"You don't trust me to know when my half-day is up?" she said, a note of agitation in her voice.
"I was afraid you might have gotten too busy to look at the clock. That wasn't why I called anyway. I've got a problem."
The pause that followed didn't surprise him. He had never been one to talk openly about his troubles. This must have struck her as something quite important.
"What's the problem?" she asked in a guarded tone.
"I thought it would be a simple thing to track down my son. Wrong." He told her the results of his phone calls.
"What are you going to do?"
"Looks like the only thing I can do is go down to Jackson, Tennessee and start digging."
"When?"
"Saturday would be the earliest."
"Did you forget Chloe and Walt invited us over for dinner Saturday?"
"I sure did. I could put this off till next weekend, I guess. But that'd be my last chance before leaving for Korea."
"Do you have a firm departure date yet?"
"We're due for our State Department briefing this coming Monday and leave for Seoul the following Monday."
He tried to put Peg and Cliff out of his mind that afternoon as he concentrated on reading some of the references supplied by the Amber Group researchers. He found the Korean story in the Twentieth Century a troubling one, marked by a series of miscalculations and failures to follow through on the part of a succession of American leaders. It began with the Portsmouth Treaty of 1905 that ended the Russo-Japanese War. President Theodore Roosevelt, who arbitrated the peace settlement, approved "the establishment by Japanese troops of a suzerainty over Korea." That led directly to the annexation of Korea by Japan in 1910. Then, at the end of World War I, President Woodrow Wilson enunciated his famous Fourteen Points, including "national self-determination" for oppressed peoples throughout the world. This led to the March 1, 1919 movement when thousands of Koreans had demonstrated peacefully, only to be crushed in a bloody confrontation with Japanese police. The U.S.offered no help.
In 1943, President Franklin D. Roosevelt and his British and Chinese counterparts met at the Cairo Conference and declared: "The aforesaid three great powers, mindful of the enslavement of the people of Korea, are determined that in due course Korea shall become free and independent." Russia's Joseph Stalin endorsed the pledge in 1945. But the Western leaders made the mistake of agreeing for Soviet troops to accept the Japanese surrender north of the 38th parallel, with American troops doing the same south of it. The country was effectively divided and separate governments established in north and south under Soviet and U.S. sponsorship. Soviet troops installed a puppet regime in North Korea and quickly built up a formidable indigenous fighting force. America's concern was establishing a democratic government among South Korea's contending political groups. When the U.S. pulled its troops out of the South in mid-1949, only 500 advisers were left to train a fledgling ROK Army. Secretary of State Dean Acheson tragically stated the following January that Korea was not of strategic importance to the United States. This led the North to miscalculate that America would not come to the aid of the South, and Kim Il-sung's troops struck suddenly across the 38th parallel June 25, 1950.
No wonder the Koreans had ambivalent feelings about America, Burke thought. We had come to the South's rescue in the war, of course, and helped protect and rebuild the country following the armistice agreement of 1953. But the South Koreans had managed most of the miracle of economic reconstruction on their own. If such a country were to acquire atomic weapons and embark upon a radical course, Burke realized, there was no predicting what havoc they might wreak.
Seoul, South Korea
Chapter 13
Hotel-owner Yang Jong-koo had lived in a large, modern home in an affluent section of Seoul. Seen from a distance, it was like a drawing in red ink. A long red brick house with a red tile roof, surrounded by a high red brick wall. Sweeping above the wall was a row of ginko trees, their leaves a blaze of red in the October sun.
Captain Yun sat in his car outside the Yang home, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun slipped toward the western horizon, and took stock of what he had accomplished. It was discouragingly little.
With just over half of the thirty days elapsed that Prosecutor Park had allowed him, he still had the barest of circumstantial evidence that the hired assassin, Hwang, had murdered Yi In-wha. He strongly suspected Hwang was involved in the disappearance of the two physicians in Hong Kong, since it was his base of operations, but he had to admit that was mostly conjecture. He had learned from the colony's police that the two men were seen getting into a car driven by a man who fit Hwang's physical profile. The man had short hair and no mustache, but then Yun had not expected to find one. The reported sighting offered scant evidential value, however. It would hardly convince a judge; juries did not figure into the Korean justice system.
