GI Confidential

by Martin Limon

  I rose from my seat and walked toward her. She held out the phone. I took it, nodded to her in thanks, and said, “Sueño speaking.”

  The voice was raspy, hoarse, as if it had been swallowing sand all morning. “If you tell anyone,” it said, “she will die.”

  Sarkosian.

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “Get a paper and pencil.”

  Miss Kim could apparently hear. She slid a ballpoint pen and a lined pad in front of me. Behind me, both Riley and Ernie had grown silent.

  “Shoot,” I said, immediately regretting the choice of words.

  “The Tonam-dong district,” he said. “A warehouse numbered 284-15. There’s only one door. It will be open tonight. Twenty-three-hundred hours exactly. No one but you and your partner. And remember, you cross me, she dies.”

  He paused, and it sounded as if he were moving away from the phone. Then some rustling of what might’ve been linen or cloth and a long gasp, as if someone was desperately gulping air. And then, “Tell him to go fuck himself, Sueño!”

  Katie Byrd Worthington. And then the male voice again.

  “You still listening?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Go to Camp Mercer. In my wall locker, I have a passport. I want you to bring it. Understand?”

  “Understand.”

  “Repeat the address to me.”

  I did.

  “Don’t come early, don’t come late. Exactly twenty-three-hundred hours. You got that?”

  “Got it.”

  “No weapons. No guns, no knives, no nothing. Just you two, unarmed, with my passport.”

  “No money?” I asked.

  “Hey, wiseass, I’m setting the rules here. You just keep your goddamn mouth shut!”

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear. All eyes in the room were on me.

  “Okay,” I said. “Just the passport.”

  “You don’t bring it, she dies. You’re late, she dies. You bring any cops, Korean or American, or anybody other than you and your partner, she dies. You got it?”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “Don’t be late.”

  He hung up.

  Ernie and I looked at each other. Miss Kim started to cry.

  Tonam-dong was a hilly and tightly packed area of Seoul, one of the oldest districts in the city. Only a mile or so northeast of the royal palaces and the presidential residence, but the neighborhoods quickly dropped off from opulence to abject poverty. Once you hiked up the steep hills, few of the narrow alleys had been paved. When it rained, they turned into sucking muck. When it snowed, they froze into rocky ridges laced with deep canyons. There were warehouses that weren’t much more than stucco buildings, one or two stories tall, with high windows barred by rusty iron. There were also industries, but they were usually housed in wooden lean-tos with signs overhead advertising bicycle repair, plumbing supply, or window glass cut to specifications. We also spotted a cobbler, repairing shoes in the open air.

  The shops were lit by single bulbs hanging naked from wooden rafters. Or in some cases, by the sizzle of welding equipment.

  “People still repair shoes?” Ernie asked.

  “Around here, they do,” I said.

  “I thought people threw ’em away and bought the new fashion.”

  “If the PX manager had his way, that’s exactly what they would do.”

  Both Riley and Miss Kim had been sworn to silence. Not even the Provost Marshal knew about this nighttime mission. Also, neither Ernie nor I had checked out a weapon. We weren’t in a hurry to, anyway, since a Report of Survey had been initiated on the two .45s that had been taken from us by General Bok’s troops in the Korean Broadcasting building. We’d given them up for good reason, but that didn’t stop a whispering campaign from swirling amongst the 8th Army MPs. Many felt that surrendering your weapon was the equivalent of surrendering your balls. They claimed they wouldn’t do it even unto death. Of course, most of these guys had never done anything more dangerous than escort a drunken GI out of a nightclub, so I took their philosophies lightly.

  Ernie was taking it harder.

  What worried me was that tonight he might try to compensate for the damage done to his macho reputation. He might try to kick someone’s ass. Which sometimes came in handy, but with Katie Byrd’s life at stake, violence had to be carefully calibrated.

