by Martin Limon
And this lack of nerve had caused her family to weaken. Now, all that was left of a once-proud clan was her frail old mother, living alone on Sonyu Island, and herself.
But she wasn't weak, Lady Ahn said. And when I saw her smooth jaws set in place like cement, I knew she wasn't.
Ernie grew bored at her long-winded explanation, and his liver was crying out for poison. Before I could ask all the questions that were tumbling through my mind, he waved down a waiter and ordered another round.
After that, Ernie and Fifi pretty much stayed on the dance floor. Unless Ernie could talk her into returning to the table so he could quaff down about half a liter of suds. I'd never seen him dance so much for any woman. But apparently, Fifi, with her knockout looks and her sinister, almost evil way of looking at a man, had clamped a firm hold on Ernie's gonads. She seemed to be sizing him up as if she were preparing to eat him.
Lady Ahn and I danced only once. A slow dance. My hand felt so good on the back of her waist, and her body fit so perfectly against mine, that I became feverish with desire. What with the lack of sleep and the booze, I barely managed to stay on my feet.
Almost a month ago, when Lady Ahn had first approached Herman the German in Seoul, her plan had been to set up an escape route for the jade skull. Once she possessed it, she could slip the skull past Korean customs without being noticed. She never intended to cause Herman so much grief. She never intended for Mi-ja to be kidnapped.
Who were these men who had kidnapped Mi-ja?
Her unblemished face crinkled. She wasn't sure, but she thought that these men were her fault, too. When she had started making inquiries about the best way to smuggle an antique out of Korea, people were naturally not willing to open up to a stranger. So she'd explained about the value of the jade skull, keeping her stories as vague as she could. Apparently, they weren't vague enough.
Over the centuries, fabulous legends concerning the Tomb of Genghis Khan had circulated through the antique markets of the Far East. Once Lady Ahn's story hit, the word spread swiftly. To Hong Kong. To Singapore. To who-knows-where.
Apparently, Ragyapa and his Mongolians had taken the rumors seriously. When they located Herman, they believed he possessed the jade skull. Or if he didn't, he would know where to get it. In some sense they were right. Herman did know how to get in touch with Lady Ahn. Ernie and I were living proof of that.
Where was the skull now? I asked Lady Ahn.
Still on the island of Bian-do.
How was she going to get it? Lady Ahn hadn't decided yet. She had still been formulating a plan when all this happened.
When Fifi's high heels finally started to dig into her foot bones, she came back to our table, sat down, and allowed Ernie to rest for a while.
I gave him a rundown of all I had learned from Lady Ahn. He sipped on his beer and watched her.
"If we help you latch onto this skull thing," he said, "will you turn it over to these guys in exchange for the kid?"
Lady Ahn lowered her eyes. "I will have to think about that," she answered.
"After we free Mi-ja," I said, "we'll go after these kidnappers with the entire U.S. and Korean police forces backing us up. They'll never be able to slip out of the country. We'll trade the jade skull for Mi-ja and then we'll retrieve it. We'll return it to you."
"No one will allow you to return it to me," she said evenly.
She was right about that. Once officialdom sniffed that much wealth, there was no way they'd return it to a private citizen.
I looked at Ernie, asking silently for a decision. He thought for a moment, then nodded. I turned back to Lady Ahn.
"They won't have to know," I said. "We'll keep the cops out of it. Once we free Mi-ja, Ernie and I will catch these Mongols and retrieve the jade skull for you."
Lady Ahn gazed deeply into my eyes, measuring my willingness to go through with such a risky plan.
"I will consider your offer," she told me.
When we returned to Fifi's Hooch, I felt awkward because sleeping arrangements hadn't been settled. Ernie didn't hesitate. He scooped up Fifi, carried her into the bedroom, and slammed shut the paper-paneled door.
Lady Ahn and I looked at one another. I took a step forward. She held up her hand.
"You sleep here." She pointed to the stuffed cotton mat in the center of the sarang-bang, the main room of the hooch. "I will sleep in the kitchen."
And she did. Unrolling a straw mat on the cement floor and covering herself with a comforter.
