing. They said that your mother might have killed you before taking her own life. I had a track put on your names. I knew it might have been in vain but I wanted to believe you were alive and well somewhere out there. A couple of months ago, I got a hit on Saeran’s name when he enrolled in Sky university and last week I found out that Saeyoung had gotten married. I knew that I this was my chance to finally meet you. I found the contact information from those two documents.”

He had mistaken the application that they had to file to get the marriage license for the real thing. Saeyoung sat back into the chair a moment. He knew about Yeoja, this was worse than he thought. He could use her. Although, if he was looking for Yeoja Choi, she did not exist yet, at least for a few more weeks. Another long awkward silence came over the two as he pondered the outcome for this man knowing about Yeoja.

“How much did you look into us?” Saeyoung’s eyes narrowed. This was something he needed to know for the safety of his family. If there were any tell-tell signs of this man lying with his next breath, he was going to get up and leave.

“That’s all I know. I was just happy to see your names in front of me. It was like God was giving me another chance.” The sad smile settled across the elder’s face. His hands gripped at each other hard enough to make his knuckles white as his nails dug into flesh. Chon lowered his head to Saeyoung. “I wanted… No… I am being selfish. I have no right to have these feeling towards you and your brother. This is our first meeting and I already have dreams of us being like father and sons.” A light chuckle escaped passing his thin lips. Tears threatened at the man’s eyes. “I do not know what your mother told you about me. I do not even know if this is the first time hearing about me. I am sorry.”

“She told us who you were. That’s why I came. We have questions of our own.” Saeyoung’s voice dropped lower as Chon raised his head.

“I understand that is why you are here. I will answer them truthfully.”

Bull shit.

“When you found out about Saeran’s enrollment. Is that why you held that press conference at the school?” If he thought the application was the real thing he might have thought that Saeran was already taking classes. Saeran would not be there until the summer semester but still. If he was trying to make contact like that, then he was a threat.

The Prime Minister laughed, “No, I would not have been able to pick either one of you out of a crowd. Last time I saw you, you were a few months old. It was planned before I got the notification on Saeran’s name. It was a nice thought that we could run into one another on the off chance.”

“Why now?” Saeyoung asked watching the man as he took a drink from his coffee.

“I have always wanted to be a part of your life. Your mother did not let me. As I said before I tried to contact you but either your mother would stop me.” His voice trailed off, “Or I thought you had died.”

Saeyoung shifted in his seat watching the man. The ticking grandfather clock in the corner was the only thing telling him haw fast was moving. If it was not for that clock he would have guessed years went by.

“Why did you try to kidnap and kill us as children?” The question slipped. Saeyoung’s shot to the man waiting for his reaction. He could not let on that the question was a mistake. Chon's eyes went wide in shock as he sat back in his chair. His lips formed a hard thin line across his face.

“Is that what your mother told you?” Saeyoung nodded, “I never did anything illegal towards you or your brother. I loved you both as a father would. It was a year after you were born that I saw your mother for who she really was. I offered to adopt both of you and bring you to live with me. She refused and upped my child support.” Adoption was the new term for kidnapping. Maybe surprise adoption if anything. While hush money was child support. “That is why I hired the PIs to follow you. If anything were to happen to the two of you and I did not know. All I wanted to do was protect the two of you… I never forgave myself for thinking that I let you die after the funeral. That I should have pressed harder to get custody of both of you. Your mother was not like that when I first met her. She changed almost overnight.” Chon looked down again.

Saeyoung adjusted himself as a rage rushed through him. Protect was a funny thing coming from him. A man that wanted to have him and his brother killed. Yet, now, the same man sat before him with his head bowed in hopes to get some kind of forgiveness from him. The only reason he was sitting there was because of this man not being able to keep his dick out of places where is should not have been. Then again without this man, he would not have met the RFA or Yeoja. There were some redeeming factors in living.

“Does your family know?”

