Asian Identity Thriller: Midnight in Karakorum – Pt 5

After a difficult flight the First Lady finds herself in a bizarrely sumptuous surroundings, trying to understand the motives of her enigmatic captors. Tom Kagy (00:01.132) Hello, this is Tom Kagy with Unconventional Wisdom. The whole world is focused on the First Lady's abduction. Who could do such a thing? And where on earth did they take her? Megan doesn't know that her abduction is seen as having occurred simultaneously with Jack Tang's murder, but finds herself wondering at her new accommodations, which are both sumptuous and bizarre. Not knowing the efforts underway to locate and secure her return, Megan begins probing and testing her new environment and the psychology of her enigmatic captors. Despite being at the epicenter of what the world believes to be the geopolitical escapade of the century, she finds herself as baffled as the rest of the world. So let's get into chapter six of Midnight in Karkorum. Chapter SIX The cargo jet touched down rather violently and came to an abrupt, screeching halt.  The pilot wasn’t out to win points for passenger comfort, decided Megan.  The muscular young man named Rick came back to the cargo hold and put a blindfold on her, a large one that covered her entire face except the mouth and nostrils.  The First Lady was too tired to care.  She wanted only to be taken somewhere with a bathtub and hot water.  Rick draped her in a blanket before picking her up and carrying her down the cargo ramp.  The air was moist and cool, almost cold, suggesting the wee hours of the morning.  Or maybe Siberia or Hokkaido.  Regardless, the fresh air was a huge relief after the long flight.  The whine of jet engines from other planes suggested they had landed at a substantial airfield, not some remote landing strip.  Whoever had arranged to abduct her apparently had the support of someone substantial, perhaps an entire government.  The chill that went down the First Lady’s spine had nothing to do with the cool air.  She was set down in the back of a van, judging by the hollow slamming of an unlined steel door.  Two of the men got in with her, probably Rick and the other young one.  From the front seat came a muffled exchange that sounded like Scowl talking with the driver.  The van accelerated quickly, swerving as it picked up speed.  They drove for what seemed like an hour, the second half over a winding upgrade with very little traffic.  They turned onto a dirt road and climbed steeply for a few minutes, then stopped.  There was a brief exchange with someone outside, a guard perhaps.  Then the First Lady heard a gate squeaking open.  For a minute or two the van rumbled up a steep winding driveway covered with gravel before crunching to a stop.  “I can take this off now,” Rick said, pulling off the blindfold.  He jumped out of side cargo door and helped the First Lady step down onto the gravel driveway. It was dark.  A touch of blue toward one horizon suggested that dawn wasn’t too far off.  They were to the east side of a large three-story house perched on a steep, thickly forrested mountainside.  The wan light from its front entrance revealed it to be built of granite and glass in an angularly modern style completely devoid of regional architectural detailing.  It could be anywhere on earth.  But at least she could see her surroundings now and, after god knew how many hours, she was again standing on her own two feet on solid earth.  The sudden abduction had robbed the First Lady of her composure and strength.  Now she felt both returning.  The removal of the blindfold suggested that whatever her abductors’ ultimate objectives, their present intention was to show her such civility as was possible under the circumstances. As she followed Scowl and his men up the steps toward the front entrance, one of the double doors was opened by an Asian woman.  She was in her late-20s or possibly early 30s, a beauty with flawless skin and the kind of cheekbones that gave her a high-fashion look, the kind of face one saw strutting impassively down some Seventh-on-Sixth runway.  She was about Megan’s height, two or three inches too short and a little too voluptuous for the runways.  She wore a short black spandex dress that clung just so.  Her makeup was flawless, with impossibly elegant eyebrows and perfectly drawn lips.  The lipstick was dark plum, two or three shades too hip to suggest the tastes of a totalitarian society.  It convinced Megan that she was somewhere in South Korea.  Which meant the abduction wasn’t sanctioned by a government, South Korea being a close ally.  That thought gave her strength.  The abductors couldn’t operate with total impunity and had limited time, resources and freedom of movement with which to gain their ends, whatever they were.  On the other hand, they could draw on American resources, as suggested by American-trained operatives like Rick and the use of what must have been a secret American airfield and even an American aircraft to fly her out.  That must have required cooperation from at least a few US civilian or military officials. “Welcome, Madame First Lady,” said Plumlips, bowing before the First Lady had reached the entrance.  Her accent suggested she was Korean.  