“Like what?” Ernie asked.
“Proof that Captain Blood transported Major Schultz’s body to Itaewon.”
“The guy’s dead. What difference does it make now?”
“I want to make sure that the wrong person doesn’t take the fall.”
“You’re too much of a humanitarian, Sueno. Besides, the KNPs already checked out the Five Oh First three-quarter-ton. They found nothing.”
“But Schultz was moved out there somehow. There has to be evidence.”
“Where?”
“I’m working on it,” I told him.
Ernie rolled his eyes.
The next morning, Riley was at work bright and early. I arrived before Ernie. Just as I was about to proceed back to the coffee urn, Riley said, “I remembered something last night, after you let me off at the barracks.”
I sat down in front of his desk. He grabbed a neatly paper-clipped stack of documents and set them at the center of the blotter in front of him.
“What?” I asked.
“Colonel Jameson.”
“The J-2.” Schultz’s boss. “What about him?”
“The octopus lady.”
“Commander Ku?”
“Yeah. In all the excitement, I almost forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“She asked me if I knew him.”
“Knew who?”
“Colonel Jameson.”
I sat up in my chair. “A high-ranking North Korean agent asked if you knew Colonel Jameson? By name?”
Riley frowned. “That’s what I just said.”
“Why? In what context?”
“Said he likes octopus. Always buys from her.” I noticed that my jaw had dropped open. Riley tossed the stack of documents back into his in-box. “Okay, it seemed weird to me too. But you know how these vendors are. They drop the name of a big-time colonel or a general, hoping to impress you so you’ll buy whatever it is they’re selling. In all the excitement, I forgot about it.”
I sat there for a while in shock. The “octopus lady” had purposely relayed Jameson’s name. She knew we’d notice. But why?
“Did she say anything else?”
“No. I thought about it all last night. That’s all she said.”
Now I knew what I had to do. When Ernie walked in the door, I stopped him before he could pilfer Riley’s copy of The Stars and Stripes.
“Come on,” I told him. “We have work to do.”
“Could you have your team analyze another vehicle for me?”
“It’s not normal procedure,” Mr. Kill said.
We were in downtown Seoul at the KNP headquarters, after having parked near our usual friendly pindeidok dealer.
“I know,” I replied. “But our only forensic analysis team is in Camp Zama, Japan. The Provost Marshal would never authorize bringing them here on a hunch of mine.”
Inspector Kill called in Officer Oh, who drew me a map of where to take the vehicle and told me when to bring it. We were scheduled for eight p.m. this evening.
When we picked up the green army sedan, we found another surprise. Beneath the front seat was a hatchet. Mr. Shin, Colonel Jameson’s driver, told me he used it sometimes to hack ice off the car in the winter. I placed it in a plastic evidence bag and asked the KNPs to analyze that, too.
Strange wasn’t happy. He didn’t like me and Ernie showing up at his place of business.
“You’re blowing my cover,” he whispered through gritted teeth and iron bars. He worked in a heavily fortified cage in the center of 8th Army Headquarters. Not ten yards down the carpeted hallway was the mahogany entrance to the suite of offices that housed the 8th Army and US Forces Korea and United Nations Command Commanding General, a job originally held by Douglas MacArthur.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I told him.
“Not easy to get.”
“I’ll owe you.”
“That you will.” He grinned a hideous grin and waggled his cigarette holder.
Two days later, the report came back from the KNP forensic lab. I showed it to Ernie.
Miss Kim was back in the Admin Office. Nervous and undergoing therapy, both physical and psychological, but hanging in there. She had a brace around her right ankle where she’d damaged some tendons from kicking the hell out of Captain Blood. She was forced to use aluminum crutches to get around, but still wore a nice dress and a high heel on her left foot.
Ernie handed the report back to me. We knew what we had to do.
“He’s on temporary duty back home,” Ernie told me.
“When will he be back?”
“Tomorrow. The flight’s due in at zero six hundred hours.”
“We’ll be there.”
“I’ll gas up the jeep.”
The Military Airlift Command passenger terminal at Osan Air Force Base was Spartan. A small snack bar with hot coffee and a short order grill sat at one end of the building, an information counter and rows of benches filled the big central waiting room, and at the opposite end, arriving passengers came in and were inspected by both the US Air Force security personnel and a small contingent of bored-looking ROK customs officials.
He was carrying a briefcase, standing tall in his khaki uniform and smiling broadly when he emerged into the main lobby. Apparently he’d expected his driver, Mr. Shin, to be waiting for him. As full colonel and Commander of 8th United States Army J-2 Military Intelligence, Colonel Emmett S. Jameson was authorized a green army sedan and a full-time Korean civilian driver. But Mr. Shin had been ordered to stay home today; Ernie and I would be picking up Colonel Jameson. He’d been traveling on TDY, temporary duty orders to Fort Hood, Texas, for two reasons: to escort the body of Major Frederick Manfield Schultz home to his grieving wife and children, and also to attend intelligence briefings with the commander of Fort Hood and his staff. Strange told us that the briefings were mostly bullshit-authorized by the 8th Army Chief of Staff to provide an official reason for the travel, but actually intended to give Colonel Jameson enough time to make sure that Major Schultz was properly buried and that the needs of his surviving family were taken care of.
For whatever reason, the task didn’t seem too onerous. Colonel Jameson was smiling and in good spirits even after a long military flight on a C-130 cargo plane. His smile disappeared when he saw us.
We wore our dress-green uniforms, and our CID badges were prominently displayed on our jacket pockets. Both of us were outfitted with web belts, holsters and Army-issue .45s.
“Colonel Jameson?” I said.
“You know who I am,” he said. “Where’s my driver?”
“We’ll be escorting you back to Seoul,” Ernie told him. “Please drop the briefcase and place your hands on this table.”
“What’s the matter with you two? Have you gone crazy?”
Ernie grabbed the colonel’s arm and twisted him around. I yanked the briefcase away, and within seconds his hands were handcuffed behind his back. The Korean customs officials, the Air Force security officers and the few passengers loitering around the Arrival Gate went completely still.
I read him his rights.
“What’s this all about?” he asked, moisture filling his eyes.
“You know what it’s about,” I said.
“I don’t, dammit,” he said, stamping his foot. And then he spit at me.
That did it. Ernie grabbed him and shoved him, face first, up against the cement-block wall. I wiped the saliva from my face.
Commander Ku, or “the octopus lady,” as she was known to Riley, had purposely dropped a dime on Colonel Jameson. At first, I’d asked myself why. If he was on the North Koreans’ payroll, as Captain Blood had been, they would’ve wanted to protect him and, after the 501st fiasco blew over, reestablish contact. They had to have a very good reason for throwing away such a well-placed turncoat. Then it dawned on me. In Commander Ku’s eyes, Jameson had proven himself unreliable-he’d risked the entire operation by acting irrationally. The murder of Major Frederick Manfield Schultz had led to further scrutiny of the 501st, and Commander Ku believed Jameson had committed the deed for personal reasons; namely, his own relationship with Schultz’s wife. Now the North Koreans wanted Jameson out of the way, prosecuted as a killer so he’d lose all credibility. But why not just cut him off, take him off their payroll quietly? Too volatile. He knew too much, and the situation could blow up if he turned against them. If, however, Colonel Jameson was proven to be a murderer, 8th Army wouldn’t want to publicize it, and wouldn’t want to compound the damage to their own prestige by admitting that he’d also worked for the North Koreans.