by Martin Limon
Before we were dismissed, Ernie said, “This Sarkosian almost killed a dependent child. As it is, the child might not recover his full mental capacities.”
Colonel Brace stared at Ernie. “Yes,” he said. “What’s your point?”
Here it comes, I thought. Ernie was about to spit in the punch bowl.
“Sarkosian has to be stopped, sir. I think it’s more important than us babysitting two general officers.”
Blood rushed to Colonel Brace’s face. “Do you think I haven’t considered that? I know what Sarkosian did, what he’s capable of doing. But having two commanders with as much power as the First Corps commander and the ROK Army Third Corps commander threatening one another with move-out alerts and causing reciprocal division-wide chaos by the North Korean Communists on the other side of the DMZ is something that could erupt into war. Do you understand that? Millions of people could die. It has to stop right now.”
“Then you shouldn’t wait,” Ernie said. “The Eighth Army Commander should relieve both of them now.”
Colonel Brace looked down and took a deep breath. “Not my call,” he said.
General officers with illustrious forebears or excellent political contacts in Washington DC were sometimes treated like coddled children, even at the risk of men under their command dying or wars breaking out. These two jokers, General Crabtree and General Bok, were being given one more chance to straighten out and fly right, a chance no enlisted man would receive in similar circumstances.
“We’ll act quickly, sir,” I said, and before Ernie could protest again, I hustled him out of Colonel Brace’s office.
On our way north to I Corps, we stopped in downtown Seoul at the headquarters of the Korean National Police. Mr. Kill’s second-in-command, Officer Oh, greeted us in the lobby, having changed from her usual blue summer uniform to her khaki-colored skirt and long-sleeved blouse. Her cap was something like a short-brimmed Australian campaign hat tilted at a rakish angle. She nodded to me and to Ernie and we followed her upstairs in the narrow elevator.
She led us down a long hallway to the office of her boss and mentor, Gil Kwon-up, Chief Homicide Inspector of the Korean National Police.
He sat at his desk speaking Korean into the phone. Officer Oh bowed to him and motioned for us to take seats on the leather-upholstered bench that sat next to the oblong coffee table of varnished mahogany. We sat while Officer Oh stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back, waiting for Kill to finish his phone call. When he did, he dropped the phone in the cradle, glanced at us, rose from his seat, and buttoned his coat.
“Deitssoyo,” he said to Officer Oh, which meant “It’s done,” but in practice meant something more like, “That will be all.”
Officer Oh bowed slightly, turned, and left the room. Mr. Kill sat on a leather-covered stool opposite us. In the center of the table was an octagonal box of wooden matches and two glass ashtrays. Mr. Kill knew that neither Ernie nor I smoked, so he didn’t pull out the pack of Turtleboat cigarettes I knew to be in his upper-right shirt pocket. Instead, he said, “You’ve been busy.”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Your boy has evaded us so far,” he said.
“Not our boy,” Ernie said.
Kill studied Ernie. “No, I suppose not, since he’s tried to kill you.”
“And worse,” Ernie said.
I explained what Sarkosian had done to Mort Cleveland Jr. Mr. Kill shook his head.
“He’s been clever. And he’s unpredictable.”
“He has stolen money,” I said. “He knows Korea, and he plans to take his revenge before we catch up with him.”
“We’ll see about that.” Mr. Kill moved the ashtray slightly. I knew he wanted to finish this conversation so he could have a smoke. Most big shots in Korea or anywhere else wouldn’t have hesitated to light up. It showed Mr. Kill’s keen sense of politesse, which I found to be odd in a man who had reputedly locked up hundreds—some said thousands—of criminals in his almost thirty years as a cop. Sarkosian might be a first for us: both a murderer and a bank robber. But he was one of many for Inspector Gil Kwon-up.
“And you’re having trouble up north,” he said.
