by Martin Limon
Ernie thought it over. “That’s a helluva gamble. So what do we do?”
“We can’t stop the KNPs. It’s their country, after all. So we’ll have to join them. And try to make sure our missing GIs aren’t collateral damage of Cold War politics.”
“So it’s up to us.” Ernie glugged down the last of his coffee. “If we were smart, we’d run all this by the Provost Marshal. Get his blessing.”
“Going through Colonel Brace or the Chief of Staff will take too long. They’ll dither over the decision and might still decide to do nothing.”
“Right,” Ernie replied. “If we want to get something done, the last thing we want to do is ask for permission.”
I grabbed my coat.
“Where in the hell are you two going?” Riley asked.
“Out,” I told him.
“This’ll piss the Colonel off.”
“It’s better to be pissed off,” Ernie said, “than pissed on.”
“Thank you, Confucius,” Riley replied.
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Our first stop was the Military Police arms room.
“Forty-five, huh?” Palinki said. “Good choice. Easy to carry in a shoulder holster. Plenty of firepower. Off a lot of bad guys.”
He handed me the weapon; it was perfectly clean, well oiled, and generally in excellent shape.
“Thanks for taking care of this, Palinki,” I said.
“No sweat, bro. After reading comic books,” he said, pointing to a two-foot-high stack in the corner, “nothing else to do. I clean weapons. Pass the time.”
Palinki was a huge man, over six feet tall and maybe two hundred forty pounds, most of it muscle. He had been one of the best MPs on patrol in Seoul until he’d made the mistake of taking his police work too seriously. He’d severely beaten three GIs who’d attempted to rape a high school girl on her way home. They were hurt so badly that at first, the medics at the 121st Evac thought one of them was going to die. The GI pulled through but was permanently confined to a wheelchair, for which he receives a monthly check from the VA. Fuck up and move up, as they say. The other two were in serious condition for over a month but eventually recovered, at which point they were court-martialed and dismissed from service with bad conduct discharges. As far as the rank-and-file MPs were concerned, Palinki was a hero.
But when one of the would-be rapists returned to the States, he hired a lawyer who claimed that his client’s rights had been violated. Palinki had stopped the three men from committing a horrific crime, but instead of handcuffing them and taking them into custody—a cozy holding cell on compound—via proper procedure, he’d trapped them in a dark alley and challenged them to an open-handed fight. None of them wanted anything to do with the big Samoan, but they’d had no choice, and he’d systematically taken the three men apart. An investigation found Palinki guilty of unprofessional conduct. A letter of reprimand had gone into his personnel file and ever since, he’d been stuck in the arms room.
He handed me a full magazine, which looked tiny in his hand. “You need more ammo?” he asked.
“If I can’t get the job done with seven rounds,” I said, “it’s not getting done at all.”
He grinned. “Right on, bro. The spirit of the gunfighter.” He turned to Ernie. “How about you? More ammo?”
“Yeah,” Ernie replied. “Give me a box. Two of ’em.”
Palinki handed over two fist-sized cardboard containers. Ernie stuffed one in his left jacket pocket and the other in his right. When I glanced over at him, he grinned back like a greedy kid who’d just been discovered pilfering the last chocolate chip cookie.
Palinki said, “Big operation, huh?”
“Could be,” I replied.
“MPs got a new commander,” he told us. “Maybe he’ll take a look at my record. Let me back on the street.” He paused, embarrassed.
Ernie figured it out. “You want us to ask for you?” he said.
“Can you? If the CID needs help, asks for Palinki by name, maybe the commander will say yes. Worth a shot.”
“Yeah. It is worth a shot.” Ernie looked over at me.
“I’ll run it by Riley,” I said. “We gotta go.”
I thanked Palinki again as Ernie and I climbed back up the stone steps.
