by Martin Limon
Ernie shouted back a couple of times, and I told him to cool it.
"If they don't like us Miguks," Ernie said, "they can go screw themselves."
"It's only because of what Hatcher did to the nun. That's what made them angry."
"It pissed me off more than it did them."
When we parked the jeep in front of the CID building, a bulb still shone in the Admin Office. Sergeant Riley sat behind his desk, his head lolling atop the ink-scribbled blotter. When he heard our footsteps, he jerked upright and rubbed his eyes.
"Been waiting for you guys," he said.
"More shit from the First Sergeant?" Ernie asked.
"No. Phone call. From your asshole buddy. Guy with a weird accent. Calls himself Rag Yapping. Or something like that."
"Ragyapa," I said.
Ernie and I both leaned forward. Riley smirked, delighted to be in the position of knowing something that we didn't.
"Spill, Riley," I said. "What'd Ragyapa tell you?"
"He said he's ready to meet and exchange the woman for the jade skull."
"Lady Ahn's still alive?"
"Heard her in the background."
"What'd she say?"
"She didn't say anything. She just screamed occasionally."
I didn't need any more detail. "When's the meeting?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. Four P.M. sharp."
"Four P.M.? That's the same time the nun torches herself."
"And the same time the Eighth Army honchos decided to release Hatcher," Ernie added.
"Yeah," Riley said. "It's almost as if this guy knew."
Ernie was impatient. "So where's this meet supposed to take place?"
"You'll love this," Riley said. "I don't know how he expects you guys to survive."
"Survive? What are you talking about?"
"The place you're supposed to meet. He made me write it down and spell it back to him so there wouldn't be any mistake."
Ernie grabbed for Riley's khaki collar. "Where, goddamn it?"
Riley brushed back Ernie's hand. "Take it easy, Bascom. I was going to tell you." He glanced down at his notes. "Guanghua-mun. The Gate of the Transformation of Light. Right in the heart of tomorrow's demonstration."
Riley smiled up at us.
"In the middle of a demonstration?" Ernie said. "We'll be killed!"
Riley smiled more broadly. "That's what I was trying to tell you:"
Ernie turned to me. "It doesn't make any sense."
I waited, thinking it over. Then I spoke. "Sure it does, Ernie."
"How?"
"We're American law enforcement. In downtown Seoul tomorrow, in the middle of an anti-American demonstration, there's no way we can deploy any backup."
"That's for sure. They'd be stoned to death."
"And even the Korean National Police will be totally overwhelmed."
"When there's thousands of demonstrators out after their blood, of course they'll be overwhelmed."
"So setting the exchange up in the middle of a demonstration is a brilliant move. Tomorrow afternoon, Guanghua-mun in downtown Seoul will be the most lawless piece of real estate in Korea."
Ernie let a long breath out between dry lips. "Strictly survival of the fittest," he said.
Riley barked a laugh. "For once, Bascom, you got it exactly right."
34
We kept Herman the german handcuffed to the roll bar of the jeep all night.
We parked in an unlit area behind the barracks and brought out a blanket for him, and even though he had to hold his arm straight up over his head, he spent a fairly comfortable night.
Why didn't we arrest him and book him and slap him in a holding cell at the MP Station? Because if we did, he'd never tell us where the jade skull was hidden. And without the skull, we'd never free Lady Ahn.
Ernie tried to wheedle it out of him by offering him a nice, comfortable bed in the barracks, but Herman wasn't going for it.
"We ought to just beat the crap out of him," Ernie told me.
I studied the scars on Herman's thick-boned forehead. He stared back at me impassively.
"It wouldn't do any good, Ernie," I said. "Herman will turn the jade skull over to us, but he'll turn it over only when he's ready. Which is just before tomorrow's rendezvous. Right, Herman?"
He stared at me with his moist brown eyes. A bubble of saliva emerged from the comer of his fleshy lips.
