Mortal Allies

by Brian Haig

  Then before I could think any further about it, the unseen voice said, “Tell us about Whitehall.”

  Again she hung her head, as though she needed to work to recall the details. Considering that she probably hadn’t slept in five or six days, I was amazed she could do anything except babble and drool.

  Then the camera went dark again, and there were the sounds of more slaps and yelps, then her whimpering and saying something in Korean that sounded like begging, then the interrogator’s voice sounding harsh and uncompromising.

  The woman came into focus again. “We learned of Whitehall’s affair with Lee four . . . maybe five months ago. They thought they were discreet. The fools. When an apartment is rented to an American, the landlord must report it to the precinct.”

  “Is that how Choi knew?”

  “He always watched for that. Usually the Americans are seeking a place to keep their mistresses, to conduct affairs.”

  “Why didn’t you try to recruit Whitehall?”

  She looked directly into the camera. “He was too unimportant. He held only a minor position on base. I directed Choi to have some assistants see what Whitehall was doing.”

  “And you discovered Lee No Tae?”

  She nodded. “Two, sometimes four times a week they would meet in the apartment. Eventually, we bugged it.”

  “Whose idea was it to murder Lee No Tae?”

  For a brief millisecond, you could see a spark of her earlier defiance. Or maybe it was pride.

  “I ordered it.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? To drive the Americans off Korean soil.”

  “Why that night?”

  “They were about to separate. It would be our last chance.”

  I inadvertently turned and looked to the back of the room where Minister Lee was seated. His eyes were on the television screen. His arms were crossed and his face was expressionless. I didn’t even want to imagine what he was feeling.

  “How did you get inside the apartment?”

  “We didn’t.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Lee always awoke at three-thirty to go back onto base. Privates have to be present when their sergeants go through the barracks to awaken the soldiers. Otherwise he would’ve gotten into trouble.”

  “So he was killed outside the apartment?”

  The camera focused on her a moment until it was evident she was sound asleep. Her chin was back on her chest and you could tell by the way her breasts were moving that she was in la-la land. The film went through the dark-again-whack-ouch-whack-ouch-whack-ouch routine, then there were more words in Korean, then her face came back on the screen.

  “We killed him in the stairwell. Lee put up a fight. He even struck Choi several times. Finally, though, the men held him. They beat him for a while. He had to appear roughed up.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “Choi pulled his . . . uh, belt out of his pants and strangled him.” She paused and her lip curled upward, ever so slightly. “It turned out, when Lee dressed, he took the wrong belt. It was Whitehall’s. Lucky,” she mumbled.

  The interrogator said something sharp, like he didn’t think there was anything the least bit happy about any of this. She stared back at him, her face completely exhausted, but something in her eyes let you know she thought she’d won one here.

  The questioner said, “How did you get him back into the apartment?”

  This time I already knew the answer before she gave it.

  “A key to the apartment . . . in Lee’s pocket. Whitehall gave it to him, months before. Choi used it then, then, uh, laid his body next to Whitehall’s. The door had an automatic lock. It relocked when they closed it.”

  “How did you make it appear the body had been raped?”

  “Choi brought along a . . . ?” she suddenly appeared perplexed, then said some word in Korean.

  “A dildo,” the hidden voice translated for her.

  She nodded. “They inserted it and left it in his body for twenty minutes. Choi has investigated many sex crimes. This was his idea. It was a nice touch.”

  This time when I turned back around and stole a look at Minister Lee, he was staring down at the floor and there were tears rolling down his cheeks. I felt a shudder of pain for him. One of the few facts about this case I’d been able to establish on my own was how much he and his wife loved their son. No parent should have a child murdered. Worse, no parent should ever be forced to listen to one of the murderers recount the tawdry details of the crime.

  The questioner asked, “Then Choi returned to the precinct?”

  She shook her head.

  “Where, then?” the man yelled. “Where did he go?”

  “Home. He waited there for the call. Bales waited with me.”

  “You mean Bales was there?”

  “Of course. He enjoys these things. As I told you, he is a sadist.”

  Then the hidden questioner and some other hidden male voice exchanged a few words in Korean, and the screen went dark.

  It took the minister a few seconds to turn the light back on. When I turned around to look at him, his back was just going out the door.

  The rest of the room was silent. Eddie was slumped over in his chair looking like death warmed over. That’s one of the many things I don’t like about that bastard. He really didn’t give a damn that a man had been brutally murdered, or that an innocent man had been framed. He was feeling despondent that he wasn’t going to win this case.

  Carruthers surveyed the psychic carnage in the room, then asked everybody to leave except the two opposing lawyers and me. It took nearly a minute for the rest of them to clear out, until all that was left were raw emotions, one judge, and three lawyers.

  CHAPTER 49

  The other three gathered around my bed like a coven of witches. Eddie had a sourpuss, Kip’s face was elated, and mine was, well, pained. As happy as I was to finally have the facts on the table, I was closer to the victims of this case than anyone else in this room, and I’d been sickened to hear that coldhearted bitch talk about murdering a young kid and destroying the lives of countless other people.

