small black-and-white photo: GIs who’d gone AWOL in Korea and had not yet been apprehended. The fact that they hadn’t been apprehended wasn’t surprising, since we don’t bother to look for them. The reason is that the ports of embarkation, either by ship or at the Kimpo International Airport, are so tightly controlled by the Korean authorities that we aren’t worried about AWOL GIs slipping out of the country. And if they stay here, eventually they’ll tire of scrounging for a living on the fringes of Korean life. Sooner or later, almost all of them turn themselves in, willing to accept court-martial as long as they can get a ticket back to the States.
Of course, I suppose a few of them went to all the trouble of getting phony passports and slipping out of the country, but the army wasn’t worried about it. Now that the draft was gone and the American economy was in a shambles, men were fighting to stay in the army. Not to get out.
Still, the most likely way to make a living after going AWOL was by way of the black market. A phony military identification card, a phony ration control plate, and you were in business. The danger was that you had to go onto the compounds regularly to do the purchasing. That’s why the guy who was shadowing us had short hair. So he’d look like an active duty GI.
I studied the pictures carefully. None of the faces seemed familiar. I tried to imagine each one in a smoke- filled barroom or on a street, lounging behind us, trying to look inconspicuous. Nothing clicked. Every face was a complete stranger.
I read the names and the biographical notes. Still nothing.
Heels clicked down the hallway. The Nurse marched past the door of the Admin Office, looking straight ahead. The big double doors of the exitway creaked open and slammed shut.
I thought of running after her, trying to console her, but she looked too upset. Anything I said would probably just come out stupid. Like most wives or girlfriends, the Nurse considered the running-the-ville buddy-me-the real cause for all her grief. Ernie was pure of heart. It was just evil guys like me who were leading him astray.
I damn sure wasn’t going to betray Ernie and tell the Nurse the truth about his love life. And I didn’t feel like telling any more lies today. So I stayed where I was.
The First Sergeant called Riley down the hallway, and after a brief chat the skinny Admin Sergeant returned. He was shaking his head.
“What is it?”
“I have to counsel Ernie on the dangers of promiscuity. And too much booze.”
“You?”
“Hey, I’m a Staff Sergeant.” Riley pointed to the yellow rocker beneath his stripes. “This gives me superior knowledge and virtue.”
I thought of the bottle of Old Overwart he kept in his locker and the old hag business girls he sometimes picked up in the ville and dragged back to the barracks.
“Yeah. Virtue,” I said. “You got that.”
Miss Kim had had enough. Holding a handkerchief to her nose, she jumped up from her typewriter, ran out of the office, and clicked her high heels down the hallway toward the ladies’ room.
“What’s wrong with her?” Riley asked.
I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
Riley shuffled through a stack of paperwork. “Must be a virus.”
26
Before the First Sergeant had finished with Ernie, I placed a call to the British Honor Guard.
The Sergeant Major confirmed for me that Cecil Whitcomb had indeed been the proud owner of a Gurkha knife. He’d bought it off a soldier in a British Gurkha unit in Hong Kong. For “five quid,” whatever the hell that was. The knife was not listed in the inventory of his belongings conducted after his death.
The Sergeant Major told me that Whitcomb’s body had been released by the Seoul coroner’s office and had been flown out that morning via a specially arranged flight from Kimpo Air Force Base. I asked him for the name and address of Whitcomb’s next of kin. He gave me an address somewhere in London, but of a woman with a last name other than Whitcomb. His mother, he said. Her husband, Whitcomb’s father, had died a few years ago and she’d remarried.
I folded the address and stuck it in my wallet.
I went back to the barracks and waited until the firing of the cannon at 1700 hours that signified the close of 8th Army’s official business day. When all was clear, I changed my clothes and went over to the snack bar and ate some chow. I just wanted to be alone. Have time to think about the case. Have time to think about what happened to Miss Ku. About what happened to Cecil Whitcomb.
Whoever we were dealing with had wanted Cecil Whitcomb badly. He’d used Miss Ku and Eun-hi and me and Ernie, and using us, he’d accomplished his objective. It made sense that he had to entice Whitcomb off the compound. In the nature of army life, whether in the barracks or on the parade field or out running the ville with his buddies, Whitcomb would never be alone. That night out in Nam-daemun, he had been alone.
But why go to so much trouble in the first place? What was so important about Cecil Whitcomb, a part-time petty thief?
Why the killer wanted Miss Ku silenced was pretty clear. She knew who he was. She could identify him. She could testify against him in court. But not anymore.
The print shop owner knew who he was, too, but he was in less danger. From what we knew so far, there was no way Mr. Chong could link him to the murder of Cecil Whitcomb. So Chong was probably safe.
What about me? Was I safe? Was Ernie safe?
This guy knew who Ernie and I were, but we didn’t know who he was. He was following us. If we closed in on him, he’d probably attempt to take us out, too.
Who was he working for? For himself or for someone else? Was he working for the slicky boys?
We hadn’t heard from the slicky boys since the night they kidnapped us. I’d relayed a message that the secret of the location of their headquarters would remain safe with us. Had it worked?
Maybe.
I had no answers. Only questions that kept piling up, one after the other.
I felt for the. 38 beneath my jacket. Still there.
I studied the faces in the snack bar around me. A lot of them were familiar because I’d seen them around compound dozens of times. Nobody out of the ordinary. Nobody who looked as if he’d ruthlessly tortured and murdered a beautiful woman.
That’s another thing that bothered me. He’d tortured her. What information did she have that he didn’t already know? I thought about it for a long time, but came up with nothing.
When I finished the chow, I wandered around the compound. Walking. Thinking.
If God gave me a chance to redo some things in my life, I’d have a long list. Number one would be canceling out the conversation Ernie and I had with Cecil Whitcomb.
With the approach of night the temperature dropped, but still no threat of snow. Somehow, I found myself in front of the PX. Standing at the taxi stand was Strange. He spotted me and stepped out of line.
When he came near he pulled his cigarette holder out of his mouth.
“Had any strange lately?”
I ignored the question. “Have you got anything for me, Harvey?”
He glanced to either side. “Not here.”
“Okay. Where?”
He nodded toward the latrine. “Follow me.”
He waddled through the crowd and back into the PX, toward the hallway that led to the men’s room. I followed and pushed through the big wooden door. One guy stood in front of a urinal. Not Strange.
On the other side of the tiled wall was a row of commodes. Something hissed. I walked down to the last stall near the window and opened the door. Strange sat on the pot, pants up, staring down at a crumpled sheet of notebook paper.
“Four security violations in the last month,” he said.
