“Ride in there,” she said. “I’ll interrogate you later.”
“I have to get in touch with Eighth Army,” I told her. “Now.”
“What is it?” she asked.
But when I stepped closer, her nose twisted more severely this time, and she held the back of her dainty hand up to her face as if to ward off germs.
“Never mind,” she said. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Do you have a radio?”
“No. But there’s a phone not far from here.”
The three-quarter ton truck arrived, and she motioned for me to get in. As she returned to her jeep, I climbed in back with three ROK Army soldiers. They scooted as far away from me as they were able. I wasn’t happy about being under the control of Major Rhee, but somehow I had to communicate with 8th Army and let them know about the threat to the veterans who were gathering at Walker Hill. About a half mile up the road, we screeched to an abrupt halt. The ROK soldiers started cursing and grabbed their rifles. I braced myself against the wooden stanchions of the truck and hauled myself upright. A roadblock. Korean National Police armed to the teeth. The cops all wore combat boots and khaki uniforms, and they were all armed with either M-16 rifles or big.45s strapped to their hips. One of the vehicles even had an M-50 machine gun mounted on it-an M-50 machine gun that was trained right on us.
Some of the soldiers raised their weapons as if preparing to return fire. As fast as I could, I clambered out of the truck and crouched low.
I heard shouting. Major Rhee’s voice. Another voice shouted back at her, one I recognized. Mr. Kill. They were speaking so quickly and both of them were so enraged that I couldn’t understand everything they were saying, but I picked up enough. Somehow, the KNPs knew I was there. They wanted to take custody of me and return me to 8th Army. Major Rhee was having none of it. I was in her custody now and that’s how it would stay. Neither side was backing down.
I wasn’t too crazy about being argued over as if I were chattel, and I was also worried that whoever I ended up belonging to would lock me up. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on, but it was clear that the ROK Army and the Korean National Police were each determined to control the situation in their own way.
My memories of what Major Rhee had done to me when she’d been posing as a Senior Captain in North Korea made up my mind. I didn’t want that to happen again. With as much dignity as I could muster, I marched forward, stiff-legged, lurched past Major Rhee’s jeep and started to walk toward Mr. Kill.
She grabbed me in a neck lock. I was too weak and off-balance to resist. She pulled me back and somehow a pistol appeared in her hand. The bolts of a dozen KNP M-16 rifles were released and clanged forward. Behind me a smaller number of ROK Army rifles did the same.
“He’s mine,” Major Rhee screamed.
Her face barely peeked over my left shoulder. The pistol grazed against the right side of my chin.
I willed my mind to concentrate, to try to parse what they were screaming at each other. Mr. Kill was shouting that he knew her game. She wanted the man with the iron sickle to keep murdering Americans because she wanted the US to leave the Korean peninsula. Major Rhee shouted back that it would be good riddance.
Without thinking, I threw myself backward. She wasn’t expecting it, and she wasn’t strong enough to keep from crumbling beneath my weight. The KNPs surged forward. The next thing I knew Mr. Kill had ripped the pistol from Major Rhee’s hand, and she was screeching at him a long list of invectives. Many of the words in Korean were completely new to me. Three of the KNPs jerked me to my feet and dragged me toward one of their waiting vehicles. I half expected a round to burst into my back, but in the end everyone held their fire.
As we drove of, Major Rhee was still screaming.
“I need a radio,” I shouted at Mr. Kill as we raced away. “Or a telephone.”
“We have one.”
He sat in the passenger seat of the small sedan, his assistant, Officer Oh, driving. He flicked a switch and stretched a cord toward me in the back seat.
“Touch the button when you want to talk,” he said. “Who do you want me to contact?”
The CID office in Seoul didn’t have a radio but the MP station did.
“The Eighth Army MP station,” I said.
He punched in some numbers. A staticky speaker crackled to life.
A familiar voice said, “Eighth Army Headquarters, Military Police.”
“Grimes,” I said, “they took you off guard duty.”
“Sueno?” He sounded as if he was amazed. “Where the hell are you?”
“With Mr. Kill, heading toward Seoul. You have to relay a message to Riley at the CID.”
“Shoot.”
“Be sure to let Agent Bascom and Captain Prevault know I’m safe, and I’m on my way back to Seoul. If they were searching for me they can stop.”
“Got it.”
“And also let them know that they have to get someone out to Walker Hill.”
“Walker Hill?”
“Right. The resort area on the eastern end of Seoul. There’s a threat to the Korean War veterans who are out there.”
“What kind of a threat?”
“The man with the iron sickle. He’s after one …” I tried to continue talking, but we were behind a line of hills now and the connection had been broken. I handed the microphone back to Mr. Kill.
“Walker Hill?” he asked.
“The man with the iron sickle and his accomplice, Madame Hoh, they’re on their way now.”
“What do they want?” he asked.
“Revenge.”
When we emerged from the hills, Mr. Kill managed to make contact with KNP headquarters in Seoul. He gave crisp instructions, and I had no doubt that within minutes the resort hotel at Walker Hill would be swarming with cops. Whoever this American veteran from the 4038th Signal Battalion was, he’d be safe.
I leaned back in the seat, completely exhausted.
Officer Oh handed me a small can of guava juice. I thanked her and tore off the pop top and drank the contents down in two gulps. Then I closed my eyes. The siren was on now and we were making excellent time back toward Seoul. We’d be there in an hour, I thought as I fell asleep.
The Sheraton Walker Hill Hotel was completely surrounded by armed Korean National Police. A line of black Hyundai sedans was parked behind the sentries, and I figured a few ROK government VIPs were there, probably making speeches to the American veterans. We pulled up in front and a liveried doorman opened my door. He jerked back when he saw me. I looked like what I felt like, a mountain man who hadn’t washed in a week. As we clambered out of the car, I noticed a white van with a red cross emblazoned on it. An elderly American was having his blood pressure checked. They really were treating these guys like royalty.
Mr. Kill escorted me through the glass door. My muddy boots slapped on polished tile. We walked up to the long check-in counter, and a number of gorgeously made-up young women bowed to us. When Mr. Kill flashed his credentials, a black-suited duty manager appeared in front of him, almost as if by magic. Mr. Kill deferred to me and I started to talk.
“Amongst the American guests,” I said, “there is a veteran whose unit during the Korean War was the Forty Thirty-eighth Signal Battalion. We must locate him immediately.” Without being told, one of the young women in a business suit produced a check-in register and flipped it open on the counter. The list of American names was traced with polished nails. In the right column were their unit designations.
“Walton,” the manager said. “Mr. Covert P. Walton. He’s in room sixteen fifty-two.”
Within seconds, Mr. Kill, Officer Oh and I were in the elevator punching the 16th floor button. When we arrived, Officer Oh took the lead, pulling her small pistol out of her waistband as she did so. The door to Room 1652 was open. We barged in. Two maids, both with white bandanas tied around their heads, looked up from snapping sheets. Their mouths fell open. Officer Oh asked where the American guest was.