  The afternoon trip to Camp Mercer had been uneventful, and the Commanding Officer there had taken the right steps—Sarkosian’s personal effects had been sequestered under lock and key. With him standing next to us, we had searched through Sarkosian’s duffel bag and his field gear and a leather briefcase he owned. I breathed a sigh of relief when we found the passport. It was still valid, and he could still theoretically use it at Kimpo International Airport. Except for the fact that when he presented it to Korean customs authorities, he was sure to be arrested. Security in public places, especially transit points, was much higher in South Korea than it was in other countries. They’d been dealing with North Korean terrorism since the end of the Korean War.

  Bombs went off at unexpected times in South Korea: on land, in the air, and at sea. The government made heroic efforts to try to prevent that from happening: eyes-on, open-bag inspection of all luggage, an official check and double-check of passports and visas, and running names and faces against most-wanted lists.

  As we walked up the muddy hill of Tonam-dong I patted the document again. Ernie glanced at me, nervous himself. “Will you quit fiddling with that thing?”

  “I wonder how he plans to get out of the country.”

  “Maybe pay some fisherman to take him to Japan.”

  “Maybe. Risky, though. They might take the money and turn him in anyway.”

  “It’d serve him right.”

  Our plan wasn’t much. We’d been afraid to reconnoiter the area earlier in the evening, which was something we should’ve done according to basic MP procedure. But our best chance of keeping Katie alive was to follow Sarkosian’s orders, turn over the passport to him, hope for the best. Other than that, we’d play it by ear. Ernie and I knew enough to keep space between us so in case Sarkosian had a weapon, he wouldn’t be able to hit both of us if he fired. We had no plan other than that, but I was hoping, perhaps naively, that no plan was the best plan here. We’d improvise. And if Sarkosian made the slightest mistake, we’d make him pay. Part of me hoped it was with his life.

  But Sarkosian probably did have a weapon. We’d gone to the Bando Hotel earlier in the afternoon and gotten the manager to let us see Katie Byrd’s room. All her personal effects were still there except her multi-pocketed jacket, her camera bag, and her trusty Nikon. I opened the drawer and found nothing, unsure whether to feel relieved or concerned that the Luger was gone as well.

  “Why didn’t she shoot him?” Ernie asked.

  “I bet she didn’t have the chance,” I said.

  I wondered if he’d caught her by surprise, or there was some other circumstance in which Katie had been taken. No sign of a fight—had she gone willingly, been allowed to pick up her things, maybe even snuck the gun with her somehow? It was that, or Sarkosian had gotten hold of it.

  As we tromped through Tonam-dong, we received some strange looks from the locals in the area, but not many. At night, it was dark up there, without many people out. Only the very occasional streetlamp cast a dirty yellow glow, and people had their own problems to worry about. They glanced at us, shoved their hands deeper in their pockets, and kept walking.

  I used my flashlight to study the numbers, and after turning right down one alley and left down another, we ended up doubling back into a cul-de-sac. I finally spotted the white numbers in faded paint on rotted wood: 284-bonji, 15-ho.

  This was the one.

  We listened. The building behind the wooden gate was tall, more than one story high
, almost two. The walls were whitewashed stucco and slathered with grime. We waited for a while, listening, hearing nothing.

  Ernie checked his watch. The dial glowed green.

  “It’s time,” he said.

  I nodded. He stepped forward and turned the handle. Slowly, the gate creaked open. No one there.

  “Shall we?” Ernie said.

  We went in to the empty courtyard.

  -28-

  A brick sidewalk wound around the edge of the building, then continued up onto a low cement stoop. Another door, this one of solid steel.

  Ernie tried the knob. It lurched open.

  Darkness. We stepped inside.

  “I have a flashlight,” I said, speaking loudly to announce myself to whoever might be there. “I’m going to turn it on.”

  “Belay that,” someone said. A gravelly voice, only a few yards away. Ernie and I just about jumped out of our skins.

  “Close the door,” the voice said.

  “We’ll all be blind,” I said.

  “I said, close the goddamn door.”

  I glanced at Ernie. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. I reached back and slowly closed the door. It clanged shut with a metallic ring.

