by Martin Limon
Off to the left, the newly built skyscrapers of Seoul blinked at us with a smattering of lights in windows. Straight ahead, across a five- or six-mile-wide valley, Namsan Mountain rose dark and imposing to the brightly lit signal tower atop. To the right, strings of light were strung like sparkling necklaces across the Han River Bridge.
“How much did Rick Mills have to pay for this view?” Ernie asked.
“Peanuts, according to Strange, when he first bought it.”
“Smart guy. Back in those days, most GIs just wanted to get the hell out of Korea and make it back to Japan. Or better yet, the States.”
“Rick Mills saw what Korea would become.”
“It’s still poor.”
“Yeah, and for a lot of people, it’s still hell.”
We studied the mansion. It was dark and silent except for a light in the northern wing.
“That’s where he must be,” Ernie said. “Do you think he has servants?”
“He has to, to run a house this big.”
“But does he let them go home at night or do they live in?”
“I think we’re going to have to assume that with a house this big, at least some of them live in.”
“But I don’t see any other lights.”
I searched. “Neither do I.”
“So how we going to get in?”
“There doesn’t appear to be an alarm system.” They were rare in Korea and often didn’t work. Even when they did work, they only sounded a local alarm and weren’t hooked up to the KNP station.
“Or dogs,” I said. Guard dogs were not popular in Korea. Not only was there limited space in most homes, but most people didn’t want to go to the expense of feeding and caring for an extra mouth.
“And no foot patrols,” Ernie said. That’s how most wealthy people in Korea guarded their riches, with old-fashioned manpower. It was Korean custom that if someone was home and not sleeping, thieves would usually leave them alone. Crimes against property, if someone was poor and desperate, were understandable, if not completely tolerated. But physically overpowering a homeowner was considered a horrendous crime, a crime against society, and would more often than not land a perpetrator in prison for many years.
“So Rick Mills lives alone,” I said, “and probably figures he can protect his home by himself.”
“He probably can,” Ernie said. “He was an NCO, remember, during the war.”
“Okay,” I said. “We wait until the lights go out, then we come back here and climb the wall.”
“Using what?”
“We’ll find something.”
We left our perch, walked past the shrine again, and returned to the jeep. Two hours later we were back, parking the jeep in the same place, passing the shrine again, and taking our perches on the brick wall.
“Lights out,” Ernie said.
“Early to bed, early to rise.”
We jumped off the wall and made our way along a drainage ditch until we reached the granite back wall of Rick Mills’s mansion. I handed a grappling hook to Ernie.
“How do you use this stuff?”
“The hook’s padded,” I told him. “Makes less noise that way. Toss it up to the top of the wall. When we have purchase, we pull ourselves up.”
“Christ,” Ernie said, but he didn’t argue. “Where’d you get this stuff?”
“Palinki.”
“He keeps it in the armory?”
“Along with a lot of other equipment. Like these.” I held up a ring of picks and oddly shaped keys.
“Oh, great.”
Ernie stepped back and tossed the grappling hook toward the top of the wall. His first toss was too short, but the second reached the top and slid toward the far side. When it didn’t find purchase, the hook slid back down the slanted wall. We tried again and again. Finally, on the sixth try, the hook caught. Ernie pulled, testing his weight against it.
“Must be a pipe or something. I think it’ll hold.”
He climbed up first, not having to put all his weight on the rope because the toes of his sneakers clung to the craggy breaks in the slanted wall. For a moment he halted and I thought he was going to tumble backward, but he regained his balance, leaned forward, and continued to climb. Finally he reached the top, lay down flat, and, after checking the purchase of the grappling hook, flashed me the thumbs-up. Reassured by Ernie’s success, I climbed more rapidly and joined him atop the wall in a matter of seconds.
I pulled the rope up and recoiled it on the flat stone. As I did so, we both gazed into the darkness below. The drop was about eight feet. Beyond that rose the back wall of the mansion, with a narrow walkway between. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized that the sheds nearby were probably byonso, outhouses. Ernie realized it too.
“He doesn’t have indoor plumbing?” he whispered.
“We’ll find out.”
We hopped down, landing on a flagstone surface, and after waiting and not hearing anything, we walked toward the old wooden sheds. Ernie sniffed. No hideous odor. When we reached the first one, I opened the door and peeked inside. The floor had been covered with lumber, and cleaning and gardening supplies leaned against splintered walls. This byonso wasn’t used any longer, which meant indoor plumbing had been installed. Since the end of the Korean War, it was becoming more prevalent. Especially in the homes of the rich.
We proceeded to the end of the wall, ducked down, and peered ahead. A wooden porch led up to a door. Above it, a metal pipe jutted out, twisting immediately skyward.
“The kitchen,” Ernie said.
It made sense. Across a short walkway sat a brick building with a closed wooden door, probably the pantry.
