by Martin Limon
I saw where he was going with this. "They want insurance," I said. "In case the KNPs don't find the kidnappers."
"Exactly. I've already checked it out with the Provost Marshal, who's cleared it with the Commanding General."
Ernie rose halfway out of his seat. "You want to pay the ransom to these clowns?"
"Only as a last resort."
"But the kidnappings will never stop, then."
'Yes, they will. The kidnappers will never leave the country. We'll see to that. And once they're apprehended, Eighth Army will formally request that the Korean government treat the case as an international incident."
"Meaning we'll cut their foreign aid if they don't give them the prison sentence that we want?"
The First Sergeant spread his fingers. "That's up to the ambassador, Suefio."
Ernie slumped back down in his chair. "They'll do it," he said. "The Koreans will do whatever we ask them to do. Including executing these guys, if that's what it takes."
"The punishment will be up to them."
"Sure it will," Ernie said.
The economic and military foreign aid provided to South Korea by the United States Government runs into the hundreds of millions of dollars each year. With a case as serious as the kidnapping of an American dependent— even a dependent of unclear legal status—you can bet that Eighth Army would flex its muscles and tell the Korean government how it wanted the case handled. And what they wanted done would be done quietly—so everyone saved face—but it would be done. That was certain.
I took a deep breath. "So you want us to find the antique jade skull," I said, "in case we have to trade it for Mi-ja."
"That's exactly what I want."
"Piece of cake," Ernie said. "When we find it, do we get a bonus?"
"The only bonus you'll get," the First Sergeant said, "is not getting court-martialed for dereliction of duty."
"Hey," Ernie said, "I finally wheedled something out of the old skinflint."
The First Sergeant glared at him. "That's right. You'd better get busy. And I want to see all your reports—on my desk—before anybody else sees them."
"Of course, Top," Ernie answered. "What do you think? We're going to send them to Dear Abby?"
As we stepped toward the door, the First Sergeant called us back.
"By the way, once you find that skull, if possible, try to use it to bring that little Korean girl back alive. The head shed doesn't want to see her dead. Bad for everyone concerned."
Ernie chomped on his gum. "Especially her."
We strode down the long hallway toward the CID Admin Office. All I could think about was the deadline Ragyapa had given us. Until the full moon. I shook it off and shoved Ernie's shoulder.
"Why are you always messing with the First Sergeant? You're going to give him a heart attack one of these days."
"Not possible."
"But his blood pressure's high."
"When that old lifer had his guts issued, the supply sergeant was fresh out of one important internal organ."
"Let me guess."
"That's right," Ernie said. "The source of all tender emotion. The human heart."
Back in the Admin Office, Miss Kim, the fine-looking Korean secretary, was pecking away at her Remington electric. Staff Sergeant Riley, the Admin NCO, sat hunched over a stack of paperwork.
"How's it hanging?" Ernie asked.
"Okay," Riley growled. "You found that jade skull yet?"
At the mention of the jade skull, Miss Kim stopped her typing and swiveled in her chair. She nodded to me and smiled at Ernie.
Ernie sat on the edge of her desk and offered her a stick of ginseng gum, which she accepted. As they chomped happily, Ernie reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a felt purse, and flopped it down on top of Miss Kim's typewriter.
I recognized the purse. The Buddhist nun had given it to Ernie last night at the Itaewon Police Station. Ernie pointed to the embroidered Korean lettering.
"What's it say?" he asked Miss Kim.
Miss Kim picked up the little felt pouch in both hands, holding it as if it were a sacred artifact.
"It say, 'Choi So-lan,'" she answered. "Everybody talk about her. Last night some GI knuckle-sandwich with her."
Miss Kim balled her small fist and swung it sharply through the air.
"That's right," Ernie said. "And me and my partner here, George Sueño, we were just about to kick his ass when he ran away."
I knew what Ernie was doing. Gathering brownie points. To help him in his long-standing campaign to invade Miss Kim's panties.
Miss Kim looked up at him. "May I open?"
"Sure. Why not?" Ernie answered. "All that's in there is Buddha's money."