“My wife does. My wife has known this entire time. Your sisters, I mean, my daughters do not.” Chon once again sat fully up.

“How did you and my mother meet?” An emotion that Saeyoung could not place spread across the older man’s face. He knew that in some respects he was emotionally stunted, but he could at least name most of the emotions. Not this one.

Prime minister Chon’s eyes soften and looked pass Saeyoung to the ground. His lips were still pressed into a thin line but the corners were slightly upturned. It was still enough to cause the corners of his eyes to wrinkle in lines that looked like sun rays. There was no tension in his face as he let a small puff of air come out of his nose; his shoulder’s relaxed downward at the same time. Lowering his head a bit, but still focused on that one spot just pass Saeyoung. The muted light coming through the massive window cast soft shadows across his face. Hiding the wrinkles in his eyes and along, his mouth. Chon seemed to de-age in front of his eyes. He was not the fifty-something but in his twenties.

“I was not living with my wife at the time. After The girls were born we had hit a rough patch. My wife quit her job to raise the girls and I had just started to work in congress. I met her when she was working in the bookstore nearby the building I lived in. I fell in love with your mother very quickly and I had wished to marry her someday. With Korea being as conservative as it is, I left your mother and went back to my wife so I could move with my career. Your mother had just had you two when I went back.”

Saeyoung had never heard how they had met. He had always assumed that they had met in a bar somewhere. That he and Saeran were products of a one night stand. No shit she changed overnight. It went from him telling her that ‘they were going to be together forever’ to ‘never mind I’m going back to my wife now’. With all that happening right after she had given birth to boot. Any woman would have reacted badly.

“I was young and stupid at the time. I did love your mother and I love you and your brother. I wish to get to know the two of you more. Not as a father and sons, I’m not foolish in thinking that could happen. Just a friendly relationship.”

“It’s been a lot to take in. I will have to talk with my other half and see what he says. We will get back in contact with you if it is something we wish to continue.” A chuckle came from the older man.

“My girls call each other the same thing. I’m sorry. I understand I do hope we can continue this relationship.”

Saeyoung nodded, “Please, respect our lives. Do not look into us any further. We live quiet lives and wish to keep it that way. We will contact you.” Saeyoung raised out of the chair. He had to get out of there before he let any more slip.

“I am a man of my word, Choi. You will be left alone.” The older man stood and offered his hand out. “Can you answer a question of mine?”

Nodding Saeyoung took the man’s hand, “It depends.”

“I understand. Can you tell me how both of you are? What are your lives like?” Chon smiled releasing the shake.

“We are happy now. We live in peace, and that’s all we want.” Saeyoung started for the door. As his hand reached for the door the man stopped him. He had placed a hand on his shoulder, making Saeyoung turnaround. As he did he was wrapped in Chon’s arms and pulled into a hug. Saeyoung’s body stiffened, even as he was released from the embrace he could not move.

“I’m sorry for acting foolish. Thank you for today. I hope that I can speak with you again.” Saeyoung nodded and opened the door.

On the other side was one of the legal twins. She was shorter than him but not by much. Her bright red hair tied back in a ponytail behind her. Her arms loaded down with papers and files to give to her father. She froze as he walked out then quickly bowing almost spilling the papers. Saeyoung noticed something about her. She gave off the same feel as Yeoja after becoming pregnant. The way she walked towards him gave the tell-tell signs that her hips were widening as her gate had not adjusted to the new life in her. A small smile cracked across his face as she placed the paperwork on the desk next to the door and brushed her stomach. Her hand went across her stomach to outstretched in a greeting. He moved pass her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Congrats.” He whispered in her ear as he left.

He had to clear his mind and process the information that was given to him. The trip back to his car was the fastest trip yet. Even while checking behind him for followers.

His mind wondered as he drove. It was not until he saw the school that he snapped back with a beep from the messenger. It was Yoosung.

Yoosung: Where are you Yeoja!!!

Yoosung: YEOJA!!!!