We approached the back porch. I climbed up and peered in through the window. Nothing but darkness. I knelt and pulled out the burglary tools Palinki had given me. While I worked, Ernie stepped to the front of the building and peered around the corner. When he gave me the all-clear sign, I pulled my penlight from my pocket and went to work. Palinki’s instruction had been thorough, but he was more experienced than I was, manipulating the delicate tools in his huge fingers like a maestro caressing the frets of a Stradivarius. I was clumsy. After ten minutes, Ernie became impatient, but just as he wandered onto the first wooden step of the porch, the back door lock clicked open. I turned the handle and shoved it slowly forward. Nothing moved. Quickly, Ernie and I stepped into darkness.
We were right. It was the kitchen. I shone the penlight on a floor covered in tile. There were two stainless-steel refrigerators, one bench-like freezer, and an industrial-sized stove with a scaffolding of gleaming copper. All the equipment was professional grade with brand names that seemed to be Swedish or Germanic. Ernie and I gazed at the huge kitchen in awe; it must’ve cost him a fortune to import all these things, because they clearly weren’t manufactured in Korea and I doubted that the PX bothered to import them. There’d be no demand, not a legitimate one anyway.
Beyond the kitchen was a serving counter, and beyond that, double doors that led into a carpeted dining room. The table was made of gleaming mahogany and it was long enough to seat at least twenty. The walls were lined with artwork that didn’t look like anything in particular other than splashes of bright color. We were probably coming close to the front entranceway and therefore the main living room, or whatever the room would be called in a big house like this. We were impatient to find the dungeon, or at least the basement, where young women would be held against their will. That’s how I imagined it. At the closed entrance door to the dining room, Ernie and I paused, listening. Still no sound. We’d been quiet, but I hoped Mills was a sound sleeper. I pushed through the door.
A light flashed in my eyes.
A voice shouted, “Freeze, motherfugger!”
I froze. And then I was staring into the unforgiving end of a double-barreled shotgun.
-13-
> I should’ve figured it wouldn’t be that easy.
Luckily, Ernie did figure. He was still out of sight, hidden in the dining room. I knew he had a .45 in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. I kept my hands out to my sides. Softly, I said, “What do you want me to do?”
“Call your partner.”
The man speaking behind the flashlight in one hand and the shotgun in the other was Rick Mills, master sergeant (retired) of the US Army and current executive director of the 8th US Army Central Locker Fund. He sat in a high-backed padded chair, wearing pajamas, slippers, and a silk smoking jacket embroidered with what looked like flying dragons.
“Easy, Mills,” I said, “you’re in enough trouble.”
“Me?” He barked a laugh. “Looks like you two are the ones in trouble. Breaking and entering. You have a warrant?”
“We don’t need search warrants in Korea.”
“Not on base. But you’re off base now.”
He was right about that. Ernie and I had no jurisdiction in Sodaemun and no legal justification for entering his home. Our justification was hot pursuit. We had reason to believe that women were being held against their will here, raped, and even murdered. Whether it would stand up to legal scrutiny—we hadn’t been worrying about that. And at the moment, I was more worried about Rick Mills’s shotgun.
“Lower the barrel of the shotgun,” I said. “I’m not armed.”
“How about your partner?”
“We’re just here to look around,” I said, “not hurt anyone.”
“Look for what?”
I told him.
“Kisaeng?” he said. “Here in my house?”
I told him about the murdered woman near Sonyu-ri.
“Oh, Chirst,” he said. “You don’t think I had something to do with that? I’ve been accused of every crime Eighth Army has on the books, but not that one. Your brothers at the CID have been after me for years, figuring that since I handle a bunch of liquor, I must be black marketeering. But they never found anything because I haven’t done anything.”
“Why should we believe that?”
“Look around. Do I need more money? Do I need to risk losing my job and my work visa? My wife bought up more shit than you can believe in the years after the Korean War. Dirt cheap. As the Korean economy grows, my wealth grows with it. Why would I want to sell illegally on the black market and risk everything? And why in the hell would I want to lock up kisaeng here in my house? If I want a kisaeng, I’ll go to a frigging kisaeng house.”
Ernie shouted, “Drop the gun, Mills!”
“You drop yours, dammit! This is my house.”
Ernie didn’t reply. I was worried he’d start firing. After all, the barrel of the shotgun was still pointed directly at me. If Mills pulled that trigger, my guts would be spilling out like a bowl of raw octopus.
“Okay, Mills,” I said. “You’re saying you’ve got nothing to hide. So prove it. Let us search the house.”
He thought about that.
“You’ve got no right.”
“No. We don’t have the right. But if we search and find out we were wrong, then we’ll leave you alone.”
Mills pondered that. Then he said, “I want more than just being left alone.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to do something for me.”
“What?”
“I want you to find the son of a bitch who’s doing this to the Central Locker Fund.”
“You mean ordering stuff off the books?”
Mills stiffened. “I have no direct knowledge of that.”
“But you know something.”
He didn’t answer.
“I understand,” I said. “It’s been going on for years, maybe decades, the discrepancy in inventory, ordered by people with more power than you. But you didn’t profit from it and you made sure that you had no fingerprints on it, so if it ever blew up, you wouldn’t be caught up in it. Is that it? Do I have it right?”