The Korean National Police operation that Officer Oh had tipped me off to turned out to be massive—paramilitary, really. The Korean National Police are controlled by the central government of the Republic of Korea, or more specifically, by President Park Chung-hee himself. For this mission, as Officer Oh explained, the KNPs had been charged with eliminating possible Communist Chinese influences that were infiltrating the ROK via the Sea Dragon Triad. After all, the Chicoms had invaded South Korea during the Korean War, and despite the relative economic boost the Sea Dragon smuggling operations had brought about in certain areas, the government still considered the People’s Republic its mortal enemy.
“Park Chung-hee order,” Oh said. “Chief Inspector Gil Kwon-up, he do.”
It appeared so.
Ernie and I stayed close to Mr. Kill. Our job was ostensibly to arrest any Americans caught in the sweep, but in reality, we would be looking for any leads to the whereabouts of the two remaining GIs.
The ROK’s objective of this operation was, of course, to clean house.
For years, the Inchon KNPs had accepted bribes to protect the overseas gangs. Who knew how many KNP children from Inchon had had their college tuition paid with money derived from the suffering of young girls who’d been forced into prostitution? Or how many homes had been purchased in the surrounding hills with the ill-gotten gains of international smuggling? These answers would likely never come to light, but Mr. Kill was hell-bent on making sure such graft would come to an end.
Starting with the Sea Dragons.
The building right behind the Yellow Sea Teahouse was a barracks of sorts: a three-story concrete slab, the top floor jam-packed with girls who were farmed out at night to various Sea Dragon nightclub and bar operations. The first and second floors had roomier accommodations for the muscle who enforced Sea Dragon Triad operations. These men traveled to Chinese establishments throughout the Inchon and Seoul corridor, an expanse of a couple of hundred square miles, to collect protection for the Sea Dragons. This extended not only to restaurants, but mom-and-pop takeout dumpling houses, grocery stores specializing in Chinese foodstuffs, and most lucratively, herbalists that depended on international imports for their remedies. Unusual items like ground-up tiger bone, red peony root, Chinese foxglove, dried seahorse, and ultra-expensive powdered rhinoceros horn—for wealthy old gentlemen with hopes of recovering the stamina of their youth—fetched quite a price.
Mr. Kill’s mission started in the midafternoon with a sweep of low-level thugs and prostitutes. With information from Mr. Bam’s field interrogations, the task force then moved a step up the ladder to a few mid-level Sea Dragon managers who lived in luxury apartments in the city center. Doors were kicked in, women and children dragged outside. Even grandparents, many of whom had been smuggled over from China, ended up in the street. The interrogations grew yet more intense, with a small coterie of specialists with Chinese language skills and fancy tape recorders working the Sea Dragon bosses. That was where things bogged down. These gangsters either didn’t know anything about the higher-ups or, more likely, were too afraid to talk. And no amount of mercilessly administered “persuasion” would loosen their tongues.
A merchant ship flying the Liberian flag was boarded, this time by the Korean coast guard. They found evidence of passengers who’d departed the ship, none processed properly by Korean immigration. A thorough search also produced numerous Chinese medicinals, all slated to be exchanged for high-end Japanese electronics.
From the start of the Cold War, Red China has been embargoed economically by most of the free world, following the notion that this would prevent Chai
rman Mao and his allies from stockpiling foreign exchange by exercising free trade in international goods. The Sea Dragon Triad’s actions, with the cooperation of the corrupt Inchon police, were considered a violation of that embargo.
The Liberian ship’s Dutch captain was placed under arrest and dragged down to the Inchon Police Station, where Chief Homicide Inspector Gil Kwon-up had set up temporary headquarters. Ernie and I hung around outside his office; Ernie spent most of his time ogling the attractive female police officers, all of whom seemed to have been handpicked by the male commanding officer of the Inchon KNPs.
“Nice setup,” Ernie said, languishing on a vinyl-covered couch and sipping a can of chilled guava juice he’d found in the breakroom refrigerator.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Free money from China, good-looking hires to make you coffee and light your cigarettes, hobnobbing with the rich and famous.”
