The Golden Catch

by Roger Weston

  Both men looked at the picture with affection, as if it were a photo of a newborn baby.

  Mr. Lee said, “Finally, surrounded and attacked by enemy ships, warriors aboard turtle ships would fire a volley from the bow, the stern, the starboard, and the larboard--which prevented the enemy from approaching to attack. The turtle ship had fourteen mounted guns and were manned by a hundred and thirty men. They destroyed the enemy at will.”

  “How big were they?” Frank asked.

  “There was variation, but figure a hundred and thirteen feet long, thirty-four feet in breadth.”

  “You’re quite an expert on these turtle ships.”

  “As I said, they’re famous in Korea. Anyway, most of my time is now devoted to history.”

  “Really,” Frank said. “What do you know about the Japanese occupation of Korea before World War Two.”

  Mr. Lee nodded and frowned at the same time. The lines on his forehead became deep creases. He called Mrs. Lee, and she poured more rice water. The captain contemplated intensely as he took several sips. “At first, Russia was competing for Korea. After Japan defeated China in the Sino-Japanese War, a series of pro-Japanese and pro-Russian governments followed each other at Korean court. The consequence was the Russo-Japanese War of 1904, and the Japanese prevailed. In the aftermath Japan occupied the peninsula, making Korea their colony. Japan’s resident-general became the ultimate authority in Korea. The economy was shaped to exploit Korea’s resources and maximize returns for Japan.”

  Frank sipped his rice water slowly.

  “In the beginning, Japan ruled Korea in a fashion that would have pleased Machiavelli, ruthlessly suppressing all opposition; although, Machiavelli would have parted with their policies that dragged out the suffering of the people indefinitely. After Korean nationalists published a “declaration of independence” in 1919, demonstrations began, and Japanese police attacked patriots relentlessly, leaving thousands of unarmed civilians dead.” Squeezing his walking cane tightly, Mr. Lee shifted it in his hands.

  “As World War Two grew near in the 1930s, a campaign of cultural genocide was launched to erase Korean culture and replace it with Japanese. Masters of Korean arts were killed; Korean history was banned from schools; the Japanese language, manners, and customs were forced upon the people; thousands of Korean men were shipped abroad--slave labor for the war effort--or forced to fight to the death for their Japanese oppressors; Korean women were . . .” Anger entered the captain’s voice. “They were rounded up. Japanese government policy. The women were kidnapped and forced to be sex slaves for Japan’s occupation troops.” He shook his head vigorously. “Comfort women, they were called.” His eyes were watering and he looked away.

  “Bastards,” Frank said, surprised by the captain’s emotion.

  Mr. Lee shifted in his seat and straightened his back a little. A grimace crossed his face. “The atrocities were terrible. When Japan lost the war, Korea finally regained independence. But the damage can never be undone.” He stabbed the floor with his cane. “Never!”

  Silence descended upon the room. When the hush was broken by the tinging sounds of dishes from the kitchen, Mr. Lee rose and caned his way to the kitchen. He was gone for several minutes. When he returned he sat down, smiled, and said, “So that’s part of our history.”

  “Did the Japanese steal from Korea?”

  “The Japanese tradition of stealing from Korea goes back hundreds of years.” Mr. Lee’s voice was more relaxed now. “During the Invasion of 1592--that’s the one involving the turtle ships--the Japanese stole a huge amount of treasure. Besides the glory of the turtle ships, the campaign was a disaster for Korea. Artists and intellectuals were taken to Japan as prisoners. Korea’s temples and palaces were burnt to the ground. In Korea, history tends to repeat itself. What’s this all about, Frank?”

  “There’s a rumor about a lost shipment of Korean treasure. I’m trying to find out if there’s any truth to the story.”

  “So, you’ve become a treasure hunter, too?”

  “Something like that.” Frank shrugged and looked vaguely over toward a bookshelf.

  “There’s plenty out there to find. We historians owe a great debt to treasure hunters. They find us relics to study and learn from. There’s plenty of treasure in the Seoul National Museum. You should go.”

