by Martin Limon
Had he cried like that the day she had been sold? Mi-ja didn't remember. So many things were fading from memory now. She tried to remember her mother's smiling face. It wouldn't appear.
The man squatting in front of her slid a long straw out of his fist. He held it in front of Mi-ja and smiled again. He opened his mouth, mimicking what he wanted Mi-ja to do.
At first she hesitated, cringing, turning her face away.
The man waited patiently until she looked back at him. Then he slid a cup of water in front of her. He pointed to the water and then he pointed to the straw.
Mi-ja understood what he was trying to tell her. She could have the water, but then she would have to open her mouth and accept the straw.
What was this for? Why did these mute foreigners want her to eat straw?
Mi-ja stared at the water. It looked like everything she had always longed for. Slowly, she nodded her head.
The man held the cup aloft, tilted it, and allowed a little water to splash onto Mi-ja's teeth. She tasted the wonderful wetness of it.
The man set the cup down. Then he held up the stiff piece of straw.
Mi-ja glanced again at the half-full cup of water. She was still dying of thirst. That little splash of moisture had only made her desire more rabid.
She made her decision. She must cooperate if she was going to be given anything more to drink.
She opened her mouth wide and said "aah."
The man slid the single strand of straw down Mi-ja's throat. He waited, making sure that she didn't gag. When he was satisfied, he reached down, picked up another dry twig, and slid it carefully down the throat of the helpless little girl.
After a small clump was in place, the man splashed a little more water down Mi-ja's throat.
Moisture seeped into the straw. It started to expand.
29
THE NEXT MORNING I WAS THE FIRST ONE INTO THE CID OFfice. I sat at Riley's desk, sipping on a steaming cup of snack bar coffee, riffling through the blotter reports. No word at all on Herman the German.
Last night, on the way back from the Bridge of the Golden Tribute, Ernie and I had stopped at the MP Station. We started making calls, woke up a lot of duty officers— both Korean and American—but before we were through, managed to put out a description of Herman the German and a detention order for him at every port of embarkation in the country.
There are no land exits from the Republic of Korea, except by way of the Demilitarized Zone—and trying to walk across the heavily mined DMZ is suicide. The officials at every other possible escape route, whether by air or by sea, had now been alerted to collar Herman the German as soon as he showed himself.
It took us a few hours and it was exhausting work at that time of night, but we had him. Herman was bottled up like a genie in a magic kingdom. And he wouldn't escape. Not in this lifetime.
The slack-jowled face of a hungover Sergeant Riley peeked around the doorjamb. "What the hell you doing in this early?"
"Trying to develop a lead on Herman the German."
Riley's stiffly pressed khakis crackled with starch. "Good. That lowlife ought to be locked up just for having bought me all those drinks."
"You don't remember, do you?"
Riley gazed at me, trying to focus. "Remember what?"
"Herman stole the combination to the CID safe from you last night. And then he stole the jade skull."
Thin lips tightened around crooked teeth. "Can I have my desk back now?"
"Sure, Sarge. Looks like you could use a little rest."
Riley sat down on the creaking wooden chair and started shuffling stacks of paperwork from one corner to another. "Jade skull. Stolen. All right. I get it. So have you found it yet?"
"We're working on it."
"How about that little girl?"
"Still in hostile custody."
"And the big girl?"
"Her, too."
Riley let his hands flop tq the desk. "You and Ernie aren't doing very well on this case, are you?"
"Not very."
"Better get your ass in gear before the First Sergeant chomps it off."
"I need to talk to him this morning."
"About what?"
"About turning over Hatcher to the ROKs."
Riley's eyes widened. "Don't be messing with him about that. The Eighth Army honchos have a case of the big ass about all these demonstrations. They say they're going to hold on to Hatcher as long as they want to and not be bullied into turning him over by a bunch of long-haired jerk-off students."
"Bullied? How can a thirty-thousand-man field army, with access to all the weapons in the United States arsenal, be bullied by anybody?"