Saeyoung’s mind went haywire thinking that his father could have kidnapped Yeoja while he was in the meeting.

Yeoja has entered the chat

Yeoja: You’ve passed me like 3 times now…

Saeyoung was in the middle of pulling a u-turn to go back to the school.

Yeoja: Hey babe!

Saeyoung: hiya baby! How are you?

Yoosung: Where are you! You weren’t in your last class?

Yeoja sent a picture of Yoosung stand right in front of her

Yoosung: Oh!

Yeoja: Sorry I got sick before I got to class so I took a nap in the car.

Yeoja: What are you doing Saeyoung?

Saeyoung smiled as a minivan passed him. He had to pick on her. That would hopefully make him feel a bit better.

Saeyoung: Looking at a van.

Yeoja: No!

Yeoja: No vams

Yoosung: wow you two sound like u’re already married!

Yeoja: I will divorce you if I come home and there’s a van there!

Yoosung: Soo fierce

Yeoja: just expressing how I feel

Yeoja: Fine you can get a van but you have to trade in Elly.

Saeyoung: NO!!!

Saeyoung sent a wave of crying emojis

Yeoja: The little white sports car or the van!

Saeran has entered the chat

Saeran: Well I know where you are now

Saeyoung: Yup after the drs app I went to go look at cars.

Yeoja: drs app

Yoosung: Are you okay Saeyoung.

Saeyoung smiled and laughed as he typed his next message.

Saeyoung: Yeah I was so sleepy this morning drank some food coloring and went to the drs after you left.

Yoosung: You okay man?

Saeyoung: The dr said I was fine.

Saeyoung: But I feel like I’ve dyed a little inside

Saeran: I will kill him went he gets home.

Yeoja: Please clean up after. Blood is hard to get out once it’s dried.

Yeoja: Oh look at the time… I am out. I’ll see you two went I get home… or at least one of you.

Yoosung: I’m out too

Yeoja and Yoosung have left the chat.

Saeran: I’ll see you when you get home too

Saeran has left the chat.

With that, he was left alone with his thoughts again. It was nice to have a little distraction while so much was going on.

The drive home went painfully slow. There were good and bad merits about living so far out. This was one of the bad ones. It was if like he could not put enough pressure on the gas to get him home sooner. His eyes ached and itched with his contacts. It did not help that he was sure he was about to fall asleep behind the wheel. His mind was still racing with the conversation with that man, but his body had other ideas.

He nearly cheered as he saw the brick fence of his house come into view. The gate opened as his car neared and let him in the compound. He was greeted in the garage by a very stern looking Saeran. A bare foot tapped as he parked. He wanted to tease his brother and take his time but he was sure that Saeran would drag him out his car if he did.

“Well?” was all Saeran said as Saeyoung closed the door.

Saeyoung told him everything that had happened. There was no use in hiding anything from him now. He needed to know what he knew.

“I don’t believe him.” Saeran said lighting up another cigarette. Saeyoung did not either, but this was the information that he was given.

“I’m going to go take a shower and go to sleep. I think you should as well.” Saeyoung walked into the house and did as he said.

Before stepping in the shower, he took a good look at himself naked in the full-length mirror. His body was littered with scars from old fights, a living tapestry of near misses. Most of these came from his mother. His life with her was more of a war zone than the ones that he had entered in his years as an agent. Where the wrong move would have him tending to a new wound on his body or his brother’s. The woman often used the weaker of the Choi twins as leverage against him. If he did wrong, then is was Saeran who suffered more times than not. But the women never did miss a chance to beat him with whatever she could get her hands on.

After getting out of the shower the bunker was dark and quiet. Saeran must have gone to his room. Saeyoung could hear his bed calling him as well. It had been more than 24 hours since he woke up. While he had gone longer in the past, his body told him that it was not going to happen.