  She and her buddies ran a meat market.

  Carruthers’s face simply looked grim and purposeful.

  Kip said, “The murder, rape, and necrophilia charges have to be dropped.”

  For a brief second, Eddie looked like he was going to have a heart attack, but I gave him a positively murderous look, and, to tell you the truth, even though I was lying in bed, and I still had a big hole in my back, if he’d tried to raise an objection I might very well have climbed out of bed and gone over and knocked his pretty lips right through the back of his head.

  Carruthers said, “I agree. They’re dropped.”

  Then I asked, “What about the rest of it?”

  The judge had his nostrils pinched between his forefinger and thumb. “That, I don’t know about. Nor do I have the latitude to decide. The preponderance of evidence suggests there was homosexual activity between an officer and some enlisted soldiers. That’s not a minor offense.”

  I thought about saying something, but I had nothing to add Carruthers didn’t already know, so I kept my mouth shut.

  Carruthers said, “Not a word from any of you on any of this until I announce my decision.” Then he formally recessed the court, such as it was. A moment later the technicians returned to collect the TV and VCR and the camcorder that had been running this whole time.

  Before I knew it, I had my hospital room back. I thought about everything that just happened, and my eyes closed and I floated off to sleep. The thing about being seriously wounded and drugged to the gills is that you don’t realize how very little exertion it takes to sap every bit of your energy.

  I was awakened about four hours later by Doc Bridges, who rushed in with three frantic-looking nurses and started running around, straightening up the room, smoothing my sheets, and changing my hospital garb into something starchier and spankier-loo
king. Doc Bridges even had on a neatly pressed and completely spotless white lab coat, and his hair was neatly combed — well, as neatly combed as he could make it, meaning he looked like a porcupine.

  If there’d been a paintbrush and bucket of lime green paint around, I’ll bet they would’ve slapped a fresh coat on the walls. As an experienced Army guy, I recognized the drill. Somebody important was about to come visit, and the hospital commander had ordered Bridges to get me and my room looking presentable, toute suite, as they say in the ranks.

  Then the door flew open and General Spears and Acting Ambassador Brandewaite and Minister of Defense Lee walked in. General Spears hooked a finger in the direction of the door and Doc Bridges and his nurses nearly left a smoke trail, they moved out so fast.

  I was struggling to sit up in bed. Spears said, “Stay the way you are, Drummond.”

  I said, “Yes sir,” which wasn’t witty or bright but fit the occasion.

  The three of them then gathered around and stared down at me. If you think I was apprehensive, you’ve got that right. Here were three of the warlords of Korea and here was little old me with a hole in my back so if things got bad I couldn’t even get up and run away.

  I had no idea what they wanted, but I wasn’t betting it was good. I’d just blown the lid off the Lee No Tae case and thrown a terrible dilemma into their collective laps. I’d proven the minister’s kid was gay, despite a thousand warnings by a thousand people that this was utterly taboo. I gulped a few times and looked at their collective faces.

  Finally, Brandewaite stroked his handsome chin and said, “We seem to have a most incredible situation on our hands.”

  “Indeed we do,” Spears agreed. “But sometimes, in the midst of tragedy, you find opportunity.”

  “That’s right,” Brandewaite said.

  This might almost have been funny if I’d had even the slightest idea what they were talking about.

  Brandewaite said, “Drummond, this afternoon we’ve been in contact with the White House and the president of Korea.”

  I nodded like I understood, which I didn’t.

  But before he could say another word, Minister Lee stepped forward. “Please. Let me handle this. I’d like a private moment with Major Drummond.”

  Spears and Brandewaite both nodded respectfully, then stepped out of the room.

  “Major Drummond,” the minister said, “I want you to know something.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “My wife and I, we . . . we loved our son very much.”

  He had to stop for a moment, because it was evident he was having difficulty. He took a few heavy breaths, then said, “I am not ashamed of No. You understand that.”

  “Yes, Mr. Minister.”

  “He struggled against what he was. He wanted us to be proud of him. And we were proud of him. Always. It was not his fault, what he was.”

  “No sir.”

  “We knew, of course. We knew our son loved men. Children cannot hide such things from parents.”

  I’d already suspected this. I’d suspected it from the moment the three of us had entered No’s bedroom together. When the minister had opened his lips and struggled to say something, I’d thought he might have been on the verge of admitting he knew his son was gay.

  Why hadn’t he admitted it? I think because he felt he owed the gift of silence to his son’s memory. Koreans are funny that way. Despite the fact that they’re the most Christian nation in Asia, they still worship and honor their dead ancestors. They even have this big national holiday called Chusok, where they all go like lemmings to graveyards around the country to honor their dead forefathers and foremothers, or whatever.

  I couldn’t imagine the agony he and his wife had been through. And I suppose that accounted for why he’d bent over backward to be fair to Whitehall. I think he’d suspected from the beginning Whitehall hadn’t done it. I think he hoped his son wouldn’t hook up with a man who would do such terrible things to him. I think he wanted us to prove Tommy was innocent. I think he wanted us to find the real killers. Maybe I was kidding myself, but that’s what I thought. That’s what I’d thought ever since I’d left him and his wife in their house.