For the first time, Megan noticed that Plumlips was wearing black velvet house slippers instead of the strappy spikes that might have gone with her daring dress and disco-doll makeup. “Welcome to where?” said the First Lady, stepping into the house. Plumlips smiled and hesitated.  “To our home.” A quick glance around showed the interior to be as starkly modern as the exterior—marble, leather, brushed steel, glass.  A few large stone objets.  The effect was perfectly impersonal, absolutely devoid of warmth.  “Who does your decorating,” said the First Lady with a tight little smile. “An industrial robot?” “I’m sorry it isn’t to your taste,” Plumlips said.  “But we’ll do our best to make your stay comfortable.” “How many nights am I booked for?” “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” “Who does?” “Perhaps my boss,” said Plumlips gently.  Then she noticed the bloodstains on the First Lady’s no-longer-white Chanel suit.  Switching to Korean, Plumlips fired a question at Scowl who was standing near the entrance.  Sighing noisily, he murmured a reply.  That was met by another angry question.  Making a show of containing his irritation, Scowl spat back a curt response.  Plumlips shot him a look that hinted at further discussions at a more appropriate time, then returned her attention to the First Lady. “I am very sorry that—that you had such an unpleasant flight,” Plumlips said, her eyes showing genuine concern. “I won’t be flying that airline again.” Bowing in apology, Plumlips said.  “I will take you to your room.” As she followed Plumlips up the broad marble stairway, Megan saw Scowl and his men walking out of the house.  The rose tint of dawn threw enough light that the First Lady could look down through the tall picture window beside the front entrance and see the three men trudging down the driveway.  They appeared to be heading for a single-story barracks about a hundred yards below the main house.  Where the watchdogs sleep, Megan decided.  The barracks looked big enough for twenty men on friendly terms.  From the second-floor landing she could make out the top of a gate and a guardshack another hundred yards past the barracks.  There was probably a fence around the compound.  It would take at least three men to patrol it.  That suggested there were at least nine guards in addition to Scowl and his men.  Plumlips led Megan all the way up to the third floor and turned down a long dim hallway.  The house was larger than it had looked from the driveway, maybe eight to ten thousand square feet.  Megan’s room was at the far end of the hall, the west end of the house, judging by the direction in which color was spreading in the sky.  Plumlips opened the door and pressed the light switch.  The room was huge, with a view of a pine-covered mountainside through the large window smothered with heavy velvet window treatment.  What flabbergasted Megan was the decor.  Unlike the rest of the house, everything in the room was gaudy and mawkish.  The canopied bed, tables and chairs were abominations that paid badly misguided homage to Marie Antoinette.  Covering the bed was a brightly colored silk patchwork quilt that cried out to be donated to the Salvation Army.  If the rest of the house had been decorated by an industrial robot, this room was the work of a blind person with a weakness for overwrought varnished wood.  “Charming,” the First Lady said. The suppressed little smile on Plumlips’s face suggested the irony wasn’t lost on her.  “You will be comfortable here.”  She showed the First Lady the bathroom.  Unlike the bedroom, the bathroom was the work of the industrial-robot, not the blind person.  It contained a large jacuzzi-style tub, a glass-walled shower and a sparkling bidet.  It adjoined a large walk-in closet that was, surprisingly, filled with an assortment of dresses, robes, blouses, slacks, shirts.  Even jeans and swimsuits.  A cursory inspection revealed the clothing to be in her colors and styles.  There was also an array of shoes, slippers and athletic shoes.  Seeing the First Lady’s surprise, Plumlips said, “They’re your size.” Megan’s heart sank.  The closet had been stocked for an extended stay.  There was enough for weeks, maybe months for someone who probably wouldn’t be going out on the town every night.  The large marble dressing table was equipped with an exhaustive array of cosmetics from Estée Lauder, Clinique, Chanel and Lancôme.  It was as though someone had spent hours cataloguing the contents of her White House dressing room.  Had a White House staffer participated in her abduction?  The First Lady’s head swarmed with images of the several dozen secret service agents, maids, valets, chefs, stewards, aides and secretaries who had access to the Mansion.  It was a path Megan didn’t have the will to travel at the moment.  “I will leave you alone now,” Plumlips said.  “Breakfast will be sent up soon.  If you would like anything, please call me at extension 7.” “What do I push to get an outside line?” “I am afraid your phones aren’t connected to an outside line,” Plumlips said politely.  “I was afraid of the same thing,” said Megan.  “When can I speak with your boss?” “Perhaps he will arrive later today,” Plumlips said.  She bent at the waist in a formal bow before leaving the room.  Megan lost no time turning on the bathwater.  The water flowed clean and hot.  