The bed felt amazing as if it was a cloud. He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

A dip in the bed awoke him as another body cuddled up against his side. A lightweight came to rest on his chest. A soft chuckle came from his throat. He did not open his eyes, laying like that. The woman he loved pressed up against him, her head on his chest listening to his heart. These were things that he did not dare dream about before. Now, a little over a year later, it still felt like a dream. That if he opened his eyes now he would be back where he was before. Alone and would not have his brother or the woman he loved in his life.

“Sorry, I woke you up.” Yeoja’s voice was just above a whisper. She’d brought one of her hands to rest on his chest as she sat up. The sudden lack of her body heat made him shiver.

“Don’t!” His voice cracked, “Don’t leave.” He reached out for her arm to keep her close to him. A small laugh escaped her.

“I was just going to go to the living room and study.” Saeyoung’s thumb drew lazy circles on her arm.

“Stay.” Was all he could say, pulling her closer to him. She followed his lead for her head to come to rest back on his chest.

“I’ll stay until you go back to sleep.”

“Stay with me for the rest of my life.” This got another laugh from her. She shifted to sit up and moved to straddle his hips. Yeoja brought both of his hands up to her chest. He could feel her heart beneath his fingers.

“I don’t know what is going on with work, but I have already promised you that I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. If something were to happen to one of us. Maybe in old age or sooner due to a freak accident,” Yeoja moved his hands lower to her stomach, “We are still together. Living in them. I’m not going anywhere, you’re stuck with me.”

This made him open his eyes. The glow of the lava lamp behind her. It lit her hair in a soft warm halo. She was truly an angel. An angel he did not deserve. What did he do in a previous life to even earn the right to have her?

Yeoja smiled as she bent down and kissed him. He responded, setting the pace slow. Slipping a hand into her hair. While his other wrapped around her back. Saeyoung was too sleepy to get aroused but he needed to feel her against him. Her body heat proved that she was real. That their life together was not part of a dream. Their tongues danced with one another to the melody of their moans. They broke apart, the need for air was getting to be important. She shifted again to lay beside him as he closed his eyes again. The weight on his chest and the patterns that her thumb drew on his torso were enough of a lullaby to lull him back to the arms of sleep.

Yeoja waited until Saeyoung’s breathing evened out to move again. The hallway was dark as she made her way into the living room where she had turned on the lights. Her laptop was running waiting on her, midterms were coming up. With both of the twins sleeping, she knew that this was the best time to get some studying done. Putting on some classical music and bringing up the midterm study questions another need arose in her. Hunger. With a sigh, she pulled herself off the sofa and went to check the fridge.

There was not much in there. Making a mental note of what she might have to get at the store after her meeting with Jumin tomorrow. The left-over pot roast was the only thing it seemed to catch her eye, or what she was sure her children’s attention. She pulled out the dish. When she turned around a figure with wild red hair stood behind her. Yeoja shrieked as mint green eyes still hazed over with sleep looked at her.

Saeran mumbled something along the lines of ‘food’ or ‘hungry’ as he staggered to stand next to her.

“All I am doing is warming some leftovers up. You want some?” She showed the red-haired zombie the pot roast. It nodded and once more mumbled something this time in another language or what sounded like another language. Saeran moved towards the plates and fumbled as he pulled two paper plates out. They dropped to the floor and he just stood there staring at them. As if he could not process what had happened. She giggled as she bent down to pick them up. Then dished out the roast and potatoes for the two of them.

After the ding of the microwave, she placed the first plate in front of the zombie. It grumbled a ‘thank you’ as he began to stab at the meat. She took her plate and sat at the island in the kitchen. Saeran stumbled to sit next to her. He began to stab at the meat again.

“Yeoja, how would you handle if you were told something… something that you were told as a kid. Then you… were told something different later on. What would you believe?” Saeran was still looking at the plate with its untouched food other than him stabbing at it as if it were still alive.

“It depends on who said what?” Yeoja watched the younger Choi twin. “Who would you believe?”

He sat there this time stirring his food. His mind wondering over what she had said. Nodding to unspoken words between them or a conversation that only he could hear.

