“The man with the iron sickle. And that broad. They’ve got the old goat, and they’re threatening to kill him.”
“Where?”
Riley looked at a pad of paper he held in his hand. “Someplace called Kong Ha Moon.”
“In downtown Seoul?”
“Right in the heart of downtown Seoul.”
Riley meant Guanghua-mun, the Gate of the Transformation of Light.
Ernie and I hurried outside to the jeep. Captain Prevault slipped in the back seat.
“You can’t go!” Ernie shouted.
“I’m going!” she said.
He cursed and slammed the jeep in gear, and we were heading out of Gate Seven, turning left toward the road that leads through Namsan Tunnel.
In the last few days, while I’d been wandering around the Taebaek Mountains, the secret of the man with the iron sickle had seeped out to the Korean public. The story hadn’t appeared in official news outlets but word of mouth had spread, especially amongst those groups who, against all pressures, opposed the military regime that ran the country.
Sejong-ro, the main road leading down the center of Seoul, past the towering statue of Admiral Yi Sun-shin, was lined with protestors. Up ahead loomed the huge edifice of Guanghua-mun. Many of the protestors waved signs saying “Yankee Go Home” and other things written in Korean having to do with stopping the rape of Korea and not allowing foreigners to abuse our people any longer. They might not know the exact details of what had happened with the Lost Echo but they could read between the lines. Similar incidents had occurred at other places during the war and the man with the iron sickle was making it abundantly clear that he wanted the Americans to leave. The KNPs were having trouble holding back the crowds but regular traffic had been rerouted. Ernie had to flash his CID badge at the KNP roadblock. Still they wouldn’t let us through. I explained in Korean that Mr. Kill would be waiting for us. Someone radioed ahead and within a couple of minutes, a whistle blew and the white-gloved KNP pulled back the barricade.
An AFKN mobile broadcasting van sat at the foot of the three-story stone gate known as Guanghua-mun. In granite relief, valiant masses of workers, farmers, and soldiers strove toward the light above that was freedom. A rope ladder with wood slat footholds hung in front of the inspiring fresco. A platform used by painters and cleaners had been pulled out of reach all the way to the top. Above it, peering down at us, stood the man with the iron sickle and next to him, crouching, smoking her usual cigarette, was Madame Hoh.
We parked and climbed out of the jeep. Captain Prevault looked up. “They’ll fall,” she said.
“Better if they do,” Ernie replied, “when you consider what the KNPs will do to them.”
Mr. Kill walked up to me. “You can’t see him because he’s tied up and lying down. But they used the platform to haul the American up there. We’ve spotted him from our helicopter. It’s an elderly man who matches the description of Covert P. Walton. They’re saying they want a copy of their original claim published in the Chosun Ilbo, this afternoon’s edition, or they’ll toss him off.”
“They already told you that?”
“Yes.”
“Is the government going to allow it?”
“Impossible. But the ROK Army is lobbying hard for it.”
“The ROK Army?”
“Why do you think Major Rhee has been tailing you all this time? Her faction in the command structure wants the Americans out. And this story, this ‘Lost Echo’ atrocity, is just the sort of thing to turn public opinion in their favor.”
“But we support the ROK Army,” I said. “Why would they want us out?”
“So they can go north.”
Then I understood. The ROK Army wanted to be free of the controlling influence of the American government so they could convince the people of South Korea that they should invade the communist north and reunite the country.
“So Major Rhee could’ve stopped this guy,” I said.
“Maybe.” Mr. Kill nodded. “We think she knew more than she was letting on.”
A massive intake of breath erupted from the crowd. We looked up. Leaning precariously off the stone edge was a young woman.
“Miss Sim,” Captain Prevault said. Her real name, as I had learned from Madame Hoh in the cavern, was Ahn, but I didn’t have time to explain that now. The man with the iron sickle grabbed the girl by the scruff of her neck and leaned her out into the air. The crowd screamed but he held on and pulled her back to safety.
“He’s threatening to drop her first,” Captain Prevault said, her face screwed up in anxiety.
“It’s a bluff,” I said.
“How can you be sure?”
I didn’t have time to tell her all I’d learned in the Taebaek Mountains, about how these three people had suffered at the hands of the men of the Lost Echo and about how I believed they would always stick together. The man with the iron sickle was just trying to increase the pressure to publish the story of the Lost Echo atrocity and thereby permanently destroy the legitimacy of the American presence in Korea.
I didn’t believe he’d murder Miss Sim but I had no doubt he’d murder Covert P. Walton.
“I’ll climb up there,” Ernie said.
Mr. Kill looked at him in horror. “They’ll kill you.”
“We can’t just stand here,” Ernie said. “They have an innocent American up there. We have to do something.”
“What about the helicopter?” I asked. “A sniper could take them out.”
“We thought of that,” Mr. Kill said, “but once we start firing it would be an almost impossible shot to kill them both instantly. And if we don’t, the survivor will throw the American off.”
“So we have to deal.”
“Yes, but my President won’t deal. He never deals with terrorists.”
I knew that to be true. North Koreans commandoes had put similar pressures on the ROK government in the past to no avail. Civilian casualties were just part of the deal as far as the ROK government was concerned.
Captain Prevault grabbed my muddy sleeve and stepped close to me, completely unheeding of my rank odor. “You have to save her,” she said. “We know now what we’re dealing with. A program of treatment could cure her. She’s so young.”
Ernie walked toward the rope ladder dangling about ten feet above the ground.
“I’m going up,” he said.
Mr. Kill snapped his fingers and three KNPs hustled over toward Ernie, standing between him and the ladder.
“What is this shit?” Ernie said. “Somebody’s got to do something!”
“I’ll go,” I said.
“What good will it do?” Mr. Kill asked. “They’ll just kill you along with the people they already have up there.”
“I have my forty-five,” I said, patting the shoulder holster Ernie had given me before we left Yongsan Compound.
“You’ll never get a round off.”
“I’ll reason with them,” I said.
“How?”
“I talked to them before,” I said, “two nights ago in the Taebaek Mountains.”
“And they let you live?”
“Yes. I believe they have much they want to say to the world. If I can convince them their story will get out, maybe they’ll listen to reason.”
“But the government won’t let their story get out,” Mr. Kill said.
“It’s already out,” I said, motioning toward the protestors lining the street, “at least partially, and I’m an American. I can get their story out.”
“Your superiors will court-martial you.”
“Maybe.”
“No maybe about it,” Ernie chimed in.
“It’s worth a try,” I said.
Mr. Kill thought about it. He looked up at the top of the Gate of the Transformation of Light. Finally, he turned to me. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I must,” I said. “After what the soldiers of the Lost Echo did, someone has to make it right.”
“No one can ever make it right,” Captain Prevault said.
“We can try.”
Mr. Kill nodded and the KNPs stepped away from the ladder. I walked toward it, wondering if it would hold my weight. Maybe. Maybe not. Only one way to find out. I jumped as high as I could, grabbed onto the lowest wooden crossbar, and pulled myself up.