When she turned off the lights, I lay down. But I didn't sleep very well.
Ernie's and Fifi's giggling didn't bother me much. But later, when the Widow Kang started moaning-and then screaming-it became a little difficult to drift off into dreamland.
I listened intently but Lady Ahn didn't seem to move.
I couldn't even hear her breathe.
In the morning, Fifi Kang boiled a big brass pot of water and we took turns in the outside byonso using the toilet and washing up.
Ernie was the last to rise and emerged from the bedroom unshaven and red-eyed, buckling up his pants. Something fell out of his back pocket. The felt coin purse, the one the little nun had given him.
"You're pretty careless with that thing," I said.
"What thing?" Ernie asked.
"That felt purse on the floor."
He looked down. "Oh, that thing."
"We forgot to return it to the little nun."
"I guess we did," Ernie said wearily.
The contents had tumbled out and Ernie knelt and picked up the coins. He counted them out and smoothed the wrinkled bills.
"Buddha's money," he said. "All three thousand five hundred and eighty won of it."
Not even seven dollars U.S.
Something else was poking out of the felt purse. Ernie pried it loose from the felt and held it up to the light. The jade amulet.
Lady Ahn walked into the room at that moment and her mouth fell open. She was staring at the amulet. I snatched it from Ernie's hand and handed it to her.
She studied the smooth-bodied Maitreya Buddha, a deity as much revered here in Korea as any Catholic saint. The little figure was still perched on his lotus blossom and his face was still serene, but one foot stomped down on the supine figure of a snarling, long-fanged demon with six arms.
Lady Ahn snapped at Ernie.
"Where did you get this?"
Ernie scratched his tousled hair, his eyes still bleary, and looked at me.
"Where the hell did I get it, pal?"
"From the Buddhist nun. The one who was attacked in Itaewon."
"A nun was attacked?" Lady Ahn asked. Apparently, she hadn't been reading the newspapers much. It was the first time I'd seen her lose her composure.
"Yeah," Ernie said. "And a good thing we saved her, too, or that GI might've done a real number on her."
Fifi Kang, eyes wide, stepped forward and hugged Lady Ahn. She, too, stared at the amulet as if it were a scorpion about to snap.
Lady Ahn handed the amulet back to Ernie, an expression of defeat on her face. 'Tes," she murmured. "I understand now."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"The Korean Buddhists, the followers of Maitreya, are searching for the jade skull. That's why that nun was in Itaewon. And she carried this amulet to protect her from the followers of Mahakala, the demon who is the lord of the Mongolian Buddhists." She shook her head. "The Mongolian Buddhists must be the ones who kidnapped Mi-ja. And the man who attacked your Buddhist nun must've been one of them."
"No way," Ernie said. "It was a GI who attacked her. We saw him, didn't we, pal?"
I nodded.
"Who you saw," Lady Ahn said, "was a Mongolian, and a follower of Mahakala, who is trying to discourage the Korean Buddhists from searching further for the jade skull."
"A follower of Mahakala?" Ernie asked. "That would be a first for a soul brother."
I didn't like him mocking Lady Ahn. I knew my feelings for her weren't helping me
conduct an objective investigation. Still, I had to protect her.
"So maybe it wasn't a GI," I said. "It was raining. And it was dark."
Ernie snorted. I ignored him and turned to Lady Ahn. "Then a lot of people are after the skull?"
"Yes," Lady Ahn answered. "Many people. Some of them Mongolian followers of Mahakala, the Lord of the Demons. Arid some of them Korean followers of Maitreya, the Buddha of the Vision of the Future."
Ernie rubbed his chin. "In that case, I'd better shave."
After coffee, Lady Ahn busied herself packing her small suitcase. She'd made her decision.
"You will go with me," she told me. "So will he." She pointed at Ernie. "The Widow Kang will stay here."
Fifi didn't complain. She looked haggard after last night's session. Ernie sat cross-legged on the warm vinyl floor, smiling contentedly as Fifi stirred his coffee for him and ladled in more sugar. "So where we going?" he asked.
I already knew the answer but I let Lady Ahn say it. She stopped packing and turned and stared at him.