  “I will. I’ll be here a few days. Then I’ll go to Japan. See what information I can find in Tokyo.”

  “This shipment you speak of. You mean an ocean-going ship?”

  Frank nodded as he sipped his rice water.

  “What ever happened with that sunken ship you called me about a few years back? What was that called? The a . . . a . . .”

  “Musashi Maru.”

  “That’s it, sure. That was mysterious. We never could find any record of the Musashi Maru sinking in the Aleutians. Japanese archives said she sank off Puson.”

  “Nine months after the Battle of Kiska,” Frank added.

  “Sure. I think it was an error. I think it was just another supply ship for Kiska air base. If not, the shipmaster was a mad man. No, just a mistake in the records. Don’t you think so, Frank?” The captain watched Frank carefully.

  “Well . . . you never know.”

  Mr. Lee grinned at Frank. “I think you would want to keep something like this quiet.”

  “Of course.” Frank took a deep breath.

  “How will you do research in Japan?”

  “I suppose I’ll visit libraries and museums, that sort of thing.”

  “You don’t need to go to Japan. Like my father, I dabble in politics. Although not to the degree that he did--”

  “You once told me about your father,” Frank said.

  “I’m sure I did. My own involvement in politics is more complicated, but I have contacts in political circles including some in Japan. I will have one of my associates in Tokyo look into this for you.”

  “You mean the fellow who looked into the Musashi Maru.”

  “I think this is too important. I have someone else in mind. He has more access.”

  “It’s nice of you to offer, but--”

  “I will contact him today. You will waste your time in the museums of Tokyo, and besides, you don’t speak Japanese, do you?”

  “There’s really no need for you to get involved.”

  “This is fascinating, this lost shipment you speak of. I’m glad to help. My friend Koichi Kazuka can access government archives in Tokyo. He will find out what information can be dug up on this shipment. He will do this for me. You could spend months in the museums and learn nothing.”

  Frank turned his cup in the saucer. “Perhaps your friend will be resourceful.”

  “I’m thinking of someone else to refer you to as well. I think she can help you. She’s an archaeologist, an American archaeologist, who lives here in Korea. You can trust her. She’s like family to us. She’s very knowledgeable about Korean artifacts, Korean treasure, those kinds of things. An amazing woman, Frank. Several years ago, I captivated her interest with some Aleut relics, and she developed a fascinating theory on the Aleutian Islands. Be sure and ask her about it.”

  Walking along the street, Frank thought about what Mr. Lee told him. He found himself amazed that such a slice of history ended up on his ranch. Later that evening, he called Mr. Lee from a public phone.

  “Good news,” Mr. Lee said. “I spoke with my associate in Tokyo. He can access the government archives there. I’ll let you know what we find out. Also, I talked to Abby Sinclair in Kyongju. She’s anxious to meet you.”

  Back in his hotel room, Frank looked at the stack of books he now owned on Korean history and culture. Since coming here years ago, he tried to forget Korea. Slowly, he opened a book and started skimming. Having already narrowed the origin of the treasure down to the Musashi Maru and the World War Two era, he was able to go to the appropriate sections and time periods. He spent the rest of the evening skimming books. At seven, he took a break and ordered r
oom service for dinner. When it arrived, he found he couldn’t eat.

  He studied for a couple more hours. His reading expanded in scope. Over the centuries, Korea was overrun, pillaged and plundered continually by one dynasty after another; and with each new dynasty came new kings, more treasure, and more tombs laden with gold. Some of the dynasties, such as Paekche and Shilla lasted for long periods, producing many kings and many tombs; others didn’t last at all, but left Korea with more tombs teaming with priceless relics.

  Years passed, old dynasties were wiped out; old tombs were forgotten amidst constant war and upheaval on the peninsula. Archaeologists were still finding these tombs, excavating them, and producing treasure every year for bulging Korean museums. Treasure-filled tombs were turning up around Korea like mushrooms in the woods after a fresh rain. The tombs were producing ancient gold treasures. Many of these treasures appeared hauntingly similar to the Kiska treasures.

