A thin man in gray tunic and pantaloons, back bent, hands clasped behind his back, sauntered across the road ahead of us.
Ernie slammed on the brakes, downshifted, and, once he was around the old man, gunned the engine and slammed it back into high gear.
'These pedestrians wouldn't last long in Seoul,' he grumbled.
The sky was clearing. Monsoon clouds floated northward. In the fields, white cranes stepped gingerly through green rice shoots, searching for amphibians.
We had reached the outskirts of Chon-an when I spotted omething rumbling ahead of us.
'That's it. Bus number nine.'
Black diesel smoke spewed from the rear exhaust.
'I'll cut it off,' Ernie said.
'Okay. But let's not get crushed beneath the wheels.'
Ernie pulled up alongside the bus driver, leaning on his horn. I held my badge up and waved for him to pull over. The suspicious-eyed driver glared, turned his eyes back straight ahead, and kept rolling.
'Son of a bitch won't listen to us,' Ernie said.
'We don't have any jurisdiction out here,' I said. 'He knows that.'
'Fuck jurisdiction!'
Ernie jerked the steering wheel to the right: The little jeep slammed into the front bumper of the bus. Sparks flew. Metal grated on metal. The driver above us cursed and honked his horn. Ernie swerved over again, bumping harder this time, grinding paint and metal off the side of bus number nine.
Faces gawked at us out the side windows. Ernie pulled in front of the bus and slammed on his brakes. We were bumped from behind.
'He's gonna run us over.'
'No, he won't,' Ernie said. 'Killing foreigners causes too much paperwork.'
Ernie was right. Gradually, the bus slowed, pulled over to the side, and came to a stop.
Before we could climb out of the jeep, the bus driver was already out of the door: red-faced, waving his hands, cursing. Spittle erupted from his mouth like water from a spigot.
He charged Ernie. I thrust my body between them.
The driver kept raving, cursing Ernie for being a reckless driver, and I held up my hands, bowing and apologizing profusely.
Ernie acted as if the driver didn't even exist. He pulled his. 45, stepped around us, and climbed up into the bus. There were a couple of screams when the passengers saw the gun, but for the most part they took it well.
Ernie emerged from the bus about thirty seconds later.
'He's not here.'
I started to question the driver about a foreigner, but he ignored my questions and kept ranting about what a fool Ernie was. I didn't bother to translate any of it. Ernie just crossed his arms, the big. 45 still clutched in his fist, and smirked.
I boarded the bus. The stewardess was a young girl of about sixteen with a red jacket and a helmet of black hair. I asked her if there had been a foreigner on this bus.
'Oh, yes,' she said. 'He took up two seats.'
'Where did he get off?'
'In Pyongtaek.'
I should've figured that. Pyongtaek was only a few miles from the village of Anjong-ri, which sits outside the big army helicopter base at Camp Humphreys. When he was in trouble, Herman always gravitated toward the military.' He probably felt safer there.
'Was he carrying a bag?'
'Yes. He clutched it very tightly to his tummy.'
'How big was the bag?'
'Round and big. Like his tummy.'
I thanked the girl and apologized to the passengers for the inconvenience. They sat dumb, used to being pushed around by policemen.
The driver was still cursing, but he directed his invective everywhere but at Ernie. He was clearly intimidated. Either by Ernie's hard stare or by the. 45.
Probably both.
We climbed back into the jeep.
'Where to?'
'Turn around,' I said. 'Last known sighting of Herman the German: Pyongtaek.'
At the small bus station in Pyongtaek we found a store owner who had sold Herman a bottle of 7 Star Cider.
'He took a taxi,' the man said.
'Which way did they go?'
'Toward the American compound.'
This time Ernie managed to buy a pack of ginseng gum that hadn't already dried to bonfire kindling.
The MPS at the front gate of Camp Humphreys had just come on shift, so they didn't know anything. Besides, army retirees are a common sight in Anjong-ri. It's an out-of-the-way compound, the black-marketing is easy, and the village is full of cheap hooches and cold beer. The pot of gold waiting at the end of a military career.
Herman's trail was rapidly fading, but we decided to take one more shot. We drove onto the compound and checked at the Aviation Battalion's operation desk.
The sergeant behind the counter was helpful. 'Army retiree, overweight, trying to catch a helicopter flight out of the area. Yeah,' he said, 'we had one who matched that description just a few minutes ago.' He searched his manifest. 'I checked his ID card myself. Name's Burkowicz, Herman R., First Sergeant, U.S. Army, retired.'
Ernie nearly leapt over the counter. 'Where'd he go?'
'Caught one of our routine medical flights. Chopper left here not twenty minutes ago. Heading to the H-105 airfield, Yongsan Compound, Seoul.'
'Shit!' Ernie pounded his fist on the vinyl countertop.
'Any chance of radioing them to turn back?'
'No way.'
'This is official business,' Ernie said. 'Involving the crimes of kidnapping and murder. What's this 'no way' bullshit?'
The sergeant's eyes narrowed. 'I said no way because it's not possible to turn the copter back.'
'What do you mean?'
'Radio report came in just before you guys walked in here. They've already landed and… let me check here.' He shuffled through a sheaf of papers. 'The passenger disembarked, five minutes ago.'
I thought about calling the MP Station in Seoul and sending a patrol jeep out to the landing pad. But it was too late. Herman had already hoofed it out the gate by now. He'd disappeared into the swirling madness of Seoul.
Ernie kept cursing. The sergeant behind the counter glared at him. I tried to make peace but my heart wasn't in it.
The ride back to Seoul was quiet. Except for the gears. Ernie kept grinding them.
Along with his teeth.
It was already late afternoon, we could've gone into the office, but who needed another ass-chewing from the First Sergeant? Besides, the groups of demonstrators holding portraits of Choi So-lan, the Buddhist nun, had grown. Traffic was backed up all along the MSR. Seeing the concerned faces on the small gaggles of women was depressing. Just another reminder of our failure.