Gratefully, she stepped out of her high-heel pumps and shucked off her blood-stained suit and bra.  She positioned herself on the bidet and cleansed herself.  Whatever traces of the rape may remain in her, she had no desire to let it contaminate her bath.  Knowing that the rapist was dead helped.  The water helped as well.  Only time would wash away the rest.  While enjoying her long-awaited hot soak, the First Lady idly picked up the phone next to the tub.  She tried pressing 0.  After a couple of rings, it was picked up.  “Neh?” said a Korean male voice.  “Yes?”  Even Megan knew that much Korean.  “Please send up a taxi,” the First Lady said.  “I’ll be leaving for the airport in a half hour.”  The long silence that greeted her request made the First Lady smile.  There was a murmured exchange in Korean.  The man must have placed his hand over the mouthpiece because she could barely hear them. “No taxi here,” the man said in heavily accented English.  “Please you dial number 7.  Maybe you get lucky.”  That was followed by muffled laughter. “Thank you,” Megan said and pressed the hook.  That must have been the barracks, or maybe the guardhouse.  She tried pressing 1 and listened to the phone ringing numerous times before pressing the hook.  Given Asian fixation on hierarchy and protocol, that extension was probably assigned to the man of the house, the boss, as Plumlips had called him, who wasn’t there yet.  Megan tried 2.  Again, there was no answer.  Extensions 3 and 4 were also unanswered.  Extension 5 was answered on the fourth ring by a sleepy male voice.  “Yeohboseyo.  Hello.”  The tone of his voice suggested he expected whoever was calling to be an inferior and he was highly annoyed at having been awakened.  “Good morning,” Megan said.  “This is the First Lady of the United States.  Who am I speaking with?” The hesitation was briefer than Megan had expected.  “How are you, Madame First Lady?” the man said, his voice coming awake, as though he had been expecting her call any minute.  “This is Dr Park, Jang-sun Park.  It is truly an honor to speak with you.”  His English was excellent, hardly accented and rich with assurance. “Likewise, Dr Park,” the First Lady said.  “Are you a member of the household or an honored guest like me?” Park’s genial laugh contained no trace of apology.  “A mere family member.  I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time.” “Your invitation was hard to refuse,” Megan said drily. Again, the laugh, rich and well-oiled, dripping with assurance.  “I hope you won’t hold that against us for too long.  Our intentions are completely honorable, as I think you will soon see.” “If they’re so honorable, couldn’t you have just dropped me a card?” “Your, shall we say, protocol as First Lady of the United States probably wouldn’t have allowed you to consider our invitation.” “Whose hospitality am I enjoying?” “The hospitality of our leader.”  Dr Park gave another rich laugh.  “Of course, you have many questions.  All of which we will fully answer in due time.  At the moment, we would simply like you to make yourself comfortable, perhaps enjoy some breakfast and get some sleep.  Then we will get better acquainted.” “When can I go home?” “At the earliest possible moment, Madame First Lady.  See you soon.”  He hung up. Wondering what kind of doctor Park was, Megan pushed extension 6.  The busy signal told her it was probably her own.  Extension 8, she learned, was the kitchen.  A harried-sounding woman assured her in fractured English that breakfast was on its way and hung up.  Extension 9 was dead.  Probably the outside line.  The bath left Megan feeling human and famished.  She emerged from the bathroom wearing a thick white terry robe to find a breakfast tray on the ornate little table beside the window.  Beneath the stainless-steel cover was a large plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast.  The bacon was a little underdone, but the coffee was surprisingly good.  As she attacked the food, Megan couldn’t help wondering about the room’s horrible decor.  Was it their misguided idea of quarters suitable for a western guest?  Recalling Plumlips smile and Park’s urbane banter, the First Lady decided the decor wasn’t a reflection of their taste or level of cultural sophistication.  If not, why would they deliberately mar a perfectly nice room with such obscene furnishings?  To torture her sensibilities?  That made no sense, given their generally respectful attitude and the quality of the bath and the food.  To make her think they were uncultured boors?  No, because they had let her see the rest of the house which certainly reflected a high degree of sophistication if an utter lack of personal warmth.   No, Megan decided.  The decor wasn’t for her benefit.  Then whose?  It certainly wasn’t for theirs.   It was baffling, but maybe had no significance at all.  Perhaps she could simply ask her hosts later. The breakfast relaxed the First Lady somewhat, making her feel heavy with fatigue.  She went to the bed to lay down.  Through the window she saw that the sky had turned azure.  She heard the chatter of sparrows and felt a gentle breeze that shook the drapes.  She drifted into a deep slumber.  In her dream Bryce was trying to call her, to warn her about something terrible that was about to happen.