  Sometime around midnight, Frank took up Dante’s Divine Comedy, a graphic descent into hell, one of several books he purchased on his layover in Anchorage. As he read, his thoughts flashed back to the treasure cave. Sleep came hard that eve, and during snatches of laborious slumber, he convulsed in grisly nightmares.

  CHAPTER SIX

  November 27th

  The building lay on the outskirts of Seoul. Large enough to contain a football field on each of seven floors above ground and five below, the Seoul government stacks were a mind boggling maze of files, boxes, and walkways--a warehouse for government archives. Despite the building’s immensity, the archived files were organized.

  Colonel Kim arrived first thing in the morning. The guard, spotting the colonel’s rank, stiffened. Colonel Kim introduced himself and explained that he wanted free and complete access. Reluctantly, the guard told the colonel he could not allow him access to the building without written orders. The colonel lay eight-hundred thousand South Korean Won in the guard’s hand. The guard, finding this more credible than a written order, pocketed the cash and told the colonel to take his time.

  For the next six hours the colonel scanned computers and files. Finally, deep within the stacks, after exhaustive searching, he found what he was looking for in a gray file cabinet.

  As he withdrew the file, a hidden trigger was released that sent an electric current through a wire. Behind the wall, a super sensitive tape recorder began recording. Overhead, a camera hidden in the light fixture lit up, rolling its tape, watching with a quarter-inch lens. An electric current ran through the RG11 coaxial cable through the wall and up the side of the building to a transmitter on the roof. Across town, a computer alarm sounded.

  ***

  The computer alarm sounded at the DowKai security center. DowKai was a multinational conglomerate founded and chaired by a man named Mok Don. Soo-man, Mok Don’s security chief, was a muscle-bound body builder. When the alarm went off, Soo-man was thinking about the girl he was with last night. He hadn’t been able to think of anything else all day.

  Soo-man looked at the computer monitor as if it were suddenly working in Arabic. Initiative Three? That was a function he’d long since written off as one of Mok Don’s eccentricities. Was it a computer error? A possibility, but not one he had the option of exploring at the moment. In case of this eventuality, his instructions were clear: Follow procedure, don’t waste a second.

  Soo-man made a call.

  The telephone pole was on a busy corner, four blocks north of the Seoul Government Stacks. Behind the lid to the terminal box, were over five hundred terminal pairs; each linked a phone with the telephone company’s main office.

  Years ago, Mok Don obtained the coded number of the cables in the terminal box that linked the Seoul Stacks phone. He secretly leased the backup cables to the stack’s sixth floor from a telephone company executive. His technical specialist hooked up a tiny device called an infinity transmitter.

  When Soo-man placed the call, the backups were silently connected with a tiny microphone camouflaged in plaster and broadcasting from the wall behind the file cabinet inside the stacks. With the transmission completed, two listening devices and a video camera simultaneously monitored every sight and sound within twenty feet of the rigged file cabinet. While the tape recorder was a backup that retained hard copy audio surveillance, the video and hidden microphone both transmitted to the security center at DowKai.

  Soo-man listened intently into the phone receiver for any dialogue. There was none. His eyes scanned the emergency alarm warning on the computer screen:

  Immediately insert tape into VCR. Push Record. Turn on Channel 47.

  Soo-man followed the instructions. With the VCR recording, he watched in fascination as an image emerged on the screen of the TV: A man, a colonel, stood in a hall between two rows of file cabinets. The colonel paged eagerly through a manila file folder. He stopped, showing marked interest in a particular sheet. Removing the sheet, he scanned it.

  “What’s this . . . ?” the colonel said aloud, his eyes widening.

  Soo-man pushed the button on the phone indicating another line out, then he dialed a number.

  “This is Soo-man. Initiative three is active. Move! A colonel is in the Seoul Stacks right now. Follow procedure, the clock is ticking.”