He didn’t answer, just sat immobile.
“I’ll assume I do,” I said. “But then somebody came along who wanted to expand the ordering beyond what it had been in the past. Instead of just providing expensive imported booze to the rich and powerful, maybe to Korean politicians directly, or to legitimate importers who could move the stuff in bulk, somebody threw in a few orders of something else. And they started selling it around GI villages, making a quick buck, not a fortune, but a nice pile of change. Especially if you’re used to living on the paycheck of a noncommissioned officer.”
Mills stared at me impassively, neither confirming nor denying.
“You remember what it was like to be a noncommissioned officer, Mills. You remember what it was like to be broke three days before payday.”
Finally, he spoke. “It’s been a long time.”
“So, am I right? The honchos had a good thing going, running two sets of books at the Central Locker Fund, selling the booze wholesale or using it for gifts to the people at the top, pocketing some of the money but using lots of it to expand their own power. Pay off the right people, renovate the right buildings, contribute to the right charities. And then some lowlife punk comes along and endangers the entire setup. Am I right, Mills?”
Ernie dove into the room.
Startled, Mills swiveled the shotgun and fired.
I leapt face-first into the carpet. The second round of the shotgun didn’t go off.
I looked up. Ernie was kneeling on the carpet, holding his .45 in front of him with both hands. “Drop it, Mills!”
Rick Mills stared at him in horror. Then he let loose of the shotgun and allowed it to slide harmlessly to the floor.
Mills insisted that we search his entire house.
“I don’t want any rumors starting,” he said, “that Rick Mills is holding women hostage in his mansion.”
We did search, thoroughly, tapping on walls, even borrowing Mills’s crowbar and pulling back paneling that seemed to have been installed in recent years. There was in fact a basement and an attic, but no dungeon. During the entire search, Mills escorted us through the house, switching on lights. Like a proud host, he pointed out heirlooms that his wife had acquired, impressing us with the appraised value of artwork and antiques.
I searched for writing brushes and other implements used in calligraphy but didn’t find any. At one point, I tossed a porcelain doll to him. He caught it with his right hand.
“What’s that all about?” he asked.
“Nothing. Who’s that?” I pointed to a framed photograph on a linen-draped table.
Rick Mills moved toward the photo, lifted it with both hands, and stared at it longingly. “My wife,” he said. He handed it to me. A stunning Korean woman with high cheekbones and piercing black eyes stared back at me. She wore what appeared to be a traditional Korean dress, but made of felt. Though the photo was black-and-white, I imagined the felt to be dark blue. She sat on an ornately carved chair, and leaning against her full skirt was a stringed musical instrument.
“The komungo,” Mills said. “One of the first ancient Korean instruments. She studied it for years.”
“How’d you meet her, Mills? You were just an NCO.”
He shrugged. “People were desperate in those days, even the daughters of the landed classes. Desperate enough to hang out with a guy like me.”
“You married up,” Ernie said.
“Very much so,” Mills replied. “She saved my life, putting a stop to all the drinking and carousing.” Then he waved his hands. “And made me rich.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“Almost five years now. My mourning period is almost over.”
“Koreans mourn that long for a wife?” I asked.
“Not usually. But I am. See that temple out back?”
I nodded.
“I made a vow,” Rick Mills said. “One I won’t break.”
We continued searching the house, finding nothing out of line. When we were done, Mills shook our hands. “Am I clean?” he asked.
“Clean,” I said. “Unless you’re keeping them off-site.”
He frowned.
“You were about to tell me something, something about what it was like when you were an NCO living from paycheck to paycheck.”
“It’s unfair,” he said.
“What’s unfair?”
“It’s unfair to assign an NCO to the Central Locker Fund. They see so much wealth around them and there’s bound to be temptation. I’m not sure why personnel insists on assigning one to us. We could just as easily hire a Korean National.”
“They want to keep their hand in,” Ernie said.
“I suppose that’s it. They just want to remind themselves, and maybe me, that the Central Locker Fund is, after all, a creation of the US Army.”
“So that’s what you wanted to tell me?” I said. “That it’s unfair to assign an NCO to the Central Locker Fund.”
“That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Demoray,” he said.
“What about him?”
“I don’t trust him. He’s erratic and impulsive. You saw how he blew up at that worker when you were at the Central Locker Fund.”
“Not that unusual for the NCO Corps,” I said.
“No. But you’ve never asked him a question.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when you ask a question, you expect an answer. That’s what NCOs do, answer questions honestly and directly. Maybe a pause for a few seconds to think about it, but with him the pause can last minutes.”
“What does he do during those minutes?”
“Sometimes he takes off his cap and rubs his head. Other than that, nothing. He’s just completely silent. As if he’s suddenly become the sphinx.”
I’d heard that before. Long, unexpected silences in the middle of calligraphy lessons.
“Is he interested in Korean culture?” I asked.