Riley ignored the question. But the more I thought about it the more I figured he was probably right. The Eighth Army generals would see the demonstrations that way. Radicals trying to push them around. Everybody, no matter how much power they have, always thinks they're being picked on.
"Besides," I told Riley, "those students aren't jerk-offs."
"Of course they are. What are you, some kinda Communist?"
I took a deep breath. Time to make it official. "If Eighth Army doesn't turn Hatcher over to the Koreans before tomorrow afternoon, that nun he attacked is going to burn herself to death in downtown Seoul. In front of Buddha and everybody."
"How do you know this?"
"She told me."
"Christ, Sueño! If that little broad toasts herself, it'll start a goddamn insurrection."
"Just like those monks who burned themselves in Saigon," I said. "The government fell because of it."
"Have you reported this to Top?"
"No. That's why I want to talk to him this morning."
Riley stood up, confused, as if he wanted to go somewhere but wasn't quite sure where. "Yeah. You better talk to Top. Right away. You better."
I sat in a straight-backed chair across from Riley's desk and continued to sip my coffee. The ball was rolling now. We'd see where it went. But before I could fully savor the turd I'd dropped into Eighth Army's punch bowl, Ernie stormed into the office, red-faced.
"Come on, damn it. The jeep's outside."
I set my coffee down. "What is it?"
"Disturbance in Itaewon."
WAILS OF ANGUISH ECHOED DOWN THE ABANDONED PATHWAY of Hooker Hill. At the top of the rise, we wound through narrow alleys until we reached the Temple of the Dream Buddha. Thick wooden double doors were ajar. A gleaming gold Buddha gazed calmly down on Slicky Girl Nam. She was hunched over what looked like a pile of rags.
Outside stood a red-robed monk, a Korean National Policeman, and a half dozen business girls roused by Slicky Girl Nam's screams. The women wore shorts and T-shirts, their arms were crossed across their breasts, and the flesh of their faces looked wrinkled and naked in the gray morning light.
The young policeman glanced at me suspiciously. He was probably planted here to protect the site until his superiors arrived. I flashed him my CID badge, which relaxed him a little.
In the middle of the pagoda, on the varnished wooden floor, lay the small unmoving body of Mi-ja Burkowicz, the adopted daughter of Herman the German and Slicky Girl Nam. Nam rocked back and forth on her knees, moaning as if someone was poking a hot poker into her guts.
Ernie flipped back the edge of his coat, clutched his waist, and swiveled his head, purposely looking away from the motionless child. "Shit!" he said.
That about summed it up.
I stepped forward into the pagoda and knelt to examine the girl.
"You no touch!"
Slicky Girl Nam's twisted face was red, as if the tears pouring from her eyes were hot steam. "You no touch!" she screeched.
I nodded and slowly moved around the girl. I could see that one ear was gone. But otherwise, from where I stood, she appeared to be uncut and unbruised. She wore red cotton pants and a matching blouse sequined with the faces of smiling rabbits.
I was searching for the cause of death. There was no blood. No mortal
wounds. No marks around her neck. Then I saw them. The line of bruises around her wrists. And the single strand of straw sticking out of her nose.
I leaned over and peered inside the nostrils. Both were blocked with green hay. The bastards had suffocated her.
As if to confirm what I was thinking, Slicky Girl Nam reached out her wrinkled hand and touched the smooth flesh of Mi-ja's cheek. The child's pink lips parted slightly. Inside, her mouth and throat were also stuffed with straw.
Why kill Mi-ja this way? And then I remembered that Ragyapa was a Buddhist—or at least a member of some odd, perverted sect of Buddhism—and Buddhists must respect all living things. In Tibet, when it is time to slaughter a yak, they stuff straw down its throat and nose and let it choke to death. The animal suffocates, killing itself. So the owner won't be blamed for the sin of murdering another living creature.
But why kill Mi-ja now? Why, when I had told Ragyapa I would do everything I could to catch Herman and recover the skull?