“What if you can’t believe either?” He finally said after a long moment.

“I guess you would have to go with what feels right.”

“What if neither feels right?” This time he was looking at her. The haze of sleep was gone in his eyes. Mint eyes that almost glowed in the low light of the kitchen looked into her soul.

“I dunno what to tell you. I just think you should go with your gut.” Yeoja turned to her own plate but she could still feel his eyes on her.

********

The smell of pancakes and bacon filled the air and what sounded like a tiny herd of rhinos storming the door to his room was what he woke up too. He did not open his eyes as tiny giggles mixed in with shushing sounds rounded the bed. Sticky fingers grabbed at his hands and face and shook.

“Daddy wake up!” Two tiny voices that had the same melody of a bird’s song rang in his ears. As they shook him they giggled while intermingling ‘Daddy’ and ‘wake up’.

He stayed as he was, playing like he was still sleeping. He wanted to see what they would do.

“What if Daddy is dead?” One little bird asked.

“Remember the book mommy read us? He’ll wake up with a kiss!” the other little bird chimed.

“Daddy isn’t a princess… Will it still work?” The first little bird asked.

“It doesn’t matter if Daddy is or isn’t a princess! Just like it doesn’t matter if we aren’t a prince or princess!” The second one cheered. He felt a pair of hands leave him.

Then as if on cue two little bodies dived on him. Covering his face with kisses and sticky fingers.

As Saeyoung went to wrap his arms around the little ones, his arms were jerked back as cold metal wrapped around his wrists. Even with his eyes open, he saw nothing in front of him. The sharp smell of metallic overwhelmed his senses. It was a smell he knew all too well. Blood. Saeyoung could taste it on his tongue. Straining against the cuffs but he did not get that far before his hands were swung back onto the cold stone behind him.

The scrape of a wooden door on stone with creaky hinges echoed off the walls as it opened. Then footsteps coming towards him. The sobs of Yeoja and his little birds followed the steps getting louder with each footfall. The footsteps stopped in front of him. With the slide of rough material and the pull of some of his hair, Saeyoung could see. It was a small stone room that he was in, something out of a medieval movie. Out of the side of his eye was Saeran. Hanging by his arms like he was with his head down. The small rise and fall of his chest was the only indication that his twin was still alive.

Something jerked at his hair making him look forward. The thing that stood in front of him was his father. He had a smile that slit his face from ear to ear. His head was tilted at an angle to look Saeyoung in his eyes. The honey golden color of his father’s eyes darken as the smile got wider.

“Did you really think you could get away from me?” His voice was a low hiss as he shook Saeyoung’s head. “Did you really think you could hide from me?”

“Why?” Saeyoung’s voice was hoarse and cracked as he spoke.

“Why? Why? Why, my dear boy… Why indeed…” His father let go of Saeyoung’s hair making his neck snap forward with a pop. “You two are the only things that have ever held me back.”

Saeyoung could still hear the sobs of his family as his father spoke. His little birds called out for him. Saeyoung’s arms ached to hold them and tell them that it would be okay. He wanted to dry their tears and make them smile. The cuffs around his wrists did not let him move. His arms were stretched out so far that his shoulders were almost dislocated.

As he struggled his father continued to speak, when he noticed that Saeyoung was not paying attention, he lunged for Saeyoung. His father’s hands around his throat crushing his windpipe. Then as quickly as he began his father backed off muttering something to himself. Another sinister grin cracked across the old man’s face.

“You were a mistake that never should have happened!” The old man shrieked. “You and your brother both should not be alive.”

His father moved so that Saeyoung could see through the open door. There was a large metal table like the ones used in a morgue in the next room. Saeyoung could see the tops of Yeoja head and the bright red hair of his little birds’ in a line on the table. He lunged forward quickly to get to them. His shoulders popped as the joints left their sockets. His wrists buckled with the full force of his weight on them. A jolt of pain surged through him. Even still he pressed harder to get to his family. Hot tears ran down his face as he begged through his sobs to spare them.