  Soo-man pushed the button for the other line. Again he listened through the microphone behind the filing cabinet. Nothing. He looked back at the TV screen. The file drawer hung open. The colonel was now on the phone at the end of the hall.

  Soo-man had a tap on that phone and heard every word.

  The colonel spoke into the phone in English: “John, this is Colonel Kim . . .”

  As the colonel elaborated, Soo-man crinkled his broad forehead and listened carefully. He understood only snatches of the rapid-fire English, but there were phrases that were unmistakable. He couldn’t believe it.

  After the colonel finished an oration of English, he hung up the phone and walked back to the file drawer. Several sheets of paper went into his pocket. The file he returned to its place in the drawer. He continued shuffling through the files.

  The tape recorder and camera remained up and hot.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dressed in army fatigues and a camouflage cap, looking like one of the thousands of American soldiers stationed in Seoul, Frank waited under an awning in front of a small French bakery, eating a pastry.

  The sidewalk in front of the bakery was extra wide. A child darted out of the way as a quiet Hyundai drove onto the sidewalk and parked by the other cars already parked there. The busy street ran between high-rise office buildings and cars lined up at a traffic light half-a-block down.

  For what Frank had in mind, he’d already approached two likely people, and both times he was turned down. Time was short now.

  The bakery was two blocks down from the subway entrance. He casually scanned the area, looking for parked vans with lots of antennas, people sitting in parked cars, loiterers, anybody who might be staking out the entrance to the subway. The colonel could have traced the pay phone number by now.

  Frank could think of no credible reason why the colonel would do something so foolish. He would have to be crazy or suicidal to turn Frank in for past crimes or set him up. By an action like that, the colonel would not only risk his life, but also implicate himself in the same crimes. Still, Frank wasn’t going to link the assassin John Blake to a time and place without reasonable caution. As he’d expected, nothing caught his eye.

  Elderly women walked by, businessmen, children. Many of them looked at him, which under the circumstances made him only slightly nervous since he was getting used to attracting attention. Westerners were scarce in Seoul. A young man with platform shoes, crisp white tie, and short spiked hair stared as he walked past. Frank smiled. The boy grinned back.

  “An-yang-haseo. You speak English?” Frank said.

  The boy stopped. “Sure.”

  Frank tossed the last of his pastry in the trash. “Maybe you could help me out and make some easy mone
y,” he said. “My friend is supposed to call me in a few minutes at a pay phone at the bottom of the subway stairs over there, but I’m meeting my wife. I’m already late, and she’ll leave if I don’t hurry.”

  The kid started looking around uncomfortably. He looked at his watch. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s easy.” Frank reached into his pocket, and handed the kid twenty dollars. “The pay phone is over there at the bottom of the subway stairs. My friend will be calling in a few minutes.” Frank handed him a piece of paper. “Just give him this number and tell him to call me. When you’re done, come back here and the baker will give you another twenty dollars.”

  The kid adjusted the shoulder strap on his backpack and looked at the handwritten number on the paper. “That’s all?”

  “He should call right on time, but you might have to wait five or ten minutes. I really appreciate your help. If I didn’t show up, my wife would never forgive me.”

  The kid raised his eyebrows at Frank, shrugged his shoulders. He stuffed the paper in his pocket. “I just give him the number, okay?”

  “You’ve got to hurry.” Frank glanced at his watch. “He’ll be calling soon.”

  The boy’s shoes thumped as he walked away.

  Frank bought a dozen pastries and left the twenty dollars with the baker, who was happy to do a small favor.

  Taking the long way around, Frank strolled to the coffee shop he’d visited earlier, which was around the corner and two blocks again from the subway entrance. He was more relaxed now and wondering what Colonel Kim would have for him. Inside, he bought a cup and sat at the table by the payphone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The DowKai Building, located in northern Seoul, was far from the buzz of downtown. The twenty-story building was a bleak, dull-yellow hue. Guard posts, electric gates, and high fences topped with three strands of barbed wire--the structure appeared to be a foreign embassy or government building.