The Iron Sickle

by Martin Limon

  They could say she was on the South Korean side but I’d seen her operate in the north, and I didn’t believe anyone could fake that much love for the Dear Leader and that much avidity in her work. I had the scars to prove it.

  Now that same Rhee Mi-sook was in charge of the hunt—on the ROK Army side—for the man with the iron sickle. Someone with stars on his shoulders—whoever had appointed her to this job—also had stars in his eyes, dazzled by her charm. As I watched her, it was easy to see why.

  Major Rhee strode back and forth across the stage on her black stiletto heels, rapping her stainless steel pointer against charts and graphs, speaking every sentence first in Korean and then in sweetly pronounced English.

  “There is no doubt,” she told the audience, “that the man who murdered Mr. Barretsford and the man who murdered Corporal Collingsworth are one and the same person. And there is also no doubt that he is a highly competent and thoroughly trained professional sent south by the North Korean bandit government to sew dissension between our ROK/US alliance. This,” she said, peering into the eyes of the silent officer corps, “shall not be allowed.”

  The group broke into spontaneous applause.

  “What is this,” Ernie said, leaning close to me, “a freaking strip show?”

  “Quiet,” I replied.

  “If she starts unbuttoning her tunic,” he told me, “these guys are going to go nuts.”

  Ernie was right about one thing, the ROK Army was pulling out all the stops. They had their best up there delivering the briefing because they weren’t taking any chances of allowing a couple of murders to damage the special relationship between South Korea and the US. Too much money was at stake. Hundreds of millions of dollars of military and economic aide passed each year from the American treasury to the ROK government, and if stories managed to make their way into newspapers back in the States about how our brave boys overseas were being brutally murdered by evil foreigners, that could jeopardize the steady flow of cash. Blaming the murders on the North Koreans had the effect of solidifying our alliance. It gave us a common goal. Stop the Commies.

  Mr. Kill was not there, nor were any representatives of the Korean National Police. They and the ROK Army worked independently. By the amount of olive drab in the room, however, it was apparent the 8th Army had thrown their lot in firmly with the ROK Army.

  Major Rhee was replaced at the podium by a senior officer, a husky middle-aged general brandishing a gold-plated pointer. The ROKs were good enough showmen to keep Major Rhee up on stage, sitting in a straight-backed chair, her long legs crossed and glistening beneath the overhead lights.

  When the general had said his piece, the show was over. Officers filtered out. Not one item of hard evidence had been presented, only innuendo, such as the fact that there were a suspected two to three thousand North Korean agents in South Korea, and that their training included wielding mundane weapons like the naht and other farm implements. We were reminded they were experts at creating and using false identification, not to mention experts at survival, escape, and evasion.

  None of this proved the man with the iron sickle was a North Korean agent. He might be, but also he might not.

  The Provost Marshal spotted Ernie and me. When he didn’t gesture for us to join him, we made a quick retreat.

  Just before leaving the auditorium, I stopped and looked back. The woman I had known as Senior Captain Rhee Mi-sook still stood on the podium, her arms crossed. Our eyes met. She didn’t smile. She wasn’t the smiling type. Her face was hard, cold, but hideously beautiful.

  After leaving the ROK Ministry of National Defense, Ernie turned left toward the Samgakji Circle and then south toward Han River Bridge Number One. Halfway there, he hung a left and entered the back entrance of Yongsan Compound South Post. An MP I didn’t know stopped us at the gate and checked our dispatch.

  “You headed to the morgue?”

  “Eventually everybody is,” Ernie said.

  “No, I mean now.”

  “Why would we go there?”

  The MP shrugged. “Seems like that’s where everyone’s going.”

  “What do you mean ‘everyone’?”

  “All the MPs.”

  He waved us through, Ernie stepped on the gas, and the jeep surged through the gate.

  “What the hell was that all about?” I asked.

  “There’s a lot of hard feelings about Collingsworth. Maybe some people are stopping over there to pay their respects.”

  “Maybe. Not a bad idea. I want to look at the body again anyway.”