  “Now,” the voice said, “step toward the sound of my voice. Exactly six steps. Count them out.”

  We hesitated.

  “Do it!”

  We did, stepping forward slowly, carefully, feeling for a hole or booby trap. What we didn’t do was count them out. In this large, empty room, our footsteps reverberated. That should be enough. The only piece of information I had gathered in this otherwise sensory-deprived world was that I could roughly pinpoint where Sarkosian was, especially if he moved or said anything.

  We finished the sixth step.

  “Six!” I said.

  And then, as if a nova from deep space had exploded, light sliced into our eyes for a fraction of a second. Ernie and I crouched, covering our faces. A flash bulb!

  “The passport!” Sarkosian shrieked. “You, Sueño. Reach out your right hand, with the passport in it. Do it. Now!”

  I couldn’t see anything except pinwheels spinning before me, but I stood back up to my full height and reached for the passport. Before holding it out into the darkness, I had the presence of mind to say, “Katie. We have to see Katie.”

  “Passport first,” he said.

  “No. Katie touches my hand, she speaks so I know it’s her, and then I let go of the passport.”

  There was a silence as if he was thinking it over and then murmuring. Katie’s voice. Feet shuffled toward us. And then arguing. “My camera. I want my goddamn camera.”

  Leave it up to Katie Byrd Worthington to make demands at a time like this.

  Sarkosian said something I couldn’t make out, and Katie said, “Fine. Keep the flash attachment. Just give me the damn camera.”

  It dawned on me that part of Sarkosian’s plan had been to have his eyes fully adjusted to this darkness before we arrived. It gave him the advantage of being able to at least make out shapes while we were totally blind. Before the flash went off, my eyeballs had begun to make the adjustment they’d told us about in night-fighter training. I had begun to spot pinpricks of light here and there throughout this space, started to orient myself within it. But now, after the flash, I was as blind as Mr. Magoo.

  “Hand it to her,” Sarkosian said.

  “What? The passport?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “First I want to touch her hand.”

  “Go ahead.”

  I reached out, circling my hand in the void. Finally, I touched fingertips, and a small hand clutched mine. “Is that you, Katie?”

  “It ain’t Santa Claus.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you should give me the goddamn passport.”

  I wanted to ask her if he was armed but didn’t think it was wise right now. Ernie had shuffled a few feet away—ready, I knew, to spring at a moment’s notice toward the sound of Sarkosian’s voice. By now, he’d probably slipped his brass knuckles over his fist.

  “Okay,” I said. “Here it is.”

  Katie let go of my hand and grabbed the thick document.

  “My camera,” Katie said.

  “All right, goddamn it.”

  Apparently, he handed Katie her precious Nikon camera. Sarkosian grunted. Fingers shuffled through pages of paper.

  “Let me go,” Katie said.

  “Not until I make sure this is my passport,” he said.

  Maybe ten feet away from us, a dim light shone in the darkness, a penlight covered by a hand. Still, for a split second, it illuminated Sarkosian’s face like the latest Hollywood Technicolor technique. He was pointing the Luger in my direction.

  Ernie moved. Startled, Sarkosian twisted and fired at the sound. Something hit the ground and rolled—Ernie, diving for cover. Then the light went out. The gun fired three more times in rapid succession. I was crouched on the ground now, rushing to the left, away from Ernie but still toward Sarkosian. If one of us could reach him, we’d have a chance, but the odds were slim. The gun fired once more, and as it did, something swished through the void.

  Something heavy. And then a clunk, like rock on wood. Katie was screaming. “Son of a bitch. How dare you lock me up? Me? I’ll teach you, you sonofabitch!”

  I charged forward blindly. I felt Katie’s body and pushed past her, then stumbled over something big and heavy on the floor. I knelt, groping with my hands. Sarkosian. I felt the stubble on his beard. Ernie bumped into me.

  “Got him,” I said, reaching for my handcuffs. “He’s down. Find a light.”