But I knew the answer. Ragyapa had given us until the full moon to produce the jade skull, or Mi-ja would die. We hadn't made that deadline. He wanted to make sure that I believed he meant business.
He still had one more hostage, Lady Ahn, and his message was clear. If we didn't find the skull within the next thirty-six hours, Lady Ahn would suffer the same cruel death little Mi-ja had.
I knelt and spoke as gently as I could to Slicky Girl Nam. "We have to find Herman."
She looked at me blankly, waiting for an explanation.
"Last night," I said, "we were supposed to exchange the jade skull for Mi-ja. But it was stolen out of the CID safe. We couldn't make the exchange. We believe Herman stole the skull."
The flat muscles of her face writhed like a basket of pythons. Her rage-filled eyes spit fire. "That pyongsin stole jade skull?"
"He's not a cripple," I said. "He has the skull and he's running."
Slicky Girl Nam screamed a series of curses that thundered through the Temple of the Dream Buddha. "When I catch, I cut that son-bitch balls off!"
I stood up. Ernie clicked on his gum, shaking his head, no mirth in his eyes.
Captain Kim, the commander of the Itaewon Police Station, strode into the Temple of the Dream Buddha surrounded by his entourage. He stopped and glared at Ernie and me. "You two again. Every time there is a death in my precinct, you two seem to be nearby."
I didn't translate that into English. I was afraid Ernie would pop him. Instead, I stepped back and let Captain Kim take charge of the investigation.
It took four cops to pry Slicky Girl Nam away from Mi-ja.
WHEN WE RETURNED TO THE OFFICE, RILEY HAD ME LINED UP for three appointments. One with the First Sergeant, one with the Eighth Army Provost Marshal, and one with the Judge Advocate General's Office. They all wanted precise details concerning the upcoming plans of the little nun and the Buddhist hierarchy.
Luckily, they were so busy chattering amongst themselves about this new information, that they didn't have time to talk to me right away.
"You'll see them when they're ready for you," Riley told me.
Typical. Military commanders always start formulating their plans before they have all the facts.
While we were waiting we didn't twiddle our thumbs. Ernie made calls to the American side and I made calls to the Koreans, asking if anyone at the points of embarkation had encountered anyone matching the description of Herman the German.
He had only completed his third call when Ernie slammed down the phone. "Osan. The Space Available list. One guy signed up early this morning for a flight Stateside. Name: First Sergeant Herman R. Burkowicz, Retired."
I grabbed my coat.
"Where the hell do you guys think you're going?" Riley yelled.
"To collar a bad guy," I called back.
"But the honchos want to talk about this nun."
"You already know everything I know. If they don't turn Pfc. Hatcher over to the Korean authorities, she's going to kill herself tomorrow afternoon in downtown Seoul at the Gate of the Transformation of Light."
"They'll court-martial you if you don't show up for this shit," Riley hollered.
"What are they gonna do?" Ernie asked. "Send him to Korea?"
We ran outside to the jeep.
As we rolled out of the main gate of Yongsan Compound we swerved into the madly careening traffic of the Main Supply Route. Thunder cracked. A flash of lightning sliced the sky.
"Looks like we're due for a little drizzle."
As soon as the words left Ernie's mouth, a whole world of water gushed out of the black heavens.
DRAPED IN HIS BLUE RAIN SLICKER, THE SECURITY GUARD waved us through the main gate of Osan Air Force Base. We followed the signs to the passenger terminal of the Military Airlift Command, parked the jeep, and ran inside.
The building contained only one large waiting room, latrines, and a snack bar off to the side. Before we talked to anybody, Ernie and I spread out and searched for Herman the German.
Ernie met me back at the Space-A counter. "No dice."
"I didn't think so," I said. "He wouldn't wait here where he could be easily spotted."
I flashed my badge to the Technical Sergeant at the counter. She was slender and her uniform had been well tailored and her complexion was like light cocoa butter. I gave her Herman's name. She thumbed through the onionskin sheets on her clipboard.