  Ernie shrugged but turned right after the 121 Evacuation Hospital, heading for the morgue.

  There were three MP jeeps parked out front.

  “A convention,” Ernie said,

  He parked and locked the jeep and we walked past the wooden sign stenciled with the words MORGUE, 8TH UNITED STATES ARMY. We pushed through double doors into an air conditioned environment. The white smocked clerk at the front counter checked our badges.

  “Collingsworth?” he said.

  We nodded.

  “Join the crowd. There’s a few of them back there.”

  And he was right. A half dozen uniformed MPs stood inside the cold locker. One of the long metal cabinets had been pulled out of the wall, displaying a shroud with a body underneath.

  As we walked down the central corridor, the MPs stared at us. Ernie nodded to them because we knew most of them. All of them had taken off their helmets and tucked them under their arms. Everyone was armed, with black holsters hanging off canvas web belts.

  “He was a good man,” Ernie said.

  They continued to stare, but no one responded. Then, single file, they marched out of the room.

  After they left, Ernie said, “What the hell’s the matter with them?”

  I stared at the body beneath us. “They figure since we’re CID we should’ve caught the man with the iron sickle after the first murder. Then maybe Collingsworth would still be alive.”

  “We weren’t even on the case until this morning.”

  “They don’t give a shit about that.”

  We were used to hard feelings. From the MPs’ point of view, we Criminal Investigation agents got all the glory, and they did all the grunt work. Ernie shrugged it off. He gestured toward the body. “You want to do the honors?”

  I took a deep breath, reached in, grabbed the edge of the heavy cotton shroud, and whipped it back.

  Collingsworth stared straight up at us, his blue eyes open, shining with light almost as if he were alive. But his skin was pasty, his cheeks slack, and now that the blood had been washed away, the wound was nauseatingly apparent. Like a cloud of gas, the odor reached us: meaty, sour, dead. Grey tubes of flesh stuck out of a slash in the neck. Blood coagulated around the edges of the wound and it was so wide—about four inches—and so deep that every artery and vein and esophageal passageway stood out as clearly as a drawing in Grey’s Anatomy.

  Ernie looked away. “So what are we here for, anyway?”

  “Just to see if there’s something I missed out at the crime scene. I was sort of hyper out there.”

  I studied the wound more carefully. It was on the left side of his neck, starting almost at the spine and slicing forward. This was consistent with the wound on Barretsford at the 8th Army Claims office. They seemed to have been delivered so fast that the victim never even had time to flinch, much less raise his hands to ward off the blow. Apparently, Collingsworth heard something, he turned to look back, and the tip of the blade caught him in his neck, the naht slicing forward. Simultaneously, Collingsworth continued to turn and flinched backward. This had the untoward effect of causing the blade to slice even deeper into Collingsworth’s neck, severing his air passage and the carotid artery. Blood would’ve gushed out, pumping like a hose spewing water. Some of it would’ve landed on the attacker, on his coat, on his shirt. The killer must’ve been standing too close to avoid it, not like at the Claims Office, where he was reaching forward a
cross Barretsford’s desk. This time, instead of continuing the attack in a frenzied manner, as he had on Barretsford, the man with the iron sickle backed off. There was only one slice, one wound, but it was a lethal one. He would’ve known that. He showed discipline, not madness. Knowing Collingsworth was a dead man, he departed immediately, as if concerned about being caught.

  I pulled the shroud down further and examined Collingsworth’s arms. Untouched. No cuts or bruises. He’d never seen the blade coming.

  This was a disciplined and skilled assassination, giving credence to the ROK Army theory that the man with the iron sickle was a highly trained agent. But why had he lingered at the Claims Office? Had he not been sure a fatal blow had been struck? Or was he merely enjoying himself? Enjoying the kill? Or enjoying some other type of emotion? Lust? Revenge? Hate?

  “You seen enough?” Ernie asked.

  I nodded. He pulled the shroud back over Collingsworth’s open blue eyes.