As we walked to the barracks, another burst of monsoon rain splattered the pavement. By the time we trotted to the doorway it was coming down in torrents. The little canvas-topped jeep sat huddled beneath a deluge of mist and spray, as if it were at the bottom of a waterfall.
Ernie went to his room. I went to mine. All I could see was the beautiful face of Lady Ahn. Before I fell asleep, I cleaned my. 38 three times.
The next day we stayed away from the CID office by leaving word for the First Sergeant that we were still trying to contact the Buddhist nun to convince her to call off the self-immolation. We kept questioning Herman about the whereabouts of the jade skull but he wouldn't spill.
Two hours before the rendezvous, Ernie went berserk.
He punched Herman and kicked him, so enraged that I couldn't hold him back. Finally, he reached into his shoulder holster, whipped out the. 45, and with a metal-on-metal clang, pulled back the charging handle.
He stuck the muzzle up against Herman's temple. "It's time, Herman. I want the jade skull. I want it now."
Sweat poured off Herman's forehead. For a moment I thought he was going to refuse like he had a hundred times before. But this time he changed his tune.
"Okay. It's in Itaewon. I'll show you where."
Ernie stuck the. 45 back into the holster. "That's better. Let's go."
Ernie drove us to Itaewon. When we approached the nightclub district, Herman piped up.
"It's at Mama Lee's," he said.
Mama Lee. The biggest black marketeer in Itaewon. Why in the hell would he leave something so valuable with her? I swiveled in the seat. Herman saw the unspoken question in my eyes and answered it.
"She's the most reliable person I know."
Which maybe wasn't saying too much.
"I hope the fuck for your sake," Ernie said, "that it's still there."
Herman sat quietly in the backseat, head down, occasionally jerking his handcuffs apart, making the chain rattle, like a child fascinated by a toy.
Once inside Mama Lee's courtyard, it took us about thirty seconds to locate the jade skull of Kublai Khan. The most priceless Mongolian antique in Korea was in a leather bag, bound in cheesecloth, stuffed behind brown bags full of American-made PX goods.
"Business looks good, Mama," Ernie said.
"So-so." She tilted her gnarled hand from side to side. Puffs of smoke filtered through her snaggled teeth, like fire from a dragon's mouth.
Ernie lifted the jade skull up to the light and examined it. "Thanks for holding this for us."
'You take go," Mama Lee said. "I no like. Chinguro." Creepy.
'Yeah, it's chinguro all right."
Ernie replaced the skull in the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and the three of us walked back to the jeep. We debated taking Herman to the MP Station and booking him.
Herman wasn't thrilled with the idea. "Hey! You guys can't do that. We had a deal."
"Fuck some kind of a deal!" Ernie said. "You had a deal with Mi-ja. To be her father and protect her. Instead you cut off her ear."
"That was business."
Ernie stepped toward Herman. I grabbed him and held on, feeling the jade skull pressing against my belly.
"Not now, Ernie. There's no time. We have to save Lady Ahn. And the nun."
Ernie took three deep breaths. Then he pointed at Herman. "As soon as this shit is over, we're booking your ass and the charge is going to be kidnapping and being an accomplice to murder in the first degree. You got that, you fat old lifer asshole?"
"I got it," Herman whispered.
As we shot
through afternoon traffic toward downtown Seoul, Ernie had to swerve around groups of angry citizens, holding photographs of the little nun, throwing rotten persimmons at our jeep. I thought about what Herman had just said. It was the first time I ever remembered him answering a question with such humility in his voice. I looked back. His face was the same, aggrieved and worried, as always. But fat tears poured down his fleshy cheeks.
I didn't tell Ernie. It would've just pissed him off.
We knelt on the balcony of a Red Pagoda that sat on a hill overlooking the T-shaped intersection in front of Guanghua-mun, the Gate of the Transformation of Light.
We had left the jeep in a narrow alley in a stone-walled residential district. Ernie made Herman move to the front seat and handcuffed him to the front roll bar.
"You can't leave me here," Herman protested.