Ernie studied Miss Kim's red-tipped fingers as she fumbled with the leather drawstring of the purse. A bubble of saliva formed on his lips. Ernie has two fetishes: manicured hands and unshaven armpits. Both drive him to distraction.
Miss Kim turned the purse upside down and a handful of bronze coins and wads of crinkled bills clattered atop her desk. The last thing out was a jade amulet. While Miss Kim fondled the amulet, Ernie counted the money.
"Three thousand five hundred and eighty won," he said. "About seven dollars U.S. This is what that little nun risked her life over?"
Miss Kim nodded vehemently. "Oh, yes," she replied. "It is Buddha's money."
She held the jade amulet up to the light. A calm-looking Buddha, his eyes half closed, sat on a floating cloud. One leg was folded beneath him in the lotus position and the other leg pointed down. The lowered foot held back a snarling demon who was trying to claw his way up toward heaven.
The workmanship seemed exquisite to me. This amulet had to be worth a lot more than the three thousand five hundred and eighty won that the little nun had collected from the business girls in Itaewon.
"What is it?" I asked Miss Kim.
She cooed softly while fondling the pale green amulet in her long fingers. "The Buddhist nun who give this to Ernie, she really like Ernie."
"How do you know?"
"If she no like, she no give him this." Miss Kim pointed to the figure at the top of the amulet. "This is Maitreya, the Buddha of the Future. Below is Mahakala, the Lord of the Demons. This jade amulet, it will protect Ernie. Make sure nobody hurt him."
Ernie snapped his gum. "Good. I could use a little protection."
Reluctantly, Miss Kim handed the amulet back to Ernie.
"You take very good care of this," she said.
"Are you kidding?" Ernie said. "I take good care of everything."
WE WALKED UP ITAEWON'S MAIN DRAG, PAST THE UNLIT NEON signs and the flatbed trucks unloading beer and ice. A light smattering of rain filled the morning air, but not enough for us to bother with a raincoat or an umbrella. The work- ers were half naked, the muscles of their shoulders and arms steaming with exertion.
Clusters of Korean women lined the sidewalk, some of them arranging flowers, others holding a black-and-white blowup of a face I recognized: Choi So-lan, the Buddhist nun who'd been attacked by the American GI.
"They're turning her into a saint," Ernie muttered.
"Looks like it." I was worried that some of the demonstrators would recognize us from the photo in the Korean newspapers, so I kept Ernie moving through the big double doors of the Itaewon Police Station.
The waiting room was jammed with citizens inquiring about their loved ones who'd disappeared after last night's riot. Ernie and I pushed through the crowd and demanded to speak to Captain Kim.
The surly Desk Sergeant shook his head. "No way, he's busy." When he saw that Ernie was about to jump over the counter, the Desk Sergeant slipped me a sheaf of brown pulp. "He say give you this," he said.
It was the official police report on Mi-ja's kidnapping.
Deciphering it from the Korean was difficult without my dictionary, but I managed to pick up the main points.
Sooki had been brought in for questioning and asked about the man who paid her to deliver the messages
to us. As I suspected, she had little to add to what she'd already told us. She was paid, told to do a job, and that was it. The description of the man who'd paid her was clear enough. Big, burly, turban on his head. Ragyapa. The same guy I'd seen last night in the Temple of the Dream Buddha.
The most interesting part of the report was the interrogation of the caretaker of the temple. He had been bound and held against his will by Ragyapa and his thugs. The kidnappers were Buddhists, the caretaker said, but they were followers of an obscure sect. Definitely not worshipers of Maitreya, the Buddha of the Vision of the Future.
I explained all this to Ernie.
"Then who are these assholes?"
"The caretaker can't be sure. But he traveled outside of Korea in his youth and he made a guess."
"Which is what?"
"They're Mongols," I answered.
"Mongols? You mean like in the Mongol hordes?"
"Exactly. They worship a five-skulled deity known as Mahakala."
"The same dude who's in that amulet the little nun gave me," Ernie said.
"Right. His official title is Lord of the Demons."