“Is Kill gonna bust the old fart?”
“I think that’s where this is headed. Officer Oh told me the Inchon chief of police is holed up in his villa on the outskirts of town.”
Ernie sat up. “A shootout?”
“Probably not,” I said. “Once Park Chung-hee announces a warrant for this guy’s arrest, he’ll know he’s toast.”
“Why?” Ernie asked. “He didn’t pay off enough people?”
“There’s no one left to pay around here, now that Park Chung-hee is cutting the triads down to size. The penalties for being caught resisting now could amount to treason, or who knows what else.”
“But President Pak isn’t getting rid of the triads entirely, is he?”
“He’ll leave them be, but on a much smaller scale. Just enough to provide some of the medicines and other Chinese products Korean society demands.”
“Like letting steam from a valve.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Okay, fine,” Ernie said. “And what about our two boys?”
“Bam’s been asking about them,” I said. “But Officer Oh says no one knows anything.”
In a long, looping arc, Ernie’s empty can of guava juice sailed into the metal wastebasket, landing with a loud clang.
“Didn’t even hit net,” he said.
Officer Oh entered the room, motioning for us to come with her. Ernie and I hopped to our feet and followed her down a carpeted hallway lined with glowing celadon vases on stainless steel stands. At the end of the hallway, we entered an office furnished with seascape artwork hanging above plush, leather-upholstered chairs. Mr. Kill sat behind a polished teak desk, shaking his head. “The Sea Dragon leadership,” he said, “they’re a tough nut to crack.”
“Not getting any information?”
“We’re getting plenty of information. About their operations, and which KNPs have been turning a blind eye for money. In fact, we have so many names and accusations that it will take us awhile to sort them all out and formulate a coherent set of charges. But on the two missing GIs,” he continued, “and the dead one, nothing.”
“What about the gummy whore?” Ernie asked. “And the driver with the scars, did you ask about that?”
“Yes. Mr. Bam didn’t forget. He and his staff interrogated these men from top to bottom. Not a single one claims knowledge of the gumiho or any of the three abducted Americans.”
“Does he believe them?” I asked.
“His tactics are . . . effective. I believe most of them aren’t lying. Most of the low-level thugs are recent recruits with little loyalty to the organization—they wouldn’t be privy to certain information. But the gang bosses, the ones whose penthouses we raided, would know something.”
“And he can’t get it out of them?”
“He hasn’t been able to yet,” Inspector Kill said. “And if they’re not giving in to his methods, it’s because the consequences of betrayal are far worse.”
Mr. Bam employed an almost medieval level of brutality; I couldn’t imagine what could be so much worse.
“They must be pretty damn scared,” Ernie said.
“They are. And they’re well trained. Their faces go completely blank at any mention of the gumiho. They just shut down.”
“But Bam will keep trying?” Ernie said.
“Of course. Just don’t expect much. Not only are the few who know anything too afraid to talk, but we believe that the information we need has been highly compartmentalized.” When we stared at him, puzzled, he said, “It’s a technique similar to those used in espionage. Each spy ring is broken down into cells of three or four people. What one cell knows isn’t shared with any other cell. So if someone is captured and interrogated by the enemy, it won’t necessarily compromise the entire operation.”
“So the gummy whore is still out there,” Ernie said, “haunting GI villages and Sea Dragon operations.”
Mr. Kill nodded.
“It’s been over two weeks since Holdren went missing,” I said. “Seems like it’s almost time she struck again.”
“Possibly,” Mr. Kill answered. “But where?”
“That’s the question,” I said.
“Won’t this raid disrupt her schedule?” Ernie asked.
“It might,” I said. “But we’re not sure what exactly determines her modus operandi.”
“No, we’re not,” Mr. Kill said. “In fact, the correlation of these disappearances with the uptick in Sea Dragon activities might be nothing more than coincidence. It’s unlikely, but not impossible that there’s no connection.”
“So what do we do?” Ernie asked.