"To the Monastery of the Sleeping Dragon," she replied. "On the island of Bian-do. We're going to recover the jade skull of Kublai Khan."
"Why not?" Ernie lifted his coffee and sipped noisily. "I don't have anything else to do today."
Ernie admires a bold chick.
So do I.
"But first you must know this." Lady Ahn pulled a stiff piece of paper out of her handbag and tossed it on the floor between us. Ernie picked it up, frowned, then handed it to me. It was a photo. Of a mutilated body, neck slashed, lying spread-eagled on a rocky beach.
"What is this?" Ernie asked.
"A man," she answered. "A skilled commando."
"Yeah?"
"This man was the last person to reach the Monastery of the Sleeping Dragon and attempt to steal the jade skull."
Ernie set down his coffee, staring at it sourly, and spoke gruffly to the Widow Kang. 'There's not enough sugar in this."
Fifi hurriedly dumped in two more mounds of bleached granules.
I stared down at the grainy photo. The neck of the commando had been savagely ripped, his head almost completely sawed off.
I touched the mutilated ear in my pocket and tried not to think of Mi-ja-and what she must be suffering. I tried not to think of what might happen to her if we didn't save her before the moon became full.
15
It hadn't been easy to find a horse in the city of Seoul.
These people live together like packed rats, Ragyapa thought. Not like Mongols, who make their homes in yurts, felt tents, on the endless steppes and trackless mountains of his homeland, Mongolia.
It was past midnight curfew, and Ragyapa and his band of followers stood near a children's amusement park. The horse they'd found was only a pony, caged in a wooden pen. Nearby was the small carousel the pony pulled during the day, with smiling ducks and geese and swans for the children to ride on.
Ragyapa patted the little horse on the neck. Its brown eyes rolled up at him nervously.
What a paltry specimen, Ragyapa thought. Not much smaller than the Mongol ponies he had known all his life, but there was no strength in this animal. His legs were spindly and his haunch and forelimbs had no heft to them, not like the muscled creatures who ran wild across the upper plains of the Mongolian heartland.
Still, Ragyapa needed horseflesh and this creature would have to do.
Ragyapa climbed up on the back of the pony. The animal whinnied and staggered beneath his weight. A few of Ragyapa's men smiled at the horse's weakness but none of them laughed. Laughter is not the way of the nomad.
Ragyapa fondled the pony's mane, feeling along the vertebrae beneath the short hair. He pinched when he found the correct spot and felt the vein pulsing beneath his fingers. Deftly, Ragyapa unsheathed his gleaming blade and sliced a thin line through the horse's hide. He squeezed, forcing blood out, then bent and sucked the warm fluid into his mouth.
One of Ragyapa's disciples handed him a wooden bowl. When Ragyapa's mouth had filled with blood, he spit it into the bowl, and leaned down to suck out more.
This was the method Mongol warriors had used when they'd ridden for many hours and had no time to forage for food. They would feed off the blood of their horse. Leaning down, even as they rode, sucking up the life-giving fluid. In this way, they could ride for many hours-even days. And if the horse died, they'd switch to another. A disciplined troop of Mongol warriors could cover as many as seventy to ninety miles a day.
But now, in these modern times, Ragyapa and his warrior monks would use the blood not for sustenance but for ceremony. To launch the beginning of a great enterprise.
Word had come concerning the whereabouts of the Americans. Ragyapa's disciples were about to be given a mission: Follow the Americans, wait until they found the jade skull of Kublai Khan, and then take it from them.
It was risky and it was difficult but, if the plan failed, Ragyapa still had the kidnapped girl as a hostage. With the girl, he could still force the Americans to turn the skull over to him.
Ragyapa himself would stay in Seoul and guard the pampered child known as Mi-ja.
His lips curled in disgust at the thought of her.