Ernie pulled out another stick of ginseng gum and stuffed it into his mouth. "The Lord of the Demons. Good. About time he arrived in Itaewon. Don't know what's keeping him."
9
ERNIE EASED THE JEEP THROUGH THE SWIRLING SEOUL TRAFFIC. Herman the German sat in the front seat—because he was too fat to fit in the back—and gave directions: Mukyo-dong, the high-rent boutique and nightclub district in downtown Seoul. Herman was bruised and battered from the beating the Mongol thugs had given him last night in the Temple of the Dream Buddha. But he stared stolidly ahead into the rain. Unmoving.
The time limit until the full moon had been gnawing at me all day. The almanac we kept on the bookshelf in the CID office told me how long we had: five days. Five more days and four more nights until the full face of the moon rotated once again toward the earth.
As I thumbed through the slick pages of celestial calculations I remembered the carved stone calendars of the ancient Mexicans. When I was a child in East LA, I'd seen pictures of these calendars in books and read about their amazing accuracy. I asked my schoolteacher about these wonders, but my questions irritated her. Their accuracy wasn't proven, she told me, and it would be better if I stuck to my textbooks instead of reading about ancient calendars and UFOs and the like.
Later, I found out how wrong she'd been. The calendars were accurate. And useful to the people who'd created them. But I resented the years I'd been allowed to believe that nothing of value had ever been produced in the country of my ancestors.
The jeep rattled through the rain of Seoul, swerving in and out of speeding traffic. With the tips of his fingers Ernie kept a light touch on the steering wheel, and chewed nonchalantly on his wad of gum. I forced my mind back to the job at hand.
Actually, I was surprised the kidnappers had given us five days. But at the time we'd made the deal, they hadn't known that the KNPs would be breathing down their necks. If they believed that we'd betrayed them to the cops, Mi-ja might already be dead. But I was hoping that their greed for the jade skull would keep her alive. Nothing to do now but search for the skull, wait for further word, and hope for the best.
I leaned forward and spoke to Herman.
"This Lady Ahn, what kind of setup do you have to contact her?"
"She contacts me. Last time we talked, she scheduled this meeting." He glanced at the watch on his hairy wrist. "She said noon. It's almost that now."
The next question I left unasked. If this antique was so valuable, would Lady Ahn be willing to give it up? Even to save the life of a child?
We would see.
The rain hit the windshield in a drizzle. The herd of red taillights before us clumped tighter as Ernie bulled his way into the traffic of downtown Seoul.
Herman had told us that Slicky Girl Nam's hooch was crawling with Korean police. "They smell a buck," he'd said. A cop had been stationed at the pay phone outside the pharmacy on the corner, waiting for it to ring again with a message from the kidnappers. But so far this morning, nothing.
With a screech of tires, Ernie pulled over in front of a long taxi queue.
A thick chain was welded onto the floorboard of the jeep in front of the driver's seat. Ernie lifted it, wound the chain loosely through the steering wheel, and padlocked it. With the short chain looped through the steering wheel, no potential car thief would be able to make turns and therefore wouldn't be able to make a getaway. Like most military vehicles, the jeep didn't have an ignition key, just an on and off switch that anyone could use.
We piled out. Both Ernie and I were wet. So was Herman, but he didn't seem to mind.
We waded through the crowd: businessmen on their way to working lunches and women bundled in raincoats, umbrellas over their heads, clutching string-handled bags with the logos of upscale shops emblazoned on them in glossy print. A wrinkled crone dressed in rags pushed a cart carrying a hot pan. She wailed out her message as we passed.
"Bam sajuseiyo!" Please buy chestnuts!
Even in the gray afternoon dimness, neon spangled the main road of Mukyo-dong and lit the narrow side alleys jammed with dress shops and coffeehouses and pool halls.
We rounded a corner and Herman stepped down a flight of broad marble stairs. The steps led into what seemed to be an explosion of jogging shoes hanging by their laces. A cloudburst of rubber and canvas.
Pushing with our hands, we bulldozed our way through the hanging shoe garden and emerged onto a walkway illu- minated by a row of overhead fluorescent lamps. All around us were stands packed full of T-shirts and leather bags and thick silk blankets and mother-of-pearl-inlaid jewelry cases. Men on bullhorns hawked their wares.