  He put his hand on my arm. “I’ve asked the president of South Korea to order the release of Captain Whitehall. And I’ve asked General Spears to drop all charges.”

  A big breath of air poured out of my mouth.

  “I am not trying to hide my son’s relationship with Whitehall. Not any longer. But it’s best for both our nations if we simply say my son was murdered by the North Koreans, and Whitehall was framed, just as your protesters were murdered by the North Koreans. It would be best for our alliance.”

  I wanted to say something meaningful, something to take away his pain, to make this easier for him.

  But all I could get out was, “It’s true, Mr. Minister. Your son was murdered by the North Koreans.”

  He nodded his head in the knowing way some very wise old people have, and he gently patted my arm and left.

  Then General Spears and Brandewaite came back in. They stood beside my bed for a long moment. Brandewaite said, “I just want you to know, Drummond, that I bear no hard feelings toward you over all of this.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure I heard that right. I mean, the last time I checked, I was the one who was supposed to have hard feelings against him. But I guess that’s what it takes to be a diplomat. Always distort the facts to your own advantage. Or is that a lawyer? Whatever.

  Even General Spears seemed to catch the idiocy of it, because he waited till Brandewaite had his back turned and was headed toward the door before he rolled his eyes, and then he did this little jerky motion with his right hand that most folks would interpret to be a fairly disrespectful gesture.

  Once Brandewaite was gone, the general reached into his pocket and withdrew a medal with a fancy ribbon on it. He placed it on the bed right beside me. “The President asked me to give you this. He said to tell you that the nation is very proud and appreciative of your efforts.”

  I glanced at the medal for a moment, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. He finally squeezed my arm. “Sean, nobody’s more proud of what you just accomplished than me, but as far as the world is concerned, this whole thing never happened. There was an assassination attempt and you saved the Secretary’s life, but the true facts will never be known.”

  I nodded like it made no difference to me, and really I guess it didn’t.

  Then he paused for a moment before he said, “Son, most people would think a little piece of ribbon doesn’t seem like much for what you did, but in our profession it’s everything.”

  Then he spun around and walked out and left me fingering the tiny medal he’d left me. I stared at it, and damn if it didn’t look just like the Distinguished Service Cross, the second highest award for heroism.

  But maybe I was just imagining all that happened. I was doped up to the max, and I’d been beaten, stabbed, and shot, then shot again — and the mind does play funny tricks.

  CHAPTER 50

  The physical therapy was every bit as wicked as I had dreaded it would be. They actually transported me back to Walter Reed Army Medical Center on a medevac plane, keeping me happily doped up till we got there. Then the nazis at Walter Reed got their first look at me, took the drugs away, and my life turned into pure hell.

  The Army’s idea of medicine can be summed up by that old maxim “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Phrased another way, “If you let a knife get dull, it takes a lot longer to resharpen than one kept sharp.”

  If you want to hear more of these inane sayings, I could go on, because in my six-week stay at Walter Reed I heard about two million of them from the sadists who made me get up every morning and make my own bed, who brought me Jell-O and actually made me eat it, and thousands of other unspeakable things. My personal favorite was the 250-pound female nurse who showed up on my third day, deadly intent on rolling me over and giving me an enema. I put up one hell
of a fight. I swear I did. But alas, I lost.

  On my sixth night, an official State Department courier showed up with a handwritten note from the Secretary of State himself, thanking me for saving his life and inviting me to stop by for a private dinner after I got out of the hospital. I thought about sending back a note saying I was pretty busy and wasn’t sure I could make it. That lasted about a nanosecond. Like I’d ever turn down a free meal. And besides, I was dying to share my views about the world with the Secretary; and since I’d saved his life, he’d have to sit and politely listen. How often does life offer you a chance like that?

  A few days later, I got a very nice note from Tommy Whitehall, thanking me profusely for everything I did. I can’t say we’d gotten to know each other well, and the circumstances of our relationship were certainly awkward, if that’s the right word to use. I did like him, though. And I thought he was a damned fine officer, too. If I were still an infantry officer, and I was getting ready to go into battle, I’d love to have a guy like Tommy on my flank.

  A few days after that, I got an equally nice note from Allie saying she really enjoyed working with me and hoped I was feeling better. She actually gave me her address and phone number in case I ever needed anything. And I decided that maybe my first order of business once I got out of this hellhole was to go look her up and take her to dinner. I mean, she’s not the type I usually take to dinner, since she’s a little tall for me, and there’s that spiky hair, and I knew we’d draw some odd stares, but when you get right down to it, the honor and pleasure would be all mine.

  Maria and Allie and Whitehall, and everything else about this case, had certainly forced me to do a lot of hard thinking about whether gays should be allowed to serve openly in the ranks. On the face of it, why not? Is this country really so rich in patriots that it can afford to turn down any Americans who volunteer to spend a few precious years of their lives in its service? And hey, do you ever hear anyone bitching about collecting taxes from gays who admit they’re gays? Right.