“You should have never been. Therefore, they should not be here.” His father turned and went out of the room. The large door closed quickly behind him leaving the room in darkness.

“Please!.. No!...” He begged through his tears. Screaming as loud as he could.

The slide of metal on metal. Then the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. Click.

Bang.

One of the little bird’s cries stopped.

Click.

Bang.

The second little bird’s sobs stopped.

Yeoja sobbed harder. Her cries for her children. His children. Their children. Children that did not get a chance at life because who they were born to.

“Daddy’s sorry, my little ones. Please forgive Daddy. Daddy couldn’t protect you.” Saeyoung had thrown his voice. Now it would not go beyond a whisper.

Slide.

Click.

Bang.

Yeoja’s sobs stopped as the spent shell fell and skittered across the floor. She was now with their children. Saeyoung’s tears would not stop. The family that he had made was gone. Saeran was the only thing he had left.

The door opened again, his father walked to Saeran. He jerked his head up by his hair. Saeran’s mouth fell open. Saeyoung fought against the cuffs to get to his brother. He could not speak but he was going to do his damnedest to get to him. His father placed the gun in Saeran’s mouth then turned to watch Saeyoung.

Horror was the only thing he felt as the man smiled and pulled back the trigger. He never taking his eyes off Saeyoung. At some point, Saeyoung had stopped fighting and all he could do was watch as he saw the flash of the gun in his brother’s mouth. Followed by a deafening bang.

Blood spattered with bits of bone and brain matter across the wall behind Saeran.

Saeyoung felt nothing but cold as he watched as the man let go of his other half and he fell limply against his restraints. Blood followed from the exit wound pooling on the floor below. There was nothing left for him to live for. His family was gone and there was not a damn thing he could do about it. His tears were gone along with his voice.

His father walked over to Saeyoung and gripped his hair.

“This is the end.”

With his other hand, he forced Saeyoung’s mouth open and stuck the barrel of the gun in Saeyoung’s mouth. It was hot. Saeyoung could feel the heat burning his lips and the inside of his mouth. The taste of smoke filled his senses.

Bang.

Saeyoung shot up in bed. Cold sweat dripped down his body. His heart thundered in his chest trying to get out. He wheezed with each gasp of air trying to fill his lungs. It was a long moment before his fuzzy world came into focus. That it was all just a dream, that everyone was safe. Saeyoung could only stare at the blurry outline of the dresser at the end of the bed while he pieced his world back together.

Once his breathing became normalized, Saeyoung lied back down. An arm covering his eyes as he could still taste the hot metal in his mouth. It felt so real. The loss of his family that he could do nothing for. The sights and sounds of their deaths still echoed in him. Yet, they were fine. His brother, his future wife, and his unborn children, all were fine, it was just a dream. Nothing more.

A shift in the bed beside him, made him look. It was a person sized blanket burrito curled up on the edge of the bed. He moved closer to the burrito and slipped an arm under it with his other coming to rest along the hip.

“Hey, baby, mornin’.” Saeyoung pressed kisses along what felt like the neck and head of the person wrapped safely in the blanket. It smelled like the body oil Yeoja used, eucalyptus and spearmint. Her entire side of her bed smelled of it and he loved it. Even when she was away from home it still felt like she was there.

His hand slid from the hip to come to rest on the stomach a strangled cry came from the burrito as it flung itself off the bed. Saeran’s head popped out of the top.

“No! Just no!” Saeran pulled the blanket tighter around him as if to protect him from his brother. “Dude, this is not how you wake your brother up!”

Saeyoung chuckled, “Why are you sleeping next to me then?” he tried to play it off but the blush on his younger twin’s face told him the story. He had another nightmare. It was becoming very uncommon for him to have them. Still, every now and again they popped up. “Where’s Yeoja?”

“If you remember, she told us the other day she had a meeting with Jumin. So, I am guessing that is where she is.” Saeran stood up and shed the blanket covering.