"He was here this morning," she said. "Signed up for Space-A and was issued a seat on the flight that left about a half hour ago."
"Damn!" Ernie said.
She kept licking her thumb and studying the manifest. "But he was bumped. Some ground-pounder from the Second Division showed up at the last minute with emergency leave orders. We had to pull Burkowicz off the flight."
"You mean he's still here in-country?"
"Sure is. Mad as hell when we pulled him off. Cursing about his rights as a retired service member."
"What rights?" Ernie asked.
She smiled. "None that I know of. Retirees have no rights unless there's space available. And their priority comes right after cats and dogs."
"We called last night from Eighth Army CID," I said. "I thought you people were going to arrest Burkowicz if he showed up."
She shrugged. "Don't ask me. You'll have to check with the Security Detachment. They're down the hall."
"Never mind," I said.
Despite all our efforts, if there had been enough seats on that flight this morning, Herman would be on his way to the States with the precious jade skull of Kublai Khan stashed in a bag beneath his feet. So much for military efficiency.
I asked the Tech Sergeant one more question. "Are there any more flights leaving today?"
"None until tomorrow morning."
"Thanks."
I smiled at her but she didn't smile back. She was too busy looking at Ernie.
We grabbed a couple of trays at the small snack bar. I ordered a BLT, Emie had a ham and cheese omelette with a side of hash browns.
"Worked up an appetite last night," he said.
I purposely picked a table next to a group of military retirees smoking and sipping coffee and bullshitting. Waiting for the next flight out of Korea.
We sat down, ate, and listened for a while. When they didn't mention Herman, I asked, "Anybody seen Herman the German around here lately?"
One guy with a bristly crew cut glanced over at me. "He was in here this morning. Didn't make his flight."
"So how is the old buzzard?"
"Seems okay. You know Herman. He don't talk much."
"I owe him a drink. Do you know where he's staying?"
"Out in the ville somewhere. That's all I know. He left right after the Space-A call. If I see him, I'll tell him you're looking for him."
"Don't bother," I said. "He already knows."
We gulped down our chow and left.
WHEN YOU WALK OUT OF THE MAIN GATE OF OSAN AIR BASE, you walk into GI heaven. The village of Songtan-up is a maze
of narrow alleys lined with hotels and tailor shops and leather goods emporiums and bars and chophouses and nightclubs and brothels.
Just about anything a young man would ever want to buy is available here. The best part is that none of it is touted by Madison Avenue.
The monsoon rain had slowed to a drizzle. Just outside the gate, an enterprising Korean vendor huddled beneath an army-issue poncho, hawking flimsy umbrellas made of bamboo and plastic. I handed him a buck for two.
Ernie popped his open. "The good thing about these little pieces of shit," Ernie said, "is that they're disposable. Don't have to worry about forgetting them in some barroom."
We wandered down the narrow lane, checking out the shops. Most of the nightclubs were still shuttered and locked.
"Should we canvass the hotels?" Ernie asked.
"I guess we don't have much choice. But we're going to have to describe him to everyone. He won't be registering under his own name."
"At least Herman's easy to picture," Ernie said. "A bowling ball with blubbery lips."
"That's him. I'll try to figure out how to say that in Korean."
"You mean you don't know?"
"The word for 'blubbery' escapes me."
"You need to study harder, pal."
Ernie stopped in an open-front market and bought a couple of packs of the usual: ginseng gum. When we stepped outside, an old mama-san picked us up on her radar and started yanking on my sleeve, telling me she could introduce us to some "nice girls."
"We don't like nice girls," Ernie told her. "Only bad ones."
That didn't faze the old crone; she kept haranguing us. I was just about to push her out of the way when an explosion reverberated through the narrow alleys of Songtan-up.
"What was that?"
"A rifle shot," Ernie said. "Not far either."
Ernie shoved aside the persistent madam, and we ran toward the sound of the pop. Two more shots rang out.