  Outside, the three MP jeeps were still parked. A fourth had joined them. When we pushed through the morgue’s double doors, all the MPs in every jeep climbed out and strode toward us. We stopped on the steps. Staff Sergeant Moe Dexter took the lead. He had both thumbs hooked over his web belt, and he was leaning back, a big smile on his round face. He was always smiling and always joking, even when he arrested someone. It was the way he dealt with life, the way he defused tough situations and the way he relaxed a miscreant right up to the moment before he jammed his baton in his gut.

  “Sweeno,” he said, purposely mispronouncing my name. “And Agent Ernestine. How are my two favorite CID pukes doing this fine afternoon?”

  “Get bent, Dexter,” Ernie said.

  “Oh,” he said in a falsetto voice. “Are you going to bend me over? How thrilling.”

  Ernie walked down the steps, and I followed. When Dexter didn’t get out of the way, Ernie shoved him.

  Dexter staggered back in mock alarm. “Oh, rough stuff. How could you?”

  The eight MPs followed us to our jeep. Ernie and I were about to climb in but stood waiting for them, staring them down. The smile had dropped from Dexter’s face. He stared at us through tinted rectangular glasses.

  “When you have a lead on this guy,” he said, “you point him out to us. None of this playing footsy with the KNPs, none of this showing respect to their bullshit judicial system. This guy killed an MP.” Dexter jammed his thumb over his shoulder. “He was one of our own, and you’re MPs too, or you used to be. Once you find him, you turn the guy over to us,” he said, “not to the ROK Army, not to the Korean National Police.”

  There was a long silence. “I can’t do that,” I said.

  “Why?” Dexter said, stepping closer. “Because you’re too close to the Koreans? Because you speak their freaking language and eat that foul-smelling shit they put in their mouths? Is that why, Sweeno, because you think you’re better than us? Better than regular GIs?”

  “There’s nothing regular about you, Dexter,” I said.

  “Not without using Ex-Lax,” Ernie added.

  Dexter threw his helmet at Ernie. Ernie dodged it but slid around to the front of the jeep, and before anyone could stop them, the two men were trading blows. Dexter’s hard left jab slid off Ernie’s ear, leaving Ernie close enough to land a right uppercut to the taller man’s ribs. I jumped in, holding the two men apart. Some of the more levelheaded MPs grabbed Dexter.

  “Don’t you betray us,” Dexter shouted, spewing spit. “Don’t you throw your lot in with people who ain’t our people. You understand me, Sweeno?”

  Without answering, I shoved Ernie into the passenger seat, stalked to the other side of the jeep, and climbed behind the steering wheel. I started the jeep and bulled forward through the MPs, kicking up gravel as I gunned the little jeep out of the parking lot.

  I drove to the CID office and got out. Ernie had calmed down a little and he was smiling, trying to pretend Dexter’s taunts hadn’t effected him. He slid into the driver’s seat and told me he’d meet me in the ville at twenty hundred hours. Before he left, I said, “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  “From that puke? No way.” He gunned the jeep’s engine and sped off.

  Inside the office, both Miss Kim and Riley had already gone home. I picked up a phone and tried Captain Prevault’s number. Still no answer. It figured there wouldn’t be since the cannon had gone off signifying the end of the duty day. I used Riley’s Rolodex and then called the duty officer at 8th Army Billeting. I identified myself, gave him my badge number, and asked for the location of Captain Prevault’s BOQ, Bachelor Officer Quarters. He gave it to me. Yongsan Compound South Post, female BOQ 132, Unit 4. A pretty good walk but one I could manage.

  A half hour later, I stood in a long central corridor lined with individual rooms and knocked on the door of Unit 4. It took a few minutes but eventually darkness covered the peephole. The door opened slightly, a security chain drawing taut. A smooth-complexioned face peeked out, hair wrapped in a white towel.

  “Agent Sueño,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You didn’t call.”

  “I tried.”

  “Wait a minute. I have to get dressed.”

  She closed the door. I stepped back and leaned against the far wall. Occasionally, a female officer entered or exited a room down the hall, glanced toward me, and when I smiled went about her business. With my short haircut and my CID coat and tie, I didn’t look too threatening.