"The hell we can't," Ernie answered. "You'll be safe this far from the demonstrators. They never come up here."
"But you promised I'd be able to see Ragyapa."
"Fuck that promise. You don't deserve shit."
Ernie lifted the thick chain that was welded onto the floorboard, wound it tightly through the steering wheel, and padlocked it. With Herman's wrist handcuffed to the roll bar, both vehicle and suspect were now secure.
As we walked away, Herman cursed and shouted at us, spittle erupting from his moist lips. "You can't leave me here, you bastards! Come back and take these damn handcuffs off!"
No matter how loud he shouted, I wasn't worried about anybody interfering. The local residents wouldn't want to become involved with some half-crazed foreigner. And the police would have plenty to do with the largest demonstration of the year-maybe the decade-about to begin right in the heart of their precinct.
From the vantage point of the pagoda, we could see streams of students moving in an orderly fashion toward Guanghua-mun. Armored riot-control vehicles and helmeted riot police had already taken up positions near the periphery. In case anything got out of control.
Russet-robed monks and gray-clad nuns knelt silently on the damp pavement. A lake of tranquility. I couldn't see Choi So-lan.
In the center of all this activity, the ancient stone gate loomed about fifty feet high. Atop it were bright green tiles, upturned at the eaves, and rows of porcelain monkeys, a simian honor guard designed to ward off evil spirits. Behind the gate were the manicured grounds of the old capital building, built by the Japanese after their takeover of Korea in 1911. The domed building was still considered a reminder of colonization, and there was much talk about tearing it down.
Ernie watched the students. "They almost look like they're in military formations," he said.
"Close to it. Each university has their own student leadership council that organizes the students into groups. Boys march with boys. Girls march with girls. And the shock troops, the biggest and toughest boys, go in first."
All the students wore white bandanas across their foreheads, knotted in the back. Korean characters were slashed across the front in black ink, but from this distance I couldn't read what they said.
Around a far turn, more battalions of students emerged, all heading toward the big open intersection in front of Guanghua-mun. Vehicular traffic had long since been blocked off. A wooden platform had been set up in front of the gate; student technicians fiddled with wires and speakers and amplifiers.
The sky was overcast, but no rain. Not yet.
I grabbed the leather bag from Ernie.
"I better take up my position," I said. "Ragyapa wants me right in front of the gate."
"Why don't you let me take it?" Ernie patted the. 45 beneath his coat. "I'm better with this than you are."
"That won't help. Not with all these students. But speaking the language might make a difference. I know what to say to them." I stood and hoisted the bag over my shoulder. "Besides, if I act cool enough they just might think I'm a foreign correspondent or something."
"Did you bring a notebook?"
"Forgot."
"Well, then," Ernie said, "look studious."
And so I strode off toward the Gate of the Transformation of Light.
35
As I neared Guanghua-mun, the chanting of the students grew deafening.
"Jayu mansei!" Long live liberty.
"Weiguk-nom chukko!" Death to foreign louts!
"Miguk-nom mullo kara!" Yankee go home!
Although they were shouting all these terrible things, most of the students didn't even glance my way as I skirted their formations. But I felt as if I were tiptoeing past a giant tiger. His belly was temporarily full but if he became hungry and turned his green eyes on me, I'd be gulped down like a before-dinner aperitif.
Finally, I reached my position in front of the gate. I stood behind the podium, hoping no one would notice me.
I studied the area where the Buddhists had gathered. A sea of bald heads. There were too many of them and I wasn't high enough to see over the crowd. I couldn't tell if the little nun was there or not.
The buildings surrounding the intersection in front of Guanghua-mun were mostly deserted. But in a few of them, from high windows, people stared out at the crowd. In one or two windows I thought I glimpsed a glimmer of light. Maybe telescopes. Or photographic lenses. The secret police keeping tabs on troublemakers.