“Yes.” I wasn’t surprised that he was following the internal problems of the United Nations Command. There were hundreds of Korean employees who worked amongst the staff at 8th Army headquarters. More than a few of them, probably in key areas of responsibility, reported regularly to the Korean National Police. I never had the nerve to ask whether these informers were paid or if they did it out of patriotic duty. Maybe I’d find out another day.
“Your next stop,” he said, “will be First Corps headquarters?”
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded. “Be careful up there. Things are going on that even we aren’t aware of.”
We’d worked with Mr. Kill on a number of cases. Mostly from the GI angle, digging out information from US military bases and the business girls in the GI villages—places that were difficult or sometimes impossible for him to access. Usually, though, he knew the workings of anything high up in his own government, even if he didn’t always choose to divulge it. That he didn’t claim inside knowledge here somehow seemed to raise the stakes even higher.
“The situation seems pretty straightforward to me,” Ernie said. “Two commanders, one leading First Corps and the other the ROK Army Third Corps, both want the same woman. A love triangle. Instead of duking it out like any sane person would, they keep posturing with combat alerts.”
Mr. Kill smiled. “Yes, so it would seem.”
“But that’s not it?” I asked.
“It could be. But military intelligence in both our armies has their own motives and processes. And they’re sometimes opaque to the rest of us in law enforcement.”
“But you suspect something bigger’s afoot?”
He nodded.
I wondered if I should mention Katie Byrd Worthington’s conversation with Estella. But after all, the assertion that she was an American CIA agent had been made by a tabloid journalist. I had no way of confirming it. And I didn’t want to look foolish by making such a bold and unfounded accusation. Not to mention that I might be mucking up US national security.
Ernie shot me a warning glance. Apparently, he didn’t want me spilling too much either. Instead, I thanked Mr. Kill for his advice. He told me that he’d double the KNP patrols both in Samgakji, where Sarkosian was last spotted, and Itaewon, the main GI village in Seoul.
“Sarkosian would likely feel comfortable in either place.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But there’s also probably a lot of GIs who’ve heard about him and what he did in Suwon.”
“But they haven’t seen his picture yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
Aside from a direct recitation of the Associated Press story, both the American Forces Network Korea and the Pacific Stars and Stripes had downplayed the bank robberies, despite the many deaths that had occurred in the last few days. Their reasoning was that they didn’t want to “damage Korean-American relations.” Sarkosian had done enough of that on his own.
We thanked Mr. Kill and left the office.
-22-
On the road north, Ernie stepped on the gas and passed a truck laden with mounds of fat white Chosun radishes.
“What the hell was Kill going on about?” he asked.
“He was warning us to be careful.”
“Big help,” Ernie said.
“He probably has inklings of things he’s not fully sure about and doesn’t want unfounded accusations getting back to Eighth Army headquarters.”
“Mr. Kill thinks we’d rat him out to Eighth Army?”
“Ernie, we work for Eighth Army.”
“Maybe you work for them. I work for Ernie Bascom.”
Ernie often talked about looking out for number one, but I knew that
he’d be there in a pinch. In fact, when it came to violence, Ernie Bascom made damn sure he was never left out.
We passed through downtown Uijongbu, took a left where the road divided, and after about a mile, ran smack dab into the front gate of Camp Red Cloud, headquarters of the US Army I Corps. A roadblock had been set up in front of the gate. Ernie downshifted and coasted to a stop in front of an armed MP wearing full combat regalia.
“What the hell?” Ernie said.
“Lockdown,” the MP replied. “Nobody in or out.”
“We have an emergency dispatch.”
“Tough shit.”
“No tough shit about it. Who’s the Officer of the Guard? I want to talk to him.”
“It’s a her.”
“Whatever. Bring her out here.”
The MP shouted behind his back, and in about five minutes, a diminutive black woman wearing fatigues and the rank insignia of a First Lieutenant walked out of the guard house. As she conferred with the MP, he nodded toward us. Keeping her right hand on the hilt of her .45, she approached our jeep. I noticed that her name tag said Kramer.
