It was unlikely that the compounds as small as those surrounding Uijongbu had one American GI selling secrets to the North Korean Communists, let alone three in eighteen months. But according to Major Schultz’s inspection report, that was how many arrests had been made there. The GIs had been ferreted out by the excellent counterintelligence work of a certain Sergeant Leon Jerrod of the 501st Military Intelligence Battalion. One of the accused had faced military court-martial, in camera, been convicted, and was now serving a twenty-year sentence at the Federal Penitentiary in Fort Leavenworth. The other two had taken bad-conduct discharges and left the military with no pay or benefits. Better, at least, than rotting in federal prison. An appendix to the report had the dates of the proceedings and the names of the witnesses who had testified against the GIs. It was a long shot, but I was hoping to locate one of those witnesses and, after interviewing them, use the information they gave us to pressure Sergeant Jerrod into spilling his guts.
Until we knew what was really going on at the 501st, we couldn’t determine the likelihood that Captain Blood or anyone else there had a motive to murder Major Schultz. They certainly had the means: These were trained soldiers who’d already demonstrated a willingness to use force. And they had a three-quarter-ton truck that could easily transport a body to Itaewon, even after curfew, and dump it behind the Dragon King Nightclub. But had there been more at risk than receiving a bad inspection report?
And that’s why we were avoiding the Provost Marshal. Unless we came to him with concrete evidence, he’d never let us go forward with an investigation against a military unit and a fellow officer who could be promoted to field-grade rank within a year.
And whether or not the Provost Marshal would believe Miss Kim’s story about being threatened and ordered to spy by Specialist Fenton was impossible to tell, even though she was our trusted office assistant. Ernie and I believed her absolutely. But the honchos at 8th Army had a different standard of belief based not on a person’s integrity, but whether the report would reflect poorly on themselves or the Command. And having a rogue counterintelligence unit threatening innocent women and railroading GIs into prison just to acquire power and funding wasn’t likely to be well received by the honchos of 8th Army. We’d need proof. The same type of proof that Major Schultz had apparently been after. At least, according to the inspection report Strange had pilfered for me. The inspection was thorough and backed up by facts, figures, and dates. If I were doing something illegal, I wouldn’t want Major Schultz after me.
“Our mistake was,” Ernie said, “we didn’t kill that guy Fenton when we had the chance.”
“We don’t need to kill him, Ernie. We’ll just send him to jail. That’s good enough.”
“We’ll see,” Ernie replied.
His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and he cursed when a kimchi cab swerved in front of him, something he seldom did.
“Easy,” I said. “Nobody’s going to hurt Miss Kim now. We’ll make sure of that.”
“You’re damn right we will.”
The city of Uijongbu sits about fifteen miles north of Seoul, on the route known as the Eastern Corridor. Since Uijongbu is an important intersection with several major roads leading north and another slashing across mountains toward the Western Corridor, a half-dozen military compounds are located nearby.
The 501st kept their Uijongbu office manned by Sergeant Leon Jerrod at the local Veterans of Foreign Wars branch, or VFW, in a district known as Kanung-dong. The VFW was only a couple of hundred yards from the front gate of Camp Red Cloud, a compound that housed the headquarters that had been known as I Corps during the Korean War.
Ernie and I had been in this area before on other cases, and as we rolled up the MSR into the city of Uijongbu proper, I told him where to veer off. The side road led to a traffic circle that old-timers told me had been notorious during the Korean War. Truck drivers running supplies to and from the front lines stopped here and traded C-rations, heating fuel, medical supplies, and other military items for whatever their hearts desired: booze, drugs, women, you name it. Those days were over, but there was still a river of neon leading from the traffic circle through the Kanung-dong area and right up to the front gate of Camp Red Cloud. The VFW sat smack-dab in the middle of all the action.
“Nice place to be stationed,” Ernie said. “Away from the flagpole, plenty of creature comforts. What’s the name of the agent again?”
I checked the appendix to the report. “Sergeant Jerrod.”
Ernie didn’t ask the first name. We seldom used them in the military. As an old drill sergeant once told me, “Your first name is your rank, and your last name is printed on your name tag, in case you forget it. But don’t ever forget your rank.”
Ernie parked the jeep on a side street. We climbed out and walked toward the VFW.
When we pushed through the front door, a sleepy-eyed Korean woman behind the bar looked up. She had long black hair, sagging cheeks and the unperturbed air of someone who’d been bored for the better part of her life.
“What you want?” she asked.
“Jerrod,” I said.
She went back to the Korean film star magazine in front of her. “He not here.”
“When is he coming in?”
“How I know?”
“Where does he live?” Ernie asked.
She looked up, her eyes widening. “You buy drink, no buy drink? That’s my job.”
“That and charm,” Ernie replied.
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
She glared at us and turned back to her magazine.
“Do any customers ever come in here?” I asked.
“Most tick they come,” she replied.
“When?”
She looked at me, greatly annoyed. “When they come, they come.”
I grinned at her. The time was about fifteen-thirty, three-thirty in the afternoon. She was right-it was still early for the bar crowd.
“Do you have happy hour?” Ernie asked.
“No happy hour,” she said without looking up.
“I didn’t think so,” he told her.
A hallway led toward the latrines out back. While Ernie waited with Miss Congeniality, I checked out both the men’s bathroom and women’s, just to be thorough. Both empty. I pushed through another door that led to a storeroom, then an alley out back. No sign of life. Although this place was designated as a Veterans of Foreign Wars official chapter, there wasn’t much to it. Just a bar. No meeting hall, no games of chance.
When I returned, I shook my head in the negative to Ernie. To the left of the bar, a stairway led up toward the second floor.
“What’s up there?” Ernie asked the barmaid.
“Not your business,” she said.
We both walked toward the stairs. Finally, she looked up from her magazine and said, “What you do?”
“We’re gonna leave a note in Jerrod’s office.”
“No can do. No can go up there.”
Our assumption was right. If the VFW was in this building, Jerrod’s office would be, too. We ignored her and climbed the stairs. On the second floor, a short hallway led to a window. I peered outside. Nothing below but an empty alleyway. The doorway on the right was stenciled in black letters: president, uijongbu branch, veterans of foreign wars. The doorway on the left had another sign: private.
I tried the handle of the office on the left. Locked.
“Did you bring your lock pick?” I asked Ernie.
“Yeah,” he said. “Got it right here.”
He backed up against the wall opposite the door marked private, raised his right foot, and leapt forward, throwing all his weight into it. The door crashed open.
Downstairs, I heard the front door open and the barmaid’s voice call “Koma-ya!” Boy! A few seconds later, there was a hushed conversation I couldn’t make out until a boy’s voice said, “Nei, nei.” Yes, yes. And then the door closed again.