Yeoja walked up to the receptionist and told her, her name and that she was there to see Jumin. The woman behind the desk smiled and made the call. What Yeoja did not notice was the man behind the corner. He was not really paying attention to her at first until Jaehee came out and hugged her.

“Oh? Saeyoung and Saeran aren't with you?” Jaehee smiled pulling away.

Those names made his ears perk up and made him listen to their conversion. Those names were not very common, and he had a feeling about who the two young women were talking about. This was when he turned to fully face the two. She was dressed in black pants and dress shirt. A large worn out jacket over one bent arm. Her hair was a chestnut brown a little pass her shoulders. The man could not see her eyes. From the way the two women looked, they could have been related in some way. Maybe, sisters, they were friendly enough with one another.

“They aren’t feeling well. So, I didn’t wake them when I left. I doubt they’ll be up when I get home. Besides I told them where I would be a few days ago, at least one of them should remember.” Yeoja laughed.

“I’m sure your over protective husband would just blow up the messenger if he was looking for you.” Jaehee laughed as well. She emphasized the word husband in the most overdramatic way she could. While still remaining professional. Most of the RFA already thought of the two as married. So, it was not uncommon that he was referred to her husband. “How are things? I mean you haven’t been living there long.”

“Oh, it’s great! I just don’t like the drive to and from school every day. Although I feel weird not helping to pay for things. He said my money is for me and the kids. Still, he’s the one that has bought most of the stuff for them.”

“It’s because he is the man, and he feels that he needs to take care of you.” Jumin’s deep voice made the two women jump. “Zen, myself, and Saeyoung talked about it shortly after V and Rika’s engagement.”

Yeoja giggled at the thought of Zen, Jumin, and Saeyoung having a serious conversation. She could almost imagine what it came to. After about two minutes of serious talk. Zen and Jumin most likely started fighting. While Saeyoung egged it on in some way for the shits and giggles of it.

The man watched as Jumin smiled at the woman named Yeoja. The man had known Jumin for many years but he had never seen Jumin with as gentle of a smile that he wore now. Stepping from around the corner to greet the trio. Jumin stiffened making the women turn to see who was walking their way. It was the Prime Minister.

“Good afternoon Mr. Han. Going out on a lunch date?” Jumin bit the inside of his lip.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Chon. No, this is Yeoja Choi. She and her husband are members of the RFA with me.” Jumin said in his most professional voice.

“Oh, I went to one party a few years ago, I missed the last one you had.” The prime minister smiled as his wife joined him. After they exchanged pleasantries Chon finished his statement, “We are here to have lunch with your father.”

Jumin only nodded, feeling sorry for the prime minister. His father and his new girlfriend were having a hard time keeping their hands off one another. Barely acknowledging the people around them as they petted each other. Deep down Jumin was happy he was not going to be there for the embarrassing event.

“Well, we are having another one here in a few weeks. Here is my contact information. Send me an email and I will get you on the guest list.” Yeoja smiled as she handed him a card. Chon smiled and took one of his own out. She smiled and placed the card in her wallet.

“Now if you excuse us we should be leaving. Please have a good afternoon.” Jumin’s corporate heir was coming through with each word. With a bow, Jumin led the two women to pass the prime minister and his wife.

Chon listened as they walked away. It was about their daily lives and other things until they were far enough away from him hearing them.

Jumin sighed, “With the Choi twins not here, do we have to pick up something for them?”

Yeoja smiled and shook her head, “Not today. I have to go to the store after this. So, I will pick them up some burgers on the way home.”

Another sigh came from the man. She knew what the corporate heir thought about burgers. The group walked out into the frozen air. Even in the oversized hoodie, Yeoja shivered. All the way to the restaurant there was very little talking. Jaehee was pouring over some documents, trying to get in some last-minute work. Jumin was sending out emails. While Yeoja was reading a book she had downloaded to her phone.