“May I see your dispatch?” she asked.
We showed it to her. And our badges.
She shook her head. “Total lock down,” she said. “General Crabtree’s orders.”
“You’d better check, Lieutenant,” I said. “We were sent by the Eighth Army Provost Marshal, specifically to talk to General Crabtree.”
Her forehead wrinkled in worry and she said, “Wait here.”
She returned to the guard house, where I imagined she was making a phone call to report that two CID agents from Seoul were here to interview General Crabtree. Ten minutes later, Lieutenant Kramer emerged from the guard house and walked toward us.
“No entry,” she told us.
“That’s bullshit,” Ernie said.
She shook her head negatively. “No entry. But Command Sergeant Major Tapia told me to relay a message.”
We stared at her.
“He wants you to meet him here in the village.” She pointed at the street straight ahead of us. “There’s a place called the Lucky Star Club. I’ve never been there, but they tell me it’s hidden back in one of those alleys. He said be there at twenty-hundred hours.” Eight p.m.
“You spoke to Screech Owl?” Ernie asked.
“Huh?”
“That’s his first name. Screech Owl.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Apache,” Ernie told her.
“Wow,” Lieutenant Kramer said. “That’s bold.”
In front of the Camp Red Cloud main gate, crossed metal stanchions blocked our way, along with a chain link fence and a half-dozen MPs armed with M16 assault rifles. Still, I knew what Ernie was thinking. He hadn’t given up on finding a way in.
“You sure you can’t make an exception?” he asked the Lieutenant, using a boyish grin that was his version of charm.
“No can do,” she said, standing back up to her full height.
“Then meet us at eight at the Lucky Star Club. I’ll introduce you to the Command Sergeant Major. He’s a legend in his own time. You’ll like him.”
She laughed. “Enough of that. You got your answer. Move out.”
“Anything for you,” Ernie said.
He turned the jeep around and we headed back to the bar district of Ganeung sam-dong. Ganeung Third District, which held more bars per square pyong than any other area in the city of Uijongbu. All of them catering to American soldiers.
Screech Owl was late. And First Lieutenant Kramer didn’t turn up.
“Your boyish charm ain’t what it used to be,” I told Ernie.
“She’s just playing hard to get.”
“At this rate, you’ll never have another story to tell Strange.”
“Don’t you worry, Sueño. I’ll soon have more conquests than the sultan in One Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”
“So you have read a book,” I said.
“Mrs. Pettigrew in the fifth grade used to read it to us. Always put me to sleep.”
The Lucky Star was a small club without any pool tables, which meant that its clientele was slightly more mature than average. Young NCOs rather than first-enlistment grunts. The juke box had some oldies but moldies on it, and I dropped in a couple of hundred-won coins. When I returned to the bar, Ernie had swiveled on his stool and was staring openmouthed at the front door.
“What sins did we commit,” he asked, “to deserve this?”
Katie Byrd Worthington stood at the top of the short flight of steps, squinting and allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She held her hand across her brow like a cavalry scout scanning the Great Sonoran Desert. Finally, she spotted us and scooted around an array of cocktail tables to join us at the bar. She waved to the barmaid and pointed to the bottles of OB in front of us. “Hana,” she said. One. The barmaid reached in the cooler, pulled out a cold OB Beer, popped the top, and slid it in front of Katie. She offered a glass, but Katie waved it away. Sipping from the brown bottle, she glugged a couple of swallows, then set it down and wiped her lips with the back of her hand.
“Close your mouths, boys,” she said. “You look like a couple of bullfrogs trying to catch flies.”
“How?” I asked.
“How do you catch flies?”
“No. How did you find us?”
“Sergeant Major Screech Owl called me. Told me where you’d be.”
“Why’d he call you?” Ernie asked.
“He needs me.” She paused, eyes flashing mischievously. “And he needs the Overseas Observer.”
“He needs you not to badmouth his boss,” Ernie said.
Katie faked amazement. “Would I ever do that?”
“Damn right you would,” Ernie replied, “to weasel your way into a story.”
She leaned toward us conspiratorially and lowered her voice. “The good Sergeant Major needs our help.”
“Our help?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Katie replied, offended. “Our help.”
“For what?” Ernie asked.
Katie sipped on her beer. “I’m not quite sure. It has something to do with Estella.”
“The lucky star,” I said.
“Huh?”
“That’s what Stella means in Latin. Star.”
“I don’t know how lucky she is.”
“Sounds like she’s not very,” Ernie said.
“I’ll drink to that,” Katie said. She finished her beer and ordered a round for all three of us, telling the barmaid that the two gentlemen would be paying.
Sergeant Major Screech Owl kept us waiting far beyond our appointed time and didn’t show up until a half hour before the midnight curfew. He was wearing civilian clothes with a thick gray jacket and a winter cap with the earflaps pulled down. At the bar, he shook his head negatively to the barmaid and turned to us, “Outside. We need to talk.”
As the others walked out, I chugged down the last of my beer and found myself settling with the barmaid. When I stepped out into the cold night air, all three of them were gone. I raced down the narrow street away from the lights of the front gate of Camp Red Cloud and found them in a narrow pedestrian pathway waiting for me. Once we were arrayed around him, Command Sergeant Major Tapia cleared his throat and said, “I think he’s gone off his rocker.”
“Who?”
“General Crabtree. It’s that woman who did it to him. Ever since he met her up there at Third Corps, he’s been acting weird.”
“You’re talking about Estella.”
“Right.”
“Weird in what way?” Katie asked.
“He hates General Bok. Ordering alerts every time Bok orders them.”
“Practice alerts?” I asked.
“Right. The North Koreans haven�
��t been doing much of anything lately. No provocative acts, no Division-wide approaches to the DMZ, nothing like the stunts they like to do to keep us off balance. In fact, the only thing they have done is go on alert in response to us going on alert.”
“Purely defensive then,” I said.
He nodded. “But Bok and General Crabtree are acting like a couple of schoolboys. I think Bok’s fed up with it, worried that General Crabtree is badmouthing him up the chain of command. We did find anomalies in Bok’s combat posture that need to be corrected, and if I were him, I’d be embarrassed about them. But all he has to do is fix them, and everything will be right.”
“Anomalies like what?” I asked.
“His defensive positions are set too far to the rear. He needs to move them forward. Bok says he doesn’t have the budget to construct new revetments and bunkers and other reinforced emplacements, but General Crabtree thinks that’s bullshit. His operating budget is plenty big enough.”
“Does he think Bok’s pilfering money?”
Screech Owl shrugged. “Probably not. He’s been spending tons of money preparing his tank battalions for withdrawal. You know, those new roads he’s building. So when the North Korean attack comes, he’ll be able to keep firing in a combat retreat, regroup on the southern side of the Taebaek Mountains, and advance in force on the oncoming Communist tank battalions.”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Ernie asked. “We always assume that the North Koreans will have the upper hand at first. A surprise attack. They’ll throw all their forces at us. But then we’ll back off, counterpunch, and wear them down with precision firepower.”
“That’s the theory,” Screech Owl said, hunching his shoulders against the cold. “I never liked it myself. I figure it’s better to get them when they’re right on the line. Lay everything on them on the DMZ, make them wish they’d never been stupid enough to attack.”
“Okay,” I said, interrupting. There were only a few minutes left before curfew, and I didn’t particularly want to get into a detailed discussion about tactics. “I understand that General Crabtree and General Bok might have different points of view on how to handle any given combat scenario. And that this woman has come between them, but you said at first that you’re worried General Crabtree has gone nuts. What did you mean?”