Over the past week, members of his task force had questioned literally dozens of people in the area around Yang's house with no results. Admittedly, asking someone to remember a person they had seen only casually around a particular date seven months ago was a tall order. But they had one thing going for them. Using a forensic artist, a technique he had learned at the FBI Academy, and descriptions provided by Yi household employees, he had produced a likeness of the suspect. In fact he had several. From the original drawing which included a full head of hair and a mustache, the artist had modified the face to achieve different looks, without mustache, with glasses, with long hair, with short hair. The main reason he held out some degree of hope was that the murder had traumatized the area, giving people a reason to recall what they had been doing and what they may have seen at that fateful time. But so far, no one could recall having seen a stranger who matched any of the drawings.
Should he fail to find any indication of Hwang's involvement, what would that do to his case, he wondered? More pointedly, just how much case did he really have? Wasn't it all pure speculation, an effort to force a random set of murders, disappearances, accidents to fit an imagined theme? He had built a reputation for using creative insights to leap across the barriers that sometimes blocked solutions to important cases. But along the way there had been a few resounding blunders as well.
He still hadn't lived down the celebrated murder of a prominent Baptist minister in the sanctuary. The corpse was found sprawled across the altar, a knife protruding from his back. It had the bizarre look of a satanist ritual, Yun confidently told the press. When the husband of the church's choir director confessed in a fit of remorse, having mistakenly accused the preacher of an affair with his wife, Yun and the police bureau had wound up with egg rolls on their faces. That had ended his flirtation with the press.
Still, there was no denying the fact that all of these people were known to have had close connections with Americans. They strongly supported continued close cooperation with the United States, economically and militarily, and had not been the least bit shy in expressing their views. All he lacked was a few likely conspirators, he thought. As he pondered his next move, Yun found his interest slowly aroused by what was taking place in front of another expensive house up the street. This one was a box-like brick structure with three tall chimneys and angular bay windows.
As Yun watched, a taxicab stopped in front of a wooden gate in the brick wall that surrounded the compound. It was a beige call-taxi. The driver came around to the curbside and opened the door, then assisted an elderly gentleman dressed in the traditional Korean garb more normal to rural areas than to this wealthy urban setting. He escorted the old man to the gate and waited patiently for someone to open it.
Yun was struck by the driver's attitude. Seoul cabbies were mostly harried, scurrying creatures like their counterparts the world over. No doubt they smiled a lot more than their brothers in places like New York, but they seldom exhibited a great deal more patience. It was rush to the destination, grab the fare, and hurry off in search of another passenger. This driver appeared to be unusually solicitous. Mig
ht it be an indication that he was a regular to this area?
Yun quickly started the car and drove up the street, pulling in front of the taxi. The driver had just come back from the gate. He stopped with a wary look as the detective approached.
"I am Captain Yun Yu-sop of the Namdaemun Police Station," he said with a slight bow, presenting his ID for the man's inspection. He noticed the driver was an older man, which might account in part for his greater deference to the aging passenger. "Do you have calls from this area very often?"
A short man with a thin mustache and high forehead, the driver wore a brown jacket that hung loosely about his spare shoulders. As he eyed the Captain, Yun thought his questioning gaze might reflect uncertainty over whether he had been targeted for some minor transgression.
"Several people around here ask for me by name," the driver said.
"Would you have been covering this area back in March?"
That brought a look of forbearance. "Captain, I've driven about this area for ten years, probably longer."
"Excellent." Yun took out the drawings of the suspect he believed to be Hwang Sang-sol and spread them out on the hood of the cab. "Take a look at these. Carefully. Might you have seen anyone looking like any of these around here last March? More specifically, around March twenty-sixth?"