  Within seconds, overhead fluorescent bulbs buzzed and flickered to life. Katie and Ernie and I all covered our eyes with our palms. I glanced down. Sarkosian was out cold, lying on the ground in front of me. I kept my knee propped securely on his back and fumbled with the cuffs, and seconds later his big hands were securely fastened. I checked his carotid artery. Heart beating strong. Plenty of air escaping from his mouth. So much, I was surprised he wasn’t snoring.

  “What’d you do?” Ernie asked Katie.

  “You assholes almost got in my way,” she said. “When he gave me my camera”—she held the Nikon up in the air—“I swung it around by the strap and bonked him a good one. Almost didn’t work because of you guys stumbling around in the dark.”

  I noticed a lead pipe lying beside Sarkosian’s thigh. He’d possibly been planning to brain Katie with it. Or us.

  “Why the darkness?” I asked.

  “He figured you’d bring guns, even though he’d said not to. If it came to a shootout, he’d be able to escape.” Katie pointed. “Down there.”

  Behind Sarkosian was a small wooden door, the kind Koreans sometimes had in warehouses to slide crates from one room to another. I walked toward it, pushed it open, and peeked through. Metal rollers led down to a lower level.

  “Is there another door down there?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Katie replied. “That was how he was going to escape. Down that ramp, out the back loading door, and he’d emerge on the opposite side of the hill. A completely different neighborhood.”

  “And he would’ve left you lying here,” Ernie said to Katie. “Probably with your head bashed in.”

  “No way,” Katie replied. “He never stood a chance.”

  “Please. Once we got here, he didn’t stand a chance,” Ernie said. “We saved your butt.”

  “Huh. You think Katie Byrd Worthington couldn’t have gotten away from this moron? All you guys did was make it harder for me.”

  “Sorry we interfered,” I said.

  Katie grinned. “I forgive you. In fact, I’ll let you make up for it by buying me a cold one.”

  But Ernie wouldn’t let it go. “So how’d he capture you? You wer
e armed. Had a little lapse in concentration?”

  “No way. I found him.”

  “You found him?”

  “Of course. I wanted to interview him. All it took was brains and a little good old-fashioned shoe leather. I went to places where foreigners other than GIs hang out. Like those hagwons that teach conversational English. I talked to one person who led to another, and eventually I found Sarkosian hiding in some old yoguan. And what better way to get him to open up than to let him think he’d gotten the better of me?”

  She smiled and waved her notebook, letting it fall open, showing pages of notes.

  “But the Luger,” I said. “You could’ve gotten us killed!”

  “Huh.” She shrugged. “No great loss. Still, I wouldn’t do that, even to you two. Before I found Sarkosian, I made sure the Luger was filled with blanks.”

  Ernie knelt and picked up the weapon. He fiddled with it for a while until he was able to pull out one of the cartridges. He held it up to the light and examined it. “This isn’t a blank. Look at this,” he said, fondling the tip. “Full metal jacket.”

  For once, Katie Byrd looked surprised. “Imagine that,” she said finally. “The guy who sold me the ammo swore they were blanks.” She shook her head. “Just shows to go ya’, can’t trust anybody these days.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Ernie replied.

  Then he staggered toward the wall, gripped a support beam, bent over, and upchucked a full day’s ration of army chow.

  -29-

  Eighth Army didn’t know exactly what to do with Sarkosian. Sure, he’d misappropriated government vehicles and government weaponry and wasted government-issued ammunition, not to mention being absent from his assigned duties. But the sum total of all those charges would’ve gotten him nothing more than a Bad Conduct Discharge and two, maybe three years in the stockade.

  The Status of Forces Agreement between the US and the Republic of Korea, however, stipulated that the ROK had jurisdiction over all crimes committed on their territory unless both sides agreed to turn the prosecution over to the US Army for court-martial, which was often done in low-profile cases. But in this case, the outrage of the Korean public made turning it over impossible. In the end, the SOFA Committee decided that the ROK judicial system would maintain jurisdiction.