The restaurant was extremely nice. Even leaving her jacket in the car Yeoja felt underdressed. Sticking next to Jaehee and following her lead was the only way she was going to get out of this without making herself and Jumin look bad. The trio was set off to the back overlooking the river. Jaehee was still mulling over her phone. Whoever she was emailing was giving her a hard time. Yeoja felt bad for the older woman.

Her eyes went from her friend to the white marble floor. Up a white Roman-style column to opal colored drapes that hung between the pillars. The sound of the fountain in the center of the massive room overshadowed the piano player somewhere off in a corner. She was almost scared to see the prices of this place. She was already in nasty enough debt with school. It was thankful that Jumin said he would pay for lunch today. Yeoja could almost hear Zen’s and Saeyoung’s voice cheering her to spend all of Jumin’s money.

“How is school going?” Jumin’s voice brought Yeoja back to face him.

“Oh, good. It’s sad to think that when I go back in January that some of my friends won’t be there.” Yeoja chirped.

“So, you do plan to go back.” This was not a question from the older man.

“Yeah, I mean I have already spent the last almost five years to get my two degrees. I mean what’s four more.” She joked. This brought a smile to Jumin’s face.

“That’s good. Well, I was thinking. Maybe you could come work for me.” Jaehee stopped what she was doing and put down her phone. Yeoja could hear her friend screaming a ‘no’ to her.

“I mean I wouldn’t be good with whatever you do.” Yeoja gestured with her hands the outline of the man in front of her. “I mean unless you really need someone to ask your clients how they are doing. I mean, I do know how to brainwash someone but I doubt it’d be of any help.”

“What do they teach you in school.” Jaehee spoke before Jumin could.

“Oh, it was for abnormal psychology. I still have the book and my notes from the class.” Jaehee sat back in her chair unsure about the new information she was just given about her friend.

“Well, that would help out.” Jumin chuckled. “Actually, with the HR department has a psychologist on staff. I thought it would be a good opportunity for you.”

Yeoja sat there a moment, “It’ll be a while before I can shadow someone. I will keep it in mind.”

“Also, I was going to ask Saeyoung if he would come work for me as well. I figured I would ask you to see if the request would be a good one to make.” Jumin took a sip of his wine.

“I mean as far as I known him and Saeran are a joint package. I am not sure, though. It’d be better to ask him.”

The rest of lunch went quietly. The occasional brief conversation broke through. When a chat room message beeped on their three phones. Yeoja joked after she saw who was in the chat, Yoosung and Zen, that they should send a selfie with their meals to them. As tempting as it was they did not. After they were done, the trio left from the restaurant and drove back to Jumin’s office. From there Yeoja waved as she left her two friends and went back to her car. As she walked to the parking deck she was playing with her phone, not really paying attention to what was in front of her. When she bumped into something making her look up. There were a handful of bodyguards blocking the entrance. The one she bumped into looked down at her, his hand going for something on his belt. The others made a semi-circle around her until the prime minister came up behind them. They backed off as soon as they saw the man.

“I’m sorry about that. Mrs. Choi, was it?” His voice was soft as he spoke to her.

“Oh, no, it’s okay.” She waved her hands in front of her. “They were just doing their job.”

“Would you like me to drive you to your car?” Chon asked. The question made Yeoja drop the note she was working on her phone. He could see her background, it was a selfie of her between two red heads. He recognized the golden eyed man in the picture as the man he saw yesterday. He guessed right earlier when he had heard those names.

“No, I’m parked on a higher level. Thank you, though. Have a good afternoon.” Yeoja did her best not to stutter her words. As if on cue a meowing was heard making the two look at her phone.

The was a picture of the man he currently knew as Choi smiling back at him with the name, Saeyoung.

“Sorry, I have to take this.” With that, she went by him.

“Hey, baby.” Was the last thing he heard coming from her as he watched her go into the stairwell.

#fanfiction #fanfic #m rating #707 #mystic messenger 707 #MC #Spoilers

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