Suddenly, I felt naked standing out here. I wished we had set up a sniper in one of those windows. Ernie had promised to cover me, and I knew he would, but more students and more Buddhists were joining the swelling, noisy crowd every minute. Ernie would have trouble just keeping track of where I was, much less helping me if I needed it.
I searched for Ragyapa. So far nothing.
Suddenly, like a wave, the Buddhists rose to their feet, chanted for a moment, then knelt back down. The monks and nuns looked like a carpet of wool dotted with flesh-colored buttons. That's when I saw her. Choi So-lan, the Buddhist nun. She was in front with some large important-looking old monk who chanted and bowed to her. They were preparing her all right. Like a recipe: Marinate in righteousness before burning.
I wanted to charge over there, to give her the news that Hatcher would be turned over to them, to tell her that she didn't have to go through with this. Why hadn't I sent Ernie to do that? We'd been so nervous that we hadn't thought about it. Still, I had to stop her.
A door in an old wooden yoguan across the street slammed open.
Through it, Ragyapa shoving her from behind, stumbled Lady Ahn. My heart punched the walls of my chest like a clenched fist.
Even from this distance I could see she was a mess. Her hair exploded around her skull like uncut weeds. Her face was dark, shadowed, bruised. Her clothes were soiled and torn. If this had been a normal day, Ragyapa would have never dared to allow her onto the street. After one look at her, any self-respecting policeman would've investigated. But the rows of helmeted police had their eyes only on the surging demonstrators. None of them would break ranks; they'd be under orders not to.
Besides, what the foreign press called riot police weren't really police at all. They were conscripts in the Korean Army. After basic training, they were sent to the special riot police academy and taught how to wear gas masks and protect themselves with shields and wield riot batons. The riot police were soldiers, actually, and subject to military law and under the command of military officers. Most were from poor families, drafted when they were twenty years old. Few had any love for the wealthy students who would turn their backs on the money-making advantages of a university education to come out here and curse them for just doing what they were told to do.
It was an old story. Peasants against the Mandarin elite. And the Korean government wasn't above using class warfare to its advantage. The strong young peasant boys had been trained to beat up the uppity students.
I searched behind the yoguan. No sign of Ernie.
Ragyapa waved for me to come forward. His thug with the M-l could be drawing a bead on me right now. No sense thinking about it. I walked f
orward.
Twenty yards in front of the yoguan, I stopped.
"Let her go," I said.
Lady Ahn didn't seem to know I was there. Her eyes were glazed. I'm not even sure if she knew where she was.
"Lady Ahn," I called, "can you walk forward on your own?"
She didn't move.
I unslung the bag and carefully set it on the wet pavement. "I'll leave the skull here," I said. "You let her walk toward me."
Ragyapa smiled. From out of the shadows of the yoguan emerged one of his Mongolian thugs. The thug held the M-l rifle level, pointing it straight at my nose.
"That won't be necessary," Ragyapa said. "You will bring the skull to us."
I knew that if I stepped into the darkness of the yoguan, I'd never step out. Out here, if they shot me, someone would be forced to notice. The riot police would move. Ragyapa and his boys would never get away.
"No," I told Ragyapa. "We make the exchange right here. Out in the open."
From the corner of my eye, I saw something scurry along the side of the yoguan. Ernie, I thought, but I forced myself not to look.
"No!" Ragyapa said. "You will bring the skull to me now."
Suddenly, metal flashed from the sleeve of his coat. I saw it press up against Lady Ahn's side. She moaned. Then he lifted it. A gleaming dagger, pressed right into her throat.
"She will die," Ragyapa told me, "if you don't do what I say."
Behind us, student leaders started to rant into the microphones. They were criticizing the president of the republic. Calling him a lapdog of the American occupying forces. Accusing him of letting the filthy GIs get away with assaulting Korean women. Even innocent Buddhist nuns.
The students roared their approval. Off to the side, the riot police started to shuffle. Officers barked orders and the police repositioned themselves closer to the demonstrators.
I looked back at Ragyapa, into the evil in his eyes.