The driver frowned as he looked down at the drawings. Then he glanced back at Yun. "Was that the day Mr. Yang got himself killed?"
Yun nodded. "At his home just down the street."
"It snowed that day. I remember I had two runs over this way. One was to Mr. No's house here." He stuck his thumb out toward the box-shaped house behind the fence.
When he turned back to the drawings, Yun prompted him. "What about the other trip?"
"Was late morning, I believe. Over on the next street, behind Mr. Yang's. Hmmm...this one looks a little familiar." He pointed to the view with short hair, no mustache.
"Where did you see him?"
"I'm not certain it's him," the driver said. "Whoever he was, he walked up just after I let out my fare. Over on the next street. He asked if I would take him downtown."
"Did you?"
"I took him to a building across from the Capital Plaza Hotel."
The Capital Plaza was Yang's hotel. "When he paid his fare," Yun said, "did you notice which hand he might have used?"
"Which hand?"
"Yes. You know, indicating if he might have been right-handed or left-handed?"
He shrugged. "I didn't notice anything like that. But I'll tell you something I do remember. He had a long scar across the palm of his hand. I saw it when I gave him his change. It stayed with me because my brother has one like that, got his hand cut by a bayonet in the Civil War."
Yun felt his pulse kick up a notch. "Was the scar across the width of his hand?" The question was calculated to throw the man off if he were not really positive about what he saw.
"It ran diagonally," the driver replied without hesitation, indicating the line with his finger.
It had to be Hwang! "And he looked like this drawing?" He pointed to the one with short hair.
"Something like that, best I recall."
Captain Yun jotted down the driver's name and address and sent him on his way. His next move was obvious.
It was nearly dark by the time he reached Mr. Chon's fruit stand in the twisting back-alley of the Namdaemun Market. Yun had changed into less formal attire, and he pulled the zipper of his insulated jacket tighter against the nippy breeze. A string of small light bulbs illuminated the displays of fruit. He found the old merchant occupying his familiar corner in the back. The glowing coals of a charcoal brazier heated a pot of insam cha, or ginseng tea, and a small electric heater chased the chill around Chon's wrinkled countenance.
"Ah, my young friend," said Chon with a crooked smile, "come share the warmth of my humble nest."
"Nest is it?" Yun squatted down at his side. "And what kind of bird would you be, Mr. Chon?"
There was a twinkle in his eyes. "The owl, perhaps? I am said to have sharp eyes and attentive ears."
"I'll agree to that.'
"May I offer you a cup of insam cha? With the day almost ended, your yang energy surely needs restoration. Too much yum dulls the concentration. You wish to be at your sharpest, no doubt. You did not likely come here just to pass the time of day."
It would be impolite to refuse Chon's hospitality. And though Yun was convinced of the substantial value of modern Western medicine, he maintained a healthy regard for the balance and harmony central to the traditional Eastern variety. It was necessary to balance the cosmic forces of male yang, active, hot, light, dry, and female yum, passive, cold, dark, moist. Ginseng tea possessed potent restorative powers.
Yun sipped at the brew of ginseng root, dried jujubes and pine nuts, sweetened with a bit of sugar, waiting for Chon to take the initiative.
"No doubt you want to know what I have remembered about the vengeance symbol," Chon said.
The Captain's face softened. "It had crossed my mind."
The old man's eyes rolled in a faraway look, as though peering back into the depths of his past. "It was in the forties, during the Japanese occupation. As I remember it, there was a small band of Korean guerrillas. The Japanese called them 'bandits,' of course. They used the name poksu. When they committed some act of sabotage, they would leave their mark on a wall or in the dirt. A square with poksu inside."
"Did the Japanese hunt them down?"
Chon grinned at the memory. "They tried. How they tried. But mostly they could only curse and wail and fly into a rage."
"You mean they never caught them?"
"As far as I know, the guerillas were never captured. Nor do I recall ever learning any more about them. When the war ended, they simply vanished."