  The door to Captain Prevault’s room opened.

  She wore blue jeans and sneakers and a light rain slicker over a white blouse. “You ready?” she asked.

  “For what?”

  “For a visit to a nut house.”

  She smiled demurely, cocked her head, and walked down the corridor. I followed.

  Our destination was in the northwest corner of Seoul, an area snuggled beneath Bukhan Mountain known as Songbuk-dong. The kimchi cab chugged up a winding road, past a break in the ancient stone ramparts that had once protected the city from waves of invaders: Chinese, Manchurians, Mongol hordes. Now lovers strolled along it, hand in hand, gazing down at the sparkling expanse of the city of Seoul.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, staring out at the darkness.

  “A sanitarium,” she replied. “What you call a ‘nut house.’ ”

  “Sorry about that.”

  She turned and in the light of a passing street lamp, I saw her prim smile once again.

  A sign in slashed Chinese characters loomed ahead and Captain Prevault motioned for the driver to turn left through stone gates. The driveway wound another quarter mile through dense foliage and finally circled in front of an Asian-style building with moonlight reflecting off a tile roof. Clay monkeys perched on the edges, protecting the inhabitants from evil spirits. A yellow bulb in the entranceway illuminated a double front door painted crimson, and all around the light, moths flailed madly.

  As I paid for the cab, I inhaled deeply of the tree-scented air until the cab sped off, spewing carbon.

  Captain Prevault stood a few feet away, smiling and gazing around her. “It’s nice up here, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She turned and walked toward the front gate. I followed. She pounded with a brass knocker. The gatekeeper must have been just inside because within seconds the big red doors swung open. A toothy old man bowed to Captain Prevault, recognizing her. She smiled and bowed back, and then we were walking past the front building and climbing broad stone steps lined with more wooden buildings. Captain Prevault pulled a flashlight out of her bag and switched it on.

  “It gets dark up here.”

  “Where is here, exactly?” I asked.

  “The National Mental Health Sanatorium. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “A doctor or a patient?”

  “Both.”

  The steps stopped in front of a more modern building, one with plate glass windows through which to enjoy the view and a door rei
nforced with iron bars. Captain Prevault pressed the buzzer. A metallic voice said, “Nugu seiyo?” Who is it?

  “Leah Prevault, here to see Doctor Hwang.”

  Without further preamble, the buzzer sounded, and Captain Prevault pushed through the door. For a moment I felt I was back in my element: an administrative office with three desks, a typewriter on a table, a water cooler, a short row of wooden filing cabinets, and papers stacked everywhere. Overhead, fluorescent bulbs glowed.

  The man who let us in was young, not much older than a teenager, and he wore a white tunic and matching pants. His open-toed sandals made him look somewhat less than professional. He bowed deeply to Captain Prevault.

  “I called for Doctor Hwang,” she said. “He should be expecting us.”

  I’m not sure if the young man understood. His face remained blank, but he turned abruptly and started to walk away. Captain Prevault followed, as did I.

  The place was quiet. We were obviously outside of their regular duty hours, and only a skeleton crew would handle the night shift. As our feet clattered on tile corridors, I started to realize this place was bigger than it looked from outside. We turned right and then left and climbed a short flight of stairs until we stood in front of a very narrow elevator. I’d seen them before in downtown Seoul, appearing as if they were squeezed into a building as an afterthought or purposely made tiny to save money. The young man pressed the button and the door slid open a few feet. The three of us stepped into the elevator, crammed together tightly, each of us staring in a different direction so as not to wash our fellow passengers with hot breath.

  Our floor said six, and the young man pressed the button for two. The little elevator shuddered and descended into the bowels of Bukhan Mountain. I felt as if I were in a coffin. The elevator wheezed and moved down fitfully. Finally, it slowed, then shuddered, and the narrow doors slid open. Captain Prevault got off first. I tried to wait for the white-smocked technician, but he insisted I precede him.