"Shopping," Ernie grumbled. "Somehow I always end up goddamn shopping."
We had burrowed our way into an underground market.
After another twenty yards or so, the lane widened and a sign pointed the way to a well-lit corridor. Ji Ha Choi, the sign said. Subway.
Here, stands sold newspapers and snacks and cups of iced coffee to go. Pedestrians streamed back and forth. In the middle of the intersection stood a tall woman in a light blue raincoat and matching broad-brimmed hat.
Long fingers with wickedly red nails held the blue raincoat clutched across her chest. Pale skin was pulled tautly across a face chiseled with high cheekbones. Her lips were full and clamped tightly. Her eyes were black, blazing with defiance.
A goddess, I thought. A goddess like I'd seen in the National Museum, carved in bronze, floating in silk robes across the face of the moon.
Ernie chomped on his gum. "Not a bad-looking chick."
Herman stopped a few feet in front of the woman, peering up into her unblemished face. A medieval serf paying homage to a feudal princess.
I realized now why she'd chosen this place. Commuters streamed past but none of them did more than glance in our direction. They were busy. In a hurry to get to work or squeeze in some midafternoon shopping or finish whatever errand seemed pressing enough to bring them out on this rainy monsoon day.
We were surrounded by people/and yet we were alone. No one was listening. Even an overweight fireplug of a retired American infantry sergeant and two dripping wet GIs and a statuesque Korean woman in a tailored blue raincoat weren't enough to garner more than passing interest.
Herman stood with his fists clenched at his sides, his blue eyes watering like peeled grapes. The Moon Goddess gazed down at him and began to speak.
"Why you bring two men?"
Her voice was low and strong, used to projecting command. The English was well-pronounced, with a hint of an accent that seemed almost French. A few words were left out of the sentence but not enough that you couldn't understand her meaning.
Slowly, she turned toward me. The eyes of a she-wolf burned into mine. Under their challenge I almost stepped back. I forced myself to hold my ground.
Usually it's Ernie who attr
acts all the feminine attention. The excitement he generates seems to enflame every female nerve ending within a hundred yards of his antics, as if his hormonal system was steadily broadcasting waves of magnetism. But Lady Ahn seemed immune.
She stared only at me.
Herman glanced back at us, his blue eyes suddenly befuddled, as if he'd forgotten we were following him.
"They're helping me," he told the woman. "I have a problem."
Lady Ahn's tapered eyebrows lifted slightly. "I don't know about your problem. You and I, we only do business. That's all."
"But this is more important than business," Herman insisted. "Someone stole my daughter."
Lady Ahn took half a step backward but quickly regained her composure. Long fingers rippled across the buttons of her raincoat.
"I am sorry," she said courteously, "but that is not my problem."
"The men who took her," Herman persisted, "they want the jade skull."
"No!" Lady Ahn shook her head. "They cannot have it. I only pay you to have an American ship it to the United States. That's all."
Herman held his stubby body still. "These guys are Mongols. Not Koreans. You must sell the skull to me now. These foreigners want it. If they don't get it, they will kill my daughter."
Lady Ahn clutched her raincoat even tighter and looked from side to side, as if contemplating an exit.
"I am sorry," she repeated. "I am sorry if this business has caused you trouble. But I cannot turn over the jade skull to foreigners. It is too important. More important than you can possibly know."
"It's just a piece of artwork," Herman said.
"No!" Lady Ahn snapped. "It's more than that. It is the key to everything. The key to the restoration of my country.;
"But I need it nowl"
The sudden rage in Herman's voice startled Lady Ahn. It startled Ernie and me, too. Before we could react, he'd lunged toward her.
She stepped back swiftly, but Herman was too quick for her. He grabbed Lady Ahn by the elbows, lifted her off her feet, and carried her back toward the small coffee stand with white-smocked girls milling around filling orders.
Lady Ahn's beautiful.face twisted in rage. She shouted: "Salam sollyo!" A person needs help!