Yun had no idea what significance this might have to his case. Poksu was a vendetta against the Japanese. Was he headed in the wrong direction with his anti-American theory? Could Yi In-wha have had some hidden connection to the Japanese? Now he would have to view the entire record from a different perspective.
Chon saw the subtle change on his face. "I am sorry if I have brought some new complication to your life, my friend. Perhaps I could be of help in some other way?"
Yun quickly adopted a more normal look, one of consummate indifference. "You cause me no problem, Mr. Chon. But I do have another request." He pulled an envelope from his jacket and handed it across. "This contains two drawings of men seen by witnesses. Actually, they are drawings of the same man, with altered features."
"And you wish to know if they are Hwang Sang-sol."
"Yes. I also wish to know if Hwang was in Seoul on the twenty-sixth of March. It would be knowledge worthy of very high-priced oranges."
Yun watched the old man's face as his request was considered. What he saw was a look as impassive as a rock in a stream. Only the eyes failed to reflect that dispassion. It was a reaction that took him by surprise, something he had never before seen in Chon's face. But what he detected in the eyes seemed neither defiance nor acquiescence. Then what was it...fear?
"I don't want to put you in any unnecessary danger, Mr. Chon," he said. "If you think this would be too risky, I can look for the information another way."
Chon stilled him with a gesture of his wrinkled hand. "There is no other way, my friend. Do not worry about me. One who deals in matters as I do always lives close to the edge."
It was true. Yun felt a bit better knowing of the old man's ability as a survivor. Chon was nearly eighty but in excellent mental and physical shape for one of that age. In earlier years, he had earned a reputation as a fearless fighter. He was a master of t'ai chi, the ancient martial art in which yum and yang were balanced to channel one's life force through concentration that freed the mind and body to perform as separate though coordinated elements. As lethal weapons, if the circumstances demanded. The Captain had heard Chon explain how he learned through mushin to concentrate his mind outside his body, so
that his movements were completely natural and unfettered. This also allowed him to virtually banish pain, regardless of its source. T'ai chi taught that respect for, not fear of, an adversary allowed you to analyze his strengths and weaknesses and exploit them to your advantage. Yun, himself, was no stranger to the martial arts, as yudo proficiency, known in the U.S. and Japan as judo, was required of all Korean National Police officers. He only hoped that age had not diminished Chon's ability to concentrate.
Washington, D.C.
Chapter 14
Jerry Chan hadn't been in the capital long enough to get over the sheer awe that it inspired in a country boy from the South, as he liked to call himself. He had spent several of his more formative years in the slow-paced town of Clinton, an enclave of fewer than five thousand souls nestled among the knobbed green hills of East Tennessee.
As the taxi swung around the White House and headed down Seventeenth Street past the Old Executive Office Building, an imposing structure that looked somewhat like a rambling, multi-layered birthday cake, Jerry craned his neck to take in as much of the historic view as possible.
"I've been like a high school kid at spring break," he said, grinning. "Took in the Washington Monument, Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, National Archives, about half of the Smithsonian buildings."
"I know how it is," Burke said. "I first came here right out of high school, to work as a clerk at the FBI. It took me a long time to quit staring at these massive office buildings."
A long, black limousine whizzed past in the other direction, headed toward the White House. "There must be a million of those things around here," Jerry said.
"Maybe we'll talk Nate into buying us a fleet for Worldwide one of these days. Say, I haven't had a chance to really sit down and visit with you. How did the language tutoring go?"
Jerry threw up his hands. "I spent eleven years with the Drug Enforcement Administration, much of it on extended assignments in the Far East, but I still have a lot to learn. My parents taught me Chinese, and I picked up a fair knowledge of Korean while working undercover with a Korean organization in Japan. I think I know enough to hold my own. Hopefully I won't make too many grammatical faux pas. I'll sure feel a lot better with you along to handle the financial end."
The Poksu Conspiracy (Post Cold War Political Thriller Book 2) Page 9