As he sucked up more of the pony's blood, Ragyapa remembered his early days in the monastery, high in the mountains of Mongolia. His mother had given him up when the arthritis had finally overtaken her. He remembered sitting naked, in the lotus position, on a hard wooden floor. And he remembered the yellow parchment of the rolled scroll of the ancient text and how he was forced by the elder monks to sit with his back straight and balance the scroll on his head for hour after hour, without once ever allowing the scroll to fall. And he remembered how there was always someone else in the room. Someone he couldn't see. The old monks used to tell him it was Mahakala, the six-armed Lord of the Demons, watching him to see if he was devout. To see if he could keep the ancient text balanced on his head. Or if he was just another weak soul who would surely fall away from the true path. Fall away from nirvana. Fall toward the sins of the flesh.
And when the aching hours mounted one on top of another, his muscles became tense and his entire body quivered. Finally, the parchment always fell. That's when Ragyapa would feel the whiplike rod, again and again. And when he whimpered, like the undisciplined child known as Mi-ja, the punishment was even more severe. The encircling of the flame until the flesh of his arms began to sizzle. And the cure, which was worse. Embracing the snows outside the monastery, all through the night, until the monks found him blue and nearly frozen in the morning.
All for discipline. Everything for discipline.
Still, no matter how they tried to teach her, the girl Mi-ja kept whimpering.
Ragyapa sucked more blood and spit it out. The bowl was half full now.
Mi-ja was an ugly child. All the contours of her little face even and smooth, nothing distinctive about them, nothing to set her apart from other people. But now she looked better.
The jagged scab where her ear had been seemed to make her skull slightly tilted. Off balance. Yes, a great improvement.
Just as Ragyapa's looks had been improved when a hot knife etched the lines of the ancient jade skull into the top of his head.
A disciple hissed. "Someone is coming."
Ragyapa spat out the last of the blood and slid off the pony. His fellow Mongols crouched in the shadows behind the equipment of the amusement park. Footsteps scraped on gravel. A man appeared beneath the stone archway.
He wore a khaki uniform and a visored cap. Cautiously, he scanned the park. Fondling his big metal whistle, he stepped forward.
Ragyapa couldn't call out, but he knew that his trained monks would take the action that was necessary.
The policeman strolled slowly toward the pony and the small carousel.
As he passed the wooden replica of a small train engine, a man slipped out of the darkness, moving with all the quickness of death itself. Ragyapa saw the flash of the blade and then the
policeman's head being jerked viciously backward. There was a gurgling sound and in the glow of the almost full moon, blood spurted across stiffly starched khaki.
"Hold him!" Ragyapa commanded.
He rushed forward, holding the wooden bowl, blood sloshing over its edges.
As the other Mongols held the struggling policeman, Ragyapa lifted the bowl up to the cruel gash in his neck and caught the hot, squirting gore.
The policeman slumped to the ground. One of the Mongols dragged him into the caboose of the wooden train. Ragyapa stared down at the full bowl, satisfied.
When his disciples gathered around him, Ragyapa raised the bowl up to the almost full moon.
"Nothing will stop us," he said, "from finding the jade skull of our ancestor, the Great Khan Kublai."
"Nothing will stop us," the men intoned.
"All power to the Lord Mahakala!"
Ragyapa lowered the bowl to his lips and drank deeply. He handed the bowl to the Mongol standing next to him, who drank and passed it on.
Ragyapa fumbled inside his tunic and pulled out six train tickets. He handed one to each man.
Embossed on each ticket in Korean and English was the name of their destination.
Taejon.
16
Clouds boiled atop the peaks of the Bomun Mountains, far to the south of the city, watching us.
At the Taejon bus station, the milling crowds of Koreans stared at the three tall people moving amongst them. We carried overnight bags slung over our shoulders and the three of us-Lady Ahn, Ernie, and me-all wore blue jeans and sneakers. Ernie and I topped this outfit with bland-looking PX-bought sports shirts, but Lady Ahn brightened up the whole world with a shimmering red silk blouse.
I had trouble keeping my eyes off of her. Although I did my best not to make my attention obvious, she noticed. But I don't think she minded much.
At the ticket window, Lady Ahn purchased three express bus tickers to Ok-dong. I'd never heard of the place but she assured me it was on the coast of the Yellow Sea. When I tried to hand her a few bills, she pushed my money away.