Outside, it didn’t take long to find a chophouse. It was late afternoon and the dinner hour hadn’t started, so we were the only customers. Kill ordered tea. He hadn’t really been hungry; he’d just wanted to talk to us away from Officer Oh.
“I don’t want her involved in this if it’s not necessary,” he told us.
Ernie and I ordered tea as well, and once it was served, Mr. Kill told us the rest of the story. The real estate scam had been going on for some months, a prime operation with clandestine contacts between the upper echelons of the US military and top levels of the South Korean government. It didn’t take long for someone to realize that this could be used for something more than just abandoned bases.
“That’s where a highly skilled spy known as Commander Ku came in,” Kill told us.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“A North Korean agent, we presume. He or one of his operatives approached Nam and offered a significant sum of money for the use of his best offices to gather information. No one told Nam the nature of this information, but somehow they had caught wind that the Five Oh First was one of his real estate co-conspirators. Commander Ku wanted a one-on-one meeting with Captain Blood.”
“About what?”
“We’re not sure. Nam suspects it has to do with Camp Arrow.”
“The compound closest to North Korea?”
“Yes. Tomorrow night, we’re setting up a sting operation in Mukyo-dong.” The pricy nightclub district in downtown Seoul, too expensive for the average GI but hugely popular with the monied Korean elite. “Nam is contacting both Captain Blood and this Commander Ku. We expect to learn much more. We want you there.”
We both nodded. This could be huge. Anything involving North Korean espionage could be dangerous, even fatal. Who was a spy, who was a counter-spy, who was a double agent . . . All of this was often left unclear, and keeping Officer Oh as far from it as possible was probably a good idea; she was young and had a bright future ahead of her. We finished our tea and returned to the bokdok-bang. Just a few blocks away, we heard a woman’s scream.
Without hesitation, Kill took off running.
I turned to Ernie. “Officer Oh.”
“Yeah,” he replied. He pulled his .45.
“Put that thing away,” I told him, but we were sprinting now, watching Mr. Kill round a corner ahead of us.
– 29-
Smoke billowed from the bokdok-bang. The double-door was slid open and inside Officer Oh flailed away with her blue coat, trying to bat out the fire. Two men were trying to stop her until they spotted Mr. Kill barreling toward them. They were young, barely out of their teenage years, but both were husky and towered over Mr. Kill. They took martial arts stances. Kill plowed into the biggest one head-first. The thug let out a woof of air. Somehow, Kill maintained his balance, swiveled, and kicked the other punk in the groin. Then, with his right fist, he popped a jab into the first one’s nose. Blood spattered through the smoke. Within half a minute, both of them rolled to the ground, holding their faces and trying to protect their stomachs.
Ernie and I ran up to help, but it was too late. Both thugs had been reduced to pulsating puddles of goo. All we could do now was cuff them, just in case.
“Remind me not to mess with Mr. Kill,” Ernie told me out of the side of his mouth.
Now that the attackers were down, two neighbors appeared: one with a fire extinguisher, the other with a pail of water. Soon we were dousing the flames that had originated in the filing cabinets. Mr. Kill pulled Officer Oh outside and was speaking to her calmingly.
Apparently, while she was concentrating on reading the files, she’d been surprised by the two men. One of them punched her and she was dazed for a moment. When she regained control of her senses, the flames were already consuming the file cabinets. She then did her best to put them out.
By now, the local KNPs had arrived. Mr. Kill showed them his identification, and the uniformed men bowed. He asked them if they knew the two young men, and they did; they were a pair of local strong-arm thieves. One was in good enough condition to be slapped alert, and in a groggy voice, whining like a child, he explained to his KNP interrogator that Nam had paid him and his cousin to keep an eye on his office. And if anyone besides Nam tried to gain access to his files, they were instructed to burn them.
One of the cops asked him why they’d hit a female police officer and he replied, “She’s smaller than us.”
The KNP laughed, and then frowned, and leaned over and slapped him on the side of the head. The young thug whined again, the only mode of self-protection he’d have available to him for quite some time.
Officer Oh was checked out at a local clinic with a clean bill of health. Though she protested, Chief Inspector Gil Kwon-up insisted on driving and she sat in the front passenger seat, which is the seat of honor in Korean custom. We didn’t talk much on the way back to Seoul, except to tell her how well she’d done. Thanks to her efforts, most of the records had been salvaged. Still, she was embarrassed by the fact that she’d been overcome by such obvious idiots.
Back at the KNP headquarters in Seoul, Ernie and I promised Mr. Kill that we’d meet him in Mukyo-dong tomorrow night. We marched off in search of the jeep. The old lady of the pindeidok stand was still watching it, but she complained that the thousand won Ernie had paid her wasn’t enough after parking all day. He handed her another bill and she smiled and bowed.
What we’d learned today was significant, terrifying. If we could just make the Provost Marshal believe that Nam was telling the truth, we’d get the go-ahead to audit the 501st financial records. But I didn’t believe that the word of a slippery Korean street hustler would be enough to make Colonel Brace doubt the integrity of a fellow officer. He wouldn’t stick his neck out on such flimsy evidence; we needed corroboration.
Mr. Kill’s sting operation in Mukyo-dong was one way to provide one channel to that corroboration, but that would have to wait until tomorrow night. I told Ernie about another way. He listened and nodded. “Worth a try,” he said.
He started the jeep’s engine and we wound through the heavy Seoul traffic back to Yongsan Compound.
– 30-
The long hallways of the 121 Evacuation Hospital were dim, lit only by an occasional yellow bulb. We entered not through the big front door of the 121st, but the emergency room entrance around the back. The medics there had seen us often enough and knew we were in law enforcement, so they hardly noticed as we pushed through double swinging doors into the main precincts of the huge military hospital.
“Which room is he in?” Ernie asked. I told him.
“It’s down here,” he said pointing. We followed the signs. Eventually we reached Ward 17, Room B. The door was open and we entered, pushing past gauzy beige curtains in search of bed number three.
Specialist Four Wilfred R. Fenton, known to Ernie as “the twerp,” was snoring.
“Hate to wake him,” Ernie said.
But he reached out and pinched his big toe. Hard. Fenton’s eyes popped open. “What the . . . ?”
Ernie tipped an imaginary hat. “Top of the mornin’ to ya.”
Fenton stared up at him, apparently trying to decide if he was really awake.
According to the doctors at the 121st, Fenton’s prognosis was good. Some parts of his internal plumbing, the Latin names of which I couldn’t pronounce, had been bruised, but bleeding had been minimal, and since he’d received medical attention quickly, all he needed now was rest and monitoring to make sure no infection developed. Two or three more days of bedrest was the word we were given. At that time, the Provost Marshal would decide whether or not to charge him, but it wasn’t looking like the decision would go our way. Road conditions in Korea are atrocious, and GIs are seldom charged with reckless driving or other roadway violations-even when a Korean civilian is hurt or killed. Prosecution for doing their jobs-driving through ice and snow and mud-is seen by the 8th Army honchos as a sure way to kill morale.