“We keep looking,” I said. “Hope for a break.”
“The only break we’re going to get,” Ernie said, “is when she strikes again.”
To my dismay, Mr. Kill didn’t disagree.
The raid had taken most of the afternoon. On the drive from Inchon to Seoul, the red sun was already setting behind us.
“He’s just using us,” Ernie said.
“Who?”
“Mr. Kill.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s probably wanted to get rid of the crooked cops in Inchon all along.”
I thought about it. Since I’d known him, Mr. Kill had always been embarrassed about the corruption in the KNPs and the broader South Korean government. All he could do to counter it was keep himself and his own subordinates clean.
Ernie continued. “He needed the pressure of the missing Americans, one dead, to force Park Chung-hee to move off the dime. Someone high up must’ve been sharing in Sea Dragon profits. Maybe even the president himself.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’re right,” Ernie said. “I don’t. But Kill has what he wants, which is the Inchon chief of police out on his butt. Meanwhile, we don’t have squat.”
As we approached Seoul, Ernie said, “You going back to the Harbor Lights tonight?”
“Doubt it. I’m not sure it would do any good.” Then I remembered something. “Can you drop me at the Women’s Power Coalition?”
Ernie smirked at me, ignoring traffic for a moment. “You devil, you,” he said.
I pointed. “Get your eyes back on the road!”
He did. And barely in time to swerve around a three-wheeled truck loaded with cabbage.
“Which one is it?” he asked. Enjoying the game, he ventured a guess. “That big Korean broad. The one with a right arm like a World Series pitcher.”
I didn’t answer.
“I should’ve figured you’d hook up with a Commie,” Ernie said.
“She’s not a Commie.”
Pleased with himself for getting it right on the first guess, Ernie grinned from ear to ear all the way until he dropped me off at the front door of the Women’s Power Coalition. There was no point in trying to disabuse him of the notion that I had a romance going with Wang Ok-ja. He wouldn’t have believed me, anyway.
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There didn’t appear to be anybody at the WPC office. I slid the door open, slipped off my shoes, and stepped inside. In the far corner, the transformer blinked and the refrigerator hummed. Loose documents were scattered on the main table, where a sheet of fresh paper had been rolled into a portable Smith-Corona typewriter.
“Yoboseiyo?” I ventured. Hello?
No one answered.
A sound came from the back room. Angry words. I grabbed the handle and opened the door.
“You!” she shouted.
Katie Allsworthy sat on a straight-backed chair across from a sobbing Wang Ok-ja, both of them studying a document on the table. Katie stood to face me.
“You son of a biscuit,” Katie raged. “You come in here to the Women’s Power Coalition, acting concerned, claiming you want to help abused women, and the whole time, it’s nothing but a scam!” She threw the document at me. “Here!” she yelled. “Your secret is out. We know what you are. A rapist and a murderer.”
I reached down and smoothed out the document, which was stamped confidential. It was a copy of the report that Riley and I had sent in to the SOFA Committee through Smitty, which I hadn’t had the chance to read earlier. Like all classified documents, it was assigned a serial number that included a Julian date and said Copy 6 of 7. I quickly scanned it. It detailed the horrific rape of a young Itaewon business girl, and said I’d badly beaten her with a bat and thrown her into the Han River after finding out she was pregnant. Riley had really done overkill on this one.
“Who gave you this?” I asked.
“What does that matter? We know. And we found out just in time to stop you from doing more damage.”
I wanted to explain to her that nothing in this report was true. But I couldn’t. Word needed to get out, either through the WPC or from leaks elsewhere in the SOFA Committee. I held onto the slim hope that the gumiho would catch wind of it, just as she’d found out about the other GIs. I owed it to the dead soldier Werkowski, and to Shirkey and Holdren, who were still missing, to find the killer. Even if it meant sacrificing my reputation and the respect of Katie Allsworthy and Wang Ok-ja, I